the concourse, trying my best to avoid tripping over suitcases being pulled in every direction, I was hit by the natural light of the bright sun. I headed north for a block or so, weaving in and out of newspaper vendors, window shoppers and camera-clutching tourists until I realised I wasnât actually sure where Worcester Street was. I came to a stop, pulled my phone out and tapped the address into the GPS. These Flakberrys Morgan & Schwarz grafted to our palms did have their uses. Three blocks east, one block north. Or vice versa. Such were the wonders of a well-planned central business district. Iâd walk the rest, that running had fucked me. Dr Taylor would be most pleased with the exercise. I lit a cigarette to celebrate.
As I strolled the short distance to my destination I asked myself: WTF was I doing? Psychics were the kind of people I actively avoided and now I was going to pay somehard-earned money to keep one of them in hoop earrings. The only thing that didnât surprise me was my lack of surprise at this strange twist of events. Sometimes I found myself flung into situations which seemed to belie my very being, generally at the behest of those fuckers who fed and clothed me,but this one was all of the universeâs doing. It wanted me to go to Sister Gina. Who was little old I to step in and turn the other way? Anyway, it beat a conversation with Pete in the staff room on the Middle East crisis or the benefits of subscribing to National Geographic .
I spun onto Worcester Street, and slowly turned my eye to finding the numbers on the unassuming bricks which put together the buildings. Sure, I knew exactly where 182 was from the GPS, but my generation had the misfortune of being born on the cusp; neither able to live without technology, or able to live solely entrusting it. Better than a World War or two granted, but an annoying-enough anomaly dictated by age.
Number 182 wasnât marked out by lambâs blood or other such witchcraft, but by a list of apartments and names aside round gold bells. So far, so conventional. And next to number seven, in red ink, was the name âSister Ginaâ. As I rang the bell I resisted the inner urge to think âif she knew I was coming sheâd have been at the door with some te de menthe â, but realised that joke was straight from Peteâs A-list material.
I waited for what seemed like minutes but was likely some strung-out seconds. I was nervous. Fuck fuck fuck. I rang again. Longer and harder this time. There was a distant noise, before rays of light brightened the corridor that was visible through the glass of the door. An almost impossibly small, old woman came into half-sight. As she moved slowly closer, small step by small stick-supported step, she took the form of an ancient but elegant babushka. Her stooped head was covered in an intricately woven headscarf, her long skirt almost swept the floor as she came closer to me. What did this woman know? Why had I been drawn here? She pitched her stick in front of the door, steadied herself and edged it outwards. I took the slack and pulled it wider.
âXschuse me,â she said in a shrill voice, pushing me out of the way with a strength that didnât previously seem possible. She scurried down the street. That was that.
I turned to walk away when a crackle came from the intercom system, âtssssshhhh⦠cccchh⦠hello⦠who⦠tschhhh⦠is⦠it?â The noise came from buzzer number seven. I pressed the gold button again and spoke, âI, uhh, saw an ad in the, uhh, station andâ¦â
âCome on in. Itâs at the top of the stairs.â
The door clicked open. I pushed, and entered, not knowing quite what I was getting myself in to. The stairs were through a closed door on my right hand side. Darkness descended as I entered. My heart raced. I felt my way through the blackness for the first step. I reached out for a handrail, but found
As I strolled the short distance to my destination I asked myself: WTF was I doing? Psychics were the kind of people I actively avoided and now I was going to pay somehard-earned money to keep one of them in hoop earrings. The only thing that didnât surprise me was my lack of surprise at this strange twist of events. Sometimes I found myself flung into situations which seemed to belie my very being, generally at the behest of those fuckers who fed and clothed me,but this one was all of the universeâs doing. It wanted me to go to Sister Gina. Who was little old I to step in and turn the other way? Anyway, it beat a conversation with Pete in the staff room on the Middle East crisis or the benefits of subscribing to National Geographic .
I spun onto Worcester Street, and slowly turned my eye to finding the numbers on the unassuming bricks which put together the buildings. Sure, I knew exactly where 182 was from the GPS, but my generation had the misfortune of being born on the cusp; neither able to live without technology, or able to live solely entrusting it. Better than a World War or two granted, but an annoying-enough anomaly dictated by age.
Number 182 wasnât marked out by lambâs blood or other such witchcraft, but by a list of apartments and names aside round gold bells. So far, so conventional. And next to number seven, in red ink, was the name âSister Ginaâ. As I rang the bell I resisted the inner urge to think âif she knew I was coming sheâd have been at the door with some te de menthe â, but realised that joke was straight from Peteâs A-list material.
I waited for what seemed like minutes but was likely some strung-out seconds. I was nervous. Fuck fuck fuck. I rang again. Longer and harder this time. There was a distant noise, before rays of light brightened the corridor that was visible through the glass of the door. An almost impossibly small, old woman came into half-sight. As she moved slowly closer, small step by small stick-supported step, she took the form of an ancient but elegant babushka. Her stooped head was covered in an intricately woven headscarf, her long skirt almost swept the floor as she came closer to me. What did this woman know? Why had I been drawn here? She pitched her stick in front of the door, steadied herself and edged it outwards. I took the slack and pulled it wider.
âXschuse me,â she said in a shrill voice, pushing me out of the way with a strength that didnât previously seem possible. She scurried down the street. That was that.
I turned to walk away when a crackle came from the intercom system, âtssssshhhh⦠cccchh⦠hello⦠who⦠tschhhh⦠is⦠it?â The noise came from buzzer number seven. I pressed the gold button again and spoke, âI, uhh, saw an ad in the, uhh, station andâ¦â
âCome on in. Itâs at the top of the stairs.â
The door clicked open. I pushed, and entered, not knowing quite what I was getting myself in to. The stairs were through a closed door on my right hand side. Darkness descended as I entered. My heart raced. I felt my way through the blackness for the first step. I reached out for a handrail, but found
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