Shadows on the Nile Read Free Page B

the simple offering of bread and soup that stood in the centre of the triangle of candles to attract spirits, who still yearned for physical nourishment and who still craved warmth and light.
    ‘Come with us and move among us.’
    The air grew thicker in Timothy’s lungs. Madame Anastasia tipped her head back, the weight of the headdress resting on her chair, and closed her eyes once more, her purple-swathed bosom moving heavily. This was the momentwhen Timothy watched for any sleight of hand. A tug on a cord, the push of a button with the knee to create a moment of magic when the spirit makes its presence felt. It was what they were here for.
    On the table her clients’ hands lay flat, each person’s last finger touching that of the person next to them, forming a symbolic circle, a necklace of hands. It intensified the energy in the room. Timothy could feel the tension rising in the older man on his left. He wore a calm benevolent expression above a neat goatee beard that gleamed white in the shadows, but his fingers were trembling. They sent ripples into Timothy’s flesh. On the other side of the man, the fur-coat woman’s eyes were open wide and fixed on a spot directly above the feathered headdress.
    ‘I see them,’ she whispered.
    Timothy’s gaze jumped to the blank space above Madame Anastasia’s head, his heart thumping.
    ‘Where?’ He could see nothing.
    Abruptly Madame Anastasia’s chin dipped forward onto her chest and her voice became that of a child’s, one who was clearly excited to be standing with one foot on each side of the divide between worlds.
    ‘I am Daisy.’ Her young voice was high and pure as a choir boy’s. ‘I have a man with me. He is a gentleman who is seeking his child. He is nervous of coming forward … in case his child does not want contact.’ The last words were added in a whisper, so that they all had to lean closer to hear.
    ‘Father!’ The fur-coat woman’s voice quivered. ‘Is that you? Stephen Howe?’
    Instantly a strange anger seemed to flicker around the table. Timothy felt its heat rise through the cloth, penetrating his fingertips. His eyes darted from face to face in the shadows and saw the anguish on each one. How many here had lost their fathers? On the other side of Madame Anastasia a middle-aged man was seated, a small figure in an expensive suit and with a birthmark reachingacross his neck. He was looking closely at the slumped medium, squeezing her fingers, but she didn’t respond.
    ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Tell us, little girl, is he the spirit of this woman’s father?’
    ‘Many of us have lost fathers,’ the woman sobbed. ‘The Great War robbed a whole generation of them.’
    The little girl told them sharply to hush while she spoke further with the gentleman. In the silence that followed the tension in the room rose and all eyes focused in silence on the medium’s lips. Finally the client with the goatee beard lost patience and asked, ‘Daisy, my dear, can you tell us the name of the child that the spirit seeks?’
    A knock on the table made them jump.
    A trick
, Timothy told himself,
a trick
. But his heart was racing. Suddenly he wanted to break the circle of darkness, to leap to his feet and walk away from whatever it was they had conjured into their midst. He was a fool to believe that the world this side of the veil could tinker with those on the other side with impunity. Seconds ticked past and foreboding bunched in his chest, still and cold as stone.
    ‘Daisy,’ the man tried again, ‘we thank you for the sign. What name does your gentleman seek?’
    ‘He is sad. He says his heart is heavy.’ The girl’s voice did not sound remotely like Madame Anastasia’s own.
    ‘Will it help him to speak with his child?’ the man asked.
    Again came the sharp knock on the table. Timothy saw the candles quiver and the air in the room grew heavier.
    ‘Daisy,’ the fur-coated woman spoke slowly, struggling for words, ‘tell us, dear.