She said, “I get so lonely sometimes.”
She said it so softly, so gently, that for a moment the gathered members of Magicals Anonymous exchanged glances, just to check that they’d heard it aright; but yes, that was the sentiment, that was the word.
“It’s not something I can really explain,” she sighed. “But these last few years I’ve just known that I don’t belong, and people won’t understand.”
The room lapsed into silence. The speaker was Mrs Rafaat (Hello, Mrs Rafaat).
“And I’m not really magical at all, you know. I mean, I’ve been tested because I was having these experiences, but they weren’t so much experiences as things that happened around me but actually I don’t know any wizarding or witching or anything and apparently if I tried to cast a spell it would probably just go puft, but the thing is I do seem to know things, and really things do seem to happen and I suppose I’m actually a bit of an intruder here so I really hope you don’t mind, but you all seem like lovely people and I am very interested and really yes–but yes, really actually quite worried. I’ve been feeling that way for a while, something I can’t quite put my finger on but I’m rambling. I’m rambling aren’t I? So yes, that’s me. Would anyone mind if I had another cup of tea?”
In her mid-fifties, she spoke with the faintest remnant of an Indian accent, softened by many years of life in Wembley. Her orange sari, threaded with blue and purchased in Bethnal Green some ten years ago, was getting a bit tatty round the hem.
“But I don’t mind, I mean some people say it’s silly to wear a sari in Wembley, but actually I think it’s very comfortable, and modest, and allows you to have some strong colour in your life without making a fool of yourself because it’s so easy with fashion these days to make a fool of yourself, I’d say it’s a safety thing, isn’t it, wearing what you’re comfortable with not to make a point. I’m rambling again, aren’t I? I’m sorry, I do that.
“Um, excuse me?” The bone-white, wrinkle-ridden, spot-stained hand of Mr Roding (Necromancy is such a misunderstood discipline) was raised in polite enquiry. “I don’t mean to complain, and I’m sure you’re a very lovely woman, Mrs Rafaat, but feeling ‘quite worried’ isn’t what we’re here for. I mean, we all feel worried, don’t we?”
A chorus of consent.
“But our worries stem from very specific causes. I, for one, can halt the passage of degrading time upon my body through the use of ancient lore studied over many a sagely lifetime, but I still haven’t found a solution for the skin-sloughing issue. The books recommend aloe vera, fat lot of use that was. But, the thing is, Mrs Rafaat, I’m not sure your problems really compare.”
Mrs Rafaat’s face sank. Seemingly each muscle contracted one at a time until only a pair of wide, sorrowful eyes protruded. “I’m very sorry,” she mumbled, unable to meet Mr Roding’s watery-green gaze flecked with shattered capillaries. “I just didn’t know where else to go and when I saw that this group was organising I thought… it seemed so right. I can’t explain it, but I know… I don’t know what I know I just know… there’s something terribly important I’ve forgotten. But I don’t know what it is.”
One or two dirty looks were shot at Mr Roding, who had the good manners to stare in shame at his shiny black shoes.
Sharon cleared her throat. “It’s okay, Mrs Rafaat. We’re completely on board with where you’re coming from. In fact, I’ve personally experienced something similar to what you describe. I uh… I know things. I don’t know how, but… there was this moment. A moment when I knew I knew everything about the city, everything that was, and has been, and will be again and then… then I didn’t. So I guess I’m saying that’s cool, you know?”
Was that a helpful response, she wondered? Did senior citizens appreciate the multi-faceted aspects of that well-worn “That’s cool, you know?” “We’re all glad to have you in this group, aren’t we?” she added, shooting a glare around at any possible dissenters.
A mumble of assent arose from the gathering, and Mrs Rafaat’s head lifted in cautious optimism.
“That’s very nice of you, but if you really don’t—”
“We do,” insisted Sharon. “We absolutely all do.” She had a very stubborn chin when she needed one. Somewhere in the lineage of the Li family several generations of well-bred Manchurian ladies had each married a well-educated young man, only to discover that while a charming smile went a long way, a sharp heel and well-kept nails might get you further.
“They say,” stammered Mrs Rafaat, “they say… something is missing. Places where there should have been noise are… Is this something people are worried about because I find it very worrying? They say that the spirits of things, I mean, not the spirits, not the fairies or anything fluffy, but the… the heart of things, the soul behind the walls the… the things with the ears, if that makes sense to you, they say they’re vanishing. One night they’re there–you walk alone but you are not alone–and then the next they’re… they’re gone.”
Someone coughed. The cough belonged to Rhys I’m-a-druid-well-sort-of-well-I-tried-but-you-know-how-it-is (Hello, Rhys). It was followed by a shuffling of feet, a twitching of elbow, a shivering of one shoulder and a slow look round the room just to make sure that no one really, really minded that he was about to speak.
No one seemed to mind.
“Uh, what do you mean ‘gone’?”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs Rafaat. “That’s the trouble with just knowing things; it never really comes with all the details.”
“When you say ‘spirits’,” interjected Mr Roding, “are we talking benevolent small essences or the malign unleashed power of a blue electric angel?”
“I’m very sorry,” Mrs Rafaat said, “it’s terribly vague.”
Ms Somchit (It’s not about the black, it’s about how you wear it) cleared her throat. At five foot two, with curly black hair falling to her shoulders and skin the colour of fresh almonds, she had the cheerful look of someone who had seen the worst that the world could offer and had actually expected it to be much, much worse. Her black clothes had a priest-like aura, and a small white badge in the shape of a shield bearing a red cross through the centre and a red sword in the top left-hand corner added to the ecclesiastical vibe.
“So… you’re experiencing hollowness, emptiness, doubt, despair and a great sense of wrongness,” she clarified, “but you can’t exactly say what it is. Have you tried acupuncture?”
“Oh God, acupuncture is like the most amazing thing ever,” agreed Kevin, brightening at the mention of medical intervention. “I had like, this utterly amazing craving for the blood of the innocent babe and then two sessions, acupuncture, me, and I was like, wow totally yuck with that virginal blood.”
“Can you get it on the NHS?” asked Mr Roding. “Acupuncture, I mean.”
“You’d probably need a referral,” offered Ms Somchit.
“How about counselling?” suggested Chris Hi-I’m-an-exorcist-but-you-know-I-don’t-think-a-confrontational-approach-is-helping-anyone. “It’s great that you’ve taken this first step, love, but actually talking things through with a professional can be so liberating.”
“Are there counsellors who understand the… the um… the magical thing?” asked Mrs Rafaat.
All eyes turned to Sharon. “I’ll look it up,” she promised.