Qismet

QISMET

ALAN AHRENS-MCMANUS

First published in SCOTLAND, February 2016

Copyright 2015 Alan McManus

All rights reserved.

EPUB ISBN: 9781310792465

Smashwords edition published by Alan McManus

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This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank-you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organisations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Male authors, they’re always trying to teach you something!

(Anon.)

To Clare Hampshire,

who restored my faith in education,

and to Chris Hampshire,

for his wisdom about the present.

Thanks to Max for inspiring his character. Ben is very sorry about your ear and, in fairness, he only ate half of it. Thanks to Gavin who continued to give financial aid and to my mother who knows the plots of my novels and plays and is content not to read or see most of them but continued to give me room in what was my first and is now my second home, to write. Thanks to Andrew who always listens (my family have canonised him and I sometimes think he dozes with his eyes open). Thanks to Chris, my best reader in another life, for philosophical inspiration about perception and value. Thanks to Dij whose friendship enlivened my life and to a supportive community that’s not just for Sunday. Thanks, from a very different spirituality, to Alyson for being a wise women and reminding me just by being so that they exist. I’ve long given up on wise men but perhaps the years will teach me better. Thanks to the bright, pretentious, smug, insecure and very creative Glasgow West Enders among whom I lived and moved and had my being. I laugh when I look in mirrors. Thanks to all denizens, seen and unseen, of the mysterious Hebridean isle where I once lived and which always inspires. Thanks, to George Hodan for releasing the image Death in the Hood, which I use for this book’s cover, into the public domain on www.publicdomainpictures.net/ Finally thanks to Ben, my book of hours and inconstant companion. Not just for St Francis’ Day.

The Bruno Benedetti Mysteries

Tricks of the Mind

The Lovers

Shades of the Sun

Qismet

Tìr nam Bàn

CONTENTS

Prologue – High Magic’s Aid

Chapter One – A Wee School

Chapter Two – Qismet

Chapter Three – The Letter

Chapter Four – Codes and Ciphers

Chapter Five – Law of Attraction

Chapter Six – Pit Canary

Chapter Seven – Malevolence at Midnight

Chapter Eight – Bohemia

Chapter Nine – Poppies and Pedagogy

Chapter Ten – The Winter King and Queen

Chapter Eleven – Knocking on Death’s Door

Chapter Twelve – Is Anybody There?

Chapter Thirteen – Vision

Chapter Fourteen – Fighting Fires

Chapter Fifteen – Leavetaking

Chapter Sixteen – Water and Fireworks

Chapter Seventeen – The Opening

Prologue – High Magic’s Aid

The old man closed the shutters against the night. The grimoire was heavy and the print obscure. It had taken him all afternoon to clear enough space for the circle in the attic, all evening to trace the hexagram inside and each of the 144 sigils. Each branch of the Tree was represented and his arthritic hands clutched the chalk and carefully, prayerfully, drew each jot and tittle of the characters and, devoutly, the Tetragrammaton itself, in the centre. Now all the candles must be lit, in turn, and all the sand scattered, until the mandala was complete. The wisdom of the Levant with the wisdom of the Himalaya, a psychic marriage occasioned by Theosophy.

Nothing could go wrong. The world stood at the brink of war, when the bright swords of chivalry would meet the terrible tanks of technology for the first time. This had been foreseen. High Magic would aid the cause of peace, by turning back the clock. By his actions tonight, many born would be unborn and many unborn born. Saturn himself would bend to his bidding and the sands of Time run backwards. A greater Mage than he would arise, in time, to bring about the golden age. Peace and prosperity would flow from the thrones of the godly elect, like the four rivers out of Eden. The Winter reign would thaw into sudden Spring, a revolution encompassing the known world.

First he would leave a message for posterity, Prudence against Chance, written so those interfering Thelemites, with their wicked perverse ways, would not thwart this mission of peace. He smiled at his simple ruse, not all their cunning craft of ciphers would uncover its humility. Hale yet, there was no reason to fear. Nothing to fear but fear itself in the completion of this mighty labour. No reason to hesitate.

He finished scratching on the parchment and placed it in its hiding-place. Stopping to listen to the wind outside, he imagined he could hear the soft gurgle of the river, flowing sweet and dark in its deep banks across the lane. No carthorses or carriages stirred at this time of night, nearing the nadir, the lamplighter had already passed, there were no cries of all’s well now, and yet all was well.

Nothing could go wrong, everything depended on him; there was no danger. Not even the dark clouds across the moon he had seen when closing the shutters, nor the sudden change in strength of the wind as he lit the candles, the pit patter of rain turning to hail as he scattered the sand, the crack of thunder as he opened the grimoire and the seconds between light and sound diminishing as he began the chant. Only the shutters banging open and the light striking him could put an end to his well-laid plans, as the rain snuffed flame, scattered sand and washed out all the magic from the floor.

Chapter One – A Wee School

It was Clara, of course, who came up with the plan. I came up with the idea, I’m an ideas man, but Clara came up with the details. Like the timetable, curriculum, room allocation, janitorial and secretarial cover, Crèche, marketing, PTA, building and board of governors. Oh, and the money.

But it was me who said it first, standing at the cairn in the mist, like a hobbit on the Barrowdowns, none of my friends speaking to me, cos they thought I’d got them lost, when they asked me which sheep path to follow and I said it doesn’t matter (cos they were sheep paths and it didn’t), at midnight, well actually at 1am, what with everyone wandering about everywhere and Justin doing his Venture Scout thing, on my long-awaited 40th birthday, when I could possibly now study Kabbalah, even though I wasn’t Jewish or a rabbi and not married and not likely to be though we could have got a civil partnership, now, but let’s not go there with that discussion, and reasonably sane, ish; it was me who said it, then and there, with all my friends around me, not speaking to me but still capable of listening, apart from Simone, but she wasn’t bothered about the sheep paths cos she’s sensible and had just headed up to the peak, as I’d told them all to do; I said, and I would have signed it too but it was too dark to see your hand in front of your face let alone anyone else’s (and Justin would keep clicking on his blasted mobile phone and destroying everyone’s night vision and I may not have ever been in the Venture Scouts but I’ve walked the Camino de Santiago and the West Highland Way and had the midge bites and blisters to prove it and I know all about night vision and mobile phones really don’t help) and I would tell her at first light, cos I’m all about inclusion, me; I said, and this I felt was really big of me, being the bigger man, when I’m five feet eight and stood on top of quite a small hill at the end of the Campsie Fells in Central Scotland at midnight (ish) in September with all of my friends bar one being really annoying, I said, to anyone that was actually listening and not still moaning about getting lost on the sheep paths or clicking their phone, I said, you know, I think we should start a wee school.

…

Paco’s visit hadn’t been the trauma I’d expected it to be, when he’d phoned me out of the blue months before. Unlike then, by the time he’d arrived Justin and I were back together and our hearts and psyches, although bruised, were at least in working order. I’d also forgotten that Paco, neurotic, passionate, jealous and possessive though he may be, was also invariably polite. I value politeness. I agree with the reported comment of the Queen Mother, when asked (out of Royal protocol) a direct question by a journalist (although I’ve also heard it was by Mia Farrow): Manners will get you through anything. That sounds trite until, as my mother would instantly recall, one of the situations the QM had to get through was comforting families whose homes had been destroyed in the London Blitz. When most people with power were in hideouts in the country.

I’d also forgotten that people change. Devout alchemist I am, to forget the Great Work of Hermes Trismegistus! Paco is about a decade older than me and Justin about a decade younger, and they treated each other with dignity, each giving the other their place, in my past or in my present. Paco had mellowed considerably and jealousy is based on love, well it should be. So he was happy to see me happy. And living in his native Bolivia, he was hardly a rival. I must admit I loved being the centre of attention, on our trip down memory lane, up to the city of ‘jute, jam and journalism’.

We all went and we stayed in a dorm in a Youth Hostel, which Paco I’m sure hated but I felt it was more tactful than him in a single and us in a double, and toured our old haunts in Dundee, the beautiful Mearns and the lovely Kingdom of Fife and finally went on pilgrimage to Arbroath Cathedral, a long-awaited joy, to the site of the Declaration of Scottish independence by the nobles in support of King Robert Bruce, in 1320.

Standing within the enclosure of those ancient stones, transfixed by a stray shaft of September sunlight from a window high up on the south transept, Justin and Paco plugged into audio guides, I made my own declaration, of interdependence. Following the traumas which had only ended last month, Justin had wanted to make it all better by jumping into a civil partnership but I was wary of the political agenda of heteronormativity. Lately I’d been feeling more favourably towards the word ‘queer’ and the wild otherness it denoted. And so many strait couples I knew had partnerships that were just that: strait. Narrow little lives of conformity. I didn’t envy them that. But freedom is also found in commitment and why go on searching when you’ve found what you’re looking for? And I had. So I declared that freedom and the stones were my witness.

…

Handsome as the day is long and as cheeky as a morning glory, he sprawled every inch of his sleek black body (some inches more elongated than others) on my hearthrug and looked up with kohl-black eyes at the object of his affection, Justin, who matched him look for look and pant for pant in this love fest that I knew, even in these five minutes of their face-to-face encounter, would last for a lifetime. I had been replaced. Max stretched his muscular frame even more, not an inch of fat, eyes sparkling and teeth as white as snow, sensuously abandoned to the joy of Justin’s hands rubbing his tummy. Then he jumped up, wagged his tail and bounded into the kitchen, following me and the Tesco shopping bags that Justin had simply abandoned on the oak dining-table by the window as soon as he’d walked into the living-room (through the tiny cluttered hall) and caught sight of our new puppydog. So much for my declaration of commitment!

Clara had made the very odd request that she, and Boris (still her lodger and, presumably, her ‘partner’) come to dinner. Simone was out at band practice, of the rock not the school variety, and Imogen on yet another date with that paragon of male virtue, Keith. I wasn’t jealous. I just think people shouldn’t rush into things and I’d gathered from several (long) overheard flustered phone conversations, blocking the landline, that engagement was imminent. After a relationship of barely five months and an acquaintance of barely a year! Some people ain’t got no propriety, to quote Barbara Streisand, hanging onto the curtains out of a New York skyscraper in What’s Up Doc?.

But Clara was the soul of propriety; if not quite from the same stock as the QM, she wasn’t far off it and would definitely agree with her endorsement of good manners. Now Boris inviting himself to tea was not unusual. He generally just hung around till it was served up and, knowing this, I’d often ask him to pick something up from the shops en route when he phoned to see if we were in, of a late afternoon. Clara breaking upper middle class protocol could only mean one thing: something was up. I prepared myself for various scenarios as I prepared the various mises en place for pasta. Not that I made the spaghetti. As a good Scots Italian, I kept to the traditional maxim that ‘you wait for pasta, pasta doesn’t wait for you!’. So I got out the capers and anchovies and measured the dose for four with my blue and white ceramic wall-hanging that every Italian family has for the purpose but no-one ever actually uses. The vino bianco was chilling and the table could be set, maybe not with the tablecloth now that we had wee puppy teeth to contend with, but the coasters and cutlery could go out. And the plates under the grill? Too soon.

I gazed out of the kitchen window, outside to where the fire escape led down to the river Kelvin and to the garden, starting to turn already from its late summer glory to autumnal nostalgia. Soon it would be time to sweep up leaves, or just let them lie and admire their fading beauty. The thought of my late father’s continuous garden maintenance brought a warm glow. A friend had told me that would happen but it didn’t seem conceivable at the time. Conceivable.

A little tug on my trouser hem and soft paws jumping up on my shin made me look down. Justin stooped and picked Max up and kissed the close black fur of his head. Then he kissed my cheek. What’s up? You in one of your dwams?

I smiled. English people are so cute when they mispronounce Scots. Oh so I get kisses second now do I?

Too right mate. He’s sleepin’ with me now, you’re booted out on the futon. His eyes crinkled the lie then fixed on me questioningly.

I spoke my thoughts. What would we do? Adopt the baby?

Wha’? You mean Max? I thought we just had.

I shook my head. Clara. What is it she wants to tell us?

He looked away, guilty. I knew that look. Nuffink, I spect, just a social call, innit?

I knew it! He only goes into Estuary in times of stress and it takes great stress to bring the Cockney out. Justin Harrison, you are going to tell me right now what it is you’ve been keeping from your dearly beloved, because if not…

Ding dong.

I glared at him. Clara may’ve been rude enough to have, this once, invited herself to dinner, but she was polite enough to arrive on time. I took Max from his arms as he went to answer the door.

A moment later, having negotiated their way past the hoover etc., Boris and then Clara appeared with sunflowers in her arms. Bruno kissing my cheek, once, which is the right way among close friends, so this is the little fellow? So cute, oh, these are for you, thank-you for, well, allowing us to invite ourselves over, you must think me so rude.

Oh Clara I love flowers! And these are my favourite. No-one ever buys me flowers! Thank-you! Not at all, it’s so good to see you. We’ve lots to tell you about our trip down memory lane and everyone got on fabulously. Justin, chuck out drinks would you and let me put these in water. Boris, take wee Max, mind his teeth!

I babbled my way into the kitchen. Not pregnant. At least not with a baby. But maybe with news? Not another engagement? I fussed about selecting a vase that was tall enough. Fortunately I tend to hoard anything that might come in useful at some point, and that no-one else would conceivably want, so there were several candidates at the back of the bottom cupboard and one or two didn’t have cracks in them. I chose a green one, found a crack then decided on a sturdy sunny yellow one with a light blue rim. Clara was already cutting the paper off the sunflowers when I backed out carrying the vase.

Oh good, look, why don’t you arrange them, you have a great artistic touch, and I’ll get the pasta on. You know we say in Italy that ‘you wait for pasta, pasta…’

Yes. It’s funny you should say that, actually. I really meant to tell you this over dinner; that was the reason for this uncharacteristic request.

I straightened up and handed her the vase. I thought it might need a steady pair of hands. She set it down on the drop leaf table and started sorting and pruning stems as she spoke. Women can do these things. I need some concentration to breathe and then any other task, on top of talking, gets my very divided attention.

I do love art. And I loved teaching it. She saw my look. You know this story Bruno, why I moved to Scotland, and I told you that I did my undergrad at Durham and I know you think it was an Honours in English. Well I confess I let you think that.

She stood back and surveyed her work then fiddled some more. In fact it was a joint degree in English and Art and, well you know the English system is different, there was an option, it involved summer school and self-study, to include an Education certificate.

So you’re a qualified teacher. I still didn’t see the mystery but I’d disengaged enough of my brain to be able to boil the kettle and to check that the boys were playing with Max and not eavesdropping.

Not in Scotland. I haven’t done a Probation year.

Well I’m not sure that Imogen has, I mean, not a whole year. She did a lot of supply but I don’t know about the gaps. Maybe she’s caught up by now. They used to, I mean in my time, arrange that for you but now you just take what you get and make it up eventually from supply teaching. The kettle boiled and I transferred the pasta to the saucepan and poured in the boiling water, adding oil and salt and basil and stirring so it didn’t stick.

Clara was looking at me, flower-arrangement finished, as if she were waiting for the penny to drop. "Well I’d like to teach Art, and English, again, and other subjects. In