Waking the Witch, page 10
“We threw a wake last night,” said Johnny as he led her to his room on the top floor, a small but well-furnished bedroom for a squat. She had seen a lot worse. “It got intense.”
“How are you all managing?”
“The lads went back home. They’re from Bromley, so it’s not too long a trip. Mick’s mum and dad are coming up from Southport this afternoon to take his body back.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “It was a tragedy.”
“Yeah, well.” He took a cigarette box off a shelf by the bed and rolled a joint. “The record company called us to say they still want to move forward, so there’s that. Mick would have…”
Johnny’s face crumpled as he fought back tears. Gosha wrapped her arms round him, and he let go, sobbing into her blouse.
“Oh no,” he said, emerging from behind a wall of emotional residue. “I’m ruining your Vivienne Westwood.”
She laughed.
They chatted about unimportant things as he finished rolling the joint, about their clothes and their favorite shops, about awful Darren and his terrible mustache. The conversation drifted to Mick. It was a strange thing to talk about someone who had just died, to talk about them in the past tense when you had seen them alive two days before. Mick was a powerful force in the bedroom. A void hung where he should have been, strengthened by the glimpses into his past that kept thrusting into her mind. She watched Johnny roll the cigarette paper around the weed, spreading it out into an even line. He ran his tongue along the edge of the thin paper, rolled it up and twisted off the ends. She’d only known him a few months, but the sight of his back bowed over the joint drew her to him the same way she was drawn to Edmund when he played with his toy cars, or how she was drawn to Timothy when sat on his bed and read stories to his stuffed elephant. A complex brew of emotions flooded through her: respect for his talent, fondness for his forthright self-confidence, trust in the certainty of their mutual loyalty, a love for their shared vision of what pop music could be.
The parade of thoughts and emotions clattering through her mind solidified into a sense of self that wasn’t her own. She was seeing Johnny through Mick’s eyes, his feelings bleeding over into hers.
“Were you lovers?” she asked as he lit the joint and took a deep drag.
“Mick and me? God, no. That would be like incest. Would have been.” He passed her the joint.
Her second sight prevented her from enjoying drugs or booze. Anything that altered her consciousness made the apparitions worse, but whatever supernatural side-effects the joint might have would be worth the relief from the pressure behind her eyes.
“How do you feel?” he asked after she took in a lungful of smoke. She managed to exhale without coughing.
“Better. It’s helping a lot.”
Different intoxicants affected her in different ways. Alcohol was the worst: getting drunk didn’t cause her problems, but the hangover after left her in a daze of flickering images of the past. Cocaine focused her, blocking out all but one image, strengthening it so much she could reach out and touch it. LSD she never dared try. Over the years she developed a reputation among her friends for being a bit of a prude, but she just didn’t like to lose control. The consequences were too fraught.
Weed, perhaps the least troublesome intoxicant she had tried, gave her the best understanding of whatever force this Influence was that fueled her mother’s Craft. As she settled back against the wall, her legs crossed under her on the bed, she allowed mellow lethargy to spread over her. The air rippled and swirled with gentle distortions like heat rising off scorching sand. She had never spoken about this with her mother. The old crone would have been appalled at her taking anything harder than aspirin, but she always assumed this visual effect to be Influence.
It radiated from Johnny and flowed out in thick ropes that wrapped themselves around the electric guitar in the corner and threaded into an open wardrobe bursting with colorful outfits. She’d seen this effect before, the few times she’d smoked weed with her friends. It was always the most talented and creative of them that were like this, with thick, powerful auras of Influence that flowed out of them to infuse their work.
“Why did you ask about Mick and religion?” He passed the joint back to her.
She could lie and make an excuse about wanting to know about the funeral, but her buzz mixed with her borrowed emotions. She just didn’t want to lie anymore, didn’t want to be only half of herself.
“I saw something,” she said, consequence be damned. “I saw him standing outside a building just north of here, waiting to enter. It seemed like a church. He was very excited.”
“When was that?”
“Just now, at the club.”
He frowned, and she held her breath, worried that she’d made a mistake, and prepared herself to make excuses and beat a quick retreat.
“Like a vision?”
She nodded.
“Like my Auntie Greta.” He took another drag. “She always knew when we were up to mischief. It was a pain in the arse. Do you see things a lot?”
“Yes.” She didn’t dare volunteer more.
“I know he was into spiritual stuff. He was always reading books about meditation and Buddhism. It drove my mum nuts. She’s a big bible thumper, raised by missionaries in Indonesia. She said he was going to hell for reading that stuff. Auntie Greta and her Tarot cards used to give her a conniption.”
Relief washed over her. She had told no one other than George about her visions. It had taken a four-hour car ride from Liverpool to convince him, and from then until now to deal with the consequences.
“Did you see anything else about Mick?”
Johnny may have been unfazed by her admission, but to lay the full burden of how Mick died at his feet would be unkind.
“Just a few things. Nothing much. Can you show me Mick’s room? If it’s not too upsetting.”
“No, I slept in there last night. It’s across the landing.”
Mick’s room was much like Johnny’s, only with more musical instruments and equipment. A rack of synthesizers stood against one wall. Three guitars on their stands were spread out under the window, effects pedals lined up underneath like soldiers. A gentle stream of Influence trickled from a small altar bearing incense sticks and a strange symbol drawn on a strip of parchment tacked to the wall behind it.
Above the altar, on a bookshelf filled with well-worn books, a single volume tucked away at the end glimmered in her second sight. The other books on the shelf were mass-market paperbacks, all by authors she had never heard of with grand titles of spiritual importance announcing the wisdom they claimed to hold within. The glimmering volume was modest in comparison, clothbound and uninscribed, the size of her hand. As she opened its pages, Influence flooded out from it into the room, swirling around her like the wake of an ocean liner.
“This was the book he had. I’m sure.”
“I’ve never seen it before.” He took it from her and flicked through its pages. “The writer’s name is Emerson Margrave. Do you know who that is?”
She shook her head.
He looked at the back page. “Order of the Lotus Temple of Light. 42 Barge Street.”
“That’s it,” she said. “I know where that is.”
She took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Johnny,” she took his hands in hers. “I saw something else. It wasn’t drugs that killed Mick.”
“Yeah.” She’d never seen him look more solemn. “I figured. He never touched anything harder than weed in his life. Three of our mates from school OD’d. I know what a junkie looks like. What did you see?”
“I’m not sure, but I know he didn’t realize he was hurting himself. He thought he was doing something good.”
He frowned. “And you think this lot put him up to it?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
He turned and bounded down the stairs.
“Are you coming?” he called up from the landing.
18
Driving through London with a buzz was a complicated experience. The swirling trails of Influence around her distracted her at every turn, but Johnny directed them to Barge Street without incident, her giant street atlas spread across his lap.
As they drove, Johnny quizzed her about what she saw in her visions. At first, she held back, but his questions were blunt, frank, and hard to deflect. By the time they found the temple she had told him about the widow’s weeds, the fractured ghost images, and the techniques she used to manage them. Nothing she told him was too outrageous. He believed everything, adding stories about one or other of his German aunts as proof he wasn’t just humoring her. She had never been so open to another human being, the discomfort that came with so much honesty slowly eaten away by his acceptance.
She didn’t tell him everything, though, leaving out the demonic apparition in the darkroom and the horrible details of Mick’s last minutes. He didn’t need to know that.
“May I have another hit of that joint?” She turned off the engine and wound back her seat belt. “Rolling around on the floor clutching my stomach if I have another vision won’t make the best impression.”
There was nothing remarkable about number 42 Barge Street, save for a shiny brass plaque above the doorbell announcing the Order of the Lotus Temple of Light and a motto: ‘we seek, we strive, we aspire.’
She pushed the ringer and an antiquated mechanical trill rang within. The ambient Influence swirled around her in the afternoon sun in a languid ebb and flow. She waited a minute, but no one answered, so she pushed the button again, and a third time after waiting a minute more.
“Maybe there’s no one h—” Johnny stepped back, startled, as the door swung open on a scowling older woman ripped from a Georgian period piece, with thick white hair piled up in sausage curls atop her head. Her sensible tweed skirt and floral blouse suggested a tray of teacups and Battenberg cake might be in the kitchen, ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice. From behind her came murmured chanting and the slow, clear ring of a chime.
“What do you want? We’re very busy!”
The woman looked them up and down and didn't like what she saw, her upper lip curling with poorly restrained disapproval, a habitual expression for her given the arrangement of wrinkles etched into her face.
“We’ve read about your organization,” said Gosha, “and were wondering if we could find out more about it.”
“Information sessions are scheduled at seven o’clock in the evening on the first Tuesday of every month. Come back then.”
She swung the door to close it in their faces, but Johnny stepped forward to block it.
“That’s past our deadline, I’m afraid.” He grinned. “We’re writing a piece for Time Out on the rich cultural history of London. We want to feature the Lotus Temple of Light. I’ve brought my photographer.”
Gosha dug into her handbag, took out her Nikkormat and waved it at the old woman with her friendliest smile as Johnny pushed inside.
The foyer was bland and institutional, with stone tile floors and dark, wood-paneled walls. Coat hooks lined one side of the front door. Along the other, leaflets and booklets that hadn’t been disturbed in many a month stood in ranks like dutiful soldiers on a large wooden table. They could have stepped back in time to a boarding school or a vicar’s parish somewhere in the home counties in the nineteen-fifties. Top of the Pops, Face Magazine, and punk rock were a million miles away.
The intrusion only hardened the old woman’s expression even further.
“Thank you, but no. We are a respectable organization. Time Out is hardly an appropriate publication for a group such as ours. Please leave the premises immediately.”
She spread her arms to usher them out, but Johnny stood his ground.
“I’m delighted to hear you say that.” He stood a little taller, his back stiffening, and his accent shifted up several social strata toward the aristocratic. “I find it a necessary evil in my line of work, keeping one’s finger on the pulse and all that. Have no fear. That despicable rag shall never hear a word about you.”
The old woman tilted her head in confusion at Johnny’s transformation. He reached out to shake her hand.
“Allow me to introduce myself. Jonathan Fredericks at your service. Please forgive my appearance. As journalists, we are forced to alter our attire to fit in with the youthful masses.” He grimaced. “Though I find it personally distasteful. I come to you under false pretenses, Madam. I am, in fact, working on a piece for the Telegraph, a feature for the Sunday Magazine, shining a light on the spiritual trailblazers of London.” At the mention of the Telegraph, the woman’s demeanor softened, revulsion turning to interest. “A trusted source led us to your organization. He told us the temple is the pinnacle of spiritual seeking. I’m hoping you’ll agree to be the centerpiece of my article.”
The woman’s eyes twinkled at the thought, but she wasn’t quite sold. Gosha scanned around for anything that might help push her over the edge. All the pamphlets and booklets were written by the same person, a Peter Walker.
“Jonathan, look.” She put a hand on Johnny’s arm to draw his attention. “Peter Walker,” she said with all the breathless awe she could muster. “This is Peter Walker’s organization!”
She had no idea who this Walker character was, but Johnny took the prompt and rolled with it.
“The Temple of Golden Light!” He walked around the foyer as if it were a cave filled with arcane wonders. “Of course! I should have realized this was Peter Walker’s temple. Is he here now?”
He slunk over to the doors leading to the meeting hall, chanting and bell-chiming coming from beyond, and placed an ear against them.
“Is he in there?”
His eyes widened with awe at what he heard, and he ran back to Gosha.
“I can’t believe it. Peter Walker himself.”
“You’ve heard of him?”
He took the woman’s hands in his.
“Have I heard of him? He is a legend.”
Her face lit up.
“He is a superb orator. So dynamic.”
“May we go in?” He clutched her hands to his chest. “I promise we shall be as quiet as mice. To see the great man in action! What a dream fulfilled.”
“We don’t normally admit newcomers to the Tuesday services, but an exception can be made for the Telegraph.” Thoroughly charmed by Johnny’s antics, the woman ushered them over to the doors and cracked one open to let them through.
“You must be very quiet.”
She gestured to a row of chairs at the back of a hall large enough to seat a couple of hundred, though the attendees only filled the front three rows.
“Nice work,” whispered Gosha as they slipped into the nearest seats. “Jonathan Fredericks?”
Johnny winked.
“My grampa. That performance has everyone rolling on the floor at Christmas.”
The congregation faced a lectern and a peculiar display of posters and objects from different religious backgrounds. To one side stood three shop mannequins wearing elaborate Egyptian-styled robes and headdresses. At the lectern stood an elderly man, presumably Peter Walker, in a similar outfit struggling to turn the pages of an enormous tome and ring two tiny cymbals together as he read from the book in a thin and reedy voice that didn't quite fill the room. The words he spoke sounded Latin, but Gosha took enough of it in school to know the meaning was gibberish. The setup reeked more of masonic stuffiness than spiritual adventure.
Johnny leaned in to whisper.
“Are you getting anything?”
Save for Johnny’s aura and the Influence pouring out of Mick’s book in his pocket, the ambient flow in the hall was anemic.
“Nothing. Anyone with any strength of character or potential to affect the world around them gives off a powerful aura. I doubt this lot could draw enough attention to hail a taxi.”
Though the ceremony finished quickly, Gosha was already nodding off from the tedium of it. Peter Walker went to the entrance to shake hands with the congregation, none of them under the age of sixty. As they filed out, every eye turned toward Gosha and Johnny with distaste.
The woman whispered in Peter Walker’s ear. His eyebrows shot up with excitement, and he nodded vigorously. As he did his best to hurry the receiving line along, the woman approached Gosha and Johnny and bobbed enthusiastically as they rose to speak to her. She beamed at them and spread her arms to encompass the meeting hall.
“As you can see, we are a small but dedicated group of the spiritually curious who have come together to explore alternate forms of inquiry into reality and the self.”
Her voice rose and fell in a liturgical lilt as she spread her arms wide to show off the uninspiring room. Her expression suggested strongly they should be dumbstruck with awe, an effect rather diminished by the wilted flower arrangements against the walls and the layer of dust that covered everything.
“Peter Walker, our founder, will be only happy to go into the spiritual underpinnings in more detail, but suffice to say, we are adventurers in the higher realms. May I ask who told you about us?”
“A friend of ours was part of your group,” said Gosha. “Perhaps you remember him? His name was Mick…”
She trailed off, unsure that the name “Mick Trash” would go down well with this woman, and unable to remember his real name.
“Taggart,” said Johnny. “His name was Mick Taggart.”
The old woman frowned. “I can’t say I know anyone of that name. Many congregants come and go. The Daily Mail published a lovely article about Mr. Walker a few years ago. We had a brief influx of fresh blood after that, but Mr. Walker’s method is very precise, and not always to everyone’s taste. I love it though. So stimulating and refreshing, don’t you agree?”
“May I have the book?” whispered Gosha as the old woman launched into a rapturous description of their Sunday services.
