‘So how do you make it?’
He looked at her suspiciously; the recipe for ectoplasm was obviously one of his trade secrets. ‘It’s simple really. You cut the heads off a boxful of matches and drop them into a pan of water, which you bring up to a gentle simmer. The phosphorus dissolves off the match heads, and if you give the solution a good stir, the phosphorus mixes in with the water. All you do then is strain off the match stems and, hey presto, there you have it: phosphorescent paint. If you soak a couple of lengths of calico in that and let them dry you’ll find that they glow yellow in the dark. Wave the calico around in a seance and everybody goes away happy.’
‘But surely people aren’t fooled by a bit of luminous cloth? Don’t you have customers grabbing at it?’
Vanka gave a derisive laugh. ‘What you’ve got to understand, Miss Thomas, is that people go to seances in a frame of mind that makes them want to believe in the supernatural. The last thing they want is to come away disappointed: they want to experience something special, to feel something marvellous has happened, and if that involves them mentally turning a blind eye to the grubby reality of everyday magic, then so be it. As a psychic all I’ve got to do is to give them the chance to convince themselves, to let their own desperation to believe persuade them to ignore the crudity of it all.’
‘That seems a little cynical.’
‘Possibly because I am a little cynical.’ Vanka paused to light one of his foul French cigarettes. ‘No, that’s wrong: I’m very cynical. And regarding your other well-made point about people making a grab for the ectoplasm, that’s why, at the beginning of the seance, I always tell my audience that to make contact with the Spirit World we need to have all joined hands and hence to be physically and spiritually united with one another. Then I go on to say that anyone deliberately breaking the circle will bring the wrath of the Spirits down on their head. That’s usually enough to stop even the bravest punter from letting go of their partner’s hand.’
‘So you rely on the customers convincing themselves that what they are seeing at one of your seances really is magic.’
Vanka warmed his hands by the fire. ‘Exactly. But it is magic in a way, in that I cast a spell over the audience. And it’s the same when I do cold readings, when I make predictions about people without having met them before. At any individual reading I might make twenty educated guesses about a subject and eighteen of them will be wrong, but what the customer goes home remembering are the two I guessed right. It’s called “selective memory”.’
‘And it really works?’
‘Let me show you: I’ve got to begin your training as a PsyChick sometime and now’s as good a time as any.’ He sat down next to Ella on the couch. ‘I want you to pretend you’ve come to me for a psychic reading.’
Ella nodded but kept as much space between her and Vanka as the couch allowed. The man was a rascal and she was determined to keep their relationship strictly professional. After all was said and done he was just a Dupe, even if he was a particularly handsome Dupe.
Stop it, Ella: the man’s a Dupe, if that isn’t a contradiction in terms.
Vanka’s soft voice brought her out of her daydream. ‘As I’m a psychic who specialises in contacting the dead, in all probability you’ll have come to consult with me because someone close to you has recently died. Now, even before I ask you a question I know a lot about you: you’re young, attractive, well-dressed, well-spoken and you’re not wearing a wedding ring or an engagement ring.’
‘So what?’
‘Think about it. At your time of life, Miss Thomas, probably the only people whose death would warrant a consultation with a psychic would be your father, your mother or a sweetheart. In the case of a girl as young as you I’d put my money on your coming to see me to contact the Spirit of a boy who died in the Troubles.’
‘Okay, that seems reasonable but how would you find out for sure?’
‘I’d ask.’
‘But you’re meant to be the psychic.’
‘Just bear with me a moment. When I do a reading I always ask the client to place their hands in mine.’ Vanka took Ella’s hands gently in his. She tried as best she could to still the tremor of excitement she felt as his fingers closed on hers. It was difficult to keep reminding herself that he was just a computer-generated Dupe. ‘I can tell immediately that you’re well-to-do.’
‘How?’
‘No calluses.’
‘You haven’t got any either.’
‘I’m allergic to hard work, Miss Thomas, just as I’m allergic to girls who keep interrupting me.’
Ella took the hint and kept quiet.
‘But there’s more to holding your hands than that. When a person is being asked questions or is listening to statements being made about themselves or their loved ones their body reacts. These aren’t deliberate reactions but automatic – autonomic – reactions the client is often unaware that they are making. Often these reactions, these tell-tales, are almost undetectable but with practice a good cold reader can spot them. Do you want to try?’
‘Sure.’
‘May I call you Ella while I ask my questions? It’s a little less formal.’
‘You may.’ She was pleased by this development, though she immediately worried that her reaction had been communicated to Vanka.
‘Good. So if you were here to have me contact a “dear departed”, I’d probably start with a general statement, something like “I see a man in a red jacket”.’
‘Why a red jacket?’
He gave her an odd, quizzical look. ‘Because all soldiers in the ForthRight army wear red coats. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Ella.’
She tried to mask her annoyance at making such a silly mistake. PINC had already told her that.
‘I’d immediately follow this up with the question “Does this signify anything to you?” You see, if my guess is correct you’re amazed at my perspicacity and if it isn’t, well… I’ll just frown and move on. Shall we see if it works with you?’
‘Why not?’
‘So… I can see an older person in your life, Ella, someone who is directing you: a mother, a father, a teacher, a professor…’ He smiled. ‘Eureka: I got the most subtle of flinches from your fingers when I mentioned the word “professor”, so that encourages me to pursue that line of questioning. I sense, Ella, that sometimes your relationship with your professor isn’t all that it should be.’
‘Whose relationship with their professor is ever perfect?’
‘True, true. But the message I am receiving is that you are very unhappy with what he has asked you to do. You feel as though he’s put you in danger.’
Try as she might, she couldn’t quell the start she gave in reaction to the word ‘danger’.
‘Now that is a positive reaction. So you feel endangered because of what your professor has asked you to do?’
Alarm bells started to sound. He was finding out too much about her. ‘Look, I’m really not comfortable with this.’
‘I’m just trying to show you how cold reading works, Ella,’ he said in an oh-so-reasonable voice. ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of. Maybe if I just ask a few, more specific, questions. After all, I know very little about you and we are going to be partners. Where shall I start? Tell me, which part of the Yank Sector are you from?’
‘Why do you think I’m a Yank?’
‘Your accent for one, the way you use your fork when you eat for another. The trouble is, you’re a Shade.’
‘I don’t like the word “Shade”, it’s demeaning.’
He laughed. ‘I can tell. So what should I call you: darkie, black, sambo, coon, nigger…?’
‘Stop! I’m a woman of colour.’
‘Very well: the trouble is I’ve never met a Yank woman of colour before. You’re a real enigma, Ella, you look like you’re a NoirVillian but you sound like you come from Washington.’
For an instant she didn’t quite know what to answer. Fortunately PINC cut in and her faux life history flashed before her. ‘I was born in NoirVille but adopted by a Yank couple. I was brought up in Fairmont Heights.’
