Inside the small purple tent the heat and the cloying incense-heavy air is suffocating. The effect is meant to remove her from reality. The red-haired woman peers down at Laura’s palms, resting on a velvet cushion. She shuffles the cards. Laura hadn’t expected her to do tarot.
‘I’m not sure I want the cards,’ she says, quietly. She turns her palms face down and the velvet feels slightly rough and worn under her fingers.
‘Don’t worry, dear. I like to do a combination of things here. I have to do what feels strongest for the person who comes in here, and with you – I knew I had to read your cards. I’ll do your palms, too . . . but glancing at them there, I think you need to know more. Only the cards can tell us more . . .’
Laura feels stupid, but it comes out before she can stop herself. ‘But . . . what if I get death? Doesn’t that mean I’m going to die? I’d really rather not know about that, actually.’ She tries to laugh, but it comes out as a small whimper. The woman lays the cards down, turns Laura’s palms over again. Presses down on them to show that she wants Laura to keep them there.
‘OK, in crude terms, dear. Don’t worry about the death card. For one, it doesn’t actually mean death at all. It usually signifies a big change – and the meaning of that change is all down to the other cards that are paired with it.’ She strokes Laura’s palms with soft fingers. ‘Besides, I can see the basics from your hands, my love. You’re not going anywhere unworldly any time soon.’
Laura looks into her eyes. The woman’s eyes shine bright in the muted light of the tent. What is it lit with anyway? Oil lamps? Laura has a sudden fear that the place is going to burn down. The woman goes back to the cards, shuffling them once more.
‘I need you to think of a question while I cut the cards. Anything you like. Don’t be scared. It can be something big, something small. But make it something that you really want to know the answer to. Just nod when you’re done.’
Laura takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. She thinks of a question – the first one that pops into her mind. She opens her eyes. Nods. ‘I’m ready.’
‘This is the Celtic cross. It’s the one that gives you the most information,’ the woman says. She places the first card face down, then another on top, making a small cross. Then she lays the other cards out in the correct order, until all ten are on the table. Laura feels her heart start to beat faster. The woman is humming a tune, softly, under her breath. The smell of incense seems to grow stronger, catching in her throat. The sounds from outside the tent have all but disappeared. Laura feels herself drift, like she is half-asleep, half-dreaming . . . on the verge of waking up. Panic slides up her throat.
‘I can sense that you’re scared, dear. Tell me – what are you so scared of?’
Laura tries to calm her breathing. ‘Could I have a glass of water? Sorry, I think it’s the air.’
The woman bends down beneath the small table. She reappears holding a bottle of water. ‘Sorry, I don’t think it’ll be cold.’
Laura snaps back to reality. She lifts the plastic bottle to her lips and smells the faint hint of burgers. The bottle has come from one of the food vans. The woman in front of her is just a normal woman, who eats and drinks like everyone else. She lives in a caravan and probably has to put up with the leering gropiness of boys like Gaz. All the time. Suddenly she feels sorry for her, for her situation – and realises the ridiculousness of her own.
What on earth is she so scared of?
She has a sexy new boyfriend, still has two weeks before she has to go back for her final year of school – and then after that she’ll be off to university, away from this place. Away to new things and a new life. She gulps down half the water, then places the bottle on the table. She smiles. ‘I’m fine now. Sorry.’
The woman smiles back. ‘OK, let’s get started.’ She turns the first two cards. ‘Firstly, we have the Papess, crossed with the Queen of Swords. What this means is that you’re at a stable point in your learned or professional life. For you, I think this means at school, and possibly your plans for the future. You’re happy with what you’re doing, and you’re achieving good grades. Does that sound right?’
Laura nods, smiling now. Her psychology head is kicking in. The woman has looked at her – at the way she’s dressed, how she’s conducted herself, picked up on her nerves – she’s concluded that Laura has her head screwed on. She isn’t a fuck-up. Nicely done, Red, Laura thinks, warming to it now, excited by what she’s going to say next. This is excellent research.
She turns over the next set of cards, slowly, one by one. Then hovers her hands over them all, as if trying to absorb them. ‘Then we have the Four of Cups and the Star – you see the way the cards are placed? It’s not just the faces of the cards that matter, it’s the way they’re drawn. I think you have a couple of very significant people in your life right now. One of them is becoming more and more important to you. I think the Fool is a boyfriend, although he doesn’t yet have strong links with you, but he is trying hard. This can mean new discovery, new beginnings – but it can mean the opposite too. Recklessness.’ She pauses and looks into Laura’s eyes. ‘Be careful. However, you have Justice looking on as your protector. He’s older. Not a parent. Not a sibling. Is there someone like that in your life?’
Laura nods. Thinks, Davie.
The woman carries on. She turns the final pair of cards. The Tower and the Moon. She pauses, sucking in a small breath. She keeps her eyes on the cards, doesn’t look up. Laura feels a small flicker of fear. ‘What is it? What do you see?’ She’s been drawn into this mysterious woman’s world of the cards. Her rational brain is refusing to kick in.
There’s something bad here, she can sense it.
‘These are your hopes and fears and the outcome of your question. There’s someone else involved . . . someone you don’t know.’ She leans across and picks up the bottle of water. ‘Do you mind?’ Laura shakes her head and watches as the woman drains the rest of the water. ‘I might’ve got it wrong. I think I dealt them slightly wrong.’ She’s stammering, falling over her words. She frowns, staring at the cards. Places a hand over them, as if she’s planning to rub them all together, removing the pattern and the story that they’ve told.
‘What is it?’ Laura says. Her voice shakes. ‘Just tell me.’
The woman looks into her eyes. ‘Someone is going to cause you all great pain, my dear. I’m so sorry. This kind of vision doesn’t come very often. In fact, I think I’m going to have to take a break. Please . . .’ She stands and gestures towards the door of the tent. ‘I have a migraine coming on. I need to get out of here, and go and lie down. No charge, dear . . . and please – just be careful.’
Laura stands, feels her legs wobble. She backs away towards the door, a natural reflex. ‘Please, can’t you tell me what it is? What do you mean “you all”? Who? Who else?’
The woman shakes her head, a genuine expression of sadness across it. ‘I always find, in these situations, that it really is better not to know.’
Laura stumbles outside. Feels like she’s about to faint.
‘Hey you, you’ve been in there for ages – I was starting to wonder if you’d gone home and left me here.’
‘I—’
Mark senses her distress. He steps forwards and grabs her just as her legs buckle beneath her. He scoops her up, carries her across to a small area where people are sitting on benches eating their food. They look at her, briefly, before going back to their burgers. He sits her down. ‘Wait here,’ he says.
Laura lifts her head, sucks in deep breaths. Watches him retreating away from her as the crowd swallows him up once more. Notices he has a plastic bag stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans, and wonders, vaguely, what’s in it.
15th July 2015
Dear Marie,
I’m not even sure where to start. Hello, maybe? Happy birthday? I’m trying to imagine you reading this, and I realise: I don’t even know what you look like. What colour is your hair? Is it still so long that you can sit on it? You used to tuck it into the back of your trousers and put your sweatshirt over the top and pretend you’d cut it off. You used to tie it up in a twist and stick a chopstick through it to keep it in place. You used to let me brush it for hours and hours, with that little red brush with the pink pony on the side. God, I loved brushing your hair. I loved the smell of it, like apples and peaches, strawberries and cream. Rapunzel, you used to say. You wanted to lock yourself in your bedroom and only throw your hair out of the window when a handsome prince came along. Was I not handsome enough for you? Did you really think someone else was going to come along? Someone who could love you more than I did? Than I do?
I’m sorry. That’s not what I set out to write here. Not at all.
I just wanted to write . . . to tell you that it’s OK. You should never feel bad about what happened. I’ve learned to live with it, over the years. I still miss you, of course. I think about you every day.
Do you think about me?
I hope you read this, Marie. My sweet Marie.
I hope you haven’t cut your hair.
All my love,
Graeme