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I take a second to consider how best to put my proposition. “Well, you see, I’m really hesitant to let Marcel and Gabriel unravel my spell now, but I do still want to discover what it is. So I was wondering, since you know all about this kind of thing, if maybe you could do it for me?”
Rita looks a little shocked for a moment, not having expected me to ask such a thing of her. Then says, “You’d trust me to do that?” she appears as though she would barely trust herself to perform such important magic. But in my opinion it’s the people who don’t believe in their own hype who are the most talented in reality. And I’m beginning to think that Rita’s personality is about eighty per cent bravado.
“Sure I would.” I tell her. “I mean, maybe I’m terribly mistaken, but my gut is telling me that I can rely on you,” I grin, “despite outward appearances. So, yes, if you’ll agree I’d like you to be the one to disentangle all of this messy magic that I’ve got in me.”
Rita comes toward me with her hand out. “Give me your phone then.” I shrug, pull it out of my pocket and hand it to her. She fiddles with the keyboard for a minute, then hands it back to me.
“There you go,” she says. “My number’s in your phone book
, under F for “fucking mental case” she laughs. “Only kidding. Anyway, call me tonight when you’re off work and we’ll fix up to meet.”
I nod as she walks out the door, then I take a minute to gather my thoughts and return to work.
Chapter Eleven
Aren’t the Cats and Brick-a-Brack a Little Stereotypical?
At the end of my work day I hurry home to make myself some dinner. My appetite is returning with tentative little steps in the right direction, and it makes me feel as though I’m gaining headway in the health department, mental and physical.
I eat a sizeable bowl of tuna and pasta, but it’s after I’ve finished and have taken a half an hour to rest that the hard part comes in. To call Rita or not to call Rita, that is the question that plagues me. Do I trust a twenty-something year old Goth-punk nightmare with a bad attitude, or my fifty year old boss who is apparently Head Warlock of District Two, whatever that means.
Of course. Of course. I know which one seems the more respectable and trustworthy option. But is the obvious choice always the correct one? Isn’t a conman in a designer suit still a conman once stripped bare of all those items of clothing which purport to present him as an upstanding, reliable citizen?
But really, I don’t even see much of a point in going back and forth debating this, because I know myself enough to realise that I always choose the dark horse. The path less taken. I have a soft spot for the disenfranchised of this world, and that is why I pick up my phone, scroll through my saved numbers and press call once I get as far as Rita’s name.
She answers with a smug, “Knew ya’d call,” and then gives me her address. I call a taxi since it’s over on the other side of the city. On Dhamphir/Warlock territory, as I’ve recently learned.
Rita’s house is on a residential street just outside of the cramped city centre, a lot more spacious than my apartment block ridden, dive of an area. Her house is a brown brick post war number, and extremely narrow. The narrowness is made up for by the fact that it has three floors, instead of the traditional two. And, I shit you not, there are three cats sitting on her doorstep, purring and licking themselves in the usual fashion of the feline species.
Rita being a witch, it seems a little obvious for her to have cats, but there you go. We can’t always fight against stereotypes no matter how much we want to be individual. Two black cats and a ginger. I pet the ginger and he rises to my touch with a curve of his back and a lifting of his behind.
I lift the brass knocker, and tap, tap, tap, on the door. Not too loud or too soft. The door flies open a second later, but it isn’t Rita who answers. For a moment I wonder if I’ve got the wrong house, but then I take a second glance at the guy in front of me and know he’s exactly the kind of person I’d find hanging out with Rita. He’s got a nose piercing and a slick of dyed black hair on top of his head that’s brushed to the side in a quiff. He’s wearing a long black velvet shirt with the first few buttons undone to reveal a pale and very birdlike chest.
“Well, well, well,” he chimes. “Rita never mentioned you were so purdy.” He’s barefoot and wearing a pair of dark red leather pants. Hmm, sexy. Or perhaps not.
“I’m Tegan, I’m here to see Rita,” I tell him as he gives me the once over.
He nods and introduces himself. “Pleased to meet ya, sweetie. I’m Alvie, come on in.” He leads me down to the end of the hallway and through a door that opens into a kitchen that might have been spacious once, but is now so full of things that it’s impossible to determine its original size. It seems as though shelves have been nailed to every available wall space, and they are packed to the brim with random items. Crockery, antiques, battered old children’s toys, dozens of yellowed paperbacks. I think I even spot the broken off rear view mirror of a car. Bizarre is too mild a word to describe this place.
The back door is open, leading out to the rear garden. Alvie slips out and I hear him call. “Reet! Tegan is here. Come on inside so we can get our spells on, girlfriend!”
From a small distance I hear Rita answer back, “We’ll be there in a minute, Alvie.” He comes back inside and shoves a stack of vinyls off one of the chairs by the kitchen table and gestures for me to sit down. “Take a seat m’love,” he says with grin and a flirty waggle of his eyebrows.
He leaps over to the stove where there’s a big dark green pot simmering on a low heat. He lifts the lid, takes a sniff of the rising steam, and gives the concoction a stir with a big wooden ladle, then replaces the lid.
At this Rita comes in the door. “Get your filthy paws off that,” she snaps, slapping Alvie’s hand away from the pot. A woman enters behind Rita, I judge her to be in her early fifties. She’s got long wavy chestnut hair, with a few greys peeking out at the temples, and she’s wearing a long blue and purple dress that pools around her bare feet. They aren’t fond of footwear in this house I see.
Rita grins at me when she sees me sitting at her kitchen table, and in her shining brown eyes I see a mixture of excitement and mischief. The mischief could be cause for concern, but I’m thinking that’s simply par for the course with this girl. At least I hope I’m right about that.
She sits down opposite me, and watches me for a minute before speaking. “You know, I was a bit wary of doing this when you suggested it earlier, but then I got to thinking and maybe this could turn out to be pretty cool.” She eyes me, but I don’t say anything.
“Anyway,” she continues, getting up and prancing over to the big green pot on the stove. “I spent all afternoon devising how I’m going to do it, and I came up with a clairvoyance spell uniquely designed with your situation in mind.” As she tells me this, the older woman grabs a coat and handbag from under the table. Rita pauses. “Oh. This is my Mum by the way.”
The woman smiles warmly, and I can see Rita in her, though she has a less hyper and more wise with age demeanour. “Noreen,” she says, by way of introduction, and shakes my hand. “And you must be Tegan,” I nod. “Rita told me all about your predicament, I would have liked to be able to take part in the casting but I have an appointment I need to keep,” she glances at the antique grandfather clock in the corner of the room, “which I’m already late for. Dammit, all right Reet, don’t make a mess, I’ll be back before midnight.” And at this she rushes out the door.
Rita rolls her eyes and shakes her head at her mother’s retreating figure, then she reaches up to one of the higher shelves and retrieves a wide but shallow grey pottery bowl.
“So I see you’ve met Alvie,” she says to me as she places the bowl on the counter then begins pulling various herbs from the cupboard above the stove. Alvie dips his head to me and grins.
