‘It’s a celebration of the spring equinox,’ I said.
They looked around at the bare mist-shrouded trees and shuddered before they were sucked towards the jazz tent by the music. They passed Lesley coming the other way and stared curiously at her mask, only realising what they were doing when Lesley stopped and asked them if they needed something. They shook their heads and scuttled off.
Lesley was carrying another pint of beer which she presented to me when she reached the stall.
‘Compliments of Oberon,’ she said. ‘He says you’re going to need it before the day is done.’
‘Did he say why?’ I asked.
Lesley said no, but I drank the beer anyway. It was proper beer, I noticed, not your fizzy lager from a cask — probably off one of the stalls I thought.
I heard Abigail laughing somewhere out in the mist — it’s a very distinctive laugh. I wondered if I should go get her.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ said a voice behind us.
‘Hi Zach,’ said Lesley. ‘I thought you were persona non grata.’
‘I was,’ said Zach. He was a skinny white boy with damp brown hair and a big mouth in a thin face. He was dressed in genuinely un-prewashed faded jeans and a grey hoodie that was going at the elbows. He bowed theatrically.
‘But this is the Spring Court,’ he said. ‘The seasons have turned and cruel winter has passed. Lambs are gambolling, birds build their nests and the hardy bankers get their bonus. It is a time of forgiveness and second chances.’
‘Yeah,’ said Lesley and fished a tenner out of her jacket and waved it at Zach. ‘Go get us some dinner then.’
Zach swiped the tenner out of her hand.
‘Your sternest command,’ he said and legged it.
‘He really does have no self-respect,’ I said.
‘None whatsoever,’ said Lesley.
While we were waiting, I suggested I do a perimeter check.
‘That way you can round up Abigail while you’re at it,’ she said.
My dad had started in on what had recently become his signature piece, an arrangement of the ‘Love Theme from Spartacus’. The rest of the band faded down to almost nothing while my dad did his best Bill Evans impression — except hopefully without the untreated hepatitis. His piano followed me into the mist, fading in and out behind the hawkers and the mechanical organ on the carousel. It was frustrating in the way my dad’s music always frustrates me — going off the melody just when I was enjoying it and going to places that I couldn’t follow.
I found Abigail standing in front of a tall thin stall shaped like an outsized Punch and Judy booth. The edges of the proscenium arch were decorated with carved owls, quarter moons and occult symbols and it must have been very fine once. Now the gold and blue paint was chipped and the yellow curtain that hid the interior was washed thin and dingy. A carved sign at the top of the arch proclaimed, Artemis Vance: Purveyor of Genuine Charms, Cantrips, Fairy Lures and Spells. Pinned just below were the words, written in sharpie on an index card, No Refunds!
‘Lend us a fiver,’ said Abigail.
I was curious enough about the booth to hand over the money.
Abigail knocked on the side of the stall which shuddered alarmingly. The curtain flew open to reveal a hook-nosed young man whose hair was silver white and stuck out at all angles like punk candyfloss. He was wearing a maroon velvet jacket with a tall collar over a ruffed lilac shirt.
He peered suspiciously at me and then even more suspiciously at Abigail — at least he had his priorities right.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘I want to buy a fairy lure,’ she said.
‘Sorry,’ said the man. ‘We don’t do fairy lures any more.’
‘Why not?’ asked Abigail tilting her head to one side. ‘Because fairy hunting has been deemed unlawful under the ECHR,’ he said. ‘No fairy hunting, no fairy lures. Mind you, technically, I could sell you a fairy lure providing you didn’t actually use it to lure fairies. That’s if I could still make them.’
‘Why can’t you make them?’
‘Because you have to use real fairy,’ said the man. ‘Otherwise it won’t work.’
‘But if I’m not going to use it to hunt fairies, why can’t you make one without any fairy in it?’ asked Abigail. ‘A fake fairy lure.’
‘Don’t be absurd, young lady,’ said the man. ‘Only a mountebank would think to purvey a fairy lure that failed in its most requisite aspect. Even to suggest such a thing stretches absurdity to the point of effrontery.’
‘How about a spell then?’ I asked.
‘Alas,’ said the man. ‘I would not presume to disgrace myself by offering the pathetic outpourings of my own craft to one such as you, a gentleman if I am not mistaken, and I never am, already schooled in the high and puissant arts of the Newtonian practitioner.’
‘What about me then?’ asked Abigail.
‘Underage,’ said the man.
‘What about a cantrip?’ asked Abigail.
‘Alas cantrip is merely a synonym for spell, and thus my previous answer must suffice,’ said the man and glanced up at his sign. ‘Its inclusion is merely there to facilitate a more attractive rhythm to our advertisement and thus engage the jaded attentions of the common ruck.’
‘Do you actually sell anything at all?’ asked Abigail.
‘I can do you a charm,’ he said.
‘Can I have a charm against geography teachers?’
‘Alas, my child,’ said the man. ‘As your large and terrifying brother can no doubt explain to you, one does not choose a charm — rather the charm chooses you. It is all part of the great and wearisome cosmic cycle of the universe.’
‘All right,’ said Abigail. ‘What charm can I have?’
‘I’ll have a rummage,’ said the man and ducked down out of sight.
Me and Abigail exchanged looks. I was about to suggest we go, but before I could open my mouth the man popped up and dangled a small pendant for our inspection. A little yellow semi-precious stone, rough cut and mounted in a silver basket with a leather matinee length cord. Abigail eyed it dubiously.
‘What’s it a charm for?’ she asked.
The man thought about this for moment.
‘It’s your basic all-enveloping protection charm,’ he said, his hands describing a cupped circle in the air. ‘For protection against. .’
‘Envelopes?’ asked Abigail.
‘The uncanny,’ he said and then in a serious tone. ‘The mysterious and the sinister.’
‘How much then?’ asked Abigail.
‘Fiver.’
‘Done,’ she said and handed over the money. When she reached for the charm I took it first. I closed it in my fist and concentrated, but could sense nothing. The stone felt chilly and inert against my skin. It seemed harmless, so I handed it over.
Abigail gave me questioning look as she slipped the charm over her head. There followed a brief undignified struggle as it caught in the huge puffball afro she wore at the back of her head before she could tuck it under her jumper. Then I waited while she pulled off her scrunchies, yanked her hair back into place and re-secured it with a couple of practised twists.
‘You’d better get back to our stall,’ I said.
Abigail nodded and trotted away.
‘And you owe me a fiver,’ I called after her.
I glanced back at the man in the booth who gave me a benign little nod.
I strolled up the line of stalls and turned right where a booth was selling traditional cheeses, beers and rat traps. Once I was out of sight I paused, counted to sixty and then quickly retraced my steps around the corner until I could see where the Artemis Vance stall had been.
It was still there and the man was still visible, elbows resting on his counter and looking right at me. He waved. I didn’t wave back. I decided that it probably wasn’t a mysterious magic booth after all and set off on the rest of my perimeter check.
Beverley was waiting for me opposite the entrance to Gabriel’s Wharf, propping up the garden wall of the imitation Regency terrace that had proved, surprisingly, to be the locals’ preferred style of house. She wore a black corduroy jacket over a denim halter that left a bare strip of skin above her red, waist-high skinny jeans. Mist had beaded her locks and the shoulders of her jacket and I wondered how long she’d been standing there.