At first, Robert didn’t hear her over the noise in the pub. He had gone to sit down on a leather banquette but wished he hadn’t because he was positioned beside a fruit machine that spewed out coins and jangled his thoughts. Then he glimpsed Cheryl’s face through the crowd, watched her mouth his number. As if he was walking underwater, he pushed his way to the woman whose life he could to bring to a halt. Something in Cheryl’s eyes flickered as he approached. Without a word and only a heavy drag of her eyes up and down his body – a sure-fire way for a psychic to gain a starting point – she beckoned him into the sanctuary of the clairvoyant’s room. It was peaceful and smelled of sandalwood and there was a hint of tranquil music trickling from a couple of speakers. Three other tables were set out with a generous gap between each of them so that the consultations could take place in privacy. ‘Please, sit down.’ Her voice was quiet and structured. Built on grief. Robert did as he was instructed, not taking his eyes off her.
