The Overlooked

Three

From the diary of Celeste Jenkins:

June 25, 1996

I met the most extraordinary man today.

Well, to be completely accurate, I met him yesterday, as I just looked over at the clock and realized that it's now almost half past twelve. My last client left a little more than three hours ago now, and I've been wandering the house ever since, driven by some crazy energy that I can't completely understand.

It was my stunt at Plunkett's that gave me away, I'm afraid; I should have known better than to show off like that, but at the time I had thought I was alone in the bookshop. Why bother Emily for a step stool when I could just call the book to me? Of course, as it turned out, I hadn't been alone, but absorbed as I was I didn't see him, and I didn't hear him, either -- the man must move like a cat.

Mr. Snape. Somehow the name suits him, suits the cold black eyes and the overlarge nose with the aristocratic bump near the bridge. One might have thought he was just another of those edging-toward-middle-age hipsters who can still be found in Manchester, the ones who like to talk about the glory days of the Hacienda and the birth of new wave -- and at first glance he looked it, with his black clothes and shock of unkempt black hair. But the second he opened his mouth somehow I knew he was much more than that. What a voice he had -- even and educated, but gloriously rich and dark, like black honey. If he'd shown up on my doorstep to sell encyclopedias I think I would have bought a set then and there, if he'd promised to read them aloud to me.

But of course that wasn't why he was here.

He said he wanted a reading, and since it was my slow time -- around two o'clock -- I said of course and let him in. But that wasn't his true reason for seeing me, and I discovered soon enough that he'd spotted me in Plunkett's and followed me back home to try and learn more.

Oh, that made me angry at first. These powers, talents, abilities -- whatever you want to call them, I certainly hadn't asked for them, and for most of my life I hadn't even known of their existence. It wasn't until my parents were both gone, dead after that awful crash on the M66, that suddenly I found I could see far more than other people ever did, that somehow I could take someone's hand and know they'd had an argument with their spouse that morning, or touch a ring and know whether the person who'd worn it was alive or did -- or lift a book off a shelf simply using the strength of my mind. At first I had thought I was going mad, overtaken by the grief of losing both parents at once -- but that turned out not to be the case at all. Whatever these powers were, and wherever they had come from, they were real.

At the time I was barely into my first term at the University of Manchester, following a vague idea of going into psychology, but I soon gave it up. My gift -- or curse, depending on how I felt about it on any particular day -- wouldn't leave me alone. I found I had to use it to help those around me or be driven to distraction by the unwanted images that flooded my brain. If I channeled it to help those who came to me for assistance, somehow it became more manageable.

I told Mr. Snape that I help people with my talent, but the real truth is that I need them just as much as they need me. Whether the self-serving nature of my vocation compromises its integrity, I can't know for sure. All I do know is that the vast majority of my clients seem to be grateful for the advice I give them, for the glimpses into the future they receive. Sometimes the news isn't good -- far from it -- but somehow they still prefer to know the worst than to know nothing at all.

As for my future -- that's the one vision which eludes me. I can see everyone else's path but my own, apparently. And I have to admit that in a way the lack heartens me. Maybe I'll get hit by a bus tomorrow -- or maybe not. But at least I won't spend my entire life worrying about stepping off the curb.

Of course I said nothing of any of this to Mr. Snape -- that odd man who didn't fit into any of the neat categories I'd constructed for my clients over the years: the nervous spouse, the skeptic (normally I'd put Mr. Snape in this category, since he seemed the type, but he had to know something was up once he'd seen what I'd done in Plunkett's), the money manager, the hypochondriac.

To be perfectly truthful, I'd never met anyone quite like Mr. Snape before in my life. He didn't like to be touched -- I could see that right away, see the quiet alarm in his eyes when I told him I needed to take his hand for a moment before I began the reading. But that's the easiest way for me to start a reading, to get a sense of a person's vibrations (I hate that word, but haven't figured out a better way to describe the sensations I get from holding someone's hand). After a short, uneasy pause he laid his hand down -- and a nice one it was, too, long-fingered and strong, although I noticed the tips of his fingers carried faint stains that looked like ink. As always, what I received from him wasn't so much discrete pieces of information but rather a flurry of images and impressions. I knew immediately that he was a teacher, but he also seemed to possess a good deal of contempt for those in his charge. Well, I'd had my share of ill-tempered instructors over the years, so I didn't find anything particularly unusual about that, but I had the hardest time trying to decipher what it was that he actually taught. I got a blurred impression of beakers and bottles and that sort of thing, so I told him I thought he was a chemistry teacher. He seemed amused by that, and immediately I felt foolish, because usually I do so well at first readings. But then when I began to speak of where he taught -- some amazing place, a great castle-like structure overlooking a lake -- he immediately pulled away from me, as if worried that perhaps I had suddenly divined too much.

Now, who comes to a psychic when he has something to hide?

Things got confusing after that. I seem to recall that he wanted to end the session there, and I have a vague recollection of walking him to the door and then deciding to lie down and take a short nap in the front room -- which I never do, unless I'm ill. All I remember clearly is waking up on the couch some time later, around five o'clock in the afternoon, feeling slightly hung over and with a searing pain high up on my forehead. It hurt so much that I got up and went into the bathroom to take a look, but I couldn't see anything wrong. I swallowed a couple of aspirin, just in case I were coming down with something, but they didn't seem to help much. Briefly I considered canceling my evening appointments, but the next one wasn't due to arrive until seven o'clock, and the pain slowly went away, enough so that I felt as if I could halfway function.

The rest of the evening passed normally enough -- or at least as normally as any evening can where one predicts the future. Micah Johnson is one of my regular clients, but as his main obsession consists of divining the best places to invest his money, as always I saw nothing too disturbing in my visions for his future. He listened carefully to my pronouncements, making neat notations in the little black book he carried with him at all times, then left a fifty-pound note on the table for me as he always does. Fifty pounds for an hour's work isn't bad, and Mr. Johnson finds me to be less expensive than the financial advisors he's used in the past -- and far more accurate -- so we have a happy arrangement.

Perhaps I should have taken my own advice and made some investments using the tips I gave him, but I always worried that once I involved my own money then suddenly it would be about me, and the flow of visions would stop. Besides, I'm comfortable enough -- my parents left everything to me, of course, since I have no siblings. The house is paid for, and people's willingness to drop fairly large amounts of ready cash in exchange for psychic advice has left me with relatively few worries about money.

Which reminds me -- Mr. Snape hadn't even asked me about the cost of a reading, and somehow I had forgotten to bring it up. I wouldn't have charged him for the abortive reading I did give, but still, that was somewhat unlike me. Usually I try to take care of all the business up front so that people know exactly where matters stand. But something about him had put me off my stride. Perhaps it was just his revelation that he'd seen what I'd done in Plunkett's, or perhaps it was his admission that he'd actually had the nerve to trail me back to my home.

Or maybe it was just that voice. I'm not usually the type to get flustered by men -- I can read too much from most of them. And try to find one who isn't at least mildly put off by the thought of having a psychic girlfriend. Relationships are difficult enough without worrying about whether your significant other can tell if you've spent too much drinking down at the pub with your mates simply by touching your wallet -- and forget about infidelity. No need for anything as incriminating as long blonde hairs on your suit jacket if your girlfriend can just pick it up and get a clear image of the entire ménage.

I'd tried once, a few years after my parents had died. Alex was another student at the University of Manchester, although a few years older than I. We'd never bumped into one another at school, since he was a junior when I was a freshman, and we didn't meet until he was actually doing graduate work. He'd heard about me through the grapevine -- which is how everyone hears about me; I certainly don't bother to put adverts in the paper, and even the sign in my window is more to let people know that they've come to the right place than to solicit new business. Ironically, Alex wanted to be a psychologist -- and so of course he found the idea of an honest-to-goodness psychic living right here in Manchester too much to resist. He'd made an appointment, ready to come in and blow approximately fifty holes in whatever story I gave him...and walked out an hour later with his head reeling and his sense of the orderliness of the universe seriously disrupted.

Then he came back again...and again...and all of a sudden he was wanting to see me on a more personal level. Probably a good deal of the attraction was based on what I was rather than who I was. I can admit now that the whole self-sufficient single scene had gotten quite thoroughly on my nerves by then, and I was ready to fall for the first halfway decent man who came along who wasn't frightened off by the whole psychic element of the relationship. And really, I did the best I could. I tried not to "see" any more about Alex than a normal girlfriend would. Sometimes it actually worked. But after a while the whole thing got to be too much for him, and he took off, going so far as to transfer to the University of London in order to remove himself from my orbit.

And after that -- I guess it's going on two years ago now -- I decided the whole thing wasn't worth the bother. I miss the sex, but I don't miss the drama.

I also miss having someone around to laugh at my snarky comments. I have to snark occasionally -- one can't be exposed to the sort of angst I am on a daily basis and not let the steam off every once in a while. It's that or go mad. But all I have right now is a cat who doesn't care much what I say as long as I'm forthcoming with the cat food, and possibly a philodendron who gets me but is, after all, just a plant.

After I'd made that particular comment to my friend Fiona, she looked at me and said blankly, "It's a plant."

"Well, yes," I replied. "But look how healthy it is. Obviously it likes me. And I never have to worry about it leaving the toilet seat up."

Not too soon after that she started making noises about setting me up with one of her cousins. "I mean, if you're mooning after shrubbery, then something absolutely has to be done," she pointed out.

All right, I will admit that sometimes I do have an odd sense of humor.

But apparently once the cousin found out I might be able to discern what he'd had for breakfast merely by shaking his hand, he'd bowed out. And after that it had just been me and HBC, my half-Persian bundle of selfishness (HBC stands for Helena Bonham-Carter, because if my cat ever took on human form she'd look just like Helena). And the philodendron, of course.

And the odd black-haired man turning up on my doorstep after following me home from a bookstore. I suppose if I lived in the States I might have considered calling the police after hearing that particular admission. But you can't do what I do without developing some sense about people -- and I wouldn't have much of a business if I turned down the strangers who showed up at my door looking for help. Odd as he looked and seemed, I didn't get any feeling of malice from Mr. Snape...or much of any feeling at all. Some people are like that -- closed off. And others broadcast so loudly they should come with a volume control.

Pity that he took himself off so abruptly. I like to think that maybe I could have helped him -- he had the dark, pinched look of someone who's had to keep far too many secrets. I couldn't tell exactly how old he was, except of course some years older than I, but at the same time I got the impression that he looked older than his real age, that life hadn't been particularly kind to him. It hurts me to see people like that. I know what it's like to have the world throw nasty surprises at you. But I also know that his is the type of person that's the hardest to deal with, because it's easier to stay inside your shell in the dark than to try to reach out for anything that might actually make you feel better about life.

Now I really am rambling. I should just put this notebook away and go to bed, but the thing is, I'm not sleepy. I do have a tendency to keep late hours, just because most of my clients come to see me in the evenings -- "early to bed and early to rise" has no meaning in this house, that's for sure. And then of course there was that odd nap I took this afternoon. I can't even remember the last time I took a nap, except possibly a few years ago when I had a nasty bout of bronchitis. That came not too long after my breakup with Alex -- depression and heartache do wonderful things for your immune system.

The odd discontinuity of the afternoon still bothers me. After I had woken on the couch and gone to take my aspirin, I wandered into the room I use for my readings, the room that used to be my parents' office. The old mismatched desks that used to be positioned in the L formed by the far corner under the windows were about the only things of theirs that I had got rid of, and I had only done that because I wanted that space to be as uncluttered as possible. As soon as I entered the room I noticed immediately that my crystal ball looked off-center, dragged partway across the table by the piano scarf I'd bought a few years ago at a secondhand shop, and the scarf itself trailed out across the ground, as if it had gotten caught on something. Also, one of the chairs lay on its side a few feet away from the table. I righted it, frowning a little. I didn't remember anything about it getting toppled over like that, but perhaps HBC had done it in one of her periodic rampages. The cat was usually quite lethargic, but every once in a while she'd get a "bit of the devil in her," as my father used to say, and go tearing about the house. Still, she usually stayed out of the reading room -- there wasn't much in there to interest her, and she tended to prefer the front room so that she could lounge on the window seat and soak up the sun. I always kept the reading room dark, with the blinds closed, and the cat tended to disdain that space. Then again, you just never knew with cats.

But somehow it felt wrong.

I'm not the kind of psychic who can just walk into a space and say, "Something bad happened here." I need to have contact with the people I'm reading, or at least items that belong to them. So of course it wasn't as if I'd entered that room and had a sudden vision of Mr. Snape having his wicked way with me or anything like that. Not that I could really imagine that of him. He seemed to be one of those people who was born with his clothes on. But the logical explanation of HBC having an out-of-character romp in there just didn't seem to fit somehow.

So here I have a random assortment of facts -- a strange man saw me levitate a book off the shelf at Plunkett's and followed me home, a chair got knocked over somehow, I took a nap when I never nap and woke up with one of the worst bloody headaches of my life, and for some reason I've been left with the feeling that a piece of my day just disappeared, like a magician making a rabbit go poof! in a puff of smoke.

And ever since Mr. Johnson left, taking his bundle of neat notations and his plans for the next exponential increase in his investment portfolio with him, I've been wandering the house. I almost stirred up a fire in the sitting room hearth, because this has been the most dismal June I can remember, but somehow the thought of doing such a thing after the official start of summer offended my sense of order. Instead, I pulled on a ratty old jumper that I used instead of a proper bathrobe to fend off the decidedly unJune-like chill. Then I occupied myself with rearranging the magazines in the front room(which also somehow got spread all over the coffee table), baking my mother's famous shortbread at eleven o'clock at night (luckily I'll be able to find a home for the shortbread over at Topham's, since the boys there are bottomless pits), and writing these silly strings of words in my journal in the vain hope of making some sense of everything that's gone on.

Which, now that I come to think of it, is probably the silliest thing of all. If I've learned anything from my twenty-six years on this planet, it's that sometimes things just don't make sense.

So I suppose I'll go do the only thing that does make any sense. I'll brush my teeth and wash my face and go to bed, and hope that tomorrow won't be quite as insane.

All the same, I can't help wondering if I'll ever see the mysterious Mr. Snape again....

"You don't have to do anything for someone to love you. You just have to be."

The Overlooked --