He got himself into an unnecessary fretful state of mind about how he should dress for - A Night of Clairvoyance. It wasn't a rock concert, not bingo either. In the end because it was an event, open to all, it would be like a public talk. He threw on a slightly creased pale mint polo shirt, ditto the ivory chinos, blue Harrington bomber jacket and grey Converse, that had all seen better days. Varying degrees of casual, that was pretty much all he had anyway, so this would have to do.
The masonic institute's hall was twenty minutes walk from his flat on the Mulberry Garden Estate. Unknowingly passing it quite regularly, but taking little conscious notice of it. Its imposing grand classical pediments, pillars and wrought iron railings, like those of an old established bank. The building though had turned seedy and disreputable looking. The dark blue paintwork weathered, cracked and curling away like apple peel, framing mottled glass windows ingrained with dirt. It found itself on the more desreputable side of town these days. Tonight its huge doors were swung wide open, and a large rhomboid of light spilled out from inside across the steps and pavement. As though it were both inviting Duncan in and reassuring him of a quick exit, if need be.
Not wanting to arrive early and be too conspicuously alone. He'd planned to arrive ten minutes before the evening was due to kick off. Smoothly waltz in, get his bearings, tune into the vibe of the place, and find a good seat where he could safely view the proceedings. He wasn't, however, expecting 'the welcoming party.' The moment he stepped through the door he was besieged by a handful of earnest young men, all much younger than him. Dressed like showroon dummies from a Next window, identical styles of clothing, neatly side parted hair. So nervously over eager to befriend you, it had entirely the opposite effect. Duncan clammed up, frowned his best 'piss off you creeps' look. As one, they all took frit, stepped back, letting him pass through.
Once he got beyond this stone flagged lobby and the 'boy greeters' he relaxed. In the next room there was a reception table. Around which a number of efficient women were busy being busy. This was obviously the organisational hub for the entire evenings proceedings. There were a broad range of women, in age and style of dress. Plenty of cut off sweat shirt tops with brightly coloured cullots and pumps, alongside neat pencil skirts, power shouldered blouses with bows, with a smattering of gauzy bangle bedecked hippies floating around as if already living in Elysium. As he purchased his ticket for the evening, each of the women, as if on cue, slowly turned their heads towards him, taking him in. Duncan was startled. Should he leave right now?
If he'd wanted to, he could have made bookings for fifteen minute tester sessions, to try out spiritual healing, tarot reading, gong therapy, chakra realignment and the like. But Duncan had a real phobia about any form of hands on therapy. The thought of even a sports massage made his flesh creep. Therefore he walked stiffly, eyes straightforward, passed any booking table and the tombola raffle. Which appeared to be offering only alcohol free booze and various tins of vegan shortbread biscuits as prizes.
'What a waste' he muttered under his breath.
He scanned the room, the marble flooring, ornate plaster ceiling work and a dramatic sequence of alcoves down one wall, all now empty. Once the home for portraits of masonic leaders, now only the dirt shadow of their outlines remained. Today these were forming the improvised booths for a noisy array of merchants selling a wide variety of items of a semi occult or exotic nature. With an unusual preponderance of luridly decorated skulls.
At the far end of the hall was something of an entirely different character. There was hung a large black and white photo of a man in a grey striped suit with a white nylon shirt and knitted tie. A slim guy, with a thick head of hair, in his late forties, with a stern look and pinched facial features. Was he some sort of guru? Not dressed at all like what Duncan thought a guru would. Instead he stared at you with a reprimanding, paternal questioning demeanour. As though he were saying 'and what precisely do you think you're doing here young man?.' He looked Western, so what the hell was going on here? Was he the clairvoyant Malcolm Ritchie mentioned on the leaflet?
On one table spread out, were books by the guy plus CD's, videos, postcards, photos, inspirational quotes, full length posters, even tote bags with his disapproving face staring out at you. In this corner a small seated area had been created, where you could sit, drink coffee and watch a video recording of the man giving a talk. Brightly lit and softly focused, it was filmed as though he was already speaking to you directly from heaven. Duncan thought the voice might be Eastern European, via the East End? He had a slight tendency to over roll his r's and a way of ending his every sentence with what sounded like a verbal question mark. Hmm?
Duncan bristled, 'I presume this is the creep who runs this outfit'.
He momentarily felt freaked, as if he'd only just realised that he was already in way too deep. Too much weirdness, too many people, much much too close. Agarophobia struck him, suddenly craving again the security of his flat, the isolation, securely locked doors. In a panic he turned around to leave, failing to notice someone was approaching him from behind. So in the abrupt spin of his movement he had to pull back to avoid crashing straight into this diminutive woman blocking his exit. He exclaimed
'Oh Fuck, Oh Sorry...... sorry for the....swearing'
'Hello, my name is Avril'
She looked him straight into the eyes proffering a drink from the tray she carried, with her ring bestrewn hand. He took it not sure he could handle alcohol tonight, but felt too embarrassed now to refuse.
'You seemed as though you were about to leave. This.' gesturing toward the photo, the TV and video talk 'Well, it's all a bit daunting, isn't it? A bit too much to take in. What's your name?'
Avril was thirty-something, not much above five foot four, but an imposing presence. She knew it and used it. Hovering around the room as though walking on gossamer. With a huge head of jet black hair, smoothly dribbling like a slick of oil all the way down her back. This stopped to rest just above the hem of an artistically layered black dress of rag and lace tatters. Eye coal makeup, darkly rich burgundy lips and thickly drawn eyebrows completed 'the modernist goth look' that made her stare so penetrating. Duncan felt as though she were gazing right into his soul, and was now happily flicking through its pages and reading him like he was a book.
Half mesmerised, the rest intimidated. he coughed up his name.
'Duncan'
'I suppose you've come to see our medium Malcolm Ritchie? He is very good Duncan, well worth staying for. I think you.....of all people.....might find him helpful. He's quite impressive. He has a beautiful aura, it makes him so approachable and grounded. Oh, and there's the charm, Oodle's of charm. Spellbinding charm. Everyone sees something different in him, but everyone falls just a little bit in love with him. Whatever... their sexual proclivities'
Giggling mischievously, she'd got Duncan's number.
'I don't know about all this....stuff.' Duncan nodded derisively towards the occult merchandise 'Whose the weird looking guy in the photo?'
'Oh.....he's our teacher. Our spiritual guide you might say. He lives most of the year in Switzerland for....'
She paused briefly, looking unsure for a moment.
'....health reasons. The air is so pure there. He's a wonderful man, so direct. Sees right to your essential being. Meeting him can be a life changing.'
She also said what his name was, but it all sounded like (Runga Bunga La Di Da) to Duncan's unaccustomed ears. It didn't sound English.
'He could be running a pedophile ring for all I know'
Avril, visibly squirmed, with a forced smile she sprung on her toes for a few seconds as though deciding whether she ought to move on.
'Well, have a good evening Duncan. If the boys' bother you as you leave, just tell them to bugger off. We've all had to learn to be straightforward in our communication here. Saves time and misunderstandings. Stay for the clairvoyance though. I'd find yourself a seat soon, if I were you. Its already getting packed.'
Pointing towards the the door behind him - 'Its through there'
That room as he entered was indeed pretty much three quarters full, Most of the remaining seats in the front and back rows. Was the front too close? No way to leave quietly and unnoticed from there. Taking the farthest seat away by an aisle he could find, he sat nervously picking at his fingernails, waiting for the evening to commence.
A rather self conscious looking woman in a maxi dress, somewhat tipsy, came on stage. She was only there to draw and call the tombola raffle. The table of unwanted prizes appeared. The draw was interminable, with most of the winners either reluctant to pick up their prizes or deaf. It took an age. But once it did end, the paraphernalia was rapidly removed and three chairs laid out in an arc. A middle aged woman with all her supreme confidence on full beam, launched herself onto the stage.
'Ladies and gentlemen. Before I call our mediums for the night to the stage. I'd like to thank you all for coming, and urge you to take advantage of the stalls and catering which will stay open for an hour or so after the clairvoyance. Malcolm Ritchie will be signing his books in reception. Recordings of his guided hypnosis and meditations will also be for sale. Members of our little group will be more than happy to chat informally, answer any questions, put you on our mailing list if you wish, and hand out our planned programme of activities for the next year. So, do stay on if you are able, afterwards'
'We have two mediums for you tonight. The first is a face you may already have seen, Guisella Hausmann, our much cherished Treasurer, who is also a gifted clairaudient. She trained in our movement's headquarters in Switzerland, at the same time as Malcolm Ritchie. With whom she sat in circle with our founder (Runga Bunga La Di Da) Please put your hands together and welcome to the stage - Gisella Hausmann'
A quiet looking woman in her early thirties came on the stage to polite but supportive applause. She sat rather stiffly self conscious in the chair just to the left of the host.
'The next person I believe most of you will be familiar with, from his stage, TV work and documentaries. He's here for the UK part of his European tour. We are supremely fortunate to have him here tonight. Without need of any further introduction from me. Please welcome to the stage - Malcolm Ritchie.'
The room erupted into wildly ecstatic applause. Everyone seemed to know who he was. Duncan finding himself in ignorance, began to feel as though he'd been living the life of a recluse, which he had. Slowly ascending the side steps into the auditorium came a tall, broad shouldered man, handsome, middle aged in a petrol blue suit, bright white shirt and blond, clearly dyed, hair. He walked onto the stage with the confident swagger of a tele-evangelist, waving, blowing kisses, mouthing 'thank you' and 'I love you'. Then sat on the chair to the right of our host. Duncan's eyes were popping out on stalks
'Drop dead.......gorgeous. The steely charisma of a Dermot O'Leary, but with tinkly bells on'
Duncan fell into a swoon. Literally putty in this man's hands, before he'd even said a word.
NEXT EPISODE - Duncan's Temporary Amnesia ( Episode 3 / 12 )
Will be posted on Friday 16th September 2022
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