“The seventh child of a seventh child? Aren’t you supposed to be, like, psychic or something?” A sudden burst of laughter makes the speaker – a gangly young man barely out of his teens – look around uncertainly. “What?” he asks. The other two men make no attempt to hide their mirth.
“Psychic!” one of them splutters. “That’s a new one.”
“Psychotic, more like,” says the other. He starts to say something else, only to break off with a yelp as someone jabs her elbow into his ribs. Rubbing his side, he shoots an injured glance at the elbow’s owner. “Responding with violence just proves my point, you know.”
Evelyn smiles sweetly at him. “Shut the fuck up, Carson.” Ignoring both his glower and Sanford’s continued mirth, she returns her attention to Smith. “If I was, then someone forgot to pass the message on. I’m about as psychic as a brick.”
“Subtle as one, too,” Carson mutters.
She doesn’t try to deny it. “Well, you know what they say: Blunt by name, blunt by nature.”
“Know what else they say about you?”
“No, what?”
“Oh, nothing of any real interest. Forget I brought it up.”
“I’m interested. Tell me.”
“I couldn’t possibly be a party to gossip and rumour-mongering. It’s a matter of principle.”
She snorts. “You wouldn’t know a principle if it bit you on the arse. And unless you want me to kick that flabby posterior of yours, you’ll tell me exactly what you’ve heard.”
Smith interrupts before Carson can reply to the threat, his mind evidently still on the previous subject. “But there are all the legends and stuff. It has to mean something.”
“We’ll continue this later,” Evelyin mutters to Carson. He just grins. “What it means,” she says to Smith, “is that the Blunts have been Catholic since forever. Almost before they started joining the army. They have large families, and seven children isn’t exactly unusual. Odds of a seventh child having a seventh kid of their own are actually relatively high.”
“But…”
“It’s just statistics. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Smith’s superstitious, though.” Sanford swats him on the shoulder, more or less gently. “Chucks salt over his shoulder if he spills it; won’t walk under ladders…”
Smith flushes. “I’m not that bad,” he protests.
“Yeah, y’are. Don’t worry, though. We’ll soon knock that shit out of you.”
“It’s not shit!” The background noises of the pub quieten briefly; people breaking off their conversations to see what the shouting’s about. They soon pick up again when it’s obvious nothing exciting is happening. Smith flushes even brighter red, sinking down in his seat. “Well, it’s not all shit, anyway,” he mutters.”
“Something you feel strongly about?” Evelyn raises her eyebrows enquiringly.
“Not really.” At Carson’s disbelieving snort, he hunches over defensively. “Well, maybe a little.”
“Why?”
He shrugs uncomfortably. “I’m just interested.”
“Tell ’em your theory, kid.” Sanford nudges him, grinning. To the other two, he says. “This is a good one.” For a moment, Smith looks like he’s going to refuse, but then he sighs wearily.
“It’s not my theory,” he says. “It’s a fairly old one, actually. A lot of people think that superstitions are the remnants of protective rituals. Except that no one really remembers what they’re for. They do them out of habit, but the meanings have been lost.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” says Carson. “What are they supposed to protect people from?”
“All kinds of things.” Smith is obviously warming to his subject. “Bad luck, curses and…” He falters, looking down at the table. “Things.”
“Things?”
Slumping further in his seat, Smith mutters something inaudible.
“What was that?”
Somewhat louder, he says: “Monsters.” There’s a brief pause, and Sanford and Carson burst out laughing again. Evelyn remains silent, frowning.
“He means vampires and werewolves and ghosts, oh my” chortles Sanford. “Real Hammer Horror stuff.”
“You really believe in all of this?” Smith doesn’t answer Carson’s question, staring into the bottom of his glass as if he’s wishing it would just swallow him up.
Evelyn drains her own glass and stands up. “Well, it looks like it’s my round, lads,” she says firmly. What do you want?”
Carson and Sanford don’t need telling twice. “Beer!” they chorus.
“Might’ve known,” she grins. “What about you, Smith?”
“The same,” he says, looking relieved at the change of subject. “Thanks.”
“You can come and help me carry them.” He nods, following her to the bar. While they’re waiting to be served, she gives him a lop-sided smile. “They don’t mean anything by it, you know. They take the piss out of everyone.”
“Yeah, I know.” Another minute or so goes by, both of them lost in their own thoughts.
“So,” she says, casually. “Do you believe in monsters?”
He looks up at her sharply, but the hurt betrayal melts into a puzzled frown when he sees the oddly intense look in her eyes. “I believe there are things out there that science can’t explain,” he says, cautiously.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” His shoulders twitch in an awkward shrug. “It’s just… You hear things, sometimes. Strange things. Most of it’s just crap, but there’s always the odd incident that can’t really be explained away. Individually, they don’t amount to much, but if you put them together, they start to add up.”
“And what do you think they add up to?”
He starts to say something, and then hesitates, evidently changing his mind. Taking a deep breath, he meets her eyes and says, softly: “There are monsters out there. I think… I think there always have been.” She tilts her head to one side, studying him thoughtfully. Smith shifts uncomfortably under the regard, flushing slightly and looking away.
“If that’s true, then why doesn’t everyone know? Why isn’t this out in the open?”
“They’re good at hiding,” he says, simply. “And… I’m reading a book at the moment, by Professor Lyons. He’s written a whole bunch of books, actually. Anyway, he says that people don’t want to believe the world isn’t as neat and orderly as explainable as they’d like it to be. So they just close their eyes and go about their lives.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I guess. Yeah.”
The silence stretches for a few moments, and then she says, quietly: “So do I.”
His head snaps round and he stares at her, his mouth an ‘O’ of surprise. “Have you…?” he starts to ask, but she cuts across the question like a scalpel through flesh.
“So, these rituals and superstitions…”
“Y, yes?” He blinks, still a little off-balance.
A grim smile lifts the corners of her lips but doesn’t come anywhere near her eyes. “Do they work?”