Tom recognises the knackered car expiring on the drive of a Seventies semi. The house on a street made up of identical buildings that would have appeared clean and functional in an architectural model, fifty years before.
Yellowing nets droop behind Blackwood’s windows, the panes grimy enough to filter sunlight golden-brown. No one’s bothered to cut the lawn for at least a year either; something he and Blackwood have in common. Here, the contagion infects every third property in the street.
Magical Practitioner. ‘Jesus wept.’ Driving here for answers from a man of so eccentric and dubious an occupation now makes him glow with shame. Even more than before he left home. This time, the heat of humiliation beads his scalp with sweat. Being here is a testament to desperation; something he’ll never live down if anyone were to know he’d visited a magical… He can’t even think the word.
The thought of navigating so many narrow B-roads for an hour-twenty to get here, when he should have been working on the floors upstairs, while waiting on a builder and plumber, hangs his head lower. Every hour not spent looking for work, or improving parts of the house, is an hour pissed away.
And yet, overriding his fidgeting about money and falling behind are persistent, now insistent, questions about why his predecessor never finished the house.
This oddball knows something about his neighbours. There’s a connection and a history to be unravelled. The newspaper clippings suggest something audacious and vile. This man wanted him to read them.
Tom alights from his car and slings the holdall over a shoulder. Three lead tablets weigh heavy inside the nylon bag, chinking dully as he moves up a drive sprouting more weeds than his own. He possessed enough presence of mind to bring the ‘treasure’ that Gracey and Archie discovered under the lawn. Lead bricks, covered in runic markings and concealed underground, have assumed a new significance in the light of the day following the night before. At the very least, Blackwood, PhD, may know a thing or two about the artefacts .
Before he’s stepped under the cascade of unruly honeysuckle that has succeeded in pulling a lattice-work trellis off the porch canopy, the front door swings wide.
Tom’s breath hitches. His impression that Blackwood was waiting behind the door, or perhaps watching for him from a window, does nothing to settle his nerves. The uncomfortable silence is instant and long. No pleasantries are exchanged as the two wary men, who assuredly have little in common beside unkempt lawns and a palsy of social discomfort, size each other up.
The man before him remains as dishevelled as Tom remembers, but his glasses are now perched upon a pallid scalp above his puffy, pale face, the ears and eyebrows long ungroomed. The same trousers he’d worn when he clashed with the Moots stop an inch too short of his ankles, exposing a sock mismatch and lace-up shoes.
Tom feels obliged to break the uncomfortable deadlock. ‘I need you to tell me what the hell I am living next door to.’
In silence, Blackwood shuffles to the side and motions for Tom to enter.
* * *
Carpets come and go inside the magical practitioner’s home, patterns changing, patterns fading. Boxes and bookcases in the cramped hall grow pelts of grey dust. A kitchen displays a step-pyramid of dirty crockery. Open packets of food and soiled dishes litter counters. And competing with the scent of a ripe bin, the sharp body odour clouding from the magical practitioner’s formal shirt encourages Tom to slip a finger under his nose.
He follows Blackwood to a living room so congested he’s certain he’s entered the lair of a crazed shut-in, who might yet be dangerous. Little of the walls remains visible behind the bookcases. Thousands of hardback spines suck the dim electric light from the room, creating a brownish pall darkened by closed curtains. In one corner, a cluttered desk supports a computer monitor, the screen saver glowing with signs of the zodiac.
‘You may need to sit down to hear what I have to say.’
Tom struggles to see any place where it might be possible to sit. No visible surface exists that isn’t building towers of books, ski-slopes of paper or a tidal flotsam of clothing either awaiting the iron or being sorted for charity.
Forced to sit on one buttock on a couple of inches of the sofa, he warily glances at the vast astrological chart papering the wall from backrest to ceiling. ‘What am I doing here?’ He isn’t sure he intended to speak aloud.
Blackwood takes up a position beside a bookcase on the opposite side of the room and adopts a professorial stance; a contrived attempt at eminence that makes Tom want to bark with derisive laughter.
‘May I call you Tom?’
He nods.
‘You and your family have made a very unfortunate choice about where to make a home.’
‘I have my wife to remind me of that, mate. It doesn’t require reinforcement.’
‘She hasn’t left you yet?’
‘No!’
‘And you can still stand the sight of her?’
‘What?’
‘Then we may have time. Not much. They’re good. Make no mistake. The Moots are powerful.’
Half sure that he should just get up and leave, Tom raises his hands to signal mystification.
‘Your neighbours are cunning folk,’ Blackwood intones, as if the weighty revelation should be immediately acknowledged by his guest. But the remark simply hangs in the gloom until it too becomes as absurd as the speaker.
‘That a New Age definition of cunts?’
Blackwood winces at Tom’s language. ‘Root-cutters. Pharmakides. Peddlers of low magic. This is what I am referring to.’
‘Still none the wiser.’
‘They are paid for their services. Enchantments. As were their parents. You’re going up against a legacy.’
‘Hang on. Parents? They’re not … together?’
‘Oh, no, they’re not married. Siblings.’
‘Brother and sister? But…’ The suckling at the pallid thigh. And Me Dear. Tom heard Magi call her that; a term of endearment surely reserved for a spouse of some years? ‘When he called her My Dear, I thought—’
‘Medea. As in the tragedy. And these siblings belong to an ancient tradition. Once serving the poor as doctors and vets. A few centuries ago. But their knowledge is passed on, from one generation of practitioners to the next. My aunt inducted me.’ Blackwood looks to his desk, directing Tom’s eyes to a framed picture positioned beside the computer monitor. In the photograph, an elderly woman with a wild bushel of hair stands alone in a summery garden, smiling. She wears a white apron. Had the picture not been in colour, it might have been taken a hundred years before.
‘Our trade offers specialist services. Charms. We cure ailments. Adjust imbalances in one’s fortunes. Some of us are even blessed with the gift of divination.’ And there Blackwood pauses, visibly swelling with pride.
Tom remains baffled.
‘Fortune telling,’ Blackwood offers as if to a slow child. ‘But Magi and Medea have long diversified. Their magic is malicious. This is my point. And why I contacted you. I had a sense that things were already getting out of hand. For you. That it has begun.’
‘What exactly are we talking about here? What are they doing? I mean, how?’
‘How? I’ll come to that. But the origins of what they are doing to you were established twenty years ago. At exactly the same time your home developed a revolving door. What you need to understand is that the Moots are entirely responsible. The most lucrative string to your neighbours’ bow has always been the removal of curses.’ Still expecting his visitor to be astonished and awed at such a Damascene moment, Blackwood takes a breath to let the weight of the remark settle.
But Tom continues to gape at the man, his pity, aversion and mirth suppressed for courtesy’s sake. Until Blackwood roars, ‘Only it is the Moots who have been laying the bloody curses!’
Tom jumps and something else moves inside the room, as if one of the piles of paper is as startled as he is, though he sees nothing slide or fall.
Appearing to have pulled out his own pin and set himself off, Blackwood continues to roar. ‘They’re out of control now!’
‘Lot of it about.’ Tom shifts again with embarrassment for the dishevelled, affected figure. He can do nothing but study these antics with the same horrified pity with which he would gape at a furious drunk raving in the street. He jiggles his car keys.
The sound seems to encourage Blackwood to compose himself, or attempt to, but his blood is up. Closing his eyes, he slows his breathing. ‘They’re effectively blackmailing their victims for tributes. To have the curses removed!’
The very thought of such a conspiracy swiftly returns the man to rage. His gestures grow wilder, adopting a curious pattern and rhythm as if his hands are performing a strange dance routine in which his legs remain static. ‘I should know. I’m trying to remove one now! They’re ruining me! They’ve wiped out all the competition in the South-West. I’m the last charmer standing. There are some who have been paying the Moots a monthly stipend for ten years! Bled dry! And worse.’
Tom leans forward, his interest finally pricked by something he can understand: the suggestion of a scam the Moots specialise in, twinned with a form of intimidation they inflict upon their neighbours. Gaslighting across the hedgerow. Tom raises a hand to enforce a pause in Blackwood’s rant. ‘Hang on. They’re clever and underhand. Spiteful, vindictive arseholes. I get it. Seen it. And a lot of stuff I can’t explain. Right now, that is. But witches? Devil worshippers, or something?’
Tom’s remark annoys Blackwood more than his grievance with the Moots. ‘This has nothing to do with Christianity! Or the bloody devil!’
‘Okay. Okay. Right.’
Breathing unhealthily, the magical practitioner expounds, but as if to an imbecile. ‘It’s much older. As for that kind of witch, there’s no such thing! Never was until after the Second World War. That’s all a modern invention.’
‘Black magic then. Curses? You said as much.’
Blackwood closes his eyes. ‘If you’re looking for a modern equivalent, your neighbours are priests. Magic and belief indivisible. This makes what they’re doing extremely dangerous.’
Tom shrugs. ‘It’s all … a bit farfetched. Afraid I’m still lost, mate. I mean … magic?’
Blackwood opens his eyes, though they remain narrowed. ‘Lot of it about. More than you could possibly imagine. Right next door to your home in fact. You’re already seeing the results, or you wouldn’t be here. Would you? But if you can’t accept what I am telling you and cannot take what I am saying seriously, then you are already damned.’
Dread seeps coldly through Tom’s bowels. Too vividly does he recall the streaky horrors that leaped and grunted through the night-woods, clomping and squealing at his heels. They could have torn you apart last night. ‘What do they want? We have no bloody money.’
‘They want you to leave.’
‘That’s impossible. We’ve nowhere to go. Mortgaged to our plums.’
‘You say that now but they cannot abide neighbours. Doesn’t matter who occupies the house next door, the story has never changed. I can’t remember anyone lasting there long. Those who stuck it out, well… Some were destroyed more quickly than others. And those for whom the Moots reserve a particularly virulent contempt…’ Blackwood raises an eyebrow. ‘There have been eight deaths in that house since 1992. And three complete mental breakdowns resulting in institutionalisation. Legacy. And they enjoy their work. To them, their neighbours are mere sport.’
Tom recalls the specific chewing noise of his chainsaw blade, severing the Moots’ trees. And he feels sick.
Blackwood folds his hands behind his back and rises onto his toes. ‘You read the material I provided. Just a couple of samples. And this is your problem. Not mine. So perhaps this tiresome facade of smug scepticism can finally be retired. Mmm? What do you say?’
Tom yanks the rucksack onto the floor. ‘These were buried in our garden. Maybe there’s a connection to what you’re talking about.’
Warily, Blackwood tiptoes forward and leans over the bag. He slides his glasses down his forehead and onto his nose to peer inside. But the instant he sees the contents, his eyes flash wide and fill the lenses of the glasses with fear. ‘Don’t let them touch me! Nor the floor! The bag. Keep them inside the bloody bag!’ Hands weaving more of the curious patterns above his head, he speeds from the room.
Tom slowly closes the bag, rises to his feet and follows Blackwood. He presumes he’s supposed to.
* * *
If ordinary people had lived at the address, this would have been a dining room. As it’s Blackwood’s domain, golden walls and a matching ceiling glow above bare floorboards. Two white circles, one inside another, are painted dead-centre. The circular margin is festooned with symbols that Tom assumes to be of an occult nature. They just have that about them.
Blackwood has taken up a position inside the circles, with a jeweller’s loupe strapped to his head. One large eye blinks within the lens. Under an arm he holds three hardback books. He points at the floor just outside the outer circle. ‘Put them down. There.’
Tom eases the rucksack of lead tablets to the floor, where directed.
‘Now lay them out flat. Inside the bag. I need to examine the inscriptions.’
No sooner has Tom arranged the tablets for inspection than Blackwood drops to his hands and knees with a thump. Wheezing excitedly like a collector of strange pornography, he pushes his face close to the tablets.
Tom shuffles away. ‘What are they?’
‘Curse tablets. Directed at anyone who inhabits your home.’
‘You’re kidding me. How…’ And now it is Tom who finds himself waving his hands around. ‘How are they supposed to work?’
‘Oh, they work. Very effectively if laid by experts. As these have been.’ Blackwood raises his head. ‘They came from graves. Very old graves.’ The huge eye inside the lens of the loupe blinks once before the tatty head lowers again. ‘I guessed as much. This is how they’ve managed the evictions. See! Here! This is Greek. Fifth century, I’d say. I’ve seen similar before in Somerset and Wiltshire. Causing illness. In livestock. Animals dying. A blight on crops.’
Tom’s mind wrestles with the impossibility of what he is being told. But when he thinks of his dead garden and Archie’s small hump of a grave, his struggle to accept the peculiar information lessens.
‘Anything like that befallen you? Mmm?’
‘Our garden—’
Blackwood doesn’t pause to listen. ‘Ah! Latin! This is Roman. Also common. Financial misfortune its aim. Something unforeseen, sudden, affecting a household. Usually placed close to the entrance of a building, even beneath a threshold. Outdoors, they’re found near gates. The third tablet is Hebrew. I’ll have to get back to you on that one. But, hazarding a guess, your dreams may soon become unbearable. You may suffer visions. Of the Underworld and so forth. Alas, the unholy trinity, you have it. Blight. Ruin. Madness.’
Removing his face from the open holdall and peering up again, Blackwood’s huge eye blinks. ‘Just from what I can see from an initial assessment, I personally wouldn’t set foot on that property again. Let alone live in it.’
* * *
Believing his whole being to have been refashioned from equal parts confusion, despair, disbelief and exhaustion, Tom slumps on the tatty sofa, his head drooping over his knees.
To reinforce Blackwood’s outrageous claims, an unbidden and frightful figure conjures its own pale form and springs through his memory. The creature shrieks at the sky from a strange earthen mound, then leaps into the treetops; no more than a few hundred metres from where he and his family sleep.
‘If all this is… What can I do? To stop it? To protect us?’
A little too indifferent, even unsympathetic, to Tom’s plight, Blackwood consults a tome upon his desk. As if merely pursuing a private fascination, he flicks pages and speaks offhandedly, without turning his head. ‘You must start by finding the rest of the tablets. I suspect there will be more. You’ll get no respite until you do. Your neighbours can enliven the curses any time they wish. You wouldn’t even know until the roof came down on your head. Like landmines the curses will explode in your future. In all kinds of uncanny ways. At any time. Your wife may be unfaithful. That’s always been popular.’
Tom checks his watch. ‘Shit.’ Standing up, he snatches up his bag. ‘I gotta get on. I’ll let you know if I find any more. And that’ll be it, yeah? Once I’ve found them all?’ And as Tom wonders exactly how he will accomplish such a task, Blackwood turns from his desk, his eyebrows arching above his spectacles.
‘There is the matter of my tribute.’
Tom frowns. ‘Come again?’
The man’s face darkens, anger sharpening his glare. ‘If your pipes burst, you call a plumber. Am I right? You would reimburse that professional for a service provided, mmm?’
If I had the money , Tom wants to say but can’t speak. He’s bewildered by the speed of events, the impossibility of Blackwood’s claims that no longer seem preposterous. His confusion isn’t helped by a new and chilling suspicion concerning the man’s motives. And as he dithers, Blackwood produces a portable credit-card machine from the mess on his desk. ‘Consultation is free. Diagnosis and treatment are not. I can also offer you a method of detection. Part of the package.’
Tom manages a whisper. ‘How much are we talking?’
‘Let me see if I still have the device. Then we’ll settle up.’ Blackwood darts from his desk and crosses the room. Outside the living room, he yanks opens a cupboard door and proceeds to noisily ferret under the staircase. A sloping pile of boxes, coats and old shoes slides out, amassing at his feet. ‘Blast!’
Tom rises from the cramped sofa and slips his wallet from a pocket in his jacket. He selects a bank card and imagines every person that he has ever known laughing at him.
Blackwood tugs a metal detector from the cupboard. ‘Earphones are in here somewhere. I know they are.’
Tom shuffles over and picks up the machine. It is old, battered, a pitiful instrument with which to undertake the task of uncovering curses. It doesn’t even weigh much. He blows dust from the machine while Blackwood rummages, his voice and wheezy exhalations muffled by the confines of the storage space. ‘Dust. I’ll also need dust. From their property. From inside. It’s vital.’
‘Break in? For dust? You fucking mad?’
‘Do I look it?’
Tom bites his tongue, then frowns as a penny drops. ‘Would a caravan do?’
Panting, Blackwood noisily reverses from the cupboard. ‘If it belongs to them. Or has contained them. Possibly. And they have one. They move it around that lane. The village. I don’t know why but we can only try. Now, my fee.’ Blackwood strides with an indecent eagerness to his desk and, with all the gravity of an earnest doctor writing a prescription, fills out an invoice on a jotting pad. He tears the page free and hands it to Tom. Over his tortoiseshell spectacle frames, the magical practitioner’s watery eyes then peer at him, the intensity withering. This, Sir, is a serious matter and requires my expertise .
When Tom reads the sum he feels a need to sit down, or maybe even lie down.