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<h2>1</h2>
<p><em>The creak of old doors.</em></p>
<p>A murky night well into winter. The west wind had been blowing
since morning, bringing dank drizzle in from the firth in dismal
grey veils of rain. By six, the wind had strengthened, whipping the
waves up to crash against the sheer basalt of the towering rock on
the east side of the town where through the spray the lights along
the castle ramparts flickered feeble and wan.</p>
<p>In the old centre of the town, River Street, now living up to
its name, was more of an oxbow lake than the main thoroughfare, for
the high tide and the higher wind had combined to back the river
water up until it swelled over the quayside and flowed through the
cobbled vennels and alleys to puddle under the street lights.</p>
<p>Just after eight, a car came slowly ploughing along the road,
driver gunning the engine high and slacking off the clutch with a
whine. It shoved up a bow wave which washed its way into the
doorways as the car made its way slowly along to the old bridge,
turned and was gone.</p>
<p>The water seeped and slopped under shop doors. The old co-op
would be awash again, for the tenth time in two decades. Benson's
off-the-hanger suits would need to be sent to the dry cleaners. The
floorboards of the old Woolworth's shop would be warped and twisted
and Phil McColl's boys would have a hell of a job pinning them back
down on the old joists.</p>
<p>Levenford huddled against the wind and the rain. On River Street
there were few stragglers. A couple of boys on motorbikes came
ripping through the street-long puddle. They mounted the pavement
when the water got too deep on the road and they almost cut the
knees from Mickey Haggerty who was stepping unsteadily out of Mac's
bar on the corner of Kirk Street opposite the clock tower. He stood
for a moment, wet and cursing, looked down the sodden length of the
street, then shrugged his shoulders and went back inside.</p>
<p>At the far end, just as the bikers reached the old bridge across
the swollen river, the road was higher. Here, two alleys run down
to the quayside. Brewery Lane is cobbled and narrow. Boat Pend is a
covered alley, like an arched tunnel bored beneath the old facade
of Cairn House, the town's oldest building. It stands gaunt and
grey, four storeys high with a sagging, swaybacked roof covered in
worn slates, and red dragon's-back ridging. The windows are narrow,
hardly more than slits. Near-on thirty years ago the body of a
thirteen-year-old boy had been found bound and gagged and two
months dead in a back room of the old building which had been then
a disused and empty third floor surgery. According to the hushed
rumour that had scuttled round the playground at Strathleven
School, his hair had grown to his shoulders and his fingernails
were two inches long.</p>
<p>So the rumour went and more besides. What was true was that the
curious boy who broke into the old surgery and found the rotting
carcass had been so horror-stricken that he'd never been the same
again. He'd spent most of those past years in the care of Barlane
Hospital on the outskirts of the town, only one step down from the
State Mental Hospital where they kept the really crazy folk. He'd
never got over it, but the old town had moved on. There were fresh
rumours and new stories to tell in the playground and the story of
Cairn House moved into history, for a while.</p>
<p>A quarter of a century on, the wind whistled and whooped, cold
enough to keep all but the foolhardy or the determined off the
streets. The damp seeped through to chill to the bone and there was
a bite of ice too, a sign of a bad winter to come.</p>
<p>On this night a figure came across the street close to the
bridge just after the bikers had roared past, tyres hissing on the
road. The street lamp outlined the shape of a man, huddled against
the wind, staying close to the lee of the wall. He stumbled off
balance as a gust of wind came shrieking up Brewery Lane and almost
fell headlong, but recovered and staggered on.</p>
<p>He reached the dark entrance to Boat Pend, looked left and
right, almost as if he was crossing the street, then moved inside.
The darkness swallowed him in two steps.</p>
<p>At the far end of the Pend, where it gives on to a series of
tight alleys and walkways, he stopped and twisted the old brass
handle on a door set into the side of the building. There was a
short hallway with a coatstand bedraggled with wet coats now
steaming in the slight warmth. The man took off his coat and scarf
and rolled his flat cap tightly enough to squeeze it into a pocket.
He turned and made his way up the narrow spiral staircase until he
reached the third storey. He paused for breath, then lifted an
ornate knocker and rapped twice on the door. It opened almost
immediately and the man stepped inside.</p>
<p>"All here then?" The old woman sitting at the far end of the
room asked. Her small eyes squinted in the dim light of a standard
lamp in the corner of the room at the back of Cairn House.</p>
<p>There was a low murmur of assent. There were six other people in
the room, including the man who had just arrived and was now using
a white handkerchief to pat the rain from behind an ear.</p>
<p>"Could have picked a better night," one of them mumbled and
someone else agreed.</p>
<p>"Can't choose the night. Can't choose the time," the old woman
piped up in a clear voice.</p>
<p>Marta Herkik was a tiny woman, almost as big across as she was
tall. Her black hair was caught back in a bun so severe that her
pencilled eyebrows were arched high, giving her a perpetual look of
surprise. The knife-straight white line that bisected her widow's
peak showed the black was not natural.</p>
<p>She was dressed completely in black, except for a red stone in a
silver brooch pinned to her collar, reflecting the soft light like
a dying eye. She sat on a high-backed chair, small, surprisingly
young hands flat on the surface.</p>
<p>"Well. I think we should begin."</p>
<p>The six others shuffled themselves around the table, scraped
chairs back and got seated.</p>
<p>"Hands please," Marta Herkik said primly. They lifted elbows and
hands from the black cloth which draped the table and she grabbed
an end, slowly drawing it towards her across the surface. It made a
soft hissing noise, like sand in an hourglass. The little fat woman
folded it neatly and dropped the cloth to the floor beside her.
Behind her, the fire sputtered and the flare of light from the
hearth threw the shadow of the high backed chair onto the far wall
where it joined the ceiling.</p>
<p>Even in the dim light, the table shone and reflected the faces
of the people seated around it, all eyes fixed on Marta Herkik. It
was smooth as glass from years of polishing, and it was old.</p>
<p>It had six legs carved into the shape of arms, so well crafted
that the individual veins followed the grain of dark hardwood,
ending in hands clenched into knuckles. The tabletop surface was a
masterpiece of marquetry. On the border, six inches in from the end
nypmhs and fauns cavorted in writhing, sensuous tangles, then
beyond that was a circle, inlaid in white veneer cut so expertly
there was no visible seam or join, a circle of tightly packed
angular letters that almost resembled script but was not. Beyond
that, in black, a smaller circle which spelled the alphabet in odd,
slanted lettering. Between the circles, close to Marta Herkik's
edge, in similar black wood, the word <em>YEAH</em> was cut in the
same style. Opposite, just in front of William Simpson, the man who
was last into the room, a single word. <em>NAY.</em></p>
<p>And in the centre, in a red wood almost the colour of new blood,
an inlaid star of five points gleamed.</p>
<p>Close to the woman, a large book, leather bound and faded with
age, lay closed.</p>
<p>"I think we're ready," Marta Herkik said.</p>
<p>She opened the book, using one finger to turn the pages until
she found the right one. Each of them could see one passage had
been marked off in black ink.</p>
<p>"Tonight, it is a special thing we do. We go further than we
have gone before, because this is the time. We seek the guidance of
the great one, who will open to us the future, to bring for some, a
heart's desire, to others the knowledge that is also the
power."</p>
<p>She leaned over the book and began to read, though none of the
others understood any of the words. The woman's voice came in odd
conjunctions of hard consonants, flat vowels. She intoned the
unmusical chant, turning the page when she reached the bottom and
carried on for several minutes. Finally her voice trailed away. She
lifted the book without closing it and laid it on a small table
just within arms reach. From her bag on her lap she drew a leather
wallet which she snapped open and produced a set of large cards.
Without looking she shuffled them swiftly, shaking the cards
together. Every few seconds, she leaned forward and asked one of
the group to touch the pack, each in turn, anti clockwise. They
waited until she had finished.</p>
<p>"The second part," the old woman said, sliding her eyes across
theirs. She put the pack on the centre of the table, face down.</p>
<p>"As before, each take three. They are your own keys."</p>
<p>Janet Robinson stretched out a tentative hand, used two
outspread fingers to pinch a wad of cards and with her other hand,
took three. each of them did the same. When they had all done so,
Marta Herkik spoke up again.</p>
<p>"Keep these with you now. Do not look at the faces, for they are
your hidden fortune. Put them away and hold them to you."</p>
<p>Annie Eastwood and the other woman looked at each other. This
was something different. The tarot cards were old, the writhing
black patterns on the backs worn with use. Annie almost turned hers
over to see what she had drawn, but Janet picked hers up and put
them in her own bag. Annie did the same. Each of the men put them
in an inside pocket, wondering why they'd been asked to do this.
William Simpson pulled back the lapel, made to slide the cards
inside and glanced down at the nearest face. It showed a man
suspended on a rope, and that surprised him. When Marta Herkik had
dealt his cards before, it had been a different set. Then, the man
had been dangling by one foot, the other crossed over. This one was
a black etching of the Hanged Man. But the picture showed a rotting
skeletal figure dangling from a gibbet on which perched five black
crows. Eye sockets glared blindly above grinning teeth.</p>
<p>Marta Herkik broke the small silence. "Do as I do, now," she
said and everyone leaned forward. They all had their reasons.</p>
<p>The small woman reached into a black bag on her lap and brought
out something which she raised, then placed slowly in the centre of
the pentagon forming the heart of the star. All eyes followed the
movement. She drew her hands away and a translucent stone remained,
so clear it could have been made of glass, almost perfectly round,
though not quite, showing it had been formed from natural rock
crystal. In its depths, only three inches away from the smooth
surface, yet because of the odd perspective within the curved stone
it seemed far away, a small almond-shaped flaw caught the light and
shone it back. Like the stone in the old woman's brooch, it gleamed
like an eye.</p>
<p>Marta Herkik held her fingertips on the crystal dome. The others
reached, some eagerly, some more hesitant, until they all
touched.</p>
<p>There was a long moment of complete silence, then the woman
spoke, this time very softly.</p>
<p>"We are gathered here to be granted the gift of sight and the
gift of knowledge. We seek to know the un-knowable, to see the
unseen, to go beyond the beyond. Open your minds and your hearts,
because they are the channels. Empty your minds and let the power
flow."</p>
<p>On the woman's right side, Annie Eastwood, short brown hair
still damp from the rain, felt a tremor under her hands, so soft
she thought she might have imagined it, so slight it could have
been the tiny pulse in the skin of her fingers.</p>
<p>She held her breath and waited. This was her fourth visit to
Marta Herkik's back parlour. A divorcee for fourteen years, her
seventeen-year-old daughter Angela had gone out, against her
mother's wishes, to a disco in Lochend, seven miles along the road
on the south end of Loch Corran. She hadn't come home that night.
Her boyfriend had borrowed his father's car and had taken Angela
and his friend and girlfriend for a drive up the Shore Road past
Linnvale where the scars of the summer's forest fire had left a
black carpet of desolation. Not far past the turn-off, the car had
gone out of control, hit a tree-stump and rolled. Angela had been
thrown out of the car and tumbled fifty feet through the air to hit
a solitary old oak tree a few yards in from the roadside. Almost
every bone in her body had been smashed on impact. She had died
instantly.</p>
<p>Annie Eastwood wanted to speak to her daughter. She had to know
she was safe and happy. And most of all, she wanted her to know she
was sorry.</p>
<p>To Annie's right Derek Elliot felt the shiver in the crystal and
a half-smile formed on his face. He didn't really believe in all
this hocus-pocus, he told himself. But he was curious. He was also
young and he was ambitious. He'd failed his law degree four years
before, but had talked old Harry Fitzpatrick at Levenax Estate
Agents to take him on and he'd diligently worked his way into a
junior partnership, though that meant doing all of the work while
Harry played golf. In the past few months, Derek had been doing
little private deals on the side, deals that would have made the
old man throw a fit, had he known, but he did not know and Derek
Elliot wanted to move on and up. He wanted Marta Herkik to tell him
when. All he needed was a hint. Maybe a sign.</p>
<p>Next to him, Mickey O'Day had the look of a man who wants
everyone to think he is on top. He was in his mid thirties and
sported a loud tie and a louder checked sports jacket on which he'd
pinned a carnation which clashed jarringly. Mickey was on his way
out of the dark side of a bad run of luck. He still owed a small
fortune to Carrick's bookie's shop. Mickey was a great believer in
luck and that lady had written him a dear John. Eddie Carrick had
sent his two boys along to the Castlegate Bar to leave a message .
It was blunt and to the point: The old fella wanted his money by
the weekend. Mickey didn't have it. He needed some help to get luck
back on his side, just enough to make a favourite fall, to give an
outsider a spurt, to get Eddie Carrick's big lads off his back.
That was when he'd heard about Marta Herkik, and then his luck had
started to change. Mickey felt the shiver under his fingers and
gave a small smile that nobody else noticed. Maybe tonight, just
maybe, lady luck would really smile on him and get him out from
under, once and for all, put him back on top where he belonged.</p>
<p>Almost opposite Marta Herkik, William Simpson shivered in
response to the tiny tremor under his own fingers.</p>
<p>He shouldn't be here. He knew that, and still he'd come. Exactly
why he <em>had</em> come, he could not say, not to anyone. He was
looking for something. Simpson was minister of Castlebank Church,
preaching to less than a hundred souls every Sunday, most of them
women, most of them old, and that part of his life was empty and
hollow and as dry as the cellar beneath the crypt. More than anyone
else in the room, he needed to believe in a life after death. And
he needed that more than anything.</p>
<p>On his right, still going round the table anti-clockwise, Janet
Robinson, a thin, nervous woman with short fair hair and nervous
eyes behind wide lensed glasses. She was apprehensive, for a reason
she could not name. She had been here before and listened to Marta
Herkik's piping voice, as she interpreted the tarot, but this was
the first time she had sat with her fingers on the polished stone.
Janet was a typist at the police station on College Way, a shy,
timid woman. Her mother, a large, big busted, big voiced woman who
had loomed like a shadow over her all her life had died suddenly of
a massive stroke in the summer of the year. Janet Robinson had been
left with nothing to fill that vacuum. She didn't know what to do.
Her mother had organised everything, every part of her life. For
most of that life Janet had been afraid of her anger, had hated her
dominance, but had succumbed until there was nothing much left of
her own <em>self</em>. Now she wasn't sure what <em>she</em>
wanted. But she knew she needed to lay her mother's memory to
rest.</p>
<p>The last man at the table was Edward Tomlin who sat with eyes
fixed on the fingers sitting lightly on top of the shining stone.
He was in his late thirties, slim and tense. He was a little bit
frightened, though he did not know why. Tomlin was the caretaker in
Castlebank shipyard which had been the biggest industry in
Levenford until the fifties when things had begun to go sour. Now
he was in charge of a shell of rusting sheds and hangars,
mouldering machinery and weed-filled slipways. His job was no job
at all, for there was nothing to repair, or clean. He spent his
time making sure the teenagers of the town were kept from using the
old sheds as drinking dens, and to make sure the younger children
stayed safely outside the wrought iron gates. The yard had died a
long time ago, though one small section, close to the distillery,
had been fenced off and it was there that the only heavy
engineering took place, a stripped-down operation building spidery
rig-sections for the North Sea oilfields. Occasionally Eddie Tomlin
would stroll past the chain-link, listening to the harsh metal
sounds, and hanker for the days when his father had been welding
foreman, and when the big gates would open on a Saturday to spill
the grimy men out into the street for Saturday football matches.
More often he'd unlock the old tool room and open the box where he
kept some of the things he'd collected over the years. In the quiet
of the afternoon, he'd strip off his overalls and dress up in
silk.</p>
<p>Marta Herkik pressed her small, smooth hand onto the glass. She
gave a small smile of satisfaction when she felt the tiny tremor,
and sensed the heightened perception of the people around the
table. The rain beat a steady rap on the window, sounding like a
backwash of sand on the shore and the wind moaned down the chimney,
flaring the coals to brightness in stuttering breaths.</p>
<p>"Here we are gathered," she said in a low voice, almost a
mutter. In in her east European accent it sounded like
<em>gattered</em>. "To make contact, yes? With those gone before us
beyond the beyond. We each have the reasons. I am here to guide you
and my guide will lead me through. May we bring to them peace and
may they give peace to us."</p>
<p>All eyes were fixed on the little woman's face. The stone on her
shoulder winked red.</p>
<p>"We channel ourselves, our inner selves, together and through
the crystal. A radio beam if you prefer it, sending our thoughts to
the faraway, yes?"</p>
<p>They all nodded, slowly, like infants responding to a
teacher.</p>
<p>"We begin now, please," Marta said with a little nod. Under her
fingers the tremor had become a vibration, slow and steady.</p>
<p>The woman closed her eyes and brought her eyebrows down as far
as the pull of her tightly-held hair would allow.</p>
<p>"We come to seek the help of he who holds the power," she
intoned, almost singing. It sounded to Mickey O'Day just like a bad
piece of acting in an old movie, but even Mickey could feel the odd
tension which seemed to twist from one to another in the circle
around the table. There was an odd tingle of expectancy.</p>
<p>"We seek the knowledge, and answers to our questions. We seek
the guidance from beyond to assist us," Marta crooned.</p>
<p>"We are empty vessels into which can flow the knowledge and the
power to see beyond. Come to us now, and answer our call. Bring us
the knowledge and the sign."</p>
<p>She took a deep breath.</p>
<p>Under their fingers, the smooth crystal trembled in a sudden
hard vibration, strong enough to make it rattle on the table-top.
Janet Robinson made a small noise, more an intake of breath. Edward
Tomlin felt his heart give a double-jump.</p>
<p>"I ask it now," Marta went on as if nothing had happened. Their
fingers felt the thrum of resonance through the clear stone. "We
call you now to come to us."</p>
<p>The rattle got louder, more urgent. Derek Elliot could see the
flaw inside the crystal between his fingers. The movement was
causing it to flicker and dance like a candle-flame. Without
warning, the movement stopped and a heavy silence followed. Annie
Eastwood looked at the little woman, but Marta's eyes were fixed on
the stone.</p>
<p>Then, again without warning, it moved.</p>
<p>There was no hesitation. It slid across the table to stop just
in front of Marta Herkik. It made hardly a sound as it glided
across the polished surface to plant itself right on top of the
inlaid word <em>Yea</em>.</p>
<p>She smiled, just a twitch of her lips.</p>
<p>"Spirit," she said. "You have chosen to be with us, to journey
from the far place. If we ask, will you answer?"</p>
<p>The crystal dome remained where it sat, right at the edge of the
inlaid word. There was another momentary silence, then it began to
shake again, just enough to drum on the polished wood.</p>
<p>"Very good. We shall now begin," the old woman piped.</p>
<p>"The spirit is with us. I feel his presence and so shall you.
Welcome him to yourselves."</p>
<p>As soon as she said that, the fire flared then dimmed
theatrically, and then, very slowly the light on the lamp on the
old dresser by the wall, faded to red. The draught from the chimney
swirled around the room. each of them felt it. The hairs on Derek
Elliot's knuckles stood on end, and Janet Robinson felt the skin
between her shoulderblades pucker and crawl. The cold wind eddied
from one to the other. William Simpson felt it waft through him,
shivering him deep inside. Annie Eastwood drew in her breath,
feeling the cold air spread into her lungs. It was as if the
atmosphere had changed, suddenly tense and frigid, as if the wind
moaning down the chimney has snaked right into their bones.</p>
<p>Marta raised her head and scanned the faces around the table.
"Which will be first."</p>
<p>They all looked at her, then at each other, none wishing to make
a move.</p>
<p>"Hurry now," Marta urged abruptly. "There is no time."</p>
<p>"Give me a number," Mickey O'Day blurted. What he really wanted
was a name. A <em>winning</em> name.</p>
<p>"Give me a lucky number."</p>
<p>The stone trembled again. Very slowly, it slid across the table,
hovered in front of the <em>Nay</em> sign, then glided silently to
stop briefly in front of Derek Elliot, sped diagonally across to
tremble before Janet Robinson and then changed direction to flit
down and stop between Marta Herkik and Annie Eastwood. As it moved
their arms reached or drew back, still with their fingers on the
stone.</p>
<p>"Six." Mickey said, spelling out the letters. "That's what it
said, unless one of you's pushing the damn thing."</p>
<p>Marta shot him a look which conveyed irritation and commanded
silence.</p>
<p>"Just checking," Mickey said with a grin. Already, in his mind,
he was leaning on the railing at Ayr racetrack. Tomorrow, he knew,
the going would be soft. There were fourteen runners. With the ease
of the habitual gambler, he ran through the numbers. Red Crystal, a
three year old untested colt was among the bar runners at 33-1 in
the day's major race. It was coming out of trap six. Mickey had
hoarded his last win, though still in well over his head in credit
bets. There were a few places who would take a ten or twenty, and
if he spread his money around, it wouldn't attract attention. He
smiled to himself, hearing in his mind the roar of the crowd at the
post as his horse came through. Number six. Red Crystal. He looked
down at the stone under his hands and saw the tiny flaw catch the
light. Another sign. Another omen. For the first time in months he
felt absolutely sure that his luck was going to dazzle him.</p>
<p>"That'll do nicely," he murmured, strangely certain. Maybe, he
thought, it would come up with a few more.</p>
<p>"Someone else with a question?" Marta asked.</p>
<p>Janet Robinson looked up, then dropped her eyes back to her
hand.</p>
<p>"Yes, dear?" Marta encouraged. "Don't be afraid. Ask what you
want to know."</p>
<p>For a moment, Janet was nonplussed. She didn't know
<em>what</em> she wanted to know. She was trying to formulate a
question when Annie Eastwood blurted: "My daughter. Is she safe? I
mean...." Annie looked straight at Marta.</p>
<p>"Is she happy? I have to tell her something. I didn't get the
chance. I mean..." The words came out in a tumble. Before she could
say more, the crystal moved so abruptly that Janet Robinson let out
a little gasp.</p>
<p>It slid in a series of straight-line glides halting precisely in
front of the letters, its edge on the middle ring, jerking back and
forth spasmodically. As it moved, the six people who had come to
Marta Herkik's backstairs apartment silently mouthed the letters.
Abruptly, the crystal came to a halt, in the dead centre of the
table.</p>
<p>"Angela". It was a whisper which was almost a gasp. Even in the
dimness of the room, Janet Robinson could see the slackness in
Annie Eastwood's face. The blood just seemed to drain away to below
the collarline of her blouse. "That's her name."</p>
<p>A shiver went through their fingers again. This time there was
no hesitation. The glass sped over the surface, pecking at a
letter, diving off at a tangent, stabbing at another, coming back
briefly to the centre to mark a pause...sometimes.</p>
<p><em>Dark.</em> It spelled.</p>
<p>Then: <em>Cold.</em></p>
<p>Then: <em>Sore It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. cold-dark-cold-pain
o help o help oh no oh oh oh motherpleasehelpmemother.</em></p>
<p>Annie Eastwood squeaked, whether in fright or in pain, none of
them knew. She jerked back and her hand flew from the crystal. A
noise like a brisk handclap smacked the air and Marta Herkik's five
other visitors felt their own hands thrown from the polished stone.
The old woman's hand was the last on the surface. Another small
noise, like an electrical contact sparked under her fingers and her
own hand was thrown upwards. It looked as if she had touched
something hot.</p>
<p>"What?" she exclaimed, to no one in particular.</p>
<p>Just as the word was out, the crystal dome began to move again.
It edged, of its own volition over to the <em>NAY</em> sign then
back to the centre, then it was off again, flitting in a glowing
blur, collecting its letters with each instant stop before it
flicked to the next, criss-crossing the table in diagonal
flashes.</p>
<p><em>TREEOSH</em> it spelled out. Then <em>otheres</em> then
<em>ehorset.</em> Between each clump of letters, it paused and
quivered. They all watched, mouths agape. Annie Eastwood's hands
were shaking, balled into fists just under her chin, as if she was
preparing to ward off the smooth polished hemisphere if it suddenly
leapt at her. Mickey O'Day was sitting right back in his seat,
staring at the stone as if it were a snake. Edward Tomlin, opposite
him had a knuckle jammed into his mouth, as if he were afraid he
might make a sound. Marta Herkik 's own face had sagged, as if even
she couldn't believe what she was seeing.</p>
<p>Then William Simpson, opposite her said: "It's our initials.
They're all anagrams."</p>
<p>As soon as he said that, the stone rattled <em>hard</em> on the
table top, then went completely still.</p>
<p>"It was only our initials," he said. "But how did it do
that?"</p>
<p>Without pausing, he shoved his chair back and bent to look under
the table. He disappeared from view completely. Unconsciously Janet
Robinson crossed her legs in an automatic movement as soon as his
head bowed under the edge of the table. Five seconds later, he came
back up again.</p>
<p>"There's nothing there. I don't understand this."</p>
<p>He looked across the table to where Marta Herkik still sat,
slack jawed, the hand that had been resting on the stone up close
to her face, palm outwards.</p>
<p>"What's going on here?" he demanded.</p>
<p>Annie Eastwood made another little squeaking sound. She looked
as if she might have a heart attack. Nobody else noticed.</p>
<p>"Come on. Tell me."</p>
<p>Everybody turned to Marta. The old woman's mouth opened, then,
very slowly it closed again. Just as slowly, she closed her eyes
and quite gracefully drew her head back until the tight bun was
pressed against the high back of the chair. Her small reddened lips
pursed and a frown of concentration knotted her pencilled eyebrows
into a tight cupid's bow. She drew in a long breath through her
nose, as if she was sniffing the air, expelled it the same way and
drew in again, deep and slow. The hand that had been held up close
to her face slowly dropped to her lap. The six people watched in
silence. The woman's steady breathing continued for several
moments, each breath longer than the last, each inhalation drawn
out so slowly it seemed to take an age to reach its turning
point.</p>
<p>Finally, Marta Herkik's head began to slump forward. She gave a
little moan, hardly louder than the sound of her breathing had
been, then that noise stopped dead. The rapping on the window pane
faded to nothing and the whistle of the wind down the chimney died
away and the silence expanded. There was no movement, not the blink
of an eye nor the twitch of a lip. The very air of the room seemed
to be taught with a sudden expectancy.</p>
<p>"<em>Donuts</em>."</p>
<p>Derek Elliot visibly jerked back in a start of surprise. Janet
Robinson's eyes blinked rapidly three times.</p>
<p>Marta Herkik's head swung up and her eyes snapped open, staring
straight into the smooth stone in the centre of the table. Her lips
had not moved, but the voice had come from her.</p>
<p>"<em>Donuts</em>," she said again. " <em>Hot. Icing.
Sugar</em>."</p>
<p>Still the woman's red lips were motionless. Her teeth seemed to
be gritted together.</p>
<p>The voice which they heard was not a woman's voice, not the
tones of an old woman, not the strong east European accent that
Marta Herkik still maintained almost forty years after she had fled
the Hungarian revolution and come to live with her brother in
Levenford, just south of the highland line.</p>
<p>"<em>Make me some hot donuts, mummy</em>," the voice piped up in
the clear, sing-song cadence of a small girl.</p>
<p>Beside the old woman, Annie Eastwood's face went through a
startling metamorphosis. She stiffened, as if all the muscles in
her cheeks and neck had gone into a bunching spasm, then, almost
instantaneously, as if strings holding them sight had been cut,
they sagged, giving her the vacuous look of someone in shock. Her
eyes rolled upwards, the brown irises almost disappearing behind
her eyelids. Even in the dim light of the embers it was clear that
her face had gone sickly pale.</p>
<p>"<em>They're my</em> favourites <em>mummy</em>," the child's
voice sang out.</p>
<p>Annie shuddered as if struck and the muscles of her face
unslackened themselves in a galvanic jerk. She gave a little moan,
very like the sound Marta Herkik had made. Her eyes flicked to the
left. The old woman was sitting dead still, gaze fixed emptily on
the curved crystal under her fingers.</p>
<p>"Angela?" Annie Eastwood's question was hushed. The tremble in
her breath was audible. Everyone else stared at her. No-one else
spoke.</p>
<p>"Angie?" she said again, this time louder. In her mind a cruel
playback ran its scenes in flick-flick motion. It had been Angie's
fourth birthday, six months after Crawford Eastwood had packed a
suitcase and disappeared, without leaving so much as a note on the
mantelpiece, leaving her to bring up the baby on her own, leaving
her, she later discovered, for a nineteen-year-old girl who had
babysat on the nights Annie had been kept late stocktaking, while
Crawford had been spending what little extra money they'd had down
in the County Bar. She'd had to work hard then, scraping and
scratching to keep little Angie dressed and fed. There had been no
money for birthday presents that year, not with the lawyer's fees
and all, and she'd been too busy just trying to keep the house
going at all to buy a birthday cake.</p>
<p>And little Angie had understood, even at four years old. She'd
put her arms around her mother's neck when Annie had tried,
bitterly and heart-achingly, to explain that there would be a cake
at Christmas, and presents too, but - <em>oh god I'm</em> sorry
<em>honeybun -</em> I've nothing for you now.</p>
<p>"Don't worry mummy," she'd piped up, hugging hard, trying to
make the hurt go away. She'd <em>known</em>, even at the age of
four, she'd known.</p>
<p>"Make me some donuts instead. Make me hot donuts with icing and
sugar. They're my favourites."</p>
<p>And Annie had got the flour and butter and moulded the donuts
into rings, woman and small girl in the old high-ceilinged kitchen
that she hadn't paid the mortgage on for four months and that was
really why there hadn't been any cake or presents for a wee girl.
They'd dropped the doughy rings into the deep fat and listened to
their spat and sizzle and she'd spooned the thick icing sugar on,
letting it drip like sweet wax while they were still hot. They'd
stuck four tiny blue candles on one of them and both of them had
sung happy birthday, little Angie singing <em>happy birthday dear
ME</em> while tears had clouded Annie's eyes.</p>
<p>That had been fourteen years ago. On that day, Annie had
promised her baby there would be Christmas presents under the tree,
and she'd promised herself too, that no matter what, she'd make a
home for the two of them, come what may. And thirteen years after
that, Angie had been catapulted out of a car and had broken all her
bones and Annie hadn't even been given the chance to say
goodbye.</p>
<p>The sound of the child's voice had brought that all back in one
tidal wave of remembrance that swamped Annie Eastwood and dragged
her under.</p>
<p>"<em>Don't worry mummy. I'm a good girl</em>," the voice cut
through to the drowning woman and dragged her back. Her fingers
tried to hook on to the smooth crystal dome, instinctively seeking
purchase.</p>
<p>"Angie!" she managed to say again.</p>
<p>"<em>Yes mother.</em>" This time, the tone was still that of a
girl, but now a young woman rather than a child. Annie recognized
it at once.</p>
<p>"Where..." Annie started. "Where are you."</p>
<p>"<em>I'm here mother. It's dark here. And cold. It';s very cold
and I can't get warm. I'm</em> lost <em>mother.</em>"</p>
<p>"But..."</p>
<p>All eyes except Marta Herkik's were now fixed on Annie Eastwood.
No-one else spoke. William Simpson's mouth was set in a circle, as
if he was sucking an invisible stick of rock. Janet Robinson's jaw
had sagged down until it was almost on her chest.</p>
<p>"<em>I'm all</em> alone <em>mother</em>," the young woman's
voice wailed. There was a panicky edge to it, a jagged ridge of
fear. Marta Herkik's lips didn't move. Her mouth was still partly
open. A pulse beat visibly in her neck under her chin, but her lips
were motionless. Yet there was no doubt that the voice was coming
from her.</p>
<p>"Angie. <em>Angela!</em>" Annie cried out. "What's wrong? Where
are you?"</p>
<p>"<em>I have messages for people, mother. I have to tell
them.</em>"</p>
<p>"But Angie, <em>wait</em>!" the woman blurted, panicky, like a
caller expecting the phone to be hung up.</p>
<p>Then the voice changed yet again. Marta Herkik's head came down
in a slow nod. Her hands dropped equally slowly, and planted
themselves on the table, one on either side of the <em>YEA</em>
sign.</p>
<p>"<em>A message. From the harbinger</em>," this new voice said.
It had no accent at all. The words came out flat, like footfalls.
It had no gender, no age. Marta Herkik raised her head and they
could see the reflections of the small flaw in the crystal
reflected in her eyes, like two smouldering points deep inside the
wide pupils.</p>
<p>"<em>A message for all of you. Hm? From the other whom you have
called."</em></p>
<p>The old woman's jaw twitched, as if she was fighting back the
words, <em>biting</em> back the words, but still her lips didn't
move.</p>
<p>"<em>A small payment for the summons. A little quid-pro-quo, hm?
You all want the future, all of you, and you shall have a
future.</em>"</p>
<p>"What's the old bugger going on about," Mickey O'Day breathed.
His eyes left Marta Herkik's rictus and flicked bout the room,
looking for something that would tell him this was a recording. But
the nerves rippling under the skin of his neck, like creeping
fingers told him this was a vain hope.</p>
<p>"<em>Ah, the gambling man. A lucky number. The number of all
luck. It is six, the number of my master's master.</em>"</p>
<p>The short sentences came out in hard bites.</p>
<p><em>"Yea. It is six, and so shall ye know it. It is six times
six times six. Test your luck, man of chance. Test the luck of
the</em> game."</p>
<p>The old woman's head swivelled a fraction to the left.</p>
<p>"<em>And you. Man of the Cloth.</em>"</p>
<p>Now the voice deepened. <em>"Shall I sing you a song? A</em>
hymn <em>perhaps. Suffer little children. It would be better for
thee, that a millstone be put around thy neck than corrupt one of
these, my little ones. One of</em> his <em>little ones. More than
one. You wear the millstone well.</em>"</p>
<p>"What the devil?" William Simpson almost chocked on the rush of
words. "How dare you...I'll..I'll"</p>
<p>But the old woman's head had turned away from him, veering
further to the left. The burning glint flared brighter.</p>
<p>"<em>Mother's here, my dear. Watching over you,</em> day
<em>and</em> night<em>, just as I shall guide you in the
night.</em>"</p>
<p>Janet Robinson shrank back.</p>
<p>"<em>Oh don't fidget. And close your mouth, or the wind will
change and you'll stay like that, stupid girl. And remember. I'm
watching you, all the time. I know</em> everything."</p>
<p>Janet's expression of fright changed immediately to a slack look
of pure horror. She gave a strangled little coughing cry and then
her mouth closed like a trap.</p>
<p>Marta's head continued its swing.</p>
<p>"<em>Open the box</em>," the voice came. Edward Tomlin was
locked in her gaze. "<em>The secret box behind closed doors, the
pandora's box of all your deeds.</em>"</p>
<p>Tomlin shrank back, his eyes showing the fear of a man who knows
his secret will be told. He held up a hand to ward off the
words.</p>
<p>"<em>If only they knew. The things that you do. With the locks.
And the box. And the</em> doors."</p>
<p>It came out in a sing-song rhyme. A grating, sneering little
ditty.</p>
<p>Marta Herkik's blazing eyes left him speechless. Her head
snapped to the right she glared at Derek Elliot.</p>
<p>"<em>Ah, an ambitious man. A man with plans. With other people's
money, hm? A</em> takeover<em>? I accept your invitation to join
the company. A welcome opening. In management no less. Too many
cooks. Of the books. Success to all.</em>"</p>
<p>The voice stopped.</p>
<p>Everybody stared at the old woman, their faces frozen in
expressions of fright or distress or outright shock.</p>
<p>There was a silence for almost a minute, while Marta Herkik
began to breath heavily again, each intake rasping, as if her
throat was constricted, as if she was fighting for air.</p>
<p>Her fingers pressed down on the polished wood of the inlaid
table, curved, and the knuckles stood white as she forced the tips
down hard until her nails were pointed straight at the shiny
surface. Then she drew her hands back, digging her nails in. There
was a faint scraping sound at first, then as the hands drew towards
her, a screech as the painted nails dug under the surface. Edward
Tomlin saw a little corkscrew of veneer spiral upwards from under
the end of her middle finger. Behind it, where her hands had moved,
eight, almost parallel lines were gouged into the wood, ploughed
furrows with jagged edges. Even as he watched he saw the long
fingernail snap backwards right from the little half-moon quick at
the base of the nail, with an audible <em>click</em>. Blood welled
out from where it stuck out like a bird's beak and flowed into the
lengthening groove. The old woman 's expression did not change. She
appeared to be grinning, but without humour. Her lips were drawn
back from her teeth. Her eyes caught the flicker of light from the
stone, but they looked blind.</p>
<p>Just as her fingers reached the middle circle, the stone began
to move again, following a similar stuttering pattern to the
previous zig-zag darting. Only Michael O'Day saw the movement. The
rest of them watched aghast as Marta Herkik's fingers tore at the
table.</p>
<p>"I think I've had enough," William Simpson snapped. He shoved
his chair back from the table. "I don't know what on earth is going
on here, but I'm leaving."</p>
<p>He pushed himself to his feet and took a step backwards. Edward
Tomlin's chair caught on the edge of a carpet and began to tilt. He
stood up, eyes still fixed on the little stream of blood which was
slowly oozing down its groove to the pentangle at the centre of the
table. The path of the smooth stone had crossed over the trickle
and had smeared a glistening pattern on its travels, a little thick
blob where it had stopped at a letter and spun.</p>
<p>Marta Herkik breathed out violently, a cold hiss of air, strong
as the gust of wind that had blasted out from the fireplace, but
this time much colder. Even William Simpson, standing away from the
table felt it on his face. The cold invaded him again, made him
shudder. The temperature of the room plummeted instantly. From the
wall behind the woman's twisted shape, a ripping noise, like fine
cloth torn apart, zipped down from the ceiling. A line of the heavy
brocaded wallpaper simply peeled off the wall and flopped,
snakelike to the floor. Droplets of water beaded on the bare
plaster where it had been pasted to the wall. Another rip and a
parallel section unseamed and oozed wetly to pool beside the
kerb.</p>
<p>The old woman's head was thrown back and her eyes rolled. The
stone slowly swivelled in the centre of the table. Edward Tomlin's
chair teetered, then crashed to the floor. The noise was enough to
distract Janet Robinson and Annie Eastwood. They forced themselves
back from the table, shivering with fright and the sudden glacial
cold. Derek Elliot followed with a jerky movement as if he was
afraid to be left behind. Michael O'Day was rivetted on the lines
of blood on the table. Cold fingers of revulsion and fascinated
fear were trailing up and down his spine. The short hairs on the
back of his neck were rippling in unison. they felt as if they were
trying to crawl upwards.</p>
<p>Simpson reached the door, snatched at the handle and pulled it
open. He turned to say something else and the door slammed shut
with a loud clatter. He yelled in a strangely high-pitched voice as
his hand, still on the handle, was twisted round in a sudden snap,
wrenching his wrist. At the same moment, the fire flared and the
flaw in the stone caught the light like a fanned ember. Marta
Herkik's fingers were now dug into the wood at the end of the
table. Her neck was arched back so far that her chin was pointing
to the ceiling. She gave a strangled gasp.</p>
<p>Closest to her, Edward Tomlin heard a creaking noise. It
reminded him of a branch bent to breaking point. Beads of sweat on
the old woman's brow trickled down towards her ears.</p>
<p>"Somebody help her," he shouted. "She's having a fit or
something."</p>
<p>"Help nothing," Derek Elliot. "She's nothing but an old faker.
I'm getting out of here." But the young man in the smart blue suit
did not sound as if he believed a word of what he said.</p>
<p>He reached beyond William Simpson who was still shaking his hand
and grabbed the doorhandle. He twisted it with some force and
hauled. Nothing happened.</p>
<p>"Bloody thing's stuck. Another trick," he said from behind
clenched teeth. He braced himself and heaved.</p>
<p>There was a noise of wood splintering and the door opened an
inch. Elliot grunted with effort.</p>
<p>On the table the stone started spinning, although only Michael
O'Day saw it. Marta Herkik's head was bent so far now over the back
of the seat that the bun on the top of her head was almost down at
shoulder lever. She was groaning now, rasping like an animal. Annie
Eastwood took a step toward her, paused, then took two steps back.
Her eyes moved to the old woman's fingers, stuck in the wood. Blood
was flowing from the ends of them. All the nails were twisted off
their cuticle beds.</p>
<p>"Oh, she's..." Annie began. In her head she could still hear her
daughter's pitiful plea. Her mind was a turmoil, and she could feel
her knees shudder as if they were about to give under her
weight.</p>
<p>Derek Elliot heaved on the door and swung it open, helped by
William Simpson who managed to hook his undamaged hand round the
edge of the heavy wood. There was another creak, then it slammed
back against the wall with enough force to shiver the floor.</p>
<p>"Would you look at that?" Michael O'Day said, in a voice that
held both fear and wonderment. Janet Robinson and Edward Tomlin
couldn't help but look.</p>
<p>The glowing hemisphere of polished stone was whirling on the
centre of the table. Tiny splashes of blood were flicked up and out
in a catherine-wheel spray. Marta Herkik sounded as though she was
choking, yet nobody made a move to help her. In the flick of an
eye, the whirling piece of quartz shot from the table and hit the
stone fireplace behind the twisted woman with a noise like gunfire.
Shards of crystal exploded outwards. One of them clipped Mickey
O'Day on the cheek. Another raked Janet Robinson's calf.</p>
<p>But it was Marta Herkik who took the force of it. Her whole body
stiffened, as if she'd been hit by a hammer, then her head whipped
up and forward. The whole of the top of her head was crowned with
sparkling pieces of glassy splinters. Blood simply drenched her
hair.</p>
<p>William Simpson leapt through the doorway with Derek Elliot
clawing at his jacket to get in front. Edward Tomlin almost knocked
Annie Eastwood sprawling in his rush to get out. His shoulder hit
the door-jamb and he spun, tumbled down three stairs before the
turn and almost knocked himself out when his chin connected with
the low sill of the stairwell window. Annie Eastwood's heel broke
as she tripped over the sprawled man. Janet Robinson's didn't. She
missed her footing, planted a high heel in Tomlin's groin and
didn't even hear his squeal as the little metal edge punctured the
fabric of his trousers and almost punched a hole in his left
testicle. By the time she got to the bottom of the stairs she was
almost gabbling in fright. Michael O'Day saw none of this. His eyes
were rivetted on the awful sight of Marta Herkik's head swinging up
with its hair caked in blood.</p>
<p>One of the shards that had exploded out from the fireplace when
the crystal had shattered was embedded in her forehead. that jagged
shard, the biggest of them all, had contained the flaw at the
centre of the stone.</p>
<p>Now it gleamed and sparked like a third eye in the middle of the
old woman's forehead. Her own eyes were rolled right back, still
wide open, until only the blind whites glared out blindly.</p>
<p>Her head continued to swing forward and her mouth moved in a
series of spastic jerks.</p>
<p>Michael backed away eyes wide, feeling his own breath catch in
his throat.</p>
<p>The old woman started to say something, but all that came out
was a rattle. Her hands came up from the table, dripping blood.
They flexed in front of her blind eyes, like ragged talons.</p>
<p>He started to say something, but the words wouldn't come. A
nerve jumped under his knee and he thought for a moment he was
going to fall to the floor, leaving him alone with the apparition
still seated in the chair.</p>
<p>Then Marta Herkik started to laugh, but it was not the high,
piping laugh of the old woman who had read his tarot cards only the
week before.</p>
<p>This was a gruff, barking laugh. It sounded more animal than
human. It started low, almost a growl, and quickly rose to a
stuttering bark, like foxes in a dark wood. The woman's mouth was
wide open. Her false teeth slipped out, bounced on her podgy chest
and rattled to the table. The laugh continued and Michael O'Day
couldn't move. The nightmare screech soared higher and higher, like
a laugh on a speeded-up record, until it became the chittering of
stoats in a gorse bush, then it stopped abruptly. As soon as it
did, old Marta Herkik's body arched backwards. There was a thin
snapping sound as her legs pushed out. Her back curved and her head
was thrown back in a sudden spasm.</p>
<p>Then she began to rise straight up from the chair, limbs
spreadeagled, hands drooling blood. He watched aghast, paralysed.
The woman's body reached the level of the high lintel on the
fireplace and continued straight up. A hand scraped the wall. It
moved, jittering, and smeared a line of blood on the bare piece
where the paper had unseamed itself. The other hand stretched out,
made contact with the bare plaster and scrabbled against it.
Michael O'Day saw the smears become letters, the letters become
words. Still nine, maybe ten feet in the air, and completely
horizontal, her face pointing at the ceiling, the old woman's form
began to spin slowly. It was so alien, so preposterous, that
Michael O'Day felt a cold terror grip at the base of his belly. The
spinning motion stopped and the woman coughed sickly, as if she was
choking and something crashed in the corner. His eyes flicked to
the shadows where the walls joined just as a vase came hurtling
from the gloom towards him. He didn't have time to move, but it
missed him by a whisker, the wind of its passing riffling his black
Irish curls. Beside it, a line of old books came whirring out,
propelled by an invisible force, bulleting out into the room,
slamming against the table, against the cabinet on the far side,
pages fluttering and ripping. Above, one of the lightbulbs in the
three branched light imploded and a shower of tiny glass splinters
rained down to the floor.</p>
<p>Michael's muscles unlocked. Enormous gratitude for the power of
motion flooded him. he backed away towards the door, still unable
to pull his eyes away from the woman who floated, fat legs stuck
out awkwardly from her drooping black skirt, close to the
ceiling.</p>
<p>Then she dropped. It was as if a rope had been cut. She came
straight without a sound. Her head slammed against the stone edge
with a soft <em>crumping</em> sound and her left arm was thrown
forward into the red embers.</p>
<p>Michael turned and ran. He took the stairs three at a time,
carooming off the walls of the staircase on the way down. He barged
out through the doorway, almost tripped on something lying on the
wet pavement and kicked it for three yards before he realised it
was his coat. Without thinking, he snatched it up and ran through
the rain across River Street and up Yard Vennel as the lightning
flickered and the thunder rolled up the firth towards
Levenford.</p>
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