The Magick Bookshop Trilogy: Stories of the Occult

A collection of over twenty magickal short-stories intended to both inform and entertain. Guided by kindly Qabalist Mr Malynowsky, and set primarily in three antiquarian bookshops in England, spiritual explanations gradually emerge of issues such as anorexia, addiction, OCD, bereavement, gender and even species dysphoria. How much are psychology and Magick interlinked? Can a spell, or a ritual, remedy such afflictions of mind, body and spirit? Mr Malynowsky believes that the foundation of such Dark Nights of the Soul can be identified using psychic perception, and that healing may be facilitated by both practical and 'occult' means. He understands the value of Myth as psychospiritual map, and in his realm, much becomes archetypal: yet never quite typical. And with his trusted crew of quirky assistants, he intends to weave his restorative magick where it is most needed.These not-so-tall tales are woven throughout with themes such as Tarot, mythology, poetry, art and literature, Spirit-contact, the work of notable initiates such as Dion Fortune and Eliphas Levi, and of course Qabalah. Featuring vivid descriptions of places as diverse as Oxford, New Orleans, London's West End, and the enchanted Druid groves of Faebridge, Somerset, these occult short-stories are accounts of the Divine working within the apparently mundane, of the transcendent nature of Spirit, and of its ultimate ability to overcome anything.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Magwitch The week I started at Malynowsky's, in June 1996, was the same that the newspapers carried the headings: "Majority of Britons no longer believe in God," and "God is dead: Nietzsche. Nietzsche is dead: God." The British Humanist Association had just conducted a MORI poll and discovered that, while 67 percent of the populace considered themselves religious, only 43 percent believed in a God. Not only this, but it rained and rained interminably. Mr. Malynowsky was undeterred. "The rain is a wonderful sign, Kala," he told me as he handed me an antiquarian specimen with a binding like brie rind, "The rain is a symbol of knowledge, like this book. It comes from Chokmah, the sphere of Wisdom on the Tree of Life; it is God's thoughts descending on Malkuth, the Earth plane. Yes, the rain falls effortlessly from the unfathomable mind of God, fertilising all that it touches, even in these ancient city streets! The trick is to make ourselves a vessel for this Chokmahrain, so that we can collect and hold God's wisdom." "That's a lovely way of looking at it!" I said, putting this weather immunity down to his Polish origins as much as to the mystic bent. Britons, as well as not believing in God, complain endlessly about the rain, and then bitterly rebuke the sun for being too hot when he occasionally shows his face. Atmospheric intolerance and atheism seem to go hand in hand. "Not just lovely-also true!" announced my new employer, his blue eyes dancing with merriment beneath salt-and-pepper eyebrows. "All of life is an analogy of the mind of God-magick teaches us this. There is no such thing as bad weather, only a bad attitude to God's many moods!" I looked through the dusty, darkened windows at the silver streaks outside, and felt that pleasure which can only come when the rain is pummeling on the roof and flags, a cold wind weaving in and out of the liquid columns or blowing them sideways into wet explosions on passersby, and one is warm and snug inside. A shiver of contentment passed through me. "Yes, we are like a capsule, floating on the river," remarked Mr. Malynowsky, a phrase which was soon to become familiar to my ears. "A bubble which many might like to burst. But we shan't let them, shall we, my dear?" I looked at him, surprised. "What do you mean?" I ventured. "Ah, my dear, so young, so much to learn. The first thing you must know is that every action has its equal and opposite reaction. For every good thing we believe and do, there will spring up an adverse reaction. You and I belong to the Pillar of Mercy, but there are just as many adherents to the Pillar of Severity. Not a bad thing; we need the balance. But then we have the flip-side . . . " "Flip-?" "Yes, I'm afraid we do. The Klippoth. The husks or harlots, as we call them. These are the spirits of evil, and there are just as many in Oxford as anywhere else, Kala, or possibly more. But I do not wish to alarm you, my dear, though forewarned is forearmed, as they say. You will learn a lot working here; it is a focalpoint for many energies, as you will see." Had Mr. Malynowsky not been so gentlemanly, well-educated, and respected, I might have been deterred at this point. Actually, that's a lie. I might have felt I ought to be deterred, but the lure of the shop, with its wondrous rows of tomes and spectral nooks and the fact that my boss was merely vocalising what I already thought-but was unaccustomed to hearing said out loud-far outweighed my desire to be sensible. I smiled at him with genuine confidence. "I can't wait," I said. I did not have to. Two minutes later, a blur of brown Barbour coat crashed through the door, shedding silver beads of God's wisdom from its waxy surface, and generous streams of Chokmahic insight from the numerous bags clutched in the red hands of its breathless owner. The pigskin carpet* all around his feet was soon as sodden as the gentleman's beard, over which he stared bespectacled. His eyes were large and rather frantic, and as they met Mr. Malynowsky's, the man, who was in his mid-forties I estimated, flushed like a teenager. "I'll just put my bags down, if I may," he exhaled, depositing at the foot of the mahogany counter seven or eight extremely heavylooking carriers from Blackwell's and the Oxford University Press Bookshops. "Certainly, Sir," nodded Mr. Malynowsky mildly. "And how may we help you?" The man looked at us both, and then swept the shop with his eyes. They nearly bulged, and he began to hyperventilate again. "I just want to look around and buy some books, if that's all right." As he spoke, the man headed for the fine bindings shelf, his hands shaking-with the strain of his shed load, or with something else? He grabbed two or three beauties from the middle, then hurried to the next section, the incunabula, and pulled off the fattest specimens, piling them all up in his arms. "You might like to put those on the counter, Sir, where you can study your selection," ventured Mr. Malynowsky, visibly concerned for the welfare of his books. Each was like a child to him; he knew its history, he had nurtured and tended it through the traumas of sympathetic renewal and meticulous cleaning; he had interacted with its inner essence. The customer, however, seemed reluctant to put his prizes down. "I'm used to carrying heavy weights!" he announced, his eyes hungrily scanning the aisles and displays like a competitive child on a treasure hunt. He lunged for the next shelf, a row of historical tomes written in French. This was too much for Mr. Malynowsky, who jumped to his well-polished feet and was at the gentleman's side in a flash, remarkably agile for a septuagenarian, I thought. "Please, dear Sir, allow me," he cajoled, gently edging some of the pricier specimens from the man's damp and vice-like grip. Our customer did not know whither to look; at the articles rent from him, or at the others waiting to be seized. "Don't put them back!" he cried in my direction. "I want to take them all!" Mr. Malynowsky caught my eye and raised an eloquent eyebrow. "Study him," it said. Was this our first case of clinical bibliomania, I wondered? The customer, however, was quick to complete his business, arriving at the till with two more armloads of eclectic texts and requiring that they be totted up, all within five minutes. Nervously, I put the books through the till. The words "That will be three thousand and fifty-four pounds, please," did not slip as easily off my tongue as I would have liked them to. The man, still flushed and shaking and breathing like a fox just ahead of the hunt, put his hand inside the Barbour jacket and withdrew a pile of fifty-pound notes the size of a loaf. I looked at Mr. Malynowsky, unsure as to whether to accept them or not, and then remembered the pen we keep on the till to check whether notes are genuine or not. The man flicked sixtyone of his notes from the mass like a croupier, and placed them on the till with a flourish. I tested each with the pen, as swiftly as possible, trying not to blush. Mr. Malynowsky kept him talking all the while. "So, you are a polymath, Sir?" he asked pleasantly. "What a rare quality that is nowadays!" "Well, a polyglot, anyway!" gushed our customer. "I went to Oxford many years ago-studied Classics-ah, is that a Euripides folio there in the cabinet?" "It is indeed, Mr.-?" "Magwitch. Paul Magwitch," he smiled. Mr. Malynowsky held out his hand, and as they touched, I saw a flash of perception pass across the face of my new employer. Magwitch tried to converse politely, but he was clearly agitated by the desire to extract the Euripides from behind its glass. Mr. Malynowsky nodded at me to pass the key, which I did, sending a fifty-pound note zig-zagging onto the pig-hide carpet. I retrieved it with a sense of money being rather like leaves on an autumn breeze. Magwitch's ideas must be catching. "It's eighteenth-century diced Russia*," intoned Mr. Malynowsky, lovingly identifying the relevant faded backstrip. "Look at this gilt back-beautiful, is it not?-and we find within, engraved portraits of Euripides, and Joshua Barnes, the publisher." Mr. Magwitch could not wait to get his hands on the specimen. He clutched it to his chest, not even looking inside, as if his very life depended on it. Within moments he had deposited a further ten of his red notes on the counter. I wrapped the books as carefully as possible, considering their quantity and the speed of the transaction, while my boss tried to extract conversation from our unusual customer. The latter was soon so flustered that the ancient man of magick had to give up his till-side stool to the hefty younger man. "Thanks," breathed Magwitch, undoing his waterproof for the first time. Beneath it I glimpsed a very fine tie of embroidered silk, a crisp clean shirt, and an exceptionally well-tailored suit. These did not seem in keeping with his demeanour, which remained on the frantic side of sane. His eyes still flitted hungrily from shelf to shelf, and I could sense Mr. Malynowsky's reluctance to lose further of his stock to the man. "That's quite a selection you have there, Mr. Magwitch!" attempted the older gentleman once more. "So many beautiful things," sighed Magwitch. "So little time." "Would you like a box for these?" I asked, placing the last of the brown paper over the medley of books. "It might help you carry them." "Carry them?" Magwitch looked confused. "Oh, carry them, yes, well, if you wouldn't mind waiting for me, I'll fetch my car. Oh, and bags are fine." He looked dazed. "Just fine." He arose almost immediately and bumbled out of the shop. "Do many of your customers spend that much money in one go?" I asked, at once impressed and disturbed. "And cash too! If it weren't for your intuition, Mr. Malynowsky, I would worry about that transaction." "And you would be quite right to do so," replied the mage. "Indeed, there is much cause for concern for that gentleman." "He didn't really want those books, did he?" I asked tentatively. "I mean, he desired them as objects, but he didn't even look inside most of them." "Quite so, quite so." I waited for an explanation, but Mr. Malynowsky sat like a sphinx and gazed out of the windows at the shiny slabs and slategrey shadows slanting across the medieval college walls opposite. The shelves creaked, readjusting themselves after Magwitch's onslaught. The pharmaceutical breath of the thirteen generations of midwives named Beth who once inhabited this premises caressed my cheek, though I did not know what it was at that point. I put it down to the herbs in the desk and a draft seeping through one of the shop's many fissures. In a trice, a Mercedes had pulled up at the door of the shop, forties music emanating from it. Magwitch switched off the engine and bounded out, repenetrating our sphere with his bookcraving bulk. "Here, allow me to help you," I offered. I bore four carrier bags of the books to the boot in what was now a light drizzle, and waited for him to open it. He emerged, along with Mr. Malynowsky, each bearing six or seven more carriers containing purchases from our own or the other shops. Magwitch pressed a button on his key-ring, and the boot opened gracefully. I tried not to gasp, for inside it were amassed the finest woven fabrics of India, and all the jewels of Arabia, it seemed, spilling from trunks and trousseaus, alongside delicately wrought troves of sparkling trinkets, elegant bottles of exotic perfumes, and everything that shimmered and shone with expensive lustre. "Ah, we're running out of room in there," flushed Magwitch; "We'll have to put these little gems on the back seat." Was he some kind of master thief, I wondered? The cash, the keenness to get rid of it, the boot of plunder from, apparently, a sultan's harem? I tried not to appear suspicious; after all, he had just spent a vast amount of money with us, and deserved our courtesy, at least; but I could not resist a glance at Mr. Malynowsky. He, meanwhile, maintained the perfect pose and profile of a hieroglyph. We bundled the books into the back seat as requested, and waved him off. Noel Coward blasted from the car stereo as the engine started. We stepped back inside the shop. No sooner had we returned to the till than Noel Coward became audible again. The car backed up the road, far too fast, and stopped outside. Magwitch leaped out, his Barbour flapping like the wings of a panic-stricken chicken, opened his boot, and dived in. Dashing through our door, he lunged at the till, managing somehow to catch both of us in the eye in the process-an earnest look, if ever there was one-and deposited a fistful of something on the till. "For you!" he puffed, before bounding out again and pulling off at speed. I gasped as I beheld the antique silver; a brooch studded with glittering star sapphires, and a beautifully engraved snuff box. No question which gift was for whom, then. "Take it," said Mr. Malynowsky. "And don't worry. We're going to repay him amply for this. Now, time to cash up, I think." I took the sapphire pin and attached it to my cardigan. I had never owned such a beautiful piece of jewelry before, nor one so valuable, and I sent Mr. Magwitch a thank-you on the ether. To my intense frustration, Mr. Malynowsky locked up and retired to the basement to do some bookkeeping. I had so many questions to ask him, and would far rather have stayed and whiled away the evening chatting with him than return to my rented room. I shared an overpriced house with a very nice single mother, Sam, and her eight-year-old daughter Jasmine, but their conversation was not quite as intriguing as Mr. Malynowsky's. As I left, I tentatively invited him for a quick drink at the Turl Bar. "No can do, my dear," he replied through a plume of aromatic pipe smoke. "At my age, you appreciate the faculties when they are in normal working order; you do not risk the vices. Tobacco is my one exception, a habit I picked up in the war and find conducive to the brain. You go now, and I'll see you tomorrow." I smiled at him through the blue haze, walked up the stairs and across the pigskin carpet, and departed the shop. Outside was like another world. I was almost shocked when I emerged to find taxis flashing by, queues of workers waiting for the bus, compounding the darkness with their umbrellas; girls in cocktail dresses giggling their way down the street, and boys in dinner jackets regaling one another with tales of getting "sooooo pissed that night." The usual army of beggars was out, hassling me at every corner for a spare 20P, some of them looking genuinely needy, others just trying it on. I thought of Magwitch and his four thousand casual pounds, and wondered what he was doing now. As I did so, stepping out onto the crowded High Street to cross it, the deathly white face of a heroin addict swooned into mine, her brown eyes dilated for her drug. They alighted on the sapphire brooch glinting beneath my unbuttoned jacket, and seemed to devour it with their gaze. I expected her to grab it. I took a step backward and my heel hit the gutter. I looked around, steadying myself; and when I looked back, she was gone. The ghostly apparition left me shaken. The hunger in her stare was palpable and seemed very familiar. With a jolt, I remembered seeing the same need in the eyes of Magwitch. I walked home with much on my mind, glad now to be returning to Sam and Jasmine and television and chat about trivia. A good dose of the ordinary felt like exactly what I needed. The following morning I traversed the warm, wet streets with anticipation, unlocking the ancient door with a frisson of excitement, fully prepared for some sort of occult event. Even outside the shop the air seemed laden with portent, a whiff of incense on the breeze. However, when my boss arrived, clad in his eternal grey raincoat and grey suit and purple tie, he declined to comment on our spendthrift friend. I reluctantly decided not to force the issue, intending to be an accomplice rather than a nuisance, especially in my first week. Instead, I made us tea, and sat studying books at the till while Mr. Malynowsky taught me about them. The first printing presses, the way rags were used in paper, the first great scholars and collectors. I noticed him once or twice turning the snuffbox contemplatively in his hands, but the morning, though interesting, felt anticlimactic. Instead of the mystical atmosphere to which I was steadily becoming accustomed, it seemed almost like a normal shop. To make matters worse, at around eleven, when Mr. Malynowsky had just nipped downstairs, we were beleaguered by a chemistry don who had dropped by for a quarrel, it seemed. "Ancient medicine?" he barked from the door. "We have some Galen," I responded; and, lightheartedly, "Or there's Lavater's Physiognomy." "Poppycock!" he shouted. "Galen I have, and I suppose the rest of your stock's all this spirituality nonsense." I gave him a look as blank as untouched parchment; it did not seem worth responding to the man. Mr. Malynowsky emerged from the basement at just this point, and offered his assistance. The don strained at the leash of politeness. "I wondered whether you might have anything as scientific as a medicine book, but your girl tells me not." Mr. Malynowsky smiled. "I take it from that, Sir, that you are one of the Godless 57 percent?" The man smiled bitterly. "I should certainly hope so! Scientific explanation is the only way forward; but people are too lazy and impatient to wait for science to tell them the truth. It takes time, yes, and applied effort, and decades of learning to even begin to scratch the surface of the Universe." Mr. Malynowsky raised a wry eyebrow. "And I suppose that most people are too unintelligent to understand it anyway?" "Quite so. They want an instant answer. These peddlers of God, of so-called spirituality-whatever that may be-give it to them. Religion is nothing but instant gratification for the feebleminded. We are heading for a repetition of the Dark Ages." I detest this kind of person-I am not ashamed to admit it. They wring all the joy out of life, and cauterise all natural possibilities. As far as I can see, the study of creation does not disprove it, or identify the primal cause. I cannot be bothered arguing the toss with arrogant Denizens of Hod-or of Tipha-reth-for religious zealots are certainly just as bad. My boss, however, absolutely loved it. I suppose that his years of experience and learning had leant him a gravitas that I lack; so people like this don would happily indulge in a game of cerebral chess with him, whereas younger folk, particularly women, were not worth wasting their time on. I seemed like yet another student to him, no doubt, only less well educated. Disgusted by the whole scenario, I took a pointedly early lunch break. When I returned, at a snail's pace, from the sandwich bar, Mr. Malynowsky was sitting behind the till puffing on his pipe with the air of one greatly entertained. "Have a good debate?" I asked as I headed to the back room to make us both tea. "Human arrogance never ceases to amaze me, Kala!" he said, raising his voice so that I could hear him from the tiny kitchen. "Scientists say 'there is nothing; it all just evolved'-but who set evolution into motion? With their stupid narrow minds, propped up by degrees and doctorates, they won't believe anything unless they can weigh it and measure it or analyse it chemically. Samuel Beckett's play Waiting for Godot sums it up beautifully. The two men waiting every night for Godot to appear and, like a commercial traveler, explain what it's all about so that they can then decide whether or not to accept it." I brought the tea through, Mr. Malynowsky's as tan as can be imagined, and thick with sugar. Mine seemed like nothing but water and milk in comparison. "We have to accept our own experiences, these being all we can truly rely on. Faith is not enough, in this the professor is correct; but personal encounters, particularly when these can be confirmed by independent witnesses; these are our guiding lights. I have believed and experienced the inexplicable more times than I have smoked this pipe!" He smiled and tapped the object. "What kind of thing?" I asked, thrilled that the conversation was going in this direction again. I knew that after my initiatory week, Mr. Malynowsky would be leaving for London, and that this represented one of my few sustained chances to chat with him. "Well, let us see. The most interesting thing that happened to me in early life was reading the thoughts of two men-I call this brain-radio-when I was a student in Vienna; thoughts so vile that they made me mentally sick for the day. The following day I was arrested by the Gestapo on a serious charge of affiliation to a political resistance movement, and kept in prison for two months. Later I learned that these two men had come to my house the day before to inquire about me-just when I had had those warnings. And that was just the beginning, believe me." "Good heavens," I replied, rather inadequately. Mr. Malynowsky was just about to regale me with more details, when the door flew open, and in came-yes, you've guessed it-Magwitch. He was clad in another fine suit, no overcoat this time, as the summer rain had let off for a moment, and today's purchases were not evident about his person, though I felt sure that he had made some. He was still short of breath. "Hello again!" he gasped at me. "Ah, good, you're wearing your brooch. So nice when people know how to accept a gift in the manner in which it is intended! I shall have to bring you some more presents! Good day to you too, Sir!" Mr. Malynowsky extended his hand, gave me a quick glance, and shook the generous paw of Magwitch. As he did so, I saw a change occur in our customer's aura. Something white and diaphanous exuded from it-visibly, like smoke or albumen-and in it I glimpsed, for the briefest of moments, the same brown eyes and hungry look I had encountered in the road the evening before. Shock jolted through me, and, had I not been sitting down, I might have raised a cloud of dust from the shelves behind the till. Mr. Malynowsky chatted to the man as if nothing at all had occurred. Age and experience certainly have a lot to be said for them, I reflected. Today, Mr. Magwitch made only the most modest of buys-a set of Ovid at £300 in beautiful biscuit calf, and a couple of Theosophy first editions. I could sense Mr. Malynowsky restraining him, for though Magwitch was champing at the bit, my boss led him away from the items of desire on several occasions. "You don't really need that, Sir, do you?" he said, gently but firmly, and our customer acquiesced. This was a peculiar type of salesmanship I was learning, I thought! Most shopkeepers would be delighted to have such an undiscriminating customer with a pile of cash on their premises. But Mr. Malynowsky, as we know, was one in a million. "Money and God do not mix," he used to say, and he was right. He fought Mammon every day, and won. Very shortly, our customer had reached a pitch of agitation impossible to ignore. "To tell the truth," he panted, "I'm dying to get to Whistles and buy some clothes." "Oh, do you have a daughter?" I asked. "It's a lovely boutique." "No, I don't," said Magwitch, "I just love the fabrics-the designs -fabulous!" I gazed at him, nonplussed. Mr. Malynowsky nodded to himself. Is he going to spill the beans soon, I wondered? "Well, have fun!" I conjoined. "Come and see what I've bought this morning!" cried Magwitch. "There may be something in there for you." "You bring the car here, Sir," said Mr. Malynowsky. "I can't spare Kala right now." He looked at my boss for a moment, surprised, even a little hurt perhaps. I saw the thought move across his wide face that maybe he was not trusted by us. His blue eyes, behind their shields of glass, looked even bigger. My heart went out to him suddenly. "I'd love to see your finds," I assured him, "though I'm sure you've given me more than enough already! I adore my brooch; thank you so much! How about we keep your books here until you fetch your car? I'll lend you the barrier pass; it went up again this morning." My ambush of thanks and special treatment seemed to do the trick. "I'll be back in a moment! Don't go anywhere!" and off he rushed. This time, Mr. Malynowsky did not keep me in suspense. "You saw, I take it, what happened when I shook his hand? She's more tenacious than I had thought, that girl. Do you know what is happening, Kala?" I had to guess, at least. After all, this was part of my job now. "Um, is he possessed?" I asked, feeling rather gauche. "The story's a little more complex than that, my dear. You're not far off, though. See what you notice when he returns." Magwitch's musical herald again reached us before he did; but today's was very different to yesterday's. "I don't believe it!" I exclaimed. "He's listening to Moby." The hypnotic beat and electronic tones of the superfast dance track blasted up the street, reaching rave proportions outside the shop. I suddenly regretted giving him the pass. Students on bikes stared and grinned, and upright gentlemen scowled at the Mercedes- cum-ghetto blaster. I dashed out to ask him to turn it down. "What?" he said, blank and confused. "Am I listening to-oh, yes, of course I am. Right-ho." Blissful silence descended on the street. "Look! Come and look at this!" he cried, leaping from the driver's seat and heading for the boot once more. "Beautiful things!" I followed him outside, while Mr. Malynowsky lingered in the shop porch. The boot today was a child's treasure trove of dressing-up costumes. There were designer evening dresses, jackets trimmed with fake fur, long flowing gowns of silk, beautiful skirts in à la mode styles, and a plethora of trendy tops and jeans and garments of all colours and styles. There was even a sixties' afghan in there. I gasped. "Aren't they gorgeous?" he sighed. Then, as if pulling himself together, "Is there anything in here that you would like? This, perhaps?" grabbing a paisley dress at random, "Or this?"-an embroidered Victorian mourning coat. I must admit to being seriously tempted by the latter, but I had already received enough from him. "I don't think it's my size," I said, as an excuse. "But thank you anyway." "They're all size eight to ten," said Magwitch. "They'd fit you perfectly." Then, suddenly, he slammed the boot down, and looked at me with panic. "I've just remembered, I've got to go and pick something up from the tailor's-a beautiful coat, just wait until you see it!" I transferred his purchases into the back seat again, and as he started the engine and Moby blasted out, I saw him grimace at the music. Then his face became blank, and he drove off, the bass beat thudding from his car. Mr. Malynowsky, who had been watching us closely throughout this exchange, escorted me back to our perches at the till. "Any developments on your perceptions, Ms. Trobe?" he asked playfully. "You noticed that the lady's clothes were all one size; why do you think that could be?" "Well, I suppose they're all for one person," I ventured. "Though who that could be . . . ?" "Someone you've seen before, perhaps," said the master of magick cryptically. "Last night, possibly?" The memory of the heroin addict loomed in my mind. "Surely he's not connected with her?" I asked. There seemed no point in inquiring as to how he knew of this brief encounter. Brain-radio, no doubt. "Surely he is, young lady," he replied. "But think laterally." My mind rummaged over a garbage-heap of possibilities, all equally insalubrious. Yet Mr. Magwitch, with his blunt kindness and sudden panic attacks, did not seem the sort to keep a girl, or be on drugs, or any of the other connections which leered at me with rotten smiles. Was he dying, perhaps, and spending as fast as he could? Maybe to prevent someone, this girl possibly, from getting his fortune? But then, why were the clothes her size? Besides which, I was unsure as to just how corporeal she was. Perhaps she was not "real" at all. "The penny is beginning to drop," chimed in Mr. Malynowsky. "She is not alive, this girl; she died six months ago, run over by a car." "By Mr. Magwitch's car?" I asked nervously. "His old one, yes. He had it scrapped after that-a Jaguar XJS it was-and the Mercedes replaced it. I read about it all in the local rag-our friend was acquitted. She ran out in front of him, there was nothing he could do. She was undergoing what they call 'cold turkey' at the time, chasing after some drug dealer on the opposite side of the street." "The High Street," I concluded, shuddering. "Precisely." "So now, she's-what, haunting him?"

About the Author

Kala Trobe (UK) is the main nom-de-plume of Kate La Trobe-Bateman. She is author of the award-winning work of fiction The Magick Bookshop and the new Magick in the West End, a dazzling collection of short stories that brim with imagination and come straight from the theatre-lit, gaudy, blinding, yet, bewitching streets of London's West End - and all seen through the eyes of a magically-minded young and aspiring occultist at one of Londons most well-known esoteric bookshops. Kala Trobe is the author of several works of Llewellyn non-fiction including Invoke the Goddess: Visualizations of Hindu, Greek, & Egyptian Deities, Magic of Qabalah, Invoke the Gods: Exploring the Power of Male Archetypes and The Witchs Guide to Life, and is also published by Random House UK. Ms Trobe currently divides her time between London and Amsterdam.

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