Unholy Smoke!

“You have less wrinkle,” Dr Deng tells me approvingly.

I have spent so much time on her table of late that I’m speaking like her at inappropriate moments. It’s adding to the anxiety I’m being needled to assuage. I’m glad to hear that my face, the window to my soul, has the blinds half up, or half down, depending on one’s view.

At home, I start praying and then stop praying to google my Chinese zodiac. They’re such clever people, the Chinese, their stars are sure to guide me. Oh. Apparently, my potential success rating for the year is very low, it can even be a positive disaster, and I better remember I am also susceptible to contagious diseases. I have my doubts about contagious diseases but borrow some money and book another appointment with Dr Deng.

“So many needle,” she chuckles admiringly.

I remind her to put some extra pins in my face while she builds up my immune system.

I’m not sure that being terminally stricken with disease would be such a bad thing right now, but I’ve read this isn’t the proper attitude. Despair is a sin! Of course, the problem with faith, especially if you’re relatively new to it, is that there isn’t a manual. Well, there are manuals, like the Bible, but they’re dreadfully long and not always soothing. For a quick fix one must chuck it in the fuck it bucket or take refuge in the sort of spiritual books the hairdresser recommends, while you wait for your swimming pool to manifest.

I’ve never been superstitious but so many unhappy things have happened, I’m worried I might be cursed. Unless I’m living my karmic destiny. I hope I’m cursed. I speak to a good Christian. There is an object in my house, she tells me. This is true. There are many. Mostly books. I cast my eye around and spy various texts on symbolism. “They’re not the problem.” I don’t trust this process. I’m reminded of a comic with an alter ego as a medium. He was funny, but he was also effective. Although the whole joke rested on your understanding a medium is a con artist, he really did seem to know the secrets of the room. He was a hit. Then he was arrested on child offences.

“A Demonology Dictionary?” I suggest. “Nope”. “A West African magic book written in blood, bound in human skin, with death pockets front and back?” “Yes, that’s the object that is bothering you.” Gosh. I would never have guessed. I’ve had this book for years. It was a gift from my late godfather, an antiquarian book dealer, that used to fascinate and frighten me in equal measure as a child. I couldn’t say if he was being truthful or exaggerating its fearfulness, and know no medium to ask him, I only know it’s very, very old, and has been authenticated by the British Museum. I look at it suspiciously. It’s sitting on top of some French grammar books and The Lives of the Saints.

I email the details to a specialist. She will make an offer. We arrange to meet.

I’m pleased but my friend is wary. “Why would you pass on something you believe is bad?” she asks. I don’t know, being as I am in oblivion lost. In secular terms, I would pass it on because it’s a book and I don’t want it near me. In religious terms, I wouldn’t pass it on because it’s the kind of book I don’t want near me.

I set fire to it in a plant pot. I’ve been burning all kinds of things recently; a life on the pyre. I note my pyromania isn’t hastening change either. I’m sure there’s a lesson here somewhere and I’m impatient to learn it. Back in the plant pot, the devilish tome refuses to ignite. Determined, I seek out a pile of dreams I’ve been reluctant to relinquish, and returning to my plant pot, I use them as kindling. I watch my heart smoulder. The book rests unmoved. Happily, I have reams of dreams at my disposal. A short hour later green vapours whistle from its sheafs, the last runes curl in flames, the acrid smoke makes me cry.

The book dealer is displeased when I cancel. I confess there’s no longer anything for her to make an offer on.

I wonder what I should do instead. I borrow some more money.

I feel much lighter. In the spirit of the day, I surrender swathes of my wardrobe to the charity shop, and some things I actually like for good measure. In the dark night I dwell on St John.