‘Might as well look as if we’re together,’ said Sefton, under his breath, as he pressed the tea bag against the side of his cup to try and force out a bit of flavour. ‘Seeing we’re the only black guys in here.’
‘The New Age,’ agreed Costain, ‘does not recruit in line with best practice. What have you got?’
Sefton moved alongside him, so they were both facing the same way. ‘Three and nine, the two big noises in town, behind the rows of stalls on either side.’
One of the aims of this expedition had been to find out if anyone who was in any way like Losley would come along to a New Age fair. ‘Yeah. Bloody hell, I can feel their presence, nowhere near on our witchy friend’s level, but. . yeah, there they are. People, though, you reckon, not your. . spooky things?’
‘At a guess, more like our old witchy friend.’
‘Keeping their distance from each other, like bosses would. You reckon they realize we’re here?’
‘Seven, two here and eight at the back have all checked me out, but I think that’s because I is black. As for the level bosses. . I don’t know. All that’s different about the four of us is. . our advantage.’
‘If you want to call it that.’
‘I don’t know why it’d show up. We don’t look. . particular, to each other.’
Costain lowered his voice. ‘You want to try a walk-up with one? Just stroll in like we own the place? Like in that shebeen in Romford?’
Sefton looked startled. ‘That was fucking terrifying.’
‘This will be more so.’
‘Oh, right, this is ’cos marching straight in would be brave — would be “the right thing to do”?’
Costain sighed. ‘Are you going to keep giving me shit about that?’
‘If you want me to stop, Tone, you can always order me to do so.’
‘What’s your question, ducks?’
Ross wondered if that was the fortune-teller’s real accent. It was like something out of a soap opera — the chirpy cockney sparrow, a bit irritating, a bit false. She looked to be late thirties, ears pierced, with evidence of two earlier piercings, tattoo of some sort top left arm obscured by dress, natural brunette, green eyes, no visible fillings, about five foot two, hundred and ten pounds. That tightness of the skin about her. Thin not because of the gym, but with those biceps. This was the kind of woman Ross often saw in interview rooms.
She tried to affect a gentle, spiritual voice without being too hello-trees-hello-flowers about it. ‘Hi, I’m Lisa.’
‘And I am Madame Osiris, at your service.’ The woman added one of those crazy aitches onto ‘Osiris’, as if she was something out of Dickens. She was dressed a bit like that too. That was a genuinely old dress, the wreck of a real Victorian ball gown. Frayed and stitched up, but not by a tailor. She looked like someone who once might have been seen staggering on stage at a music hall. What, was she actually from that time, keeping herself young? In the way that Losley’s record stretched far back enough to accumulate all those bodies? No, this was a modern face. This woman was just trying really hard to seem antiquated. And Ross got the feeling it wasn’t pretence just for this moment, but something she did all the time.
‘Is that your real name?’
The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that your question?’
‘Oh, sorry.’ Ross considered her question. She was feeling the power in those cards, but did this woman know how to use it? What if she asked the obvious: Where is Mora Losley? That was assuming the cards actually worked to answer questions rather than just doing something else, such as make money vanish from her pocket. And that name would surely draw attention. This was their first encounter with another user, and who knew what alliances existed among them? This woman had been keeping her left hand under the table since Ross had arrived. She might suddenly attack Ross with something she had no defence against. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘My question is: how can I win?’
‘Right. What sort of divination would you prefer?’ She made a swirling gesture with her right hand as she indicated the three choices, and Ross imagined for a second that she could feel something moving around her. ‘Tarot of London? Book of Changes? Tube Oracle?’ Each gained weight and importance as she indicated it. So it wasn’t the objects that were meaningful to the Sight, it was the woman — or rather what she was doing. Ross didn’t let the excitement show on her face. This was definitely someone a bit like Losley, the first such they’d met. The Book of Changes was a small leather-bound volume, the Oracle seemed to be a cork-backed platter of wood that lay face down on the table, the Tarot were obviously the cards already spread.
‘All three.’
‘That’ll cost you.’
‘Okay.’ Actually, not so great an idea. They’d have to sign off on any expenses claims for operational budget. That meant the team would soon have to come up with some convincing lies about stuff like this.
‘Cross my palm with silver. That’ll be a carpet.’
Ross had been brought up in London and had never heard that one. ‘Sorry?’
‘Thirty quid. Blimey, you’re far from the madding crowd, aintcha?’ Good. The woman was used to setting herself above her punters, not afraid to be dismissive of them, and she had taken Ross to be as foolish as any other. She took Ross’ money and it was gone into that left hand under the table. ‘Let’s start with the Oracle,’ she decided, and turned over the piece of wood, which now was revealed to look suspiciously like a decorative place mat. It had a map of the London Underground on it, an old one that didn’t have the DLR on it. The woman produced a metal pendulum, and set it twirling on a string right over it. ‘Ask your question again.’
Rather self-consciously, Ross leaned across and spoke into the place mat. ‘How can I win?’
The woman suddenly let go of the pendulum, jerking it hard towards Ross’ face, making her jump back. It hit the wood, rebounded violently and, against all possibility, dropped back into the middle of the map. Its pointed tip was precisely on-
‘Baker Street, on the City side of the Hammersmith and City Line. That’s the top side, by tradition. And all is tradition. . tradition is all.’ She’d said that under her breath, like something she often repeated. ‘So, love, that’s one way you can win. What or who do you most associate with Baker Street?’
Ross realized who that could mean. And probably not the bloke who’d had a hit with the song of that name. But not a great deal of help either. Still, something real seemed to be going on here.
‘The line’s interesting too. The City Line, that’s memory. .’
‘Why is the City Line memory?’
‘Tradition. Every line stands for something. Nobody knows why.’
‘Nobody?’
‘So full of questions, and yet she’s only paid for the one.’
‘I’m sorry, I do seem to keep breaking the rules.’ Ross let a little of her real desperation show on her face, put her hands on the table, as if coming to a big decision. ‘This is. . very important to me. Please understand, any help. . any at all. Look. .’ She put an upper-class note in her voice, suggesting there was the potential for a lot of money here. ‘I’d really appreciate it.’
The woman smiled broadly, but Ross didn’t let her satisfaction show on her own face. The bait had been taken. ‘That’s what I’m here for, help and interpretation. You’ve got the right look about you, my darling: I can tell you’ll ask the right questions. And you’re bright enough to understand the answers. Bright enough to come to the likes of me, too, rather than any of these hangers-on.’ She indicated the innocent fortune-tellers to her left and right, busy with their own meaningless consultations.