Within five minutes of parting from Pearl Carson, Martha was walking through the gates of Paradise. St Peter was conspicuous by his absence, his place at the ticket booth occupied by a diminutive old man in a flat cap. He insisted on stamping Martha’s hand with PARADISE in purple italics, so that she could re-enter before closing time (half an hour before sunset) if somehow she managed to tear herself away briefly from all the marvels at her disposal.
Paradise sprawled over steep ground. Martha followed looping pathways to the top of the hill, where the vista took her breath away. Hemlock Bay in all its glory, the long sweep of sand and the glittering water. Beyond the cliffs in the distance stood the lighthouse. On the other side of Hemlock Head, the view was obscured by clumps of trees, masking the Sun and Air Garden, which extended from the lower slopes on the far side of the head and encompassed the small cove separated by the promontory from the main resort.
She made her way back down the slope, this time examining more closely the pleasures of Paradise, starting with the Rose Garden. A brawny gardener in a purple string vest paused in the act of deadheading faded blooms to give her a salacious wink, followed by a tuneless whistle. It was like being serenaded by a Neanderthal, she thought, and kept on walking.
Divided into four sections, the garden had a cherub fountain in the centre and overlooked a small bandstand. From shelters in the Swiss chalet style, people could listen to music and inhale the perfume of the flowers while they recovered from the climb. Not a sprig of hemlock in sight.
Overlooking the bay was an open-air dance floor, with a huge loudspeaker shaped like a funnel clipped to a stout wooden pole. Further down the slope, she caught a sugary whiff of candyfloss in the air. Deckchairs encircled a marionette show, where puppets chattered and gyrated on a covered stage beneath a proud banner proclaiming Showtime With Skeleton Sue. A buxom young woman with coffee-coloured skin wandered between the rows of seated spectators, calling out as loudly as one of those new-fangled Tannoy speakers.
‘Buy a souvenir programme for a penny! Have your pictures taken with Skeleton Sue! Only threepence for half a dozen, memories to last a lifetime!’
This must be Winnie, lady friend of The Great Hallemby. She had a forthright manner which, to judge by the coins changing hands, worked wonders when it came to selling puppet-related memorabilia.
While parents parted with their hard-earned cash, small children whooped with delight at the puppets’ antics. Their excitement was almost drowned out by screeching from an aviary full of parrots and a hundred and one other brightly coloured birds from all four corners of the globe. There were creatures on display to suit every fancy, from budgerigars and cute little rabbits to glamorous peacocks and a large tank of pythons, curled up yet menacing. The kiddies’ playground had a see-saw, roundabout, and half a dozen swing-boats flying through the air.
Martha passed through an arched doorway into the gaudily painted Penny Arcade. Inside she could barely move for people cramming their hard-earned money into solid oak slot machines on cast-iron feet. When someone started the Band Machine, it was impossible to hear herself think, thanks to the cacophony of drum, cymbals, trumpet, and organ playing together in less than perfect harmony.
At the end of the corridor, another door led into the Mirror Maze, a winding passageway which distorted Martha’s appearance in so many different ways that by the time she emerged into the open air, she felt quite dizzy. She found herself outside a building guarded by a wizened old woman with ragged hair. A large signboard bore the promising disclaimer: Exclusively for Adults! Warning: Do Not Enter if You are of a Sensitive Disposition or Easily Shocked!!!
Who could resist such a challenge? Not Martha, and she was by no means alone. Even on a sunny afternoon at the beginning of summer, the cramped interior was packed with people eager to discover precisely What the Butler Saw. The butler had evidently spent most of his working hours peeping through keyholes at ladies of the house in various states of undress. Tiring of the gauze-veiled parade of plump breasts and buttocks, Martha headed for the exit.
The Great Hallemby plied his trade in a wooden hut tucked away in a secluded corner of Paradise, and separated from a fish pond by a wall of vast rhododendron bushes. Behind the hut, the sharp leaves of a tall, thick holly hedge sheltered denizens of the Sun and Air Garden from the gaze of those whose voyeurism wasn’t sated by discovering What the Butler Saw. Curiosity impelled Martha to take a closer look. One patch of lower hedging had died away; a determined intruder could wriggle through, but she heard a dog barking. The guard was evidently doing his rounds, making sure there were no trespassers. She strolled back to the front of the hut.
The Great Hallemby was emblazoned on a noticeboard above the door in a lurid flourish of orange and purple which described the wonders Hallemby had foretold in the course of a career taking him from Cairo to China. No mention of Colwyn Bay; just artful disclaimers to guard against the risk of prosecution, making clear that he traded in character readings, not foretelling the future.
A bell hung beside the door, alongside a sign warning the unwary not to enter unless they were bidden. To disturb The Great Hallemby otherwise was presumably to court disaster. On the bright side, the cost entitled customers to a hand reading as well as a peek into the crystal ball.
Martha rang the bell and waited.
‘Enter and sit!’
A sonorous voice of command. She glanced up and saw above the door a flared metal opening, an inch wide. The Great Hallemby communicated with his prospective customers through some kind of speaking tube contraption. No trace of a Welsh accent, she thought.
She put sixpence in a box craftily marked Voluntary donations and stepped inside. Drawing aside a black velvet curtain, she entered a claustrophobic antechamber painted with mystic symbols. She took a seat on a wooden bench, facing a second black curtain. Above it was another flared tube opening.
A minute passed before the fortune teller’s voice issued another instruction.
‘Step inside!’
Pulling back the curtain, she found herself in a small, windowless cubicle. She could hear a faint Indian chant, but she was on her own. Rush matting covered the timber floor, except for a small area in the centre where a pentagram was chalked on the wood. There was a shelf on either side of the room; a single candle flickered on one, while on the other a small porcelain burner infused the air with incense. On the far wall hung a painting of a cross-legged fakir wearing a turban. Beside it hung a pair of black curtains, this time embroidered in gold with the signs of the zodiac. A record player sat in a corner of the room and as she set eyes on it, the chanting stopped. The principal furnishings comprised a green baize table and two chairs with high backs. On the table was something large and round and covered in green felt. She didn’t need to be a seer to guess it was a crystal ball.
‘Welcome!’
With a dramatic flourish, The Great Hallemby pulled apart the curtains and strode into the room. Martha had paid close attention to Jacob’s account of his meeting with Gareth Bellamy and it was safe to say there was no comparison between the shifty fellow he’d described and the formidable figure now facing her. His flowing gold and black gown hung around him in billowing folds and she saw he was wearing a silk scarlet blouse and black trousers. His enormous moustache was surely glued on and he wore a fez matching his blouse. In the feeble light, Martha couldn’t be sure, but she suspected his cheeks were powdered white, and that he’d put on a dab of lipstick to emphasise the contrast with the red of his lips.
He bowed deeply.
‘How do?’ Martha said in her broadest northern accent.
A pained expression flittered across his face. ‘Please be seated, my child. You may remove your hat and coat.’
He’d opted for a sonorous boom, with a dash of paternalism and a vaguely foreign intonation. Martha did as instructed. When getting ready to go out, she’d taken a strategic decision to leave the top buttons of her blouse undone and she was conscious of him inspecting her figure. Apparently satisfied with what he’d seen, he gathered up his gown and sat down facing her.
‘What is it that you seek from The Great Hallemby?’
‘I’d like to know what the future has in store for me.’
‘My child, do you understand the importance of this matter?’
‘Well, I…’
‘No!’ He held up his hand. ‘Listen to me. You stand on the brink of an experience which may change your life.’
‘Good heavens!’
‘You need to be prepared, Miss…’
‘Trueman,’ Martha supplied.
‘Yes, Miss Trueman, gazing into the future carries with it both rich opportunity and the potential for disaster. Are you content to proceed?’
‘I paid my sixpence,’ Martha said in a small voice.
‘A modest investment, my child, for the untold wealth of possibilities that may be on the very cusp of unfolding around you.’
He contemplated the ceiling, as if lost in thought, perhaps overcome by the elegance of his own rhetoric. Martha kept very still and waited for him to speak again.
‘It is remarkable. You possess an aura, a definite aura.’
‘I do?’
He glanced at the side of her head and his eyes opened very wide. Before entering this inner sanctum, Martha had made sure to push her hair back so that even in the shadows he could see the acid scarring. She was conscious of him shifting in his chair, and she suspected he’d had to force himself not to let out a gasp of dismay.
‘Your… your aura tells me much more than words could ever explain. I divine that you have endured great troubles, my child.’
Martha looked down. ‘You are right.’
‘Better days lie ahead,’ he said. ‘Let me examine your hands and see what further truths they reveal.’
Obediently, she extended her hands, palms up. He ran his fingertips lightly across them.
‘Your palms are taut with nerves. Sit back and concentrate, ridding yourself of any mental distraction. The palms need to be concave, so that you do not smooth away the scoring. That’s where the truth lies. In the lines of head, heart, and life.’
He launched into a flatteringly embellished description of the most appealing parts of her personality and the welcome news that she could expect to enjoy prosperity and good health in years to come. Martha liked what she heard so much, she wished it were true. Whatever his faults, this man had a talent for telling stories.
‘You are a young woman of immense character and fortitude, Miss Trueman. In the coming weeks, you will find you are asked to make a choice on which your future happiness depends.’
‘Is it… is it to do with a man?’
The fortune teller inclined his head. ‘More than that, your palms do not disclose.’
‘What a pity!’ Martha dabbed the corners of her eyes with a lacy handkerchief.
‘My child, there is no cause to distress yourself. The time is ripe to see what the crystal has to say.’
The Great Hallemby spread his hands over the cloth in a gesture of reverence before whipping it off with a panache worthy of a matador making a pass with his cape. In the gloom, the sphere’s soft glow was hypnotic. He picked it up and turned it around in his hands again and again.
For fully half a minute he hummed a strange tune, as if in a trance. Martha was conscious of the woody aroma of the incense. Finally he fixed his unblinking gaze on her and presented her with the crystal ball.
‘Take it,’ he ordered. ‘As you hold the crystal, close your eyes and keep them shut tight. Empty your mind. Forget about the passage of time. Breathe deeply. This will allow me to peer into your future.’
She cupped her hands to receive the crystal and shut her eyes as required. The ball felt heavy and cold in her grasp. In her head she began to count. The only sound was The Great Hallemby’s heavy breathing. She had a shrewd suspicion that he was paying more attention to her bosom than to any vision in the crystal.
When she’d counted past five hundred and fifty, she heard a catarrhal clearing of the throat. In a muffled whisper, he said, ‘You may open your eyes and return the crystal to me.’
She did as he asked and then sat back and listened as he expounded what he’d seen. Stripped of the flowery metaphors, it amounted to a picture of contented tranquillity. Martha was seated and pregnant, knitting tiny mittens for the new baby while surrounded by affectionate, pretty children. In the background, a handsome, well-dressed older man smoked his pipe and smiled at his family with genial benevolence.
‘How wonderful!’ Martha explained, when the fortune teller leaned back in his chair, a gesture that indicated the session was about to end. ‘But what about the choice you said I’d have to make?’
‘You will meet someone. A stranger who will show you kindness. Through his good offices, you will meet the man of your dreams.’
‘My goodness!’
The Great Hallemby inclined his head. ‘That is all I can see in the crystal, my dear.’
‘Thank you. I don’t know what to say.’
‘I wish you well, my child.’
She began to rise from her seat. ‘Oh, there is just one more thing.’
‘I fear I have told you everything revealed to me by your palms and by the crystal ball.’
‘It’s just about the man who did this to me.’ She touched the scar tissue on the side of her face. ‘I had this picture in my head of him lying dead. I thought you would see the same vision.’
‘A vision?’
‘Yes, it was a bright new dawn on the summer solstice and his body was sprawled across the rocks beneath the cliffs.’
He stared at her, appalled, but she refused to flinch. ‘You’re saying he was dead?’
‘That’s right. His face was hidden, so I couldn’t be sure it was the man who hurt me, but I thought you would know.’
‘What… what are you talking about?’
‘Can you explain what it means?’
‘No, I can’t.’ His voice had risen and the foreign accent had slipped. One of his eyelids had developed a twitch. This was undoubtedly Gareth Bellamy the Welsh clerk rather than an exotic seer. ‘You’d better leave, Miss Trueman.’
‘But I—’
He made a shooing gesture, his vast sleeves flapping like the wings of a giant bird.
‘Enough! Go now!’
She took a step back. ‘Thank you, anyway, Mr Bellamy. I’ll be sure to look out for that kind stranger.’
As she spoke, he froze in horror.
It came to Martha with a sickening jolt that she’d committed a dreadful blunder. In a moment of sheer carelessness, she’d given away the fact she knew the man’s real name.
Bellamy’s face contorted with rage. He shoved the table out of the way and lunged forward. Clamping his hands around Martha’s neck, he began to squeeze.
Martha’s upbringing had been anything but sheltered. She clawed at his face with fingernails as sharp as razors, and kneed Bellamy between his legs. As he reeled, she ripped his hands away.
He yelped in pain, arms flailing. There were livid scratches on his face. She’d drawn blood. With minimal backlift, she delivered a kick to his groin with the point of her shoe as he crashed to the floor with a wild scream.
Without even looking, she grabbed hold of the curtain behind her. Ripping it off its hooks, she hurled it over the man’s prostrate form.
As she bolted through the opening, she glanced back into the room. The Great Hallemby lay in a heap on the floor with the black curtain on top of him. It looked like a crumpled velvet shroud.
Even as she threw herself out of the fortune teller’s hut and into the safety of the open grounds, even as she berated herself for her stupidity, one consolatory thought flitted through her mind.
I bet he didn’t see that coming.