Transfers

Dubai airport was cool and quiet, as if it was designed to absorb noise. It was also busy, despite being 2am local time. The shops were crowded, even a queue at the gold store, but Gracie needed peace. She walked through the airport until the crowds thinned out, reaching a sort of garden. The tables here were mostly empty so she sat down. Nothing else to do, she took out her tarot cards, reading them to pass the time.

For a while, Gracie's friend Ellie worked as an airport tattooist. It was after covid, when they were desperate to fill concession booths. Ellie worked airside, doing swift designs for people transferring planes. It was always busy. Customers wanted to mark changes in their lives - maybe they had left their husband and were on their first solo holiday. Others were about to start new jobs. Some were flying home from burying parents. For a few, the attraction wasn't so much the tattoo as the chance for a genuine conversation while feeling unanchored from everything. Ellie was making decent money for the first time in her life, but gave up after six months. "Some of the confessions," she told Gracie, "Some of the concessions were too much."

Sometimes, having the cards on a table are an invitation to conversation. The woman who approached wore expensive clothes but deeply wrinkled, as if they'd been worn for days. "Can I sit here?" she asked.

The other tables were empty, so what she meant was: 'can I talk to you?'. The woman placed her coffee on the table, uncomfortably close to Gracie's mug.

"Something happened to me," she said.

Gracie nodded to her to continue. Moved the cards into a single pile and placed her hands in her lap, ready to listen.

"I was flying back from Chengdu. I fell asleep after takeoff, and when I woke up, my mother was sat beside me. I've missed her so much. I didn't know what to say. I held her hand. I wanted to do something, maybe take a photo. In the end, I didn't even speak to her - it felt like the first time we'd been together and hadn't argued."

The woman paused. Gracie had learned from years of readings: sometimes you speak, and sometimes you listen.

The woman looked away as she continued: "When I woke up, my hand was empty."

And it seemed like that was all she wanted. The woman stood, thanked Gracie, and walked away. Gracie packed her deck of cards in her travel case, finished her coffee, and headed towards the gate. The airport seemed quieter than before, more settled. There was none of the bustle she expected at the gate, but she checked her watch: she was still on time.

The gate attendant gave a polished smile as Gracie handed over her passport and QR card. The attendant typed at a terminal, smile slipping to frown. "But I'm sorry," she said, "It looks like the flight you were booked on left two days ago."

Performance Event

In a couple of weeks, Lou Ice, Rosy, Toria Garbutt and I are performing at the amazing In a Land gallery in Hebden Bridge. This is one of my favourite places - beautiful large windows looking out onto the town, and a thriving artistic community brought together by Bryony.

I’m performing a new piece called The Haunting of Wuthering Heights. It’s about the idea of Emily Bronte’s book as a feral Victorian meme that traps its readers. I’m confident that nobody has written a response to the book quite like this one.

Tickets are available here.

Story Background

I like stories that do not resolve neatly, where a mystery hides another one. I appreciate this is might be frustrating for some readers - but I’ve always hated the point in horror films when the mystery turns into lore.

Tattoos fascinate me - I seem to write a lot about them. I find the idea of getting one myself to be deeply uncomfortable, and I’m not sure why.

This is another story about tarot readers. I’ve changed the main character’s name from last week’s story, but it might be the same person. I’ve got a lot to say about the tarot.