The Moon Spun Round (43 page)

‘I think I know what you mean. I felt Her that first night when I woke up to find my bedroom filled with light. And then that time She called me out to dance in the moonlight.’

‘But do you feel Her here? That’s what I need to know.’ Fran’s eyes meet Sally’s.

‘I don’t know…I can’t feel anything at this moment, apart from cold. But it only happens sometimes, like when the moon’s full. That seems to do it for me.’

‘The phases of the moon, yes, and certain places where natural energies are strong. And those times when women gather, that’s when She touches us. But She’s not here, is She? I’ve never felt Her here.’

‘I can’t say I have either, but then…’

Fran looks around the church, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘And I’m damned sure, now, that I never will.’ She steps down, away from the altar, searching her pocket for the keys. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ She strides off towards the door with Sally hurrying to catch up with her. The door closes behind them with a hollow-sounding thud and, as Fran turns the key, they hear the tumblers click firmly into place.

The bottle’s neck chinks against the side of the glass, spilling whisky over the pile of documents. Ayden flicks the drink onto the carpet, then dabs at the top sheet with his handkerchief. Not that it’s worth the paper it’s written on. Damn the bloody company, damn the lot of them. Nothing’s too much trouble when they’re trying to take your fucking money off you, but when it comes to paying out it’s a different matter. Just wouldn’t listen, kept on saying the same thing over and over, like a bloody record. Our company isn’t liable, Mr Drayton. You weren’t insured with us when the accident occurred, Mr Drayton. We’re under no obligation to consider any claim. Twenty-five thousand bloody quid’s worth of scrap metal and they’re under no obligation to consider any fucking claim. Well, they’ve not heard the last of this.

He drains the glass and pours himself another while sifting through the pile of insurance policies to see what else Claire’s cocked up. Just as well he’d seen to the business insurances himself, including the company van. Of course the police checked that straight away, no doubt hoping to find something else to throw at him. Thanks to his own efficiency that was all in order, otherwise he’d have nothing to drive at all. Though God knows how long that will last if they go ahead with the court case. Solicitor reckoned he could lose his licence.
How’s he supposed to run a business with no bloody transport?

He finds the house policy. It looks up-to-date, but he decides to get on to the insurers himself, get them to confirm that the house and contents are still covered. Only a ten-minute wait this time, and the girl is at least civil, even if she sounds too young to be in charge of a department. She reassures him that yes, everything’s in order, unless he wishes to review his cover.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I see your policy was arranged three years ago.’

‘Yeah, that’s when we bought the house.’

‘In your area the rise in house prices is above the national average rate. Also, you’ll probably find that your contents have increased in that time—perhaps new purchases for the house, personal items. Should there be a claim, the cost of replacement may not be fully met by your amount of cover.’

‘I thought you’d sold me one of those inflation-proof policies, supposed to go up every year?’

‘That’s right, sir, to reflect the increase in value of the items you’ve insured. However, that doesn’t cover additional items. We do advise our clients to review their cover from time to time.’

‘Pay more money, you mean? Don’t miss a bloody trick, do you?’

‘Of course it’s entirely up to you, sir.’

Ayden looks around his living room. The sofas were new last year. And there’s his hi-fisystem, bought it for Christmas, state-of-the art speakers, cost him a fortune. Worked bloody hard for that and everything else. Then the car gets wiped out in one night. ‘All right then, you win. Do whatever you have to do, only make sure I get it in writing.’

‘Could I suggest a ten per cent increase, sir?’

‘Yeah. No, make it twenty. That’s right. And never mind the direct debit, I’ll pay for it right now.’ He fumbles in his wallet and scatters a wad of credit cards on the table. ‘Right, I’ll give you my Visa number. Are you taking this down?’

I
T’S THE FESTIVAL OF
O
IMELC
, and Naomi is working alone. Claire, naturally respectful of Naomi’s personal beliefs and practices, is spending the evening with Fran at the shop. Stocktaking, they said. Those two have been spending a lot of time together recently. Naomi has a feeling they’re plotting something. She has been noticing a certain exchange of looks between the two of them, and there have been several unexplained visits to Cambridge. But whenever she tries to find out what’s going on, Claire shrugs her shoulders and changes the subject. Yes, they’re definitely up to something. However, it’s good that Naomi has the flat to herself tonight. A full ritual to invoke the Goddess Brigid, the Celtic Goddess of holy wells and fire. For Naomi it’s a time of cleansing and meditation. Brigid is a bringer of visions and her fire is a symbolic transformation.

She has taken a ritual bath, washing her body with water from the spring that had been blessed and scented with herbs. Her hair is tied back so as not to distract her. She wears a simple black robe. Now the room is alive with candlelight, white candles for purification and cleansing. Incense billows from the glowing embers in the grate, and her Cup, filled with water from the Hallowfield spring, stands upon the altar along with her other implements. The circle has been drawn and the seals have been set. Naomi calms her thoughts in readiness for the invocation of the Goddess.

Naomi holds a taper to the altar candle and the light of the Goddess springs to life. Naomi seats herself in something akin to the lotus position, her long back held straight to allow energy to flow through from the crown charka. Her hands lie in her lap. She breathes slowly, deeply, bringing her body to rest, her mind open and ready for whatever Brigid may reveal. The room with its host of candles has receded to another time and place, leaving only a soft glow on her inner eyelids, a mist through which the Goddess may appear or show her visions of what has been or what might be. She feels only the weight of her misshapen hand.

Mother Goddess. She can remember nothing of her own mother. Her grandmother, Manny, was always there for her. Manny was her teacher, her counsellor. But why did her own mother leave? Perhaps Naomi will never know. It was Manny who helped Naomi come to terms with her injury, although she would never tell Naomi how it happened. If you’ve forgotten, then it may be for the best, was all she would say. Eight years old—she should be able to remember. Obviously her mind has put up some form of barrier. She does vaguely recall the hospital and hearing her father crying. She tries to retrieve those scraps of memory and rebuild them.

That’s right, she was lying in a bed and she couldn’t see her hand or even feel it, but her arm felt enormous. There was a doctor, an Indian-looking man with a beard. He kept saying things like ‘This won’t hurt’ and ‘We’ll soon have you comfortable’. Where was her father? She could hear his voice, but he was sobbing so hard the words made no sense. She tried to look for him among the circle of nurses and people in white coats. Then she realized he was on the floor. She struggled to pull herself up and caught sight of him crouched in a corner, jammed up against a metal cabinet. Then the nurse made her lie down and told her she must keep still.

‘Somebody get him out of here.’ That was the doctor. He sounded angry.

Some of the nurses moved towards him. ‘Come on, you’re only upsetting your daughter.’

Naomi caught another glimpse of him as they pulled him to his feet. He was dirty and dishevelled, face wet with tears and streaked with something black.

‘Dad?’ she called out. But he was being dragged out of the room and he didn’t seem to hear her.

‘It’s all right, honey,’ said a woman in a white coat. ‘They’ll take care of your father. You can see him later when he’s—’

‘Just keep him out of here, will you? If he gives you any more trouble, call security.’ Then the doctor was smiling at her again. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, everything’s going to be just fine.’

But she saw the look the doctor had given her father as he was pushed through the door. And the way the nurse frowned when she leaned over to touch the wad of bandages that covered Naomi’s hand.

Naomi has often recalled this scene in the hospital, but this time it all seems so much clearer than ever before. So what happened before that? That’s what she can’t remember. She tries to look deeper, to push her mind back into the dark vortex of that day. But there’s nothing. She makes a deliberate effort to relax, takes several deep breaths, and visualizes the Goddess standing in front of her.

‘Help me, please. There are things here I need to know. It’s been hidden from me for too long now. What is it I’m so afraid of seeing?’

Stillness and a golden misty light. It glows brighter, more intensely, until it flickers with red. A bonfire, flames licking and sparking against a night sky. Then laughter. Her laughter. She’s running around the fire and there are other people, some silhouetted against the glow—children playing like herself, and grownups guarding the blaze. A bang, a flash of green light, and a ball of flame shoots high into the air, exploding in a shower of sparks. Naomi puts her hands over her ears and turns to watch as yet another rocket whooshes skyward leaving a zigzag trail of yellow smoke. She can hear the shouts and squeals of the other children. But she is with her father.

‘Here, Naomi, sparklers. I’ll light one for you.’ He fumbles with his cigarette lighter, almost falling over, but catches his balance and hands her the firework. He lights another and shows her how to make circles and figures of eight in the air by swirling it round and round. Two children at play. Yes, that’s how they were, she and her father. Or a child and a clown. Naomi watches herself, so happy to be with him, and she feels sick. Something is growing inside her, something dark and heavy. It’s fear. A terrible fear. She wants to be her own mother, to protect the young girl who is Naomi. She calls out to herself: ‘Get away from him! Don’t touch it—run!’

But the child doesn’t hear her. All she knows is the crackle of the fire and the whizz of the Catherine Wheels and her father’s stupid grin. He’s laughing too much, and his eyes look strange as they sometimes do when he’s been out with his friends. When he’s like that, he might not speak for hours and hours. Other times he’s silly and stumbling, with his hair mussed and stuff spilled on his clothes. But he’s her father, the famous Simon Walker, who sings and makes music and bows while the audience cheers for more. So the child Naom
pretends that it’s all right and laughs with him, while the woman Naomi, helpless with terror, watches his fumbling hands and his stupid, circus grin.

He reaches for another firework and his giggling face is distorted like that of a madman or like Ayden as he sat in his car that night, jeering at her, calling her a bitch. His face is like a carnival mask in the red of the flames. The feeling of dread inside her is heavy and hot like the fire. It fills her chest until she cannot breathe for fear. And there’s anger too, anger and fear, twin snakes coiling into a ball of flame. Stop him! Why doesn’t somebody stop him? Her father? Ayden? The child reaches out her hand. Daddy, no—don’t do it! No, not her father. Ayden’s face. It must be Ayden. The searing ball inside her chest burns so hot that she can no longer bear it and thrusts it from her.

And the world explodes around her.

Naomi is back in her body. She gasps for air and tries to calm herself before she opens her eyes. The candles have burned down a little way; other than that, the room is unchanged. But she is changed. The memory is clear now, and so is the pain. Now she knows what happened and, worse, why it happened. It’s a while before she’s able to breathe freely and pull herself to her feet. She must finish the work at hand, close the circle and extinguish the candles. First, she takes a long drink from her cup to steady herself before she goes through the necessary closing of the ritual.

The candles are now cold and the equipment cleared away. Still trembling, she makes her way to the kitchen to throw water on her face. Gradually the world comes back into focus. She knows she should eat something, but instead she pours herself a large glass of red wine, hoping it will soothe the place where the fire built up inside her. It’s gone now, banished. Or is it? She should feel balanced, as if everything has returned to its normal state. Instead she feels as if something has escaped—as if, somewhere out there in the night, there is a wild animal on the loose.