He returned to his mother’s car, averting his eyes from the unsavoury activity in the tree house. Just how was he going to speak to him? It wasn’t as if he could knock on his door and offer a reading. But like everything in Bert’s life, the cards would guide him into finding a way.

The answer came the following morning as Bert ventured out with his van. He took the country lanes, rather than the main road that led him into town. They served not only as a useful short cut, but as excellent cover from the sharp-eyed locals on the lookout for suspicious activity. He tried to have confidence in his mission, but it was difficult to blend in when you were driving a rusted orange VW splodged with bird droppings.

He did not see the bicycle shoot out of the side road until it was too late. Bert stamped on the brakes, sending the van screeching to a halt, but the man he had watched the day before hit the panel with a thunk, before skidding off his bike onto the verge.

Bert clambered out of the van, wondering if this was a random accident or all part of a greater plan. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, reluctant to offer his hand. He hesitated, and then remembered his gloves before pulling them on and reaching out to help.

‘I … I don’t know what happened, I think my brakes failed.’ Pot-belly man spoke in a scouse accent, groaning as he climbed to his feet. He brushed away the pebbles embedded in his face, each one blooming a pinprick of blood in its wake. He shook the dust from the knees of his baggy jeans, and then straightened up to inspect the damage to the van. Shaking his head, he stared at his mangled bike. ‘That could have been me under there. Have I damaged your van?’

Bert looked at the gnarled metal of his bike partially lodged under the bumper. ‘That’s all right, it doesn’t matter.’ He tried to contain the tingle of excitement sparking inside him. The perfect opportunity had landed in his lap, and it would be worth a dent in the van to get the man alone. ‘Just hold on while I pull it out,’ he said, wrenching at the handlebars and pulling it free. The wheel was completely buckled, and he leaned what was left of the bike against the van, and turned to survey the man’s injuries.

‘Can I call you an ambulance?’ Bert said, half-heartedly. ‘Your elbow’s bleeding.’

The man looked down at his elbow, the skin patterned with freshly forming blood patches. ‘No, thanks mate, I don’t need the ozzy. I’d better be getting back before it gets dark.’ Taking the bike, he stifled a groan as he limped forwards.

Bert put his hands on the handlebars of the bent-up bike. ‘Let me run you home, I insist.’

‘That’s proper kind of you. The name’s Geoffrey by the way. I’d shake your hand but it’s a bit sore like.’

Bert decided against offering his own name in return. ‘No problem. Come in for a drink, you look like you’re about to faint.’

Bert slid back the side door of the van and Geoffrey climbed inside, looking around in amazement as Bert flicked on the lights and showed him a seat.

Geoffrey squeezed in behind the jutting Formica table, resting his belly under the wood. Bowing his head, he clasped his hand to his jaw as he sat slumped with a sigh.

Bert handed Geoffrey a large brandy, mentally offsetting the costs against what was to come.

‘Nice one, mate. I’m not holding you up, am I?’ Geoffrey said, swirling the brandy in the chipped enamel cup.

‘Not at all, I’ve finished my work for today,’ Bert said, faking his cheeriest smile.

‘Oh, I thought maybe you were retired. Things ’aven’t been the same for me since I was made redundant.’

Bert nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m a tarot card reader. I have clients up and down the country. Would you like me to read your cards?’ Bert did not wait for a response as he plucked the musty deck of cards from his jacket pocket and placed them on the faded yellow Formica table.

Geoffrey frowned, but Bert knew that even if he did not believe in such things, he would not want to hurt his new friend’s feelings while he was being so hospitable; particularly when he was willing to ignore the dent on the front of the van.

‘Sure why not,’ Geoffrey said, ‘me sister’s into all this, she goes to the spiritualist church and everything.’

‘And what about you?’ Bert said, licking his cracked lips as he shuffled the cards.

‘No disrespect, mate, but I don’t believe in all that stuff. Still, each to their own, eh?’

Bert laid down the cards and picked up the brandy bottle, clinking it against Geoffrey’s ceramic cup. ‘Here, have another drink.’

Bert felt the raven draw near as he rifled through Geoffrey’s past. As cine-camera images flashed to the forefront of his mind, he recounted Geoffrey’s early days as a mechanic in Liverpool, before he hurt his back and moved to Haven to be near his sister. He got a job as a factory packer and came close to marrying, but being made redundant caused his fiancée to break off the engagement. Geoffrey had since resigned himself to living alone.

Geoffrey shook his head in amazement. ‘This is a wind-up. You’ve been speaking to my sister, haven’t you?’

Bert raised an eyebrow in his direction. ‘If that were the case I wouldn’t be able to forecast what you’ve been up to of an evening now, would I?’

Geoffrey giggled, the brandy bringing a bloom to his cheeks. ‘Oh yeah? And what would that be?’

Bert replied in a low voice, as he eyed the man with some disdain. ‘I know that you like to spy on the woman next door.’

‘Sexy Mandy? So would you if you’d seen her. Phwoar, she’s dynamite!’

Bert was astounded. The man wasn’t even ashamed of his actions.

‘She’s married,’ Bert said. Even from a distance he had seen the flash of gold on her finger.

‘I know, lucky bastard. I don’t know what he did to deserve her. She’s a right little goer,’ Geoffrey chuckled, apparently none the wiser to his drinking buddy’s disgust.

‘It’s voyeurism,’ Bert said, his words measured. Now was not the time for anger.

But Geoffrey did not hear him. ‘Last night she had on a black PVC bra, a fishnet vest and PVC pants. She goes shopping for all this gear then tries it on for her auld fella when he gets home from work. It’s better than watching Television X!’

‘It sounds like my predictions have been true. Let’s look into your future.’

‘Sure thing, mate, let me know if I score a night with that bird from next door.’

Bert steeled himself as he watched the last moments of Geoffrey’s life unravel before him. Ironically, the sequence that led to his death occurred after another evening of watching Mandy perform for her husband. Bert tightened his lips, reining in his smile.

‘You’re going to break your neck climbing down from that tree house,’ he said. Tipping off the man was the last thing he wanted to do, but giving the warning was all part of the reading and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But Geoffrey burst out laughing, his large belly vibrating against the table. ‘Thanks, mate, you’ve given me a right giggle there. Next thing you’ll be telling me wanking makes me blind. I feel much better now, but I think it’s time I made a move.’

Bert stared with his mouth open, speechless for the first time. He didn’t believe him. He warned the fool and he didn’t believe him.

[#]

Bert had learned from Geoffrey that he lived alone, and like many people living alone, he was a creature of habit. Every night at five he popped out to the chip shop for his tea. He was home by half five, and in the tree house by a quarter to six, to watch Mandy trying on her wares. Perhaps she knew what was happening, or perhaps she was not expecting someone to be watching her from that height. As the cards had shown, the tree house provided a direct view through the curtainless windows of her bedroom. But there was no excuse for Geoffrey’s behaviour, and Bert would enjoy watching the fulfilling of the prophecy.