Cheshire
When the washing is finished, I fold the wet items into my basket, stalling before I have to go back to my apartment. I don’t dare leave until I know he’s gone. The conversation flowed well after his little revelation of how he was sent to find me but there’s still something about him that doesn’t quite sit right. The fact that my senses were on high alert the entire time he was in my presence unnerves me even now.
I wait until he is out of sight before making the trek home. The hairs on the back of my neck bristle as I walk, sending a warning shiver through me. When I’ve pushed my way inside my apartment, I’m quick to shut and lock the door again. Maybe it’s my imagination, or maybe it’s the card in my pocket. The one he gave me before leaving. The one with the address of where he wants me to go this afternoon. Just as Madame Natasmai told me I would.
The rebel in me wants to not go, to not succumb to the whims of another. But another part of me wants to find out whether this woman can do what she claims to do. It’s the same part of me that feels like it’s being tugged on… which irritates the rebel side.
My sigh fills the empty room, reminding me once again why I made the damn phone call in the first place. Fishing around in my pocket, I pull out the card with the handwritten address on the reverse side. I study it as it flips over between my fingers. There’s something off about it, just like being in his company. When he’d first pulled the card from his wallet, I could’ve sworn it was blank, but when he handed it over after writing on the back, the front was filled with detail.
Like his name.
Luc.
French style, just like his uttering of ‘cherie’ earlier. Instinct, however, tells me that it’s short for something I won’t like and that’s a contributing factor for not wanting to go anywhere near this address.
I find myself absently tracing the handwriting and decide to watch my finger. My eyes must be playing tricks on me though as each letter seems to flare up when I touch it. Pulling my hand away makes the letters return to plain black ink, and hovering it over the card again makes them glow slightly. Suffice to say, I’m suitably freaked out.
Ripping the card in two, then four, then eight satisfies an urge before I throw the pieces in the rubbish bin. An itching sensation across my shoulders has me pulling them out and finding a metal bowl. Minutes later, the cardboard is burning away, the smoke threatening to set off my detectors. It doesn’t take long for the card to reduce to ashes and when it’s done smouldering, I wash the grey flakes down the sink.
I don’t need this card. I don’t need these people. I will be fine without someone in my life if it means I can go back to living without invisible ants crawling across my skin every five minutes.
The rest of my day passes without incident as I complete the standard weekend routine. Music playing, I hang my wet washing to dry, vacuum the whole apartment, make sure all my dishes are done, and tidy up anything out of place. This all takes less than three hours and I’m left with a gaping hole in my afternoon.
As usual.
Often I’ll go to the lake at this time so I grab my hat and sunglasses, along with a drink bottle full of filtered water, sling my bag across my body, and head out the door.
The lake isn’t far from my place—nestled in the middle of a busy city—and before long I’ve completed half a lap. It’s pleasant to wander in the sunshine without worrying about anything. I chat with other walkers taking the same time out and keep up my pace between conversations.
I’m on lap five of the glittering expanse of water when a familiar sensation returns—those invisible critters are back and running up my spine.
He’s here. Somewhere nearby, he’s here.
With as much subtlety as I can muster in my agitated state, I glance around, pretending to look for something, anything. When I don’t spot him, I breathe a sigh of relief and keep walking, pushing through the uneasiness.
It’s halfway through lap six when the urge to leave the path tugs at me. It’s in a section of the lake that all walkers know not to stop in, so I don’t. The trees nearby shimmer as if they are part of a dreamscape and my body lags. Each forward step I take is difficult, like trying to slog through thick sand, and the farther I go, the slower and harder it is to move. When a force surrounds me—almost like a lasso—I relent.
I’m half expecting Luc to be standing there as I turn, my feet still supressed in their motion. But it’s not. A spritely old lady waits before me instead.
If there was a stereotype for grandmothers, she’d fit the mould perfectly: grey hair pulled back in a bun, long skirt, matching cardigan, and a floral shirt buttoned all the way to her neck. There’s even a kindly air about her too, until I meet her eyes. Instinct tells me I know this person, except I know I don’t. In no way does she look familiar, and yet…. Something about her stare spurs my body to flee, but there’s no hope of that while in suspended animation.
While our eyes are locked, I’m convinced I see something flare within them, but I don’t get time to think on it as I’m jerked forward. The esoteric lasso yanks on me and my feet have no choice but to follow its lead.
Face to face we stand; her by choice and me by force.
When she leans in I catch a waft of something. It’s a weird smell: a combination of lavender and smoke. What kind of smoke is that? It’s familiar in a distant way, something I can’t place. As my disquiet creeps up, she smiles—the kind and loving curve of lips that I’ve seen on grandparents many years ago—and in that instant all unease disappears. That in itself would unnerve me, but the sudden tranquillity throughout my being has me not caring.
The arms wrapping around me, embracing me in a hug so warm I start to sweat, pull me tight against her small form. Never would I have thought such a tiny body would have such strength. Somehow, she gets her mouth near my ear and whispers in it.
“Sign this and I’ll find your forever match. Luc will pick it up later.”
There’s a downward tug on my sling bag and then she’s gone. I have a mere moment to process the loss of her presence before the world shimmers back to the lake and surrounds. With a shake of my head and a crease in my brow, I glance around, wondering how and why I’m off the beaten track. I never come here when I walk. No one does.
Trudging through the undergrowth to return to the path, my mind is whirling with what I could’ve been doing in the bushes. When I do an inventory on my body, I find nothing wrong but the lingering fuzziness remains. Instead of dwelling on it, I continue my walk.
Six laps of the lake now complete, I stroll back home, taking in everything around me. For some reason, I need to catalogue my surrounds, make sure it is as it seems to be; because the niggling in the back of my mind tells me that nothing is.
Breath expels from me in a huff when I reach my front door, my hand plunging into my bag to retrieve my keys. I reel back, my keyring jangling as I drop it. Peering into my bag as I rub the sharp pain on my wrist reveals a sheaf of papers rolled into a cylinder.
Expecting to see a papercut bleeding when I check my arm, I’m surprised to see a burn mark instead. With Olympic-athlete speed, I get inside my abode and tip my handbag upside down. Everything comes tumbling out, including the cylinder of paper that slowly unfurls midair and flutters onto the pile.
Gingerly, I reach out and run a fingertip along the top page. There’s no burning sensation this time but the image of an old woman flashes across my mind. I whip my hand back in shock at the image. Leaving the papers on the floor, I make myself a drink, eyeing the suspicious item as I sip. When I feel bolstered enough to pick them up, I approach and snatch them off the floor before sitting at the counter to inspect what it is she’s given me.
The first page is sparse—details like names and dates, along with the word ‘Contract’ in nice large letters across the top—precede the place I’m obviously expected to sign. As I flip to the next page, I see it reads like an advertisement—the address and details of her matchmaking business, along with what her services entail and who she’s helped. What I find amusing is the registered business name ‘Kindness Inc.’ when everything so far has seemed underhanded and mysterious. Flipping to the next page, I start reading.
It takes me until halfway through to become accustomed to the constant shivers working their way through me. The document isn’t too long, it’s just complex. What stands out to me as odd though is the fact the signing page is at the front, as if no one is expected to read through it first before putting their signature to paper.
The further I read, the more I believe in my initial assessment. No one reads this far. If they did, then this supposed matchmaker would be out of business and probably run out of town. My mug of tea is poised at my lips when I freeze at the fine print. And it really is fine print. It’s so damn small I need to open the magnifying app on my phone to read it clearly.
And what I see is chilling.
Icy fingers spin tendrils up and down my spine the more I read.
When clients hired Madame Natasmai to find their forever match, I bet they never expected it to be literal.