We wandered from game to game, indulging ourselves occasionally, and I looked them all over with great interest, fascinated by the loud noises and flashing lights. Reminded me of the Armoury. Eventually we passed through the games arcade and out the other side. The fresh sea air came as a relief after so much compressed body odour, and we strolled on, all the way to the end of the Pier. Where I was somewhat surprised to find a slouching, two-story wooden edifice passing itself off as a haunted house. There were a slumping doorway, gloomily backlit windows, and a general ambience of cheap and cheerful. It looked like a stiff breeze would knock it over.
Okay, I said. That is never haunted. Not even a little bit.
It s not meant to be, Molly said patiently. It s just another game, Eddie. For the children. Like a ghost train.
Even the Scooby-Doo gang would turn up their noses at this, I said firmly. And no, Molly, we are not going in. I have my dignity. And I just know that if I walk through that door and someone in a sheet jumps out and shouts, Boo! at me, I will not be responsible for my actions.
I suppose the Droods had the real thing!
Not as such, I said. You met Jacob, the family ghost, awful old reprobate that he was. And there s the Headless Nun, of course. When I was a kid, they were usually more fun to hang around with than the rest of my family.
It s a wonder you grew up as normal as you did, Molly said sweetly.
Well, quite, I said.
At the very end of the Pier, some distance from the beach and way out over the ocean, I leaned on the reinforced railings and breathed deeply. Seagulls keened loudly overhead but maintained a respectful distance. Molly hugged her stuffed pony one last time, opened an invisible pocket in her dress, stuffed the thing in and forgot about it. (If it looked to be turning up on our bed at any future time, I planned on being very firm about it.) I peered out across the ocean. Various ships were passing by, out on the horizon, going about the business apparently without a care in the world. Though it s hard to be sure with ships.
I do like this pier, I said. Thanks for bringing me here, Molly. Even if your friend isn t here. It does me good to be reminded that there are things in this world worth saving.
We could always go on one of the rides, said Molly. She indicated the various roller coasters and Tilt-A-Whirls, most of which swung too far out over the waters for my liking. I shook my head firmly.
I ve never understood the appeal of those things. My world is dangerous enough as it is without putting myself at risk on purpose. I wouldn t go on one of those things if you paid me. And I ve got Drood armour.
I can t believe I m saying this, said Molly. But you have no sense of adventure.
That isn t adventure, I said. That is one mechanical malfunction away from a major local news story just waiting to happen. Can we please go see this old friend of yours now? That is what we came here for, after all.
I thought you were enjoying yourself.
I was! I am. But part of being a Drood is knowing when to get down to business.
Look to your right, said Molly, and there you will behold Madame O s Palace of Mysteries. Look upon her wonders and marvel.
I looked. There, tucked away to one side, was an old-fashioned fortune-teller s tent. A droopy-looking thing, presumably surrounding the stall within, its rough canvas covered with all the usual symbols that the general public has been conditioned to accept as representing the mystical and the occult: moons and stars, witches on broomsticks and black cats. It couldn t have looked more fake if it tried.
That s the point! said Molly, when I expressed this view to her. No one would ever think to find the real thing here, looking like that. Would they?
I looked the tent over carefully. Who s she hiding from?
Pretty much everybody, said Molly. Madame O has conned, double-crossed, and done dirt to practically everyone in our game you can think of at one time or another. And, yes, very definitely including your family. During her long, involved and decidedly underhanded career, Madame O has been run out of every major city you can name, and some that aren t even there anymore. Her trouble is, she s got no self-control. She sees something she wants and she goes for it. Just grabs it and runs, and to hell with the consequences. Why are you looking at me like that?
Thought you were describing someone else for a moment, I said smoothly. Do carry on.
Madame O was my mentor, for a time, said Molly.
Taught me everything I know about taking advantage of the world. Well, not everything, but you d be surprised.
The hand-painted sign set up on an easel at the entrance to the tent read MADAME OSIRIS. KNOWS ALL, SEES ALL, TELLS ALL.
For the right price, said Molly. Madame O never gave away anything in her life.
I looked at the sign. Tell me that s not her real name.
Of course not! said Molly. To start with, Osiris is a man s name. One of the old male Egyptian gods. You see, you can learn things from watching old mummy movies. I don t think anyone knows Madame O s real name. According to old magical tradition, to know the true name of a person or an object is to have power over it. As long as I ve known her, it s always been Madame O-something. When I first met her in Vienna all those years ago, she was passing herself off as Madame Olivia, Daughter of the Night and Disciple of Darkness. She was a bit old for the badger game even then, but she still had a certain glamour. She could make grown men give up their credit card details and pin numbers just by looking at them in a certain way. She taught me all I know about deviousness and debauchery. Including that thing I do with my fingertips that you really like
Far too much information, I said. Can we trust her?
Of course not.
Then why are we here?
Because she knows things, sweetie.
Can we trust her to tell us the truth?
If we lean on her hard enough. We don t have enough money to bribe her.
I shrugged. She s your friend.
There are friends and there are friends, said Molly. And Madame O is neither.
She slapped aside the tent flap and strode in. I followed, carefully pulling the tent flaps closed behind me. I didn t want us being interrupted. Inside there was hardly any room to move, the lighting was kept deliberately gloomy so you couldn t tell how cheap the place was, and there was nothing in any way mystical about the atmosphere. The only light came from half a dozen candles in a cheap candelabra, illuminating the table and two chairs set up. The crystal ball on the table looked impressive enough at first glance; but I ve spent enough time around the real thing to know a fake when I see one.
Madame Osiris sat on the far side of the table, carefully positioned to be half-hidden in the shadows. A lady of a certain age, solidly built and wrapped in traditional gypsy robes, she looked like she could punch her weight. Her bare muscular arms were covered in cheap and tacky multicoloured bangles that clattered loudly against one another with every movement, while her long-fingered hands caressed the crystal ball in a disturbingly sensuous way. She had a handsome enough face with a good bone structure, under industrial strength makeup, topped with a silk turban. She bestowed on Molly and me a wide professional smile and launched into what was clearly a well-practiced routine, addressing us both in a rich smoky voice.
Enter, dear friends, into the Mysteries of the Hereafter! Learn what the future has in store for you! And together we shall Oh, bloody hell. It s you, Molly Metcalf.