Miriam's Talisman (16 page)

‘I think it looks like Angie.' This was a new voice. ‘You've managed to show that unselfconscious strength she has, that lack of physical awareness.'

‘I'll take that as a compliment.' Angie smiled, her eyes shining. I turned to find the source of her pleasure and came face to face with an expanse of sweatshirt. Somewhere high above me was a hairy face and a pair of brown eyes.

‘You must be Chloe. I'm Malcolm.'

Angie edged up beside me and dug me in the ribs. It was her way of asking what I thought of him. All her boyfriends look like dogs; I think she picks them up at the surgery. The last one was a forlorn-looking whippet. Malcolm looked more like an Airedale, elegant yet sturdy. I smiled an OK. Then Angie suggested we all sit down and we shuffled around the table. I contrived to move between her and Malcolm, sitting opposite Paul, wilfully sustaining the line of tension between us.

Candles were lit, more dishes fetched and passed from hand to hand. Paul, custodian of the wine, topped up the half-empty glasses. I drained mine in readiness.

‘Hey, steady on there.' He held the bottle back.

‘You said I should relax and enjoy myself. That's what I'm doing.'

‘You've already had two, you know.'

‘This will make three then, won't it?'

I thrust my glass forward and held his eyes until he relented. Malcolm, on my left, coughed gently before he spoke.

‘Angie didn't tell me what you did for a living.' His voice had a soft, lyrical quality; Welsh perhaps.

‘Computers,' I responded. ‘Data research. Finding new ways to bend statistics to fit the company image.'

Ruth waved her fork in my direction. ‘Don't you find playing with numbers boring? I can never reconcile number-crunching with your creative ability. The two things seem diametrically opposed.'

‘If you're talking about fifth form maths, yes, you're right. But it's more than that. Numbers are abstractions. There comes a point where you leave figures behind and enter the realm of principles. Numbers show us the patterns which shape the universe.'

‘Yes, I'll grant you that.' Eddie was talking now. ‘Even so, Chloe, I really am surprised you haven't taken your artwork more seriously.'

‘Become an art student,' Paul laughed, ‘like you and Ruth, you mean.'

If Eddie heard the derisive edge in Paul's tone, he chose to ignore it.

‘No, of course not. We're both studying commercial art. Fine art is a different matter altogether. Chloe needs a chance to develop, she needs expert nurturing.'

‘Yes, well there'll be time enough for that after we're
married. She won't have to work, of course. A doctor's hours are long and she'll need something to occupy her time at home, won't you, Chloe?'

‘That's not what I meant.' Eddie bristled, glowering at Paul. ‘I don't think you appreciate—' Ruth gave him a silencing glare; I think she may have kicked him under the table.

I turned to Angie. ‘You see, he's got it all planned out. He'll play the leading role in some hospital drama while I tend the nest and turn out insipid landscapes. I know, I could do them in assorted colours to match the decor. Very stylish. No nudes of course, too controversial. Might shock the consultants' wives.'

Angie and I continued to look at each other. She stifled a smirk while I started to giggle.

‘Oh, come on, Chloe. That's not what I meant and you know it. Stop making out I'm some sort of Neanderthal. It's just that now isn't the right time for you to be thinking of changing careers.'

‘Why? Are you frightened I might upstage yours?' I snatched the wine bottle before Paul had a chance to refuse and refilled my own glass.

Angie thrust the salad bowl at me.

Ruth's voice was unnecessarily loud. ‘Talking of careers, Angie, when are we going to see you on TV? There's been all those programmes recently about animal surgeries.'

I continued to drink steadily, sipping and swallowing with theatrical precision, while the conversation lurched painfully through the RSPCA and abandoned puppies. Malcolm tried asking everyone about their plans for the millennium celebrations but that went down like a concrete balloon. Candles spluttered and our shadows
leapt on the narrow walls like encircling giants closing in on us. Paul watched me, ignoring the conversation. Neither of us ate. I pushed food around on my plate while Paul turned a chunk of bread in his hands, tearing at it, gradually reducing it to a pile of crumbs. Meanwhile, Angie urged food onto plates, removed discarded dishes and replaced them with sweeter things. I thought about the wine I had shared with him. Was it only two days ago? The stain still ran down the wall. The ridge of a small scar marked my finger.

‘How are things going at the cottage?' Angie touched my arm as she spoke, shepherding my wandering mind.

‘Oh, OK, there's such a lot to do.'

‘It must be awful,' said Ruth, ‘having to search through someone's things, personal stuff. Having to decide which of their belongings to keep and what to give away.'

‘Yes, it's …' My voice faltered.

Is that what I was supposed to be doing? Is that what they thought? I'd spent two days there. Waiting and watching, working hard at becoming part of that house of treasures. I'd searched through things, opened drawers and cupboards, touching, smelling, absorbing, knowing the things that she had known, learning to own them, allowing them to own me. I could claim a feeble attempt at tidying the garden, sweeping up the fallen leaves. It was an excuse to linger in the orchard. But I remained alone. I tried on all her clothes, deciding which suited me best. I had taken to wearing her perfume. The afternoons turned chilly so I lit a fire of logs and curled up in her armchair. I started to read a book of folk tales but fell asleep instead. Mostly I just listened to the silence.

I watched and I waited.

‘It's a bit of a daunting task,' Paul cut in. ‘The place is a shambles. I've offered to help, but Chloe insists on doing it all herself, don't you?' He looked directly at me as if it were an accusation. ‘Still, you may have to get some professional help in. Time's running short.'

‘What do you mean?' said Angie.

‘Well, the housing market slumps towards Christmas. If it's not up for sale before the end of September, it probably won't move until the spring.'

‘What makes you think it's for sale? Why does everyone assume that I want to sell it, that I want to dispose of everything that was my grandmother, bundle her life up in a black bin liner and leave it out for the dustman?'

‘No one's asking you to do that. But we've got to be realistic. You can't hang onto that place. What would you do with it?

‘I might want to live in it.'

‘Oh, now you're being ridiculous. We can't possibly live in that crumbling old heap.'

‘Actually it's not, and I certainly can. Where you choose to live is entirely up to you.'

There was a momentary silence during which Paul lowered his head into his hands. Then Ruth initiated diversionary tactics by clearing dishes from the battleground, Angie joining forces with her.

Eddie said, ‘Some of these old places are worth a fortune. Depends a bit on its history. Is much known about it?'

‘I've been there a few times,' Angie offered. ‘Looks very ancient. Surrounded by trees and buried in ivy. Loads of atmosphere.'

Ruth was suddenly animated. ‘Does it have a ghost?'

‘Now that's something Malcolm would know about,' Eddie said. ‘Angie told me you're into all that sort of thing.'

Malcolm had been very quiet up till then.

‘Not ghosts, nothing like that. Just psychic research. Telepathy experiments, statistical odds of coincidence. That sort of thing.'

‘That's not true,' Angie protested. ‘He's too modest. It's much more than that. Malcolm is a psychic, a psychometrist—is that the right word?' He shrugged his shoulders in self-effacing agreement. ‘He reads vibrations from objects, he can tell things about their owners.'

‘Oh, come on now …' Paul's exasperation widened, eliciting support from the rest of the company.

‘No, really. It works. That's how we met, isn't it? Malcolm was helping an owner to trace their missing cat.'

‘But how does it work?' Eddie asked. I'm not sure if he was genuinely interested or if it was his way of annoying Paul.

‘No one knows really. I just hold an object—it has to be something personal, something worn close to the subject. Pictures come into my head. Like thoughts but clearer, more insistent.'

‘And does it work with people too?'

‘Yes, it does sometimes. Can't guarantee results, though.'

Ruth leaned forward, excitement flushing her face. ‘Let's try it. Would you, Malcolm?'

‘I know,' said Angie, ‘I know what you could use.' My hand darted to my neck. ‘Oh, come on, Chloe, it can't do any harm. He may be able to pick up traces of Miriam.'

Then everyone was talking at once with Paul protesting and no one listening to him.

‘I can't take it off,' I said.

‘That's no problem,' Ruth argued. ‘He can still hold it if you're wearing it, can't you, Malcolm?'

‘Yes, I suppose so. But only if it's what Chloe wants.'

I was still hesitating, afraid yet excited. ‘Can you reach from here? The chain's not very long, I'm afraid.'

‘Angie, can't you stop this! Don't you think she's been under enough strain without involving her in these psycho games? You can see what a state she's in.'

‘I'm not in a state, Paul, and I'm not a child. I'll decide what I want to do.'

‘Chloe,' Paul's voice rose above the others, ‘I absolutely forbid you to get involved with this!'

I looked at him through the silence that had caved in upon the room. Slowly and deliberately I drained my glass, placing it carefully on the table. Then I turned in my chair to face Malcolm.

‘What do I have to do?'

He glanced sideways at Paul, then looked directly at me.

‘Are you sure about this? I don't want to do anything that might upset you.'

‘Yes, of course I'm sure. After all it's only Miriam.'

Malcolm leaned towards me, taking the talisman gently between his fingers. The others gathered around us, looking over his shoulder, except for Paul who remained seated.

‘A strange metal,' said Ruth. ‘It looks like silver, but I'm not so sure. Look, at certain angles you can see other colours running through it, like a seashell. I can't make
out the design. What's it supposed to be?'

Then Malcolm said, ‘Just keep still and allow me to talk. I'll say whatever comes into my head. It doesn't always make sense but it's important not to interrupt the flow.'

He moved closer to me: I could feel the warmth of his body. His eyes closed and he allowed his fingers to trace the intricate lines of the patterned surface. He sighed deeply, then his breathing became loud and irregular. I hardly dared to breathe at all. A chair moved, scuffing the floor. The candles burned steadily and giant shadows hunched around us, waiting.

Malcolm shivered. The words came slowly at first.

‘I feel cold…a damp coldness, that goes through to my bones…whiteness all around…a thick fog…the grass is wet with it…silence…a heavy silence…like creeping fingers touching the hairs on my neck. Why am I so afraid? A cry—just a fox, surely, but my heart's beating in my throat. There it is again—no, that was no fox. I want to run. The hill is steep and my legs feel rooted to the earth. Now hooves, pounding upon the turf, pounding through my head. The mud sucks at my feet—something is clinging to my legs: a skirt, wet from the long grass. Have to warn them…ow, my ankle! I dare not allow myself to cry out loud. Move…faster…I bite on my lip to silence the pain. Oh Dana, why does he not come?'

Malcolm's breath had become laboured, his face distorted. We pressed close around him, less sure of ourselves now. He started to speak again.

‘More sounds, above me this time: shouts, the clatter of swords on shields. The stockade gates are opening even as I run towards them. They swarm out, leaders on horseback, others following on foot with axes and knives. They flow
around me, like breaking waves. There's Elwyn. He's wielding our father's great sword. Wild, he looks, upon the black stallion. It crashes past me—I can feel heat from its flanks. And there's Fahran. Oh, that I could ride with them. Elwyn is turning in the saddle. “Look to the young ones,” he calls, “get them to safety.” His words give purpose to my feet and I am running again, though I can scarce breathe. Never was I so afraid. The gods damn this accursed skirt!'

Malcolm was becoming more distressed. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. One hand gripped the talisman while the other clutched at his mouth. We huddled around him, silent. Paul's face had lost its anger and he was looking concerned. Then Malcolm was coughing and gasping, tears streaming from his eyes.

‘Smoke, black smoke, and the smell of blood. Pray, Dana, my brothers live. My hands are pressed against my ears, but nothing shuts out the cries of the injured. Heedless, I stumble over their bodies. Oh Dana, forgive me. Over there I see red hair, a deerskin jerkin—yes, it has to be Fahran. Please, let it be him, let him be alive. I must kneel in the blood to reach him. The cold wetness oozes through to my skin, my stomach heaves with the stench. Would that I had the courage to flee from this place, but I cannot leave until I find him. Though I have not the strength left in my body I must turn him over—I must know if this be my brother. My hands, red and sticky, slip on the wet leather. Oh, why is he not come to help me? Ah, there, I have done it. Oh, look at you, all smeared with mud. Let me wipe your face. Your eyes are forever open. I know you—you are my clansman, yes, but you are not my brother, not Fahran. Oh Dana, where are they?'