Brana Smith was at least seventy, a highly-coloured scarf drawing back the hair from the brown parchment face. She wore a shawl over her shoulders, a necklace of gold coins around her neck. The table she was seated at had a crystal ball on it.
‘You certainly look the part,’ he said.
‘That’s the general idea. The public like a gypsy to look like a gypsy. Put up the closed sign and give me a cigarette.’ He did as he was told, came back and sat opposite her like a client, the crystal between them. ‘Is Morag asleep?’
‘Yes.’ He took a deep breath to control his pain. ‘You must never let her go back to that camp, you understand me?’
‘Don’t worry.’ Her voice was dry and very calm. ‘We gypsies stick together and we pay our debts. I’ll put the word out and one day soon Murray pays for what he’s done, believe me.’
He nodded. ‘When you saw her picture in the paper today and read the circumstances, you must have been worried. Why didn’t you get in touch with the police?’
The police? You must be joking.’ She shrugged. ‘In any case, I knew she was coming and I knew she would be all right.’
‘Knew?’ Cussane said.
She rested a hand lightly on the crystal. These are only the trappings, my friend. I have the gift as my mother did before me and hers before her.’
He nodded. ‘Morag told me. She read the Tarot cards for me, but she isn’t certain of her powers.’
‘Oh, she has the gift.’ The old woman nodded. ‘As yet unformed.’ She pushed a pack of cards to him. ‘Cut them,
then hand them back to me with your left hand.’
He did as he was told and she cut them in turn. ‘The cards mean nothing without the gift. You understand this?’
He felt strangely light-headed. ‘Yes.’
‘Three cards, that will tell all.’ She turned the first. It was the Tower. ‘He has suffered through the forces of destiny,’ she said. ‘Others have controlled his life.’
‘Morag drew that card,’ he said. ‘She told me something like that.’
She turned the second card. It showed a young man suspended upside down from a wooden gibbet by his right ankle.
The Hanged Man. When he strives hardest, it is with his own shadow. He is two people. Himself and yet not himself. Impossible now to go back to the wholeness of youth.’
‘Too late,’ he said. ‘Far too late.’
The third card showed Death in traditional form, his scythe mowing a crop of human bodies.
‘But whose?’ Cussane laughed a little too loud. ‘Death, I mean? Mine or perhaps somebody else’s?’
‘The card means far more than its superficial image implies. He comes as a redeemer. In this man’s death lies the opportunity for rebirth.’
‘Yes, but for whom?’ Cussane demanded, leaning forward. The light reflected from the crystal seemed very bright.
She touched his forehead, damp with sweat. ‘You are ill.’
‘I’ll be all right. I need to lie down, that’s all.’ He got to his feet. Til sleep for a while, if that’s all right with you, then I’ll leave before Morag wakes. That’s important. Do you understand me?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she nodded. ‘I understand you very well.’
He went out into the cool night. Most people had gone home now, the stalls, the carousels were closing down. His forehead was burning. He went up the steps into the caravan and lay on the bench seat, looking up at the ceiling. Better to take the morphine now than in the morning. He got up, rummaged in the bag and found an ampoule. The injection worked quite quickly and, after a while, he slept.
He came awake with a start, his head clear. It was morning, light coming in through the windows and the old woman was seated at the table smoking a cigarette and watching him. When he sat up, the pain was like a living thing. For a moment, he thought he was going to stop breathing.
She pushed a cup across to him. ‘Hot tea. Drink some.’
It tasted good, better than anything he had ever known, and he smiled and helped himself to a cigarette from her packet, hand shaking. ‘What time is it?’