nothing. My hand opened and stuck to the wall as my feet edged their way upwards. Every five steps or so the darkness was pierced by shards of light from small, barred windows which marked the end of each flight. The steps came to an end, and I pushed open the door at their top. Light hit me. If Iâd have known this was the end of my tunnel Iâd have stopped for a pint or three first.
I walked along the corridor to number seven. I knocked and nearly fell through the ajar door. I felt like a mole at a laser show; my perception was fucked.
âWelcome.â
I rubbed my eyes and focused on the form in front of me: Sister Gina. She was a lot younger than Iâd expected but about as short. She had an unremarkable enough appearance, one youâd pass by on the daily commute to a life sentence job without clocking even once. When it came to looking like you had a direct dial to the other side, the babushka won hands down. Gina looked so fucking normal. Like a bistro waitress, your kidâs teacher, or a functional secretary. Blink and youâd miss her. What could you expect for a ten-pound-bill I suppose?
âHi.â
She turned and beckoned me to follow her. As I did, I tripped over a living, breathing foot-rest that nearly bit my ankle off.
âFuck!â
I felt Iâd spoilt the atmosphere already.
âPlease excuse Mr Sheridan.â I looked at her blankly. She elaborated. âThe dog. And, please, no foul language here.â
âIâm sorry. I had a shock, was all.â I hoped it wasnât to be the first of many.
âYou are forgiven.â
We walked through to a regular suburban kitchen. No incense. No crystal ball. It was just like the kitchen your older sister had when she moved to the big city and lived in a slightly shitty apartment in a building long overdue a good lick of paint. We sat down at a pine kitchen table that had like itâd seen one takeaway too many. If it was my great calling to come here this lunchtime, my life really was as shit as Iâd come to expect.
âSo, thanks for visiting Sister Gina, midtownâs most economically priced insight.â
âA pleasure.â
âSo, what are you here for?â
âWell, I was kind of hoping you could tell me that.â
âSo, I can look deep into your future with a full deck reading for fifty, can positively align your chakra for twentyâ¦â
I hadnât realised sheâd been talking administratively.
âLook, sister, Iâm here for the ten pound fortune. Nothing more, nothing less. Lord knows why Iâm even here for that. Pardon my language.â
If she was upset by my reluctance to be upsold she didnât let on. She needed a few months with Morgan & Schwarz. Our sales scams would have doubled her profits in no time at all.
As she took my hand, something happened. Ginaâs eyes glazed over like sheâd been smoking premium strength weed since before she pushed the duvet aside. The nondescript had turned spooky. Rather than examining the crags of my hand for a red flag which screamed Dead By Forty, she held it in a ritualistic way, as if to ground herself in case of an electric shock. Her glassy look focused on the middle distance of the frayed wallpaper over my left shoulder. Iâd wanted to think that sheâd know Iâd become a daytime TV host, would travel the world on the back of a donkey and have my kids go to Ivy League schools just from looking at the lines on my hand, but it seemed it wasnât quite going to play out that way. There was a silence. A strangely comfortable silence. The dog barked. I jumped. She tightened her grip on my hand.
âWhy do you always worry about heart disease?â
Her question knocked me for six. Three months ago, my dad died of a heart attack. Or a broken heart. Either way, he was dead and gone. I tried to regain composure.
âDoesnât everyone?â
âNot like you.â She was
I walked along the corridor to number seven. I knocked and nearly fell through the ajar door. I felt like a mole at a laser show; my perception was fucked.
âWelcome.â
I rubbed my eyes and focused on the form in front of me: Sister Gina. She was a lot younger than Iâd expected but about as short. She had an unremarkable enough appearance, one youâd pass by on the daily commute to a life sentence job without clocking even once. When it came to looking like you had a direct dial to the other side, the babushka won hands down. Gina looked so fucking normal. Like a bistro waitress, your kidâs teacher, or a functional secretary. Blink and youâd miss her. What could you expect for a ten-pound-bill I suppose?
âHi.â
She turned and beckoned me to follow her. As I did, I tripped over a living, breathing foot-rest that nearly bit my ankle off.
âFuck!â
I felt Iâd spoilt the atmosphere already.
âPlease excuse Mr Sheridan.â I looked at her blankly. She elaborated. âThe dog. And, please, no foul language here.â
âIâm sorry. I had a shock, was all.â I hoped it wasnât to be the first of many.
âYou are forgiven.â
We walked through to a regular suburban kitchen. No incense. No crystal ball. It was just like the kitchen your older sister had when she moved to the big city and lived in a slightly shitty apartment in a building long overdue a good lick of paint. We sat down at a pine kitchen table that had like itâd seen one takeaway too many. If it was my great calling to come here this lunchtime, my life really was as shit as Iâd come to expect.
âSo, thanks for visiting Sister Gina, midtownâs most economically priced insight.â
âA pleasure.â
âSo, what are you here for?â
âWell, I was kind of hoping you could tell me that.â
âSo, I can look deep into your future with a full deck reading for fifty, can positively align your chakra for twentyâ¦â
I hadnât realised sheâd been talking administratively.
âLook, sister, Iâm here for the ten pound fortune. Nothing more, nothing less. Lord knows why Iâm even here for that. Pardon my language.â
If she was upset by my reluctance to be upsold she didnât let on. She needed a few months with Morgan & Schwarz. Our sales scams would have doubled her profits in no time at all.
As she took my hand, something happened. Ginaâs eyes glazed over like sheâd been smoking premium strength weed since before she pushed the duvet aside. The nondescript had turned spooky. Rather than examining the crags of my hand for a red flag which screamed Dead By Forty, she held it in a ritualistic way, as if to ground herself in case of an electric shock. Her glassy look focused on the middle distance of the frayed wallpaper over my left shoulder. Iâd wanted to think that sheâd know Iâd become a daytime TV host, would travel the world on the back of a donkey and have my kids go to Ivy League schools just from looking at the lines on my hand, but it seemed it wasnât quite going to play out that way. There was a silence. A strangely comfortable silence. The dog barked. I jumped. She tightened her grip on my hand.
âWhy do you always worry about heart disease?â
Her question knocked me for six. Three months ago, my dad died of a heart attack. Or a broken heart. Either way, he was dead and gone. I tried to regain composure.
âDoesnât everyone?â
âNot like you.â She was
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