Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) (16 page)

“I’m not leaving.”

“Remember the notes I gave you? What the snake said? Duty and purpose can change?”

“The snake’s words are poison. Do not take heed of that old serpent, Satan.”

“Don’t you look around and regret your decision?”

“No.”

“You have to stay with your son, then?”

“I have to stay with my God.”

“Drea, I can’t see how a merciful God would want you—”

The door burst open at this point. Eric Atkinson filled the doorway. The bony-elbowed bitch hovered behind him.

“You are to leave this place directly.”

“Funny, I thought you were keen to welcome people in.” My heart was hammering and I was sure it would show in my voice. “You said anyone could repent of their sins.”

“Not you.” His fist closed round my arm. His mustard-gas breath filled my nostrils. “You are the serpent’s child.”

My knees buckled, but he held me so secure I couldn’t fall. All I could see was Anaconda; his malevolent eyes and a black tongue with two sharp points. Anaconda could crush you if he wanted. That was how I felt, breath lost from crushed lungs.

“See her off the premises,” he said to Bony Elbows.

“I need my coat. You took my coat.”

His lips stretched into the closest he could get to a smile. “It seems to have been mislaid.”

“I’m not leaving without my coat!” I was shouting even without meaning to. It was as if the coat was a talisman that would ensure no harm came to me.

“I’ll get her coat,” said Drea in a mucousy whisper that told me she was close to tears.

Eric propelled me out of the room, pushing me along and nodding at me as if in agreement with something, whispering into my ear as if we were intimate friends.

“Don’t think I don’t know about you. My wife has told me how you enticed her into your sordid world. You, missy, are courting Satan with what you do.”

In the auditorium, I could see the greeters had lined up along the stage, each sitting at a little card table from the storage area. They were taking names and other details from queues of punters who were patiently waiting to climb the set of steps that led onto the stage. There hardly seemed a person who wasn’t in the queue, and although I presumed that most wouldn’t follow up their sudden conversion to CORE, they certainly weren’t witnessing my exit.

Eric pushed me bodily into the street. It wasn’t quite up to O.K. Corral standards—I didn’t roll down the steps and into the dust as the saloon doors swung shut—but my coat did come sailing after me, landing on the wet pavement.

The last thing I saw was Drea’s face. Her eyes were red and puffy, but not wet.

I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t think crying would be allowed in CORE.

_____

By nine fifteen, every punter had left Charter Hall, and, in ones and twos, the greeters started to make their merry way. Some of them hugged on the steps before turning in various directions; one couple went off arm-in-arm. Another bleak ten minutes passed before there was any sign of Drea.

I was crouched at the back of a shop doorway opposite, keeping a careful watch on the steps I’d recently rolled down like a drunk.

It was icily cold. My feet had complained for a long time, but now they’d given up in disgust and gone numb. No wonder I’d been insistent about my coat, although it had been sheer bloody-mindedness
at the time—I
had
to let Eric know I wasn’t easily beaten. But now I was shivering inside it, a gentle juddering movement that was prob
ably the only thing keeping hypothermia at bay. Andy was still down the side road with the heater on while I slowly turned into a cryogenic block.

The heavy doors opened and the final COREs came out; Drea pushing her son in a buggy, followed by a young female greeter and Bony Elbows, who was in charge of carrying the little plastic bike. The three women stood together, waiting for Atkinson to douse the lights and lock up. Involuntarily, I leaned forward. Atkinson was holding a second child, a baby of about nine months, which the younger woman took in her arms. A chilling realization came over me. All these women were married to him. This was his harem.

They set off along the street by foot, keeping together, talking in low voices. Atkinson turned round quite deliberately and stared back along the road. I flattened myself against the shop door.

He hadn’t forgotten me, and he hadn’t underestimated me. My plan had been to forewarn Andy when Eric came out, but I would have to wait until they were almost at the corner before I’d be able to make it back to him. Not that we’d properly discussed what we would do then, apart from follow Atkinson’s car to see where they went. I’d known from the start that Andy hoped I’d be exiting with Drea and her little boy.

I hadn’t got through to her. Her eyes had stayed dull and unresponsive as we’d talked. Perhaps Atkinson was slipping her some kind of drug to make her docile? But watching her walk alongside him, nodding to anything he chose to say, I changed my mind. This was straightforward brainwashing. She was still loved-bombed.

Through the plate glass of the shop front, I saw a dark flash, fast-moving. Someone sprinting, head down for speed, then head up, arms raised, calling.

“Drea! DREA!”

It was Andy. He had seen them pass and could bear to wait no longer. He’d clearly made an executive decision.

“Drea! Wait!”

Atkinson stopped the procession of women and children. He turned, legs slightly astride, to face his rival.

“Are you coming back to us, Andrew Comer?” he asked, smooth and cool.

Andy spoke. The group was twenty or so metres from me, and although I could catch Atkinson’s raised tones clearly, I didn’t hear what Andy said. But I saw him stretch out his arm. Drea turned away. Alone of the group, she paced fast down the street, the buggy rumbling over the paving stones.

“Leave or stay,” said Eric to Andy. “Stay or bother us no further.”

Andy didn’t respond to that. He stretched up, right onto his toes, as if trying to reach Drea without moving from his spot.

“DREAAAAA!”

She didn’t even look back. She was completely trapped in the place of no escape.

_____

I threw myself into the Punto’s passenger seat. Andy was already revving the engine. He swung away from the kerb. His tyres squealed as we turned onto High Street. The CORE group had disappeared.

I thought back to the first time I’d seen Drea. The things she’d said about her life in Harold Street, as if it was the most wonderful place in the world. I’d thought she was in love … well she
was
in love with Andy—no doubt—but now I could see that it was more than that. Her new life glowed with bliss, full of light and music, because it was for one night only, like Bridgwater Carnival. She’d pushed CORE into a tiny corner of her mind, knowing it would be only a matter of time before she was pulled back inside it.

This made me feel temporarily better. In the end, I hadn’t been entirely responsible for Drea going back. It had been inevitable.

I’d assumed that Eric and his harem were on their way to some boarding house or rented accommodation, but as we took the roundabout, I saw them turn into the Market Street car park.

“I’ll keep my lights on main beam,” said Andy. I understood. You can’t recognise a car so well through its headlights.

We watched as they all piled into dark-blue, seven-seat Discovery. It seemed a gargantuan vehicle, even for a harem, but then, I don’t suppose there is any point in trying to save the planet if the end of the world is nigh. The beastie vehicle nosed out. We trickled along, some metres behind. A couple of times they accelerated so easily that the poor little Punto almost lost them, but thanks to Bridgwater’s wonderful array of traffic lights, we caught them each time.

“Have they spotted us?” I asked.

“No idea,” said Andy.

By the time they hit the Taunton Road, they were cruising, blatantly breaking the speed limit. As they headed for the southbound M5, Andy gave up the chase and turned back.

“At least you’ve seen her,” I soothed. “At least you know she’s physically okay.”

“They must be coming up once a week,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard.

“But is it coincidence that Eric found Drea?” I asked. “Or have they been looking for her, town by town, mission hall by mission hall?”

Everyone was searching for someone. In our search for Drea, I was reminded of Mirela’s search for her sister. Had I isolated another of the spirit wolf’s places? CORE was without doubt a place of no escape. Drea’s prison.

The wolf had been clear from the start that he’d offer bogus and genuine clues, and that I might find “no satisfaction” from some, but there
was
satisfaction in ticking another place off my list, even if it didn’t get me any further forward with my quest to find Kizzy.

fifteen

“Hey, Sabbie!”

I jumped. Treacle-coloured liquid and ivory foam were churning over the sides of a pint beer glass. Half an hour into my Saturday night shift, orders were flying across the bar at the Curate’s Egg, but I’d been so deep in thought that I’d forgotten about the slow draw of the Guinness tap. Nige flicked it shut, surreptitiously wiped the glass, and placed it on the bar. He gave me a wink. “Grin if you had sex last night.”

It was one of his lines—he never understood why female punters didn’t fall for them.

“Sorry, Nige, mind not on my job.”

It was usually Nige who lived deep in his own little world, but tonight I couldn’t get my mind off CORE and the Comers.

Andy Comer had rung my bell at half-eight this morning, the Punto ticking over in the street outside. He’d looked as if he hadn’t slept. “I’m about to drive down to Exeter.”

“That’s where CORE is based?”

“Yeah. They own a huge place, an old house on the outskirts of the city. Do you fancy the trip?”

“I’m working, I’m afraid. Therapies all day and barmaiding this evening.”

“Sorry, it was daft of me to ask at such short notice.” Andy had looked embarrassed, as if wanting someone to hold his hand made him a wuss. But I had been chuffed; after a dreadful start, we’d become friends-in-arms.

“Take care,” I’d warned him. “Eric Atkinson flung me down the town hall steps, and I’m innocent compared to you. You’re the man who stole his bride.”

The more the serpent’s image seared into my mind, the more I began to wonder about my journey for Drea. I’d been completely wrong about Andy. I’d assumed he was the serpent in Drea’s life. I hadn’t followed a simple rule of shamanic visions: they never quite tell it like it is. They slant things, leave things out, mix things up. This is mostly, I believe, because the otherworld works outside any rules of the apparent world. It’s a multidimensional place where space and time are elastic and there is no morality—it is as shifting as quicksand and as slippy as quicksilver. Symbols and ciphers are how it operates, and the shaman has to be a code-cracker as well as a healer. But the Curate’s Egg was not the place to contemplate such things. I gave myself a shake, passed over the dripping pint of Guinness, and took the punter’s money.

“Go on,” said Nige, as I counted out the change. He flicked a thumb at a dark spot near the band. “I can see you’ve gone all lovey-dovey on me. Have ten minutes with him before the band starts up.”

“What are you going on about, Nige?”

“Your boyfriend.”

I looked up and saw Fergus, tucked into his favourite place, the end of the bench that ran along the far wall. It was generally free because once the band got going the decibel range became suitable only for those operators of heavy machinery who had brought appropriate ear protection.

I was kind of surprised he was here. I’d been too caught up with seeing Rey in the Polska Café to think further about Fergus. An entire week had passed since we’d gone to his workmate’s party, and he hadn’t contacted me at all since then—not as a date or as a professional. I poured a pint and carried it over to him. He was dressed in a dark brown jacket, a light brown sweatshirt, and beige corduroys. The clothes matched his skin and hair tones, making him look like a sepia photo, something from a past era, and the “life is earnest” expression he always wore on his face affirmed that.

“Hi,” I trilled, as I reached him. “Nice to see you again.” I put down a frothing jar of Wild Cossack. “On the house.”

“Ah, kind. You were busy serving when I got here. Otherwise …”

“Actually, I’ve some news about Mirela I should share.” I slid towards him along the bench. “She says she’s had a letter from her sister.”

“Indeed.”

“She wouldn’t let me see it, Fergus.”

Fergus took a long slug of the Cossack and placed it precisely on the beer mat. “The two of them are so different. You know, when they came to see me, Mirela brought sweets—something she’d carried with her. It was like Turkish Delight. Bulgarian Delight, I suppose. She reminds me of that—sugar-dusted jelly.”

“Yes,” I said. “Sweet. Innocent. Unprotected.”

“Kizzy wasn’t sweet. Not innocent. Raw with sexuality
.
She made eyes at me, I can tell you.” He gave a clipped laugh. “Difficult to resist.”

“Would you speak to Mirela about the letter?”

“What? You mean find out what’s in it?”

“I don’t honestly know if there really is one, but I thought, seeing as she respects you …”

“Does she? I’m not so sure. I have no influence over her, Sabbie.”

Mirela’s words about Fergus were in my head …
ask, ask, ask, but no do
. “Maybe if you could offer some practical help to her, things might change.”

“I can’t start helping her until she starts trusting me. Neither of the Brouviches showed that much respect, if I was honest.”

“What about the Bulgarian Delight?”

“Ah, but you see, Sabbie, that was just a sort of tradition when you meet new people.”

“I didn’t get any.”

“She probably ran out.”

I sighed, trying it keep it silent. Fergus’s reaction was perfectly proper. Her letter was her own affair and neither of us had the right to pry. “Mirela’s got a ticket back to Bulgaria,” I told him. “I was wondering if Kizzy’s letter told her to go home.”

“You’re the shaman,” said Fergus. “If that’s what you’re seeing …”

“It’s just a gut feeling. One thing I am sure of: Mirela will be home soon. I’m driving her to her flight.”

“Jesus, that’s a great relief to us all.” He gave me a glance. “It’s good of you to take her, Sabbie. When is she leaving?”

“Wednesday, a morning flight to Brussels.”

He nodded and concentrated on his pint again, behaving very casually. His body language was telling me he didn’t like rejection. By the end of the party, he’d picked up the message …
you’re nice, Fergus, but not for me
… and his natural response was to back away. Weirdly, his sudden coolness made me want his attention, made me want him to fancy me again. I tried one of Mirela’s sizzling looks that transformed young boys to jelly, but without checking in a mirror I couldn’t tell my success. I might’ve looked more irksome than irresistible.

I tried chatting about nothing, to loosen the atmosphere between us. I asked him how he got to the pub, as he didn’t have a car. He said he could walk from his flat, one of the spanking-new builds near the old river dock. I discovered he was twenty-seven, ten months younger than me. Not that it mattered a jot. All that mattered was how at the party he’d wanted to feast his eyes on me, while tonight, he hadn’t touched even my arm; his hand covered the ornate design on his notebook as if that was far more important.

“What’re your plans for tomorrow?” I asked.

“Not sure about that yet, Sabbie. What about you?”

“I’m off for a walk. You know, hiking boots, the lot.”

“Going with someone?”

“My foster family. Long-standing shared hobby. I reckon we’ve covered every mile of West Country in our time.”

I could feel him warming up. His smile returned. Fergus was circumspect with his smile, almost using it as a weapon at times. I’d noticed that when I’d watch him talk to Mirela.

“Didn’t realize you were once in the care system.”

“Yeah. A survivor, is how we usually put it.”

“You’re a constant surprise, Sabbie.” His hand strayed towards my arm, which was bare from the elbow down and purposefully resting on the table between us. He stroked my skin with the back of his index finger.

An eardrum-trembling squeak interrupted us. Although tonight’s band was mostly acoustic, they had the usual standing circle of wired monolithic speakers that were struggling with feedback.

Fergus leaned in really close and spoke into my ear. “The Charcoal Burners. I was hoping to have a word with them before they start.”

“About your songs?”

“That’s right. Just to show them what I’m doing. Might not come to anything.”

When he’d started to stroke my arm, he’d left his notebook lying on the table and I reached over for it. I gave him a playful grin.

“You mean that band will see what’s inside here before I do?”

Fergus almost leapt out of his seat. He snatched the notebook from me. His smile had been snatched away too, and I could see he was having to resist hiding the book behind his back. For no good reason, my heart had started to pound.

I slid along the bench, keeping my gaze on him. “You’d better grab the fiddle player, then, while he’s doing nothing.”

Hot and cold
, I thought, as I got back to work.
Likes to keep you guessing
. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to join in the game.

I went behind the bar, ready to serve the next customer.

Rey was standing there, a tenner in his hand.

“What can I get you, officer?”

Rey looked all around him, as if he knew I was secreting a man somewhere. “For your information, CID aren’t keen on being referred to as officers.”

“Got you,
officer
.” I wanted to be ruder than I managed. I wanted to ask him what the hell he was doing here, why he wasn’t with his new girl. Then it washed over me: the realization that he was only here to ask me something he needed to know.

“A Tennent’s for me and whatever you’re having.”

“Okay, thanks … I’ll have vodka and tonic, if that’s all right.”

I served several rounds of customers while Rey swallowed at the pint I’d pulled him. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched his Adam’s apple bob. I fancied he’d lost weight in the last nine months. Rey was a free spirit and the pressure of promotion had probably hit him hard. He’d no longer be able to follow his gut-felt leads and his own slightly dodgy style of detection. Instead he’d have to guide a team through the minefields of modern policing.

“Look … er …” he said, as I paused for a moment at the till. “I thought I ought to
… well …”

“What?” It hadn’t occurred to me—before this second in time, anyway—that he might have spotted me exiting the Polska Café like a cat escaping from a firework.

“I didn’t mean to sound … er … rude … when you brought the Roma girl to the station.”

I gawped. He’d come here to apologise. I couldn’t bear the thought. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, fast. “You have to do your job. I might have been a bit rude back.”

He nodded. Maybe he was grateful I’d pulled him out of the mire; more probably he would think it his due. “I don’t suppose the sister has turned up, has she? I wasn’t sure if Mirela Brouviche was clear that we’d want to be informed if she did.”

I shook my head, my lips clamped shut. I ought to tell him about the letter and Mirela’s flight plans, but I held off.

“Every connection to a police killing … every link is important. All we’ve got at the moment is a gypsy in the lane where an eye-witness report places Abbott as last seen.”

“I told you that,” I said, stating the obvious.

“Yep, and it’s getting towards the top of the priority list.”

“Do you think Kizzy might have been caught up with the shooting of Abbott?”

“No arrests. No leads worth speaking of. No fucking idea, if the truth was known.”

“She’s written to her sister,” I said, knowing I should have told him this long ago.

“Saying what?”

“No idea. But Mirela’s packed the letter into a suitcase and plans to go back home.”

“I asked her to contact me if she heard anything.” He stared at the bar while he thought. “I know you want her treated gently. I’ll send one of my female colleagues in, first thing Monday morning.”

I felt a sense of relief. After letting Abbott’s iPhone slip out of my hands, I was pleased I could offer even this tiny lead.
I had an image of Kizzy coming out of the night shadows. She’d been there when Abbott had rushed past her. His body had not been found near St. Mary’s church, but I was betting the police thought he’d died there. Had Kizzy fallen into a gunman’s hands?

No. Because she went back to her room. She’d told Mirela about my so-called second sight.

My stomach twisted into a knot as I thought how I almost went up the lane in pursuit of Abbott. I could have been shot down too. But Kizzy stopped me.

“Abbott was a good cop, but not what you’d call the world’s greatest note-taker,” Rey continued, hardly noticing I’d gone somewhere else entirely. “According to his girlfriend, they’d gone to the carnival for an evening out. But one thing is clear: the person who put the bullet in didn’t believe he was there to watch the floats. I’ve been steadily befriending his girlfriend. Trying to find the answer to why he sent her and her little kid home and stayed behind.”

Something jogged in my brain. “I saw you,” I said. “Talking in the Polska Café. Was that his girlfriend?”

“Kate? Must have been. She doesn’t know much. At least, if she does, she’s holding it tight.” He took another hard pull of his pint. “She’s shocked, grieving, scared. Or it’s the language difficulty, perhaps.”

“She’s not British?”

“She came from Poland. Her chap left her, with this kid on her hands. Abbott stepped into the breach.”

“Very noble.”

“Yeah? Well she’s certainly cut-up about his death. I’m sure she’d spill the beans if there were any.”

“There’s a lot of Polish in Bridgwater,” I said. “Makes me wonder about the Bulgarians.”

“Yes. The Brouviches.”

“And the others. The long-term ones. Like Papa Bulgaria.”

“You know about Papa Bulgaria?”

I snorted a laugh. “I
work
for Papa Bulgaria.”

“You’re crazy. Whyever would you do that?”

“Would you believe it’s the money? Or the nice shiny scooter I get to ride?” I waited for a retort; he waited for the full picture. I dropped my voice and leaned over the bar. I was fizzing, deep inside, from the understanding that the girl in the café was Abbott’s girlfriend. I even risked doing the barmaid thing with my cleavage (such as it is) and smiling with a glint on my teeth like in a toothpaste ad. I glanced in Fergus’s direction. It wouldn’t do him any harm to know there was competition (such as it was). But his head was back in his notebook, pen scribbling furiously.