Beyond Black. Hilary Mantel

truth was, it emerged, that whatever message Alison left on her machine was liable to become corrupted. Other messages, quite different ones, would overlay it. Where did they come from? ‘There’s no simple answer to that,’ Alison said. She checked her watch. ‘I meant to eat but I’ve been talking.’

      ‘I’ll bring you a sandwich in, shall I?’

      ‘I never eat when I’m reading. It’s not professional. Oh well. Do me no harm to be hungry, will it? I’ll hardly waste away.’ She patted her tummy, smiled miserably. ‘Look, about the travelling, I do travel a lot, and I used to drive, but I don’t any more. I think if I had a friend with me, I could manage, so we could split it, you see.’

      ‘You need a navigator?’

      ‘It’s not so much that.’ What Alison needed, she explained – picking again at the sugar straws, opening them and putting them down – was a warm living body beside her, as she drove from town to town, fayre to fayre, and from one Psychic Extravaganza to another. Otherwise, a spirit would come and sit in the passenger seat, and natter on while she tried to negotiate an unfamiliar one-way system. ‘Do you know Bracknell? Bracknell’s hell. All those roundabouts.’

      ‘What’s to stop the spirits from climbing in the back seat instead? Or have you got a two-door?’

      Alison looked at her for a long moment. Colette thought she was actually going to answer the question. ‘Look, Colette,’ she said softly. She had got four straws lined up now, and she moved them about, delicately, with one finger: changing the pattern, shuffling and reshuffling. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter if you’re a bit sceptical. I understand. I’d be sceptical myself. All you need to realise is that it doesn’t matter what you think, it doesn’t matter what I think – what happens, happens all the same. The only thing is, I don’t do tests, I don’t do tricks for people to try to prove myself, because I don’t need to prove anything. Do you see?’

      Colette nodded. Alison raised a finger to a girl who was serving, and pointed to the pot. ‘A refill for you,’ she explained. ‘I can see you’re bitter. Why shouldn’t you be? Life hasn’t treated you well. You’ve worked hard and had no reward. You’ve lost your home. And you’ve lost a lot of your money, haven’t you?’

      Colette’s eyes followed the trail of brown sugar curling across the table; like an initial, trying to form itself. ‘You seem to know a lot about me.’

      ‘I laid out a spread for you. After you’d gone.’

      ‘A spread?’

      ‘The tarot cards.’

      ‘I know. Which spread?’

      ‘Basic Romany.’

      ‘Why that?’

      ‘I was in a hurry.’

      ‘And what did you see?’

      ‘I saw myself.’

      Al got up and headed back towards the main hall, handing a ten-pound note to a girl as she passed, pointing to the table she had just left. That’s far too much, Colette thought, two cafetières, ten pounds, what is she thinking? She felt a flare of indignation, as if it were her own cash that had been spent. She drank all the coffee, so as not to be wasteful, tipping the pot so its muddy grounds shifted. She went to the Ladies, and as she washed her hands she watched herself in the mirror. Maybe no mind-reading in it, she thought. No psychic tricks needed, or information from spirit guides. She did look like a woman who had lost her money: lost her lottery ticket in life, lost her dad and lost her home.

      That summer they laughed a lot. They acted as if they were in love, planning for each other treats and nice things to eat, and surprising each other with thoughtful gifts. Alison gave Colette a voucher for a day spa in Windsor; I won’t come, she said cheerfully, I don’t want some foul-breathed anorexic lecturing me about my cellulite, but you enjoy yourself, Colette. Colette dropped into Caleys and bought a warm throw, soft mohair and the colour of crushed raspberries; lovely, Al said that evening, just what I need, something to cover me up.

      Colette took over most of the driving, finding that she didn’t mind it at all. ‘Change the car,’ she said to Alison, and they went out to a showroom that very afternoon. They picked one because they liked the colour and the upholstery; she imagined herself putting two fingers up to Gavin, and when the salesman tried to talk car-sense they just giggled at each other. ‘The truth is, they’re all the same these days,’ she said loudly. ‘I don’t know much, but I do know that.’

      Al wasn’t interested, she just wanted it done with; but when the salesman tried to trap her into a finance deal, she slapped him down smartly. She agreed a delivery date, wrote a cheque; Colette was impressed by her style. When they got home she rummaged through Al’s wardrobe and threw out the worst bits of lurex. She tried to smuggle the ‘silk’ out, in a black bin liner, but Al went after the bag and retrieved it, drawing it out and looping it around her arm. ‘Nice try,’ she said to Colette. ‘But I’m sticking with it, please.’

      Colette’s education in the psychic trade was brisk and nononsense. Al’s absurd generosity to the waitress in the coffee shop might represent one side of her nature, but she was businesslike in her own way. She wouldn’t be taken for a ride, she knew how to charge out every minute of her time, though her accounts, kept on paper, were a mess. Having been a credulous person so recently, Colette was now cynical and sneery. She wondered how long it would be before Al initiated her into some fraud. She waited and waited. By mid-August she thought, what fraud could there be? Al doesn’t have secret wires tapping into people’s thoughts. There’s no technology in her act. All she does is stand up on stage and make weak jokes. You may say Al’s a fake because she has to be, because nobody can do what she claims to do. But there it is; she doesn’t make claims, she demonstrates. And when you come down to it she can deliver the goods. If there is a fraud, it’s a transparent one; so clear that no one can see it.

      Al hadn’t even been registered for VAT, when Colette had come on board as her business brain. As for income tax, her allowances were all over the place. Colette had been to the tax office in person. The official she saw admitted to a complete ignorance of a medium’s ™ she was poised to take advantage of it. ‘What about her clothes,’ she said, ‘her stage outfits? Her outfits for meeting her clients. She has to look good, it’s a professional obligation.’

      ‘Not one we recognise, I’m afraid,’ the young woman said.

      ‘Well, you should! As you ought to know, being the size you are yourself, decent clothes in large sizes don’t come cheap. She can’t get away with the tat you find on the high street. It’s got to be specialist shops. Even her bras, well, I don’t need to spell it out.’

      ‘I’m afraid it’s all dual purpose,’ the woman said. ‘Underwear, outerwear, whatever, you see it’s not just specific to her trade, is it?’

      ‘What? You mean, she could pop to the postbox in it? Do the dusting? In one of her stage outfits?’

      ‘If she liked. I’m trying to envisage – you didn’t bring pictures, did you?’

      ‘I’ll drop some in.’

      ‘That might be a help. So we could work out what sort of class of item we’re dealing with – you see, if it were, well, a barrister’s wig, say, or protective clothing, say, boots with steel toecaps, for example…’

      ‘So are you telling me they’ve made special rules about it? For mediums?’

      ‘Well, no, not specifically for – what you say your partner does. I’m just going by the nearest cases I can envisage.’ The woman looked restless. ‘I suppose you might classify it as show business. Look, I’ll pass it up for consideration. Take it under advisement.’

      Colette wished – wished very strongly, most sincerely – that she had Al’s powers, just for sixty seconds. So that a whisper, a hiss, a flash, so that something would overtake her, some knowledge, insight, some piece of special information, so