To get to the function room you had to push through the bar, past the winking fruit machines. Colette got a round in, counting on her fingers: Gemma, Cara, Silvana, Natasha—four large vodka tonics, include me in and make that five, sweet sherry for Mrs. Etchells, and a fizzy water for Alison. The internal walls were thin, porous; at the noisy reenactment of early evening goals the rooms seemed to rock, and cooking smells crept into the nostrils of the Sensitives as they gathered in an airless hutch behind the stage. The mood was militant. Mandy read out the order.
“I’ll only do twenty minutes because of my arthritis,” Mrs. Etchells said, and Mandy said, “Look, love, you were only doing twenty minutes anyway, that’s the whole idea, it’s like a tag team, or passing the baton.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do anything like that,” Mrs. Etchells said.
Mandy sighed. “Forget I spoke. You just do your usual. You can have a chair on stage if you want. Colette, do you think you could find her a chair?”
“That’s not my job.”
“Perhaps not, but couldn’t you show a bit of team spirit?”
“I’ve already agreed to do the microphone. That’s enough.”
“I’ll get Mrs. E a chair,” Al said.
Mrs. Etchells said, “She never calls me granny, you know.”
“We can go into that another time,” Al said.
“I could tell you a story,” Mrs. Etchells said. “I could tell you a thing or two about Alison that would knock your socks off. Oh, you think you’ve seen it all, you young ’uns. You’ve seen nothing, let me tell you.”
When the card Papessa is reversed, it hints that problems go deeper than you think. It warns you of the hidden hand of a female enemy, but it doesn’t oblige by telling you who she is.
“Let’s kick it off, shall we?” said Cara. From beyond the wall came a long roar of Go-o-o-al!
It’s raw, this kind of work, and near the knuckle: unsupported by music, lighting, video screen, it’s just you and them, you and them and the dead, the dead who may oblige or may not, who may confuse and mislead and laugh at you, who may give you bursts of foul language very close up in your ear, who may give you false names and lay false trails just to see you embarrassed. There’s no leeway for a prolonged course of error and no time to retrieve a misstep, so you must move on, move on. The punters all think they are talented now, gifted. They’ve been told so often that everyone has dormant psychic powers that they’re only waiting for the opportunity for theirs to wake up, preferably in public. So you have to suppress them. The less they get to say, the better. Besides, the psychics need to avoid any charge of complicity, of soliciting information. Times have changed and the punters are aggressive. Once they shrank from the psychics, but now the psychics shrink from them.
“Don’t worry,” Gemma said, “I won’t stand for any nonsense.” Her face grim, she stepped out to begin.
“Go, girl!” Cara said defiantly. “Go, go, go!”
It was a low platform; she was only a step above her audience. Her eyes scoured them as if they were a bunch of criminals. “When I come to you shout up. Do not say your name, I don’t want to know your name. I want no information from you but yes or no. I need a minute. I need a minute of hush please; I need to attune; I need to tune in to the vibrations of Spirit World.” Time was she would have told them to hold hands, but these days you don’t want them to strike up alliances.
“I have it, I have it,” Gemma said. Her face was strained, and she tapped the side of her head, which was a mannerism of hers. “You, have I ever seen you before, madam?”
“No,” mouthed the woman.
Colette stuck the mike under her nose. “Can you give us that again, loud and clear?”
“No!” the woman roared.
Gemma was satisfied. “I’m going to give you a name. Answer yes or no. I’m going to give you the name Margaret.”
“No.”
“Think again. I’m going to give you the name Margaret.”
“I did know a girl called—”
“Answer yes or no!”
“No.”
“I’m going to give you the name Geoff. Can you take that?”
“No.”
“Geoff is standing here by my side. Can you take that?”
“No,” the woman whimpered.
Gemma looked as if she were going to fly from the stage and slap her. “I am going to give you a place. I am going to give you Altrincham, Cheshire, that is to say Greater Manchester. Can you take Altrincham?”
“I can take Wilmslow.”
“I am not interested in Wilmslow. You, can you take Altrincham?” She jumped from the stage, gestured to Colette to hand her the microphone. She paced the aisle between them throwing out names; Jim, Geoff, Margaret. She spun a series of questions that dizzied the punters; she tied them in twisting knots with her yes or no, yes or no?; before they could think or draw breath, her fingers were clicking at them, “no need to think it over, darling, just tell me, yes or no.” Yes breeds further yes and no breeds yes too. They haven’t come out for the evening to say no. People aren’t going to go on and on refusing her offers, or with a contemptuous hitch of her shoulders she will move on to the next prospect. “Yes? No. No? Yes.”
A loud humming began inside Al’s head; it was the brush of skin as a thousand dead people twiddled their thumbs. God, it’s boring, this, they were saying. Her mind wandered. Where’s my silk? she wondered. Whatever has Morris done with it? Her photograph on its easel looked bare without it. In the picture her smile looked thinner, almost strained, and her glowing eyes seemed to stare.
Gemma swished past her, coming off to a spatter of applause. “On you go, take your time,” Silvana said to Mrs. Etchells.
Mrs. Etchells toddled forward. As she passed Alison, she muttered again, “Never called me granny.”
“Get out there, you batty old witch,” Gemma breathed. “You next, Cara.”
“What a joy to see your faces,” Mrs. Etchells began. “My name is Irene Etchells, I have been gifted with second sight from an early age, and let me tell you there has been a great deal of joy in my life. There is no place for gloom when we reach out to Spirit World. So before we can see who’s with us tonight, I would like you all to join hands, and join me in a little prayer … .”
“She’s up and running,” Silvana said, satisfied.
A moment or two, and she was eliciting symptoms from a woman in the second row left: palpitations, light-headedness, a feeling of fullness in her abdomen.
Gemma stood in the wings, prompting, “Yes or no, answer yes or no.”
Alison sighed. “Let her do it in her own sweet way.”
“Oh, I can’t do with that yes-no malarkey,” Mrs. Etchells said, apparently to no one. The woman with the fullness paused, and looked offended. “There’s a gentleman coming through from Spirit who’s trying to help me,” Mrs. Etchells said. “He begins with a K, can you take a K?”
They began negotiations. Kenneth? No, not Kenneth. Kevin? Not Kevin.
“Think, dear,” Mrs. Etchells urged. “Try and think back.”
In the house before Al left that evening, there had been further signs of a creeping male presence. There had been a whiff of tobacco and meat. As she was getting changed she had stepped on something with her bare foot, something rolling, round and hard. She had picked it up from the carpet; it was the gnawed stump of a pencil, the kind of pencil someone used to wear behind his ear. Aitkenside? Or Keef?
“It’s Keith,” Mrs. Etchells said. “K for Keith. Do you know a Keith, dear?”
I used to know one, Al thought, I used to know Keef Capstick, and now I’ve re-created him, brought him to mind, his pals can’t be far behind. She stood up, her breathing tight, wanting to get out. The room had a close smell, damp and medicinal, like mould under a box lid.
Onstage Mrs. Etchells was smiling. “Keith is suggesting an answer to your problem, dear. About your swollen tummy. He says, well madam, are you in the pudding club?”
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There was a yelp of laughter from the audience: of indignation, from the woman in the second row left. “At my age? You must be joking.”
“Chance would be a fine thing, eh?” said Mrs. Etchells. “Sorry, dear, but I’m only passing on what the spirits tell me. That’s all I can do, and what I’m bound to do. Keith says, miracles can ’appen. Those are his exact words. Which I have to agree with, dear. Miracles can happen, unless of course you’ve had a little op?”
“Dear God,” Gemma whispered, “I’ve never known her like this.”
“Been at the cooking sherry,” Mandy said. “Before she came out.”
“I’d have smelled it on her breath,” Silvana snapped.
“Have you placed Keith, yet?” Mrs. Etchells asked. “He’s laughing, you know, he’s quite a joker. He says, you wouldn’t catch him wiv his trousers down in your vicinity, but some geezers don’t bother. They say, you don’t look at the mantelpiece when you’re poking the fire.”
There was a puzzled silence in the hall; laughter from some; from others a hostile mutter. “They’re turning,” Silvana said, a warning in her voice. “Can we get her off?”
“Leave her be,” Mandy said. “She’s been working with Spirit more years than you’ve had hot dinners.”
“Oops,” said Mrs. Etchells. “Somebody’s got their wires crossed. Now I look at you, dear, I see you’re not of an age for any how’s-your-father. Let’s clear the vibrations, shall we? Then we’ll have another go at it. You have to be able to laugh at yourself, don’t you? In Spirit World there’s lots of laughter. After the sunshine comes the rain. A chain of love links us to the world beyond. Let’s just tune in and have a little chat.”
Alison peeped out. She saw that Colette stood at the back of the room, ramrod-straight, the mike in her hand. “There’s a gentleman in the back row,” Mrs. Etchells said. “I’m coming to you, sir.”
Colette looked up, her eyes searching the platform for guidance. Her difficulty was clear. The back row was empty. From the wings Silvana cooed, “Mrs. E, dear, he must be in spirit, that gentleman, the audience can’t see him. Pass on, dear.”
Mrs. Etchells said, “That gentleman at the back, on the end there, have I seen you before? Yes, I thought I had. You’ve got a false eye now. I knew something was different. Used to wear a patch, didn’t you? I remember now.”
Alison shivered. “We must get her off,” she said. “Really, Mandy, it’s dangerous.”
A little louder, Silvana called, “Mrs. Etchells? How about some messages for the people in front?”
The audience were turning around, craning their necks and swivelling in their seats to see the empty back row: to giggle and jeer. “Aren’t they ungrateful!” Cara said, “You’d think they’d be glad of a manifestation! There’s obviously somebody there. Can you see him, Al?”
“No,” Al said shortly.
Mrs. Etchells beamed down at the hecklers. “Sometimes I wonder what I’ve done to be surrounded with so much love. God gave us a beautiful world to live in. When you’ve had as many ops as me you learn to live for the moment. As long as the youngsters are willing to listen and learn, there’s hope for this world. But now they’re only willing to put dog shit through your letter box, so I don’t see much hope. God has put a little light inside of us and one day we will rejoin the greater light.”
“She’s gone on automatic,” Cara said.
“Which one of us is going to get her?” Mandy said.
“Mrs. Etchells,” Silvana called, “come on now, time’s up. Come on for your cup of tea.”
Mrs. Etchells flapped a dismissive hand towards the wings. “Ignore that raddled little madam. Silvana? That’s not her name. They none of them have their right names. She’s light-fingered, that one. She comes into my house to collect me, and the next thing is the milk money’s gone, the milk money that I left behind the clock. Why does she give me a lift anyway? It’s only because she thinks I’ll leave her something when I go over. And will I? Will I buggery. Now let us link hands and pray. Our prayers can put a chain of love around—”
She looked up, dumbfounded; she had forgotten where she was.
The audience shouted up with various silly suggestions: Margate, Cardiff, Istanbul.
“I’ve never seen such unkindness,” Mandy breathed. “Listen to them! When I get out there, I’ll make them sorry they were born.”
Silvana said, “She has a nerve! That’s the last lift she’ll get from me.”
Al said quietly, “I’ll get her.”
She stepped out onto the platform. The lucky opals gleamed dully, as if grit were embedded in their surface.
Mrs. Etchells turned her head towards her and said, “There’s a little flower inside us that we water with our tears. So think of that, when sorrows come. God is within all of us, except Keith Capstick. I recognize him now, he had me there for a minute, but he can’t fool me. He only once did a good action and that was to drag a dog off a little girl. I suppose God was within him, when he did that.”
Alison approached, softly, softly, but the stage creaked beneath her.
“Oh, it’s you,” Mrs. Etchells said. “You remember when you used to get belted for playing with knitting needles?” She turned back to the audience. “Why did her mum have knitting needles? Ask yourself, because she never knitted. She had ’em for sticking up a girl when she’s in trouble, you don’t have to do that these days, they vacuum it out. She stuck a needle up herself but the baby never come out till it was good and ready, and that was Alison here. You’d see all manner of sharp objects in her house. You’d go in and the floor would be all rolling over with little dead babies, you wouldn’t know where to put your feet. They all brought their girlfriends round—Capstick, MacArthur, that crew—when they found themselves with a bun in the oven.”
So, Al thought, my brothers and sisters, my half brothers and sisters—every day, when I grew up, I was treading on them.
“There was hardly anybody up that way knew the joy of motherhood,” Mrs. Etchells said.
Al took her arm. Mrs. Etchells resisted. Sedately, she and Mrs. Etchells tussled, and the audience laughed, and gradually Al inched the old woman towards the edge of the platform and behind the scenes. Colette stood there, a pale burning figure, like a taper in fog.
“You could have done something,” Al complained.
Mrs. Etchells shook off Al’s hands. “No need to molest me,” she said. “You’ve pulled my nice new cardigan all out of shape, you’ve nearly had the button off. No wonder they’re laughing! A laugh’s all right, I like a laugh but I don’t like people pointing fun at me. I’m not going back out there because I don’t like what I’ve seen. I don’t like who I seen, would be a better way to put it.”
Al put her mouth close to Mrs. Etchells’s ear. “MacArthur. Isn’t it?”
“Yes, and the other bloody shyster, Bob Fox. All along the back row.”
“Was Morris with them?”
Mandy said, “Cara, you’re next, go on.”
“Not me,” Cara said.
Mrs. Etchells sat down and fanned herself. “I’ve seen something you wouldn’t want to see in a month of Sundays. I saw Capstick at the back there. And the rest. All that old gang. I recognized them large as life. But they’ve got modifications. It was horrible. It turned me up.”
Mandy stepped out onstage. Her chin jutted and her voice was crisp. “There will be a short delay. One of our Sensitives has been taken ill.”
“How short?” a man shouted.
Mandy gave him a baleful glance. “As short as we can contrive. Have some compassion.” She turned her back on them. Her heels clicked, back to the hutch. “Al, it’s for you to decide, but I don’t like the feel of Mrs. Etchell’s blood pressure, and I think Colette should call an ambulance.”
“Why me?” Colette said.
“Colette could drive her,” Cara said. “Where’s the nearest A and E?”
“Wexham Park,” Colette said. She couldn’t resist supplyin
g the information, but then added, “I’m not taking her anywhere on my own. Look at her. She’s gone weird.”
Said Mrs. Etchells, “I could tell you a thing or two about Emmeline Cheetham. No wonder the police were always around her place. She was a big drinker and she knew some terrible people. Judge not, that ye may not be judged. But there is a word for women like her and that word is prostitute. Soldiers, we all know soldiers—Tommies, no harm in ’em. Have a drink, have a laugh, we’ve all done it.”
“Really?” Silvana said. “Even you?”
“But no two ways about it. She was on the game. Gypsies and jockeys and sailors, it was all the same to her. She used to go down to Portsmouth. She went off after a circus once, prostituting herself to dwarves and the like, God forgive her, foreigners. Well, you don’t know what you’ll catch, do you?”
“Quick!” Mandy said. “Loosen her collar. She can’t get her breath.”
“She can choke for all I care,” Silvana said.
Mandy struggled with the buttons of Mrs. Etchells’s blouse. “Colette, call nine-nine-nine. Al, get out there, darling, and keep it going for as long as needed. Cara, go through into the bar and find the manager.”
Al stepped out onto the stage. She took in the audience, her gaze sweeping them from left to right, front row to the back row, which was empty: except for a faint stirring and churning of the evening light. She was silent for a long moment, letting their scattered wits regroup, their attention come to rest. Then she said, slowly, softly, almost drawling, “Now, where were we?” They laughed. She looked back at them, grave, and slowly let her smile spread, and her eyes kindle. “We’ll drop the yes and no,” she said, “since tonight has not turned out the way we expected.” She thought, but of course I have expected it, I have done nothing but expect it. “I suppose it teaches us,” she said, “to expect the unexpected. It doesn’t matter how many years’ experience you have, Spirit can never be anticipated. When we work with Spirit we are in the presence of something powerful, something we don’t completely understand, and we need to remember it. Now I have a message for the lady in row three, the lady with the eyebrow piercing. Let’s get the show back on the road.”