‘I don’t know yet,’ he said, turning over another card. It was a card of the Minor Arcana. The dagger.
There were eight cards lying away from the cabbalistic pattern made up by the remainder of the pack. Mathias chose one of these but he hesitated before he turned it over, his hand shaking more violently now.
‘What’s wrong?’ Toni asked, her voice full of concern. ‘What can you see? Tell me what you see.’
Blake, like most other people in the room was watching the psychic’s quivering hand. He felt the chill begin to wrap itself around him more tightly, as if someone had clamped him in a freezing vice and was slowly turning the screw.
On the mantelpiece, the photograph of Rick Landers began to shudder, as if biown by some invisible breeze. ‘Turn it over,’ said Toni Landers, exasperatedly. Her breath was coming in short gasps now. ‘I want to see the card. Tell me what you can see.’
The picture of Rick continued to vibrate, its movement unnoticed by ail except the girl with the straw-coloured hair. She could not speak, all she could do was raise one finger in the direction of the photo.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said the man beside her, noticing the movement.
Mathias turned over the final card.
‘Danger,’ he said, breathlessly.
‘What kind of danger?’ Toni demanded, staring down at the card. ‘Tell me.’
‘Your son …’ Mathias began, falteringly.
There was a loud crash as the glass in the photo frame exploded outward as if there were a charge behind it. Slivers of crystal showered the guests nearby and Blake found himself stepping back to avoid the cascade.
A girl near him screamed.
The photo toppled from the mantelpiece and clattered to the ground. Toni Landers tore her gaze from the Tarot cards and saw the remains of the picture lying close by.
As she reached out to pick it up something red and shiny appeared on the photo, welling up from a cut in the paper.
It was blood.
Toni froze, watching as more of the crimson fluid dribbled over the slashed picture.
Blake looked on, mesmerised by the incident.
It was Mathias who finally snatched up the frame and its contents. He laid it gently on the table before him.
There was no more blood. The photo was unmarked.
Blake glanced at the psychic and then at the pieces of broken glass which littered the carpet beneath the mantelpiece.
‘What happened?’ Toni Landers wanted to know. ‘What does this mean?’
Mathias hesitated.
is something going to happen to my son?’ Toni asked. ‘Jonathan, tell me, please.’
He nodded.
is he going to die?’ she demanded.
i saw danger, I didn’t say he was going to die,’ the psychic said in an effort at consolation but it didn’t work.
Toni cradled the picture frame in her hands and stared down at the face of her
son. Tears formed at her eye corners but she fought them back.
Tm not leaving him,’ she said. ‘Not now.’
Mathias swallowed hard then looked up to see that Blake was watching him. The writer seemed relatively unmoved by what had happened. The other guests slowly began to disperse, their conversation now kept to a discreet whisper. The psychic got to his feet and put a hand on Toni Landers’ shoulder.
‘Perhaps it would have been better if I hadn’t done the reading,’ he said.
‘No,’ she whispered, shaking her head. ‘I’m pleased you did. Thank you.’
‘Will you be all right?’ Blake asked her.
Another woman joined them, slightly older than Toni. She smelt of expensive perfume. The woman crouched beside her and gripped her hand. Blake and Mathias wandered across the room towards the open French windows, leading out into the garden. A cool breeze had sprung up and it washed over the two men as they walked out on to the patio.
‘What did you see?’ asked Blake, when they were out of earshot of the other guests.
‘You know how to read Tarot cards, David,’ said Mathias. ‘You saw what I saw.’
‘You know what I mean,’ the Englishman challenged.
‘Her son is going to die,’ said Mathias, flatly. ‘Is that what you wanted to hear?’ He walked across the lawn towards a large ornamental fish pond which lay beneath the drooping arms of a willow. Leaves had fallen from the branches and were floating on the surface of the water. The liquid gleam caught the bright lights of the house in the background.
‘You didn’t read that in the cards did you?’ said Blake, not sure whether it was intended as a question or a statement.
‘No.’
‘Then how did you know the boy was going to die?’
‘You want to know all the secrets, David.’
‘Yes I do.’
‘I can’t give you the answers.’
‘You mean you won’t.’ Blake said, challengingly. ‘What made the photo frame break? That glass looked as if it had been hit with a hammer.’
‘The windows were open,’ Mathias suggested. ‘The breeze could have blown it off.’
“Come on, Jonathan,’ said the writer, wearily. ‘What the hell do you take me for?’
‘What do you think made it break?’ Mathias snarled, his brilliant blue eyes looking luminous in the darkness. ‘This … power of mine?’ The psychic turned and headed back towards the house, leaving Blake alone beside the pond. The writer walked slowly around the pool, catching sight of a fish once in a while. He let out a tired breath. The broken frame. The prophecy. Were they more of Mathias’ tricks? A mind-fuck — as he’d heard it put by an American psychologist? He was beginning to doubt if tricks was the right word. He had seen too much of the man over the past five or six days to dismiss him as a charlatan or fraud.
Blake shook his head and gazed into the pond, as if seeking his answers there.
He caught sight of his own reflection.
Blake froze momentarily, gaping at the vision which stared back at him from the water.
It was his reflection but the features were contorted into a mask of sheer terror. The mouth open in a soundless scream, eyes bulging wide in the sockets.
He took a step back, eyes still riveted to the image, his feet crunching on the hundreds of tiny stones which surrounded the pool. One of them bounced into the water, breaking the surface as it sent out endless ripples.
The reflection disappeared and, as the water slowly regained its stillness, Blake found that his image had also returned to normal. For long moments he looked down, as-if expecting that terror-stricken visage to appear once more, but it didn’t. A particularly cold breeze ruffled his hair and he shivered
slightly, deciding that it was time he returned to the house.
Whistling through the branches of the nearby tree, the wind sounded like soft, malevolent laughter.
3.04 a.m.
Blake pushed back the covers and clambered out of bed. He had been tossing and turning for the past hour and still sleep eluded him.
Mathias’ chauffeur had dropped him back at his hotel just after 1.30. By the time they had left Toni Landers’ house only a handful of people remained and the atmosphere retained the air of solemnity which seemed to have descended after the incident with the cards.
Upon returning to the hotel, Blake had downed a couple of much-needed bottles of beer in the bar then retreated to his room but he had found the oblivion of sleep elusive. Now he stood at his window looking out on the dark mass that was Central Park. Trees bowed and shuddered silently in the wake of the wind and the writer thought how forbidding the place looked once the cloak of night had fallen over it.
He switched on the TV, flicking from channel to channel until he found an old black and white film. Audie Murphy was busy winning the war single-handed for the USA. Blake gazed at the screen for a while then changed channels once more. There was a programme about Chinese cookery so he left it on, turning the sound clown. After five minutes he tired of that as well and switched the set off altogether, seeking comfort from the radio instead. He twisted the dial until he found the rock station, adjusting the volume as Y&T thundered out the opening chords of ‘Mean Streak’.