Laughter rippled through the audience. Marion liked the little Irishman, and she could tell that the rest of the audience liked him too. Everyone was desperate to receive a message; it meant you had been singled out by some greater power, that you were special. Being out and amongst other people made her happy, yet the feeling was tinged with regret at having missed out on so much in life, staying in alone for so many countless evenings when other people were doing things like this, going to plays and musical concerts, eating in restaurants or just chatting to each other at parties.
The medium spoke to several more people. Some of the messages were tragic: “Alan said the pain was so great at the end that passing came as a relief.” Or sometimes funny: “Sheila wants you to stop planting hydrangeas in the front garden, she can’t stand them. They remind her of her mother-in-law.”
Then the medium went silent for several minutes. The atmosphere became tense with expectation as everyone waited for the next message. Finally he spoke: “The lady I have with me is singing a song that we all know. She’s got a good voice too, not quite Julie Andrews but not far off.” And then he began to sing, “The hills are alive . . .” Marion knew at once it was her aunt, but for some reason she was too afraid to put up her hand.
He scanned the room, like a store detective looking for a shoplifter, and then his eyes stopped on Marion. As he moved down the aisle, getting closer and closer to the row she was sitting in, her pulse began to throb. She lowered her head, hoping he would walk past, but the medium stopped right next to her seat.
“What’s the matter, Marion, don’t you want to say hello to your auntie?”
She looked up and stared into his kindly brown eyes.
“Agnes knows that it was you who did it,” said the medium.
“I—I d-don’t know what you mean,” stuttered Marion.
Then he said quite simply, as if he were stating her name: “You are evil.”
The hall fell silent—everyone was looking at Marion. Her mind swam with confusion. Why had he said this? Could he really see something inside her, a dark stain that was invisible to everyone else?
“I—I can’t be evil,” she said. “I am nothing. I am nobody.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. She felt as though all the life in her body were being drained through that hand and if he held on for long enough, she would die. Looking down at her, like a priest giving the last rites, he said softly:
“You are the kind of evil that comes from nothing, from neglect and loneliness. You are like mold that grows in damp dark places, black dirt gathered in corners, a fatal infection that begins with a speck of dirt in an unwashed wound.”
With all her strength, she pushed the little man out of her way and stumbled along her row of seats towards the exit. A man in a shabby gray suit sitting halfway down the row refused to move his knees out of the way to let her pass.
“Will you please move?” asked Marion, nudging his long legs with her bag.
A woman with cropped black hair and eyeliner that extended into devilish upwards flicks whispered to him, “Did you hear what he said? Evil—she is the one.”
The man stretched his legs out farther, as if to deliberately keep her prisoner.
“Please let me pass, will you! You must let me pass! I have to get out of this place!” The man’s mouth gaped in shock as Marion kicked at his skinny shanks, making the trouser bottoms flap. She forced her way through, knocking over the woman’s handbag so loose change and clumps of used tissue rolled onto the floor.
“Well, look at that, will you?” said the woman, groping for her things in the dark space beneath the seats. “Not an ounce of consideration for anyone.”
Other people turned to glare at Marion as she made her way out of the theater. She heard the word repeated around the hall like the tweeting of birds in an aviary. Evil—she’s evil—evil.
“I saw her sneak in,” hissed an elderly lady in a purple turban between applying a greasy coat of lip salve to her wrinkled mouth. “I don’t think she even had a ticket.”
? ? ?
ALL THE WAY home her heart was hammering as if she were being pursued by a rapist. What a horrible man, she thought, how dare he make those accusations when he doesn’t know anything about me? She crawled into bed without even taking off her clothes and lay shivering with shock beneath the blankets. Over and over again the scene played in her mind: Why had he said those things? Why had he chosen her? She felt raw and broken as if she had been publicly whipped.
The memory of all those people staring at her was the worst thing. Not a single one of them had come to her defense. Surely no one could have believed him? It was all a sham, she reassured herself. That girl was in on the act, she didn’t really have an uncle who liked to feed birds. Mediums had all sorts of tricks and ways of finding out information about people. Nearly everyone had an aunt, and the song was a lucky guess. Brendan O’Brian probably wasn’t his real name. He would be one of those Irish gypsies who went around the country deceiving decent, honest people. I should report him to the authorities for saying those things, thought Marion. I could sue him for slander.
The morning after the encounter with Brendan O’Brian, she awoke feeling drained and with aching muscles as she might after a bout of flu or some physical trauma, but her mind was calm. The incident had confirmed that in a world full of people who took pleasure from hurting others, she was better off staying at home. It had been a mistake to try and break free, this was where she belonged, where no one could touch her. As she wrapped the covers around her body, the bed seemed more comfortable than usual, and seeing it was only quarter past nine, she decided to spend a little longer sleeping.
@coppelia
Sept 15th
Hi Adrian it is good for me to hear from you again so soon
To write you it is good practice for me in English. It is of course my dream to visit your wonderful country one day! At present I am working in city many miles from home, because there is no work in my village, except chemica factory and even then you must know some people to get job.
I am work as waitress in a place called the Kitty Kat Klub. Guys from the local mine come in to get drunk and have fun with the girls. They are mostly not so bad, sometimes I feel sorry for them. I want to say: Don’t spend all your money here you should send to wives, but then if I did my boss Ivan would get so mad!! Last week he threw one girl out into snow wearing just her g-string and high heels. For what reason? She was supposed to be on diet and he caught her eating potato pancakes!
My friend is Katya one of the dancing girls (in the bar she has to go by the name of Roxanne because there is already one Katya). All day she dances until some guy picks her, then they go into back room. I do not do this work, I am decent girl, I only serve drinks! Sometimes Ivan he asks me to be dancing girl but I refuse.
xxx
Sept 29th
How are you Adrian, what is the news from England?
My heart is sore from missing mama and my beautiful baby back in village. Baby is so cute, her name is Varvara. Already I think she can be ballerina and mama is playing Tchaikovsky music to her while she dances. When I was young girl I dreamt of becoming ballerina but then papa got sick and there was no more money for classes.