‘We’re desperate,’ I add. ‘Must be.’
She looks at me. She smiles. She hands Bill and me our cups of tea. Then she kneels down on the other side of the low ornately carved table -
‘I am a medium, gentlemen,’ she says again. ‘And it is sometimes possible for me to hear, see, and feel things that other people perhaps cannot.’
We all nod -
Three coppers staring at the beautiful woman knelt before us, Jack struggling to keep his eyes open, Bill the grin off his chops.
‘It is also the case that on occasion the dead can speak through me.’
‘You think she’s dead then, Jeanette?’ asks George.
Mandy Wymer doesn’t answer him. She lights one of the fat white candles on the low table. She stands up. She goes over to the large windows. She draws the heavy crimson curtains -
The room dark but for the candlelight, she returns to the table.
Bilclass="underline" ‘Mrs Denizili -’
She has her hand up in the shadows: ‘Please, Mr Molloy -’
‘But -’
I have my hand on Bill’s arm.
She lights a second fat white candle on the low table. Then another. And another. She says: ‘Now please take the hand of the person on your left and close your eyes.’
She takes George’s right hand. He takes Bill’s. Bill takes mine. I take Jack’s -
Jack waking with a start to hold hers.
The five of us lean forward in a circle around the table and the candles, the numbers on a clock -
(Local time) -
It is Saturday 19 July 1969.
Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
Big trees with hearts cut into their bark, losing their leaves in July;
28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
Big house with her heart cut into flats, losing her paintwork and her lead;
Flat 5, 28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
Big room with hearts dark, losing our way and our head;
Walls hung with dim paintings and Persian rugs -
The smell of cat piss and petunia, Bill and Jack’s breath;
My eyes are open -
Her breasts rising and falling beneath her white silk blouse;
Beneath the shadows -
Low sobs, muffled sobs, she is weeping;
Her breasts rising and falling beneath -
Her shadows -
Looking into my eyes -
Rising and falling -
Beneath her shadows -
She is snarling, carnivore teeth:
‘This place is worst of all, underground;
The corpses and the rats -
The dragon and the owl -
Wolves be there too, a swan -
The swan dead.
Unending, this place unending;
Under the grass that grows -
Between the cracks and the stones -
The beautiful carpets -
Waiting for the others, underground.’
Silence -
Silence, the circle unbroken:
Holding George’s right hand. George Bill’s. Bill mine. I Jack’s -
Jack holding hers:
Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
Big trees with hearts cut into their bark, losing their leaves in July;
28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
Big house with her heart cut into flats, losing her paintwork and her lead;
Flat 5, 28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -
Big room with dark ways, hearts and heads lost;
My eyes are open -
Low sobs, muffled sobs, she is weeping;
Looking into my eyes -
Weeping;
Rising and falling -
Beneath her shadows:
‘It’s happened once before -’
Cavernous tears:
‘- and it’s happening now.’
Tears, then -
Silence -
The silence, but outside:
Outside behind the heavy crimson curtains, the branches of the big tree are tapping upon the glass of the big windows, their leaves lost in July -
Wanting in;
Wanting her -
My eyes open and looking into hers;
I want to drop Bill’s hand, let go of Jack -
To reach out across the table -
Free her from the chains -
The prisons:
The certain death that I see here -
That terrible, horrible voice that gloats, that boasts:
‘I AM NO ANGEL -
‘I AM NO FUCKING ANGEL!’
Looking into my eyes -
Weeping;
Rising and falling -
Beneath her shadows:
In the Season of the Plague, the meat -
Two black crows eating from black bin-bags, ripping through her sweet meat -
Screams echoing into the dark, sliding back on her arse up the hall, arms and legs splayed, her skirt riding up; scared sobs from behind a door, the sound of furniture being moved, of chests and drawers and wardrobes being placed in front of the door -
A faint voice through the layers and layers of wood, a child whispering to a friend beneath the covers: ‘Tell them about the others…’
On my feet, across the table -
Teacups and teapot falling to the floor -
I shake her -
I scream: ‘What others?’
Her eyes open and looking into mine -
She says: ‘All the others under those beautiful carpets.’
‘What fucking others?’
Bill and George are on their feet now -
The candles out -
Pulling back the curtains, Jack spewing into his palm -
I am screaming -
I am summoning her back from the Underground, the court of the Dead:
A cold and dark December place when I open up the bedroom door to find her lying cold and still upon the floor -
Bill and George taking my arms -
Pulling me off;
Her pushing me off -
Pushing me away, whispering: ‘Please tell them where they are.’
‘What?’ I say -
Standing up in the light;
But in the light -
The dead daylight -
There are bruises on the backs of my hands -
(Local bruises) -
Bruises that won’t heal.
Part 3. Dreams less sweet
‘The Christian Church has always condemned magick, but she has always believed in it. She did not excommunicate sorcerers as madmen who were mistaken, but as men who were really in communion with the Devil.’
– Voltaire
Chapter 26
Tapping against the pane -
Monday 30 May 1983 -
D-10:
She is lying on her side in a sleeveless black T-shirt with her back to you -
Branches tapping against the pane;
You are lying on your back in your underpants and socks -
The branches tapping against the pane;
Lying on your back with the taste of fried rice and vodka in your mouth -
Listening to the branches tapping against the pane;
D-10:
Monday 30 May 1983 -
You are listening to the branches tapping against the pane.
It is raining again outside and they are arguing again upstairs.
You sit in the kitchen eating Findus Crispy Pancakes in silence, the radio on:
‘Sterling at new high on hopes of Tory landslide as Foot attempts to refute latest opinion polls; Mr Cecil Parkinson, the Conservative Party Chairman, dismisses suggestions that his party has been subjected to significant infiltration by far right members of the National Front and the League of St George; a report to be published today says shopping centres built in the 1960s and…’
You get up. You change stations. You find some music: