Chapter 2 #2
Taped to the inside of one of the small square glass panes that make up the curve of the large bay window is a piece of paper that reads Madame Vivienne’s spiritual readings for those who wish to commune with the dearly departed.
I frown. I’m not knocking anyone using their gifts to make a living, but this sounds embarrassingly cheesy, like something I’d see at the psychic fairs held yearly at the local Devon hotels.
I don’t mean to sound judgemental, but this is exactly the sort of sign con artists and those with the least amount of power favour.
Shaking off the thought, I step closer to the door and feel my pulse kick up a notch. Am I really doing this? Am I going to meet the woman who gave birth to me?
I stare through the window of the main door, which has the shop name painted across the glass in gold lettering.
My gaze catches on a sudden movement in the shop.
A woman appears through a curtain of beads to stand behind a heavy-looking wooden cash desk that holds an ancient-looking brass-plated till, the kind that looks a bit like a typewriter.
But my eyes lock on her, not her surroundings.
The woman looks like she could be in her late forties, with long dark hair that’s a bit wild-looking and streaked with grey.
She’s wearing some sort of flowing tie-dyed shirt or dress, but I can’t tell which as she’s stood behind the desk.
What I can see are rows of brightly coloured bangles stacked along her wrists all the way up to her forearms.
Is that her? Is that my mother? Shouldn’t I feel a shock of recognition or something? Anything.
But there’s nothing.
Only a familiar overwhelming sense of anxiety that always leaves me feeling vaguely nauseous.
Releasing a slow breath, I lift my hand towards the handle of the door, then watch as she roots around behind the counter and after a few seconds produces a bottle of what looks like gin. She unscrews the cap and takes a heavy slug.
Oh my god, I hope that’s not my mother.
Closing my eyes for a second, I try to find my calm but can’t. My control is slipping and fragments of emotions are leaking through, only I can’t tell who they’re from. When I open my eyes again, I look down at my hand, which is still hovering inches above the door handle.
The woman inside still hasn’t noticed me. I can still walk away and no one would know that I’m a coward.
Swallowing past the dryness in my mouth, my throat makes a clicking sound. My body flushes hot then cold, and a strange prickling sensation runs down my neck, as if I’m being watched. I spin around, looking up and down the narrow, cobbled alleyway, but there’s no one there.
The longer I stand there the worse the sensation gets.
My scalp tingles, and it feels like my hair is standing on end, as do the tiny hairs on my arms. For a second, my need to get off the street and away from prying eyes overrides my trepidation at stepping into this little shop of curiosities.
This time when I reach for the handle and my palm curls around the shiny brass knob, a shock of electricity shoots painfully up my arm, making my muscles contract and my grip involuntarily tighten.
A rush of overwhelming images explode in my mind: a huge stone archway, a black framed mirror, a wooden floor marked by a burning pentagram and shadows.
So many shadows swarming over a large, heavy-looking black leather-bound book.
I wrench my hand away and stumble back, breathing hard. Looking up, my vision flickers, and for a terrifying moment, the walls of the building contort and waver like a mirage in a desert.
For the first time in my life, I actually pause to wonder if Dad was right, that my mother had been trying to protect me. Everything in my mind is jumbled and I can’t make sense of it right now. All I know is there is something in that place, something ancient and dangerous.
I turn away sharply, pulling my jacket tighter as if to stop the pieces of me from flying apart. I quicken my pace in an effort to put as much distance between myself and that shop as I can.
As I walk towards the end of the alleyway, I see two figures approaching.
I flick them a quick, surreptitious glance and almost stumble in surprise.
One of them is a six-and-a-half-foot drag queen.
She’s wearing a skintight zip-up bodysuit, go-go boots, and a bright blonde wig styled into Farrah Fawcett flicks.
Her companion is a tiny, old woman in mismatched socks, sensible lace-up shoes, a heavy winter coat, and a knitted hat that looks like a tea cosy.
I quickly dart my gaze away, and it’s not because of their odd appearance. It’s because they’re both dead. I may be able to see spirits, but I don’t involve myself in their business, whatever that may be.
They pay me no mind as I pass them by, and for that I’m grateful. My mind is still reeling. I need to go back to my own shop, to my sacred space, and recentre myself. Only then can I begin analysing the things I saw in my vision.
Not paying attention to where I’m going, I exit the alleyway and crash into someone.
Before he can hit the ground, I reach out and grasp his arms to steady him.
It’s a man—about my age, I’d guess—with wild, curly brown hair, green eyes, and thick-framed glasses.
He’s cute if you’re into the nerdy twink look.
I’m not, and I don’t have time to make small talk with a stranger. I’m too unsettled, and when I open my mouth to speak, my tone is sharper than I intend.
“Be more careful where you’re going next time,” I bark, and I’m instantly mortified. After all, it’s not his fault. I’m the one who ran into him.
Seeing that he has his balance, I release my grip on him and skirt around him, not waiting for a response, although I’m certain I hear a muttered “Sorry.”
As soon as he’s out of sight, my anxiety and confusion hit apocalypse levels, and I take off, running like a demon is behind me.
I don’t stop until I reach the train station.