Page 18 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
Suddenly I felt a lot more invested in Greg’s career taking off if it meant he might get to topple blokes like this from their bloody high horses.
Rather than look at his smug face any longer, I sneaked a peek out the front of the gazebo. The birds of prey had gathered a pretty big crowd, nearly all of whom seemed to have decided either through boredom or sheer bloody inertia they might as well stick around and see what the psychic could do.
They were going to be well disappointed.
The bishop stepped up to the mike stand in front of the gazebo. “Now, in the absence of our dear Mrs. Fenchurch-Majors, who has gone to prepare a vital part of our next entertainment, I’d like to invite you all to give a last big round of applause, please, for Swan Bottom Birds of Prey!” He paused, beaming paternally while everyone clapped. “And now, my dear friends, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, please welcome—” he stopped and looked down at a scrap of paper “—our very own local celebrity and hero, Tom Paretski, who is going to give a demonstration of his amazing psychic powers!”
Yeah, right. I was well amazing, me. Clearly the bish thought so too, as he managed to make it sound like he couldn’t quite believe what he was reading.
He handed me the mike, and I cleared my throat. Amplified by the sound system, it echoed around the field, probably drawing even more attention. Great. “Thanks, um, Bishop.” Shit. Should that have been your lordship? “So, um. Yeah. Dowsing. Water divining. It’s, well, it’s been done for centuries. Longer, even.” I desperately tried to remember that Wikipedia article, which five minutes ago I would have sworn I could have recited backwards while standing on my head.
Someone yelled, “Are you going to get your rod out, then?”
I looked. It was bloody Darren, standing on a hay bale and surrounded by Morris men. “Uh, good point,” I said, wishing his bloody bells would drop off. “See, some people use tools like rods, or . . . or pendulums to tap into the, um, the vibes. I mean, I don’t, but there’s a, uh, theory they just sort of amplify movements made by your subconscious. I mean, um, your subconscious is, like, sensitive to the vibes and it makes your hands twitch, so if you’re holding a rod, you twitch more?”
Oh God. This was terrible. People were starting to drift away at the edges of the crowd. Lucky bastards. I was stuck here in the metaphorical spotlight, sweating bloody bricks. My palms were so slippery, I was going to drop the mike any minute now.
“So what you’re saying is,” Darren piped up again, “if I held your rod, it wouldn’t twitch?”
There was laughter from the more beer-infused of the crowd. Some kiddies joined in despite not having a clue what they were laughing at.
At least, I hoped they didn’t have a clue. Then again, you never know with kids these days.
Christ, my face must be redder than the baby chick innards still strewn over the grass where one of the birds of prey had been a messy eater. “Uh, yeah. You’ve got to be, um, sensitive.”
I cast a desperate glance behind me for Mrs. F-M., for the bishop, for anyone with the sense to realise this was all going tits-up and come and put us all out of my misery. No such luck. The gazebo was completely free of floral frocks and dog collars, and even the old bloke tinkering with the speakers had buggered off somewhere. I was on my own.
“Right, well. Think we’ll move on to the finding-stuff bit of the demo, yeah?” I hoped Mrs. F-M. had got a shift on with hiding whatever it was I was supposed to be finding. Too late, it occurred to me I’d have a better chance of (a) finding it and (b) convincing the punters I knew what I was doing if I actually had the first bloody clue what the hell I was looking for. What if it was just, I dunno, a hat or something? Everyone would reckon someone had just lost it and I’d taken advantage. Still, no use crying over spilt milk. All that liquid would play merry hell with the vibes.
“Okay, I want everyone to be quiet for this bit,” I said into the mike. “Something’s been hidden somewhere in the grounds here, and I’m going to find it. But I need to concentrate.” There was no noticeable effect on the general noise level, but at least I didn’t get catcalled by Darren.
I shut my eyes and listened.
Then I shivered, despite the warm sun.
There was something very weird about the vibes. Yeah, I was getting hidden and Mrs. F-M. and all kinds of other stuff, but it just didn’t seem right for a half-arsed dowsing demo. It was way too strong, for one thing—either dear old Amelia was really into hiding stuff for me to find, or I was picking up on some other trail. A sickly bright trail, with undertones of savage anger, satisfaction, guilt—and oh shit. Malice, of the deadly variety.
Oh, bloody hell. Had some sick bastard decided it was a lovely day for a bit of gratuitous violence and stashed the victim somewhere on the fields? The weird—scary—thing was, I was almost certain this was all the same trail. Not two mashed up together. Which meant . . .
Which meant I’d better get a bloody shift on and follow it, for Mrs. F-M.’s sake if nothing else. I opened my eyes, blinked in the bright sunshine, and immediately started to doubt myself. Maybe it was, I don’t know, nerves or something? I’d never liked finding stuff for an audience, even when it was people I knew. Maybe I was just picking up on emotions, or the crowd’s excitement, or something?
’Cept, to be honest, most of the crowd looked only mildly entertained, if that.
I was starting to get a really bad feeling about all this. Suddenly, standing up in front of a crowd and looking like a right tit didn’t seem all that bad a fate. “Right, coming through,” I said and, in the absence of anyone to hand it to, stuck the mike back on its stand.
People moved out of the way as I followed the trail out of the arena, even getting up off their hay bales to traipse after me like I was the bloody Pied Piper of St. Leonards.
I wished they’d bugger off.
The trail led through curious crowds and around stalls to a tent just off to one side that had apparently had reptile . . . stuff . . . going on earlier. I hoped they hadn’t left any behind. I pulled up the flap and stared into the darkness, pitch-black after the bright sun outside.
It was shouting at me now, and I had a horrible feeling I knew what I was going to find.
I swallowed.
Some bloke behind me was saying loudly, “Well, of course it’s in the reptile tent. It’s the only logical place to hide something.” It was mixed in with the chorus of younger voices with variations on What is it? and Move over, I can’t see.
I turned. “Look, nobody’s to come in, all right?” Ignoring the moans, I let the tent flap fall closed behind me and waited until my night vision had started to kick in and I didn’t feel so blind.
