Fearful Fortunes and Terrible Tarot: Wonky Inn Book 4 Page 5

  However, there were plenty of healthier food treats on offer too. Several vegan stalls, including one that specialised in Middle Eastern food that looked particularly scrumptious, and an Indian food stall serving curries, pakoras and roti.

  But my eye was drawn to a liveried van that looked like something straight from the 1930s. The hatches had yet to be pulled open, so I could clearly read the lettering. Outlined with a lush gold flourish were emblazoned the words, “Robert Parker Esq., Whittlecombe. Purveyor of Perfect Pork Products.”

  A local trader selling sausages. How magnificent.

  I added him to my list of must-eats and turned about to resume exploring.

  But as I about-faced, I walked smack bang into one of the tallest and widest men I’d ever seen. In fact, he was so large, he’d probably hardly noticed I was there—especially given my newly diminutive Fenella state of being.

  I’m certain he’d have noticed me as Alf.

  “I do beg your pardon,” I exclaimed to the walking man mountain. I had a mouthful of sheepskin jacket and struggled to see above the felted fronds that hung from the neck and arms. He took a step back and stared down at me, all long floppy salt-and-pepper hair and magnificent beard. If ever a man looked like a Viking close-up, this was it.

  “No, no,” he said. He had thick accented English, so I rapidly made the assumption he was indeed Scandinavian or something close. “Please. My fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” To be fair, he probably was looking in the direction he was heading, but not actually looking down at the ground, inhabited by us mere earthlings. He blinked down at me and I became aware of what I must look like, staring up at him, my head tilted back, open-mouthed, catching flies and not saying anything sensible.

  “I’m Alf, no I’m Fenella,” I said, kicking myself, and shot my hand out to shake his. He offered me an enormous paw that could have swallowed both of mine in one fist.

  “Morton Arnesen,” he smiled, his moustache and beard twitching in amusement, at my display of ineptitude no doubt. A man in his late fifties, his hair had probably been blonde once upon a time and had now turned to a grizzled white. He had a warm complexion, glowing with ruddy good health, the face of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors.

  “Where are you from?” I asked, hoping to recover some poise.

  “A pretty little place called Bremanger.”

  That meant nothing to me, and I stared up at him through wide eyes, waiting for him to tell me more. He obliged. “Bremanger is a village in Bremanger Municipality in Sogn og Fjordane county. In Norway,” he added when I rewarded his explanation by continuing to look clueless. “I live on the Bremangerpollen bay on the western side of the Bremangerlandet island.”

  “Is that close to anywhere…” I paused, bashful about displaying my ignorance. What I meant to ask was ‘is that close to anywhere I might actually have heard of?’ but I didn’t want to come across as some sort of Anglo-centric doofus.

  “Not really,” Morton shrugged. “It’s pretty remote.” Then he winked at me. “It’s far north of Bergen.”

  “Ohhh,” I drew out, relieved to hear a word I recognised, although to be fair, I’d have better luck pinning the tail on a donkey blindfolded, than finding Bergen on a map of Norway if it wasn’t in huge letters and highlighted in neon orange.

  “You’re a long way from home. Are you here for the Fayre?” I asked quickly, intent on covering my ignorance by moving to safer ground.

  “Yes, I read runes. Well actually I cast stones, but these days it is better to say you read runes as that seems to have more meaning to potential customers.” He smiled, a huge jovial grin that illuminated the grey day. “And what about you, Alf … Fen … Fen…” he tripped over my name.

  “Fenella. I read a crystal ball.” At least I hoped I did.

  “Ah fascinating. We shall have to swap a reading each.” He pointed to the camping field. “You can find me in the big family tent in the corner of the field. You can’t miss it as I’m flying the flag of Norway. Or, just pop into my tent here on the field. It’s the big one made of reindeer skin.”

  Poor reindeers. “Great,” I replied. “Nice to have met you, Morton. We’ll catch up soon.”

  I watched him stalk away, great strides for an enormous man. He covered the ground twice as fast as I could have.

  I turned back to the sausage van. Still closed. I was intrigued as to whom among the locals of Whittlecombe might own it. However with no sign of life, it looked like I’d be scrounging my dinner from elsewhere. I continued my tour of the field as a light drizzle began to fall, which succeeded in making the grass slightly slippery underfoot, soaking through my ridiculously impracticable shoes. I determined that from now on it might be better to wear my wellies or walking boots. Not quite the look that Fabulous Fenella the Far-Sighted had been aiming for, but when the weather turns typically British, you are obliged to adapt.

  A glance up at the sky told me the drizzle was in for the evening. Now seemed a great time to be heading back to my caravan to cosy up with one of the books I’d brought to keep myself company. First though, I’d grab some pakoras to have with my dinner.

  I joined the queue at the Indian stall. They were already doing good business and I had to wait to order. The man in front of me, slightly taller than me, and wearing a leather jacket, a battered old fedora and dirty denim jeans looked from behind like an archetypal hippie. In profile I could see he was wearing a tie-dye t-shirt and several strings of wooden beads. The boots on his feet were old army surplus, worn and well-lived in. He turned slightly and caught me staring at him, smiled absently, then turned to face the front once more.

  I stared at the back of his head in puzzlement. Could I be seeing things? The set of his shoulders was the giveaway. Upright, straight, pulled back. I watched him move forwards and I knew I was right.

  I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned back to me, ready to smile once more, perhaps expecting to exchange pleasantries.

  “George?” I asked incredulously.

  His eyes widened in alarm, but also confusion. He didn’t know me from Adam after all.

  “What are you doing here?” I hissed, keeping my voice quiet. Nonetheless other people in the queue were glancing our way in interest.

  He shook his head, a warning to me—whomever I might be—not to say anything else.

  “Do I know you?” he asked. There was no recognition is his face at all. “I think we may have a case of mistaken identity here.”

  Not for me. It was definitely him. I’d recognise his dulcet tones anywhere.

  I leant closer to him, a mere inch or so away from his lips.

  “It’s Alf, you dolt,” I whispered. Then I kissed him.

  Thirty minutes later we were sitting cross-legged on the bunk in my caravan tucking into an Indian feast. Gobi Mussallem, Tofu Butter Masala, Bombay potatoes and peas, rotis, pakoras and rice. Delicious and filling, and the perfect meal for such a miserable evening.

  “I can’t get over you looking like this,” George said for the umpteenth time, and I laughed and scooped up some sauce with a piece of roti. My fingers were turning yellow from the turmeric.

  “It’s a far superior disguise to yours,” I said pointedly. Now that he’d removed the fedora, I could see that he’d gone to the trouble of having his head shaved. “The tattoos are impressive though.” He’d had some dye applied to his scalp and arms that gave the impression he was covered in Celtic tattoos. They looked surprisingly good on him. The green contact lenses were a step too far though. I was used to his grey-blue eyes. Green on him was just wrong.

  “Was it painful?” he asked.

  “No.” I thought back to my afternoon with Cordelia the Cosmetic Alchemist in Bristol. “Not at all. It was a bit like I imagine getting a spray tan must feel. Lots of soft brushes, and things being squirted at me.” I pummelled a cushion next to me, careful not to wipe my fingers on the fabric. “If you can imagine it like a deep tissue massage, with someone prodding and poking and pulling, that about sums it up. The most painful aspect of the whole procedure was when my hair changed. That kind of felt like someone was pulling it out by the roots. It made my eyes water, I can tell you.”

  George grimaced. “Eww. You’re a braver person than I am. I just had Stacey from the emergency call centre at work help me with the tattoos. I raided the charity shop for the clothes. Well apart from the leather jacket. This one belonged to my Dad. He was a biker in the seventies.”

  I laughed in delight. “I never knew that about your Dad.”

  “Truth.”

  I pointed at his head, wondering who Stacey was. “Quite a radical new hairstyle.”

  “I needed something completely different from my normal style otherwise I would have had to wear a wig and I didn’t really fancy that.” He shook his head at me. “I can’t get over yours either.”

  “A sleek, black bob? I know. I was pretty speechless when I first saw myself in the mirror.”

  George laughed and began tidying up the plates. “I know it’s you because I can hear it is, but you look so different.”

  “Older,” I lamented.

  “Yes older, and somehow… well your look is fitting for the character of Fenella the fortune teller, put it that way.” He sounded doubtful.

  “But?”

  He placed the bowls and cutlery in the washing up bowl. There was no sink in the caravan, so we would have to carry them outside to the temporary wash stand that had been set up, in order to clean up. I didn’t fancy tramping back out into the damp weather. I just wanted to snuggle into the cushions.

  George turned to face me. “You’re not my Alf, when you look all sleek and sophisticated and mysterious.”

  “Is that right?”

  “My Alf is
fuzzy and frizzy and soft around the edges, and open and funny and feisty.”

  My face fell. “So you don’t like Fenella then?”

  “Scootch over,” George instructed, and I made room for him on my bunk, “And let’s find out.”

  Later, wrapped in blankets against the chill of the evening, with the washing up done and everything stowed neatly away, we sat on the step of the caravan and watched people coming and going around the camp. A few fires had been lit around the field, and shadowy figures hunched around those. The faint smell of barbeques scented the air.

  George, being a policeman, was adept at watching people closely and observing things even when he looked preoccupied. I watched him watching everyone else, trying to pick up some tips.

  “So when you said you were going away, you meant you would be here undercover,” I whispered, and he nodded.

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Weren’t you worried I’d spot you?”

  “I didn’t think you’d be able to see through my cunning disguise if I’m honest.”

  I laughed loudly and a few other folks looked our way and smiled.

  George pouted playfully, and I thumped his arm. “And besides, you were barred. You told me that.”

  True.

  “I suppose if people don’t know you as well as me, and they weren’t looking too closely, they wouldn’t recognise you,” I relented.

  “Good.” George turned his attention back to the camp.

  “What are you looking for, anyway?” I asked quietly.

  His eyes, strangely coloured with the green contact lenses, regarded me thoughtfully. “You know I can’t really talk about it.”

  “That’s cool,” I said, nudging him with my shoulder. “Confidentiality and all that. I get it.”

  He nodded. “Seeing as it’s you though. Swear to me you won’t breathe a word to anyone.”

  “On Mr Hoo’s life,” I said.

  “We had a tip off about some dodgy dealing. A big gang, who’ve started operating out of Plymouth, who are flooding the whole of the south west with their products. Some of these products are, shall we say, extremely dangerous.”

  I grimaced. “Not nice.”

  “Oh that’s not the worst of it.” George glanced around. “They’ve encroached on another gang’s territory. A family whom we’ve been aware of for decades. I mean, real bad’ns historically. A legacy handed down over the generations. Like the Kray family, you know?”

  “Oh,” I said. You might have imagined that living in a rural paradise came without much in the way of crime, but George always seemed to be busy.

  “There’s potential for a real blood bath, so we’re keeping our eyes peeled.”

  “You think they’re here?” I looked around at the tents and caravans, eyes wide at the idea of dangerous criminals among the psychic fraternity.

  George sighed, and shrugged. “They could be anywhere. But… yeah, we received some intelligence that they were.”

  “From whom?”

  George grinned. “I certainly can’t tell you that, can I?”

  I laughed, “I suppose not.”

  “What about you?” he asked, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper once more. “Why have you gone to all this trouble, with this amazing caravan and the whole makeover? It must be important. You’ve had the full works.”

  I huddled up closer to him, my lips brushing his cheek. “This is all Wizard Shadowmender’s idea. He thinks The Mori are operating here in Whittlecombe, probably at the Fayre, and he wants me to see if I can find any leads.”

  George considered what I’d said. We had discussed The Mori previously, in relation to the death of Derek Pearce. He knew about Jed. I’d told him about the spinning globes, particularly the one I’d found in Derek Pearce’s cottage. Any other detective might have had a hard time believing some of my incredulous stories and crackpot theories, but George knew I was a witch, enjoyed the company of the ghosts at Whittle Inn and had even met the vampires I’d entertained as guests in the lead up to Halloween. He found nothing incredulous any more. It made things so much easier for me.

  The only problem we had was that he was one detective on a police force that would not have held much truck with a highly secretive organisation of warlocks such as The Mori. If he had run to them with my theories, he’d have been laughed out of the force.

  “I’m not sure I like the idea of you doing that,” he said eventually. “From everything you’ve told me, they strike me as incredibly dangerous. You could end up in all sorts of trouble.”

  “I don’t like it much either. But I couldn’t turn Wizard Shadowmender down, not after everything he has done for me. And look at all the trouble he went to.” I indicated the caravan and my new sleek self. “This took a lot of work. So you and I had better look out for each other.”

  “We had.”

  “Where are you staying anyway?” I asked, scanning the field for a likely tent. I suppose I was looking for something practical and expensive. Something that would stand up to the vagaries of March winds and rainy weather. When George pointed at a sunken shape in the centre of the field I struggled to see it in the shadows at first, until he told me to count three in and three down. I did a double take. His tent was tiny, the sort of thing one man might unroll from his backpack and huddle into on the side of a mountain. He’d barely be able to sit up in it. No doubt it would be capable of keeping a stiff breeze out, but only if the whole thing didn’t blow away first.

  “You are joking?” I giggled.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “A stiff westerly and you’ll find yourself flying over the hill to Abbotts Cromleigh,” I said. “If you don’t get snagged in the trees first.”

  “Oh. Haha.” George wasn’t amused. “Cost me an arm and a leg that thing.”

  It couldn’t possibly have done. It looked like a plastic rag. “You know what? Maybe you’d better stay with me. There’s room,” I suggested, but George was adamant that we should each have our own space. I kissed him goodnight and he headed over to his little camp. I couldn’t help laughing, watching him clambering into the narrow entrance, wriggling like a caterpillar. When he was safely inside, I made myself comfortable in my luxurious caravan, snuggling down beneath the quilt, surrounded by soft pillows, listening to the light rain spatter against the window.

  I was asleep in no time.

  The next morning dawned bright and sunny although the winds were high, and thick white clouds scudded across the sky at a brisk rate. I was awake early but even so many of the other campers were already up and about. I could hear people chatting and laughing and calling out to each other as the field began to get itself ready for the day, the scent of sizzling bacon all-pervading.

  There was an air of expectancy everywhere. Today the Fayre would be officially launched. I dressed myself in my new midnight blue robes and paid special attention to my make-up. I wanted to look smouldering and mysterious. What had George called me?

  Oh yes.

  Fuzzy and frizzy and soft around the edges.

  No, today I was Fenella, far sighted ice-maiden, sleek and sure-footed, mean, moody and magnificent.

  I carefully extricated my scrying orb from its box and twisted it to the light. The last time I’d utilised it, I’d been shown how to reach the entrance to the Fae Fortress, beyond Mara’s the Stormbringer’s cabin in the woods. At that time, the orb had resembled a snow globe and a star had appeared to lead me in the right direction. I waited for the clouds to settle, the orb glowing with a soft energy, colours twirling within the glass.

  As I gazed into the orb, I began to make out shapes. A cloth of green became a field. The field where the Fayre had been set up. Little colourful splodges became sharper, and honing into view were The Hay Loft, Whittle Stores and the post office. Behind them, I could make out the village green and the pond. I turned the orb around, looking at the scene from every angle, and smiled to see a teeny-tiny Stan organising his neat vegetable stand outside his beloved shop.