Memento Mori: Mors Immatura

Chapter Three

Esther Goldstein was waiting for me when I got back to the shop. I chained my bike to the guardrail that ran along the pavement, and pulled out my keys.

"You're late," she sniffed, from deep within her scarf. She raised a white eyebrow at the mouldering pumpkin by the shop door that I hadn't bothered to clean up, despite Halloween being last week. A fat slug, who had been living in the festering remains, was half-hanging out the carved mouth, enjoying what little edible pumpkin remained.

"Sorry, I was held up with something," I opened the door, and let her in. "Tea?"

The Investiture had bought me the shop on Maryhill Road, just down from the canal at the train station. As Esther made herself comfortable, I went through the beaded curtain into the back where the kitchen and small wash room were hidden. I put the kettle on, and hung my jacket up.

I took a deep breath, unclenched my jaw, squared my shoulders, and forced myself to smile; my ritual every time Mrs Goldstein came into the shop for her weekly seance.

"You need the money," I reminded myself as the kettle clicked.

I shook my head, ruing my life choices, and poured the water into the teapot, giving the teabags a quick stir. I put the sugar and milk onto the tray, along with two cups and saucers.

Esther had lost her husband, Albert, two years ago, and she had been visiting me every week without fail so that she could talk to him, even if he couldn't talk back. His ghost had moved on. I think she liked the company and the routine.

Albert was Anchored to her, meaning that he couldn't move on to the Beyond. Instead, he haunted Esther, worrying about her, waiting for her time to come, so that they could move on together.

"What held you up?" Esther had set herself down in the sofa, having drawn the curtains and lit the candles around the shop. She liked a little ambience; I didn't need the theatrics, but apparently, my customers had certain expectations of how a medium's place of work should look, and how the seance should progress.

I had tried to decorate the shop to meet their expectations, whilst at the same time, trying to avoid the 'Satanic-Cult, Goth Vibe' as Avery had called it. Pillar candles, the dark red velvet sofa with matching chairs and the old portraits that I'd picked up in a charity shop added to the theme.

On a small bookshelf, I sold candles, incense, and little ceramic skull tealight holders that I bought from a local craft group. These items were usually purchased by the goth kids that came into the shop for a laugh, felt awkward, and then bought something out of pity before they left.

It helped pay the bills. My Stipend from the Investiture didn't go far in this economy. And Halloween always drew in a crowd; some even booked seances. Groups of witches, nurses and kitty-cats had squeezed into the chairs, asking me to summon various spirits to scare them. I'd earned enough last week that I'd been able to restock the freezer as well as put money aside for everyone's Christmas presents.

"I stopped in at the police station." I sat the tray down, taking my usual seat across from her.

"Were you helping with the Ashleigh Docherty case? Oh, that wee lassie with her voice of an angel. Is she dead?"

"I can't comment on an ongoing police investigation," I poured Esther a cup of tea.

"That poor family. Imagine having your daughter snatched from in front of your house. The mother must be beside herself. And the wee lamb," Esther dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, and Albert sat next to her, trying to console her with his spectral limbs. His efforts went unnoticed except by me, and I found the gesture sweet. It was futile, he knew it was futile, but his first instinct was to try to reassure her. I wished someone cared that much about me.