Wednesday 4th November, 1992- Becca

Wednesday afternoons at college were given over to sporting activities, but Becca was not really a girl inclined to such physical exertions. With Lauren still absent and Ben on the trip with some of the others, Becca decided to kill the time by doing some window shopping instead. It was only a ten-minute walk into the city centre, passed the hospital where she'd been born. As she strolled by the old Victorian red-brick building, she wondered about the babies being born there that very minute; how heavy they were, what would their first outfit be like, what would the smiling, happy parents' first words to their new infant be? All the answers to these questions about herself, Becca no longer had access to. After her mother died, Becca's father had found it increasingly painful to talk, so much, that she became something of a ghost—a spirit that loomed in their lives, but one which was rarely acknowledged. That was until that awful night when the police arrived at the door.

"Are you Rebecca Jones?"

She'd nodded.

"Would you like to come in?"

The female officer shook her head. "I'm afraid your father has been in a car accident and is currently at the Manchester Royal Infirmary. We need to get you to him quickly. Is there anyone in your family you can call?"

Becca shook her head. It was just her and her Dad.

The journey was fast. She could tell from their manner that her Dad was seriously injured-- the siren and blue lights affirmed that. In the rear of the dark car, her watched as they raced passed the world, her view distorted by her tears and the teeming rain against the glass. She said silent prayers for him the entire journey.

In the stifling heat of the single hospital room, the sound of the various machines around his bed was noisy and obtrusive. How had his face managed to survive such a crash and yet his body sustained such damage? Apart from an off-yellow tinge to his skin, he just looked like he was just sleeping, not a scratch, cut or bruise visible. Yet below the white sheet, his organs were failing within his broken chest, such had been the impact with the other car. A hit and run, the police had described it.

The doctor had told Becca that her father had refused to be ventilated and that he needed to talk to her.

She approached the bed, slowly and caressed the side of his face with her fingertips.

His eyes flickered open. "Becca," he whispered from beneath the oxygen mask.

She moved as close as the machines around him would allow.

"Daddy." She'd not called him that in years.

"Poppet," he whispered back, his eyes struggling to focus.

Becca continued to stroke his cheek, wiping away his tear, as her flowed freely.

"Your mother loves you, Becca."

She let out a sob. Her father had always been so clear, so precise. To see him so disorientated broke her heart.

"With all her heart. She just couldn't fight it in the end. She'd become too addicted. But she loved you. Remember that. Always remember."

He began coughing and a machine to her right started bleeping. The cough worsened and a nurse and doctor rushed into the room. Blood bubbled up in the corner of his mouth and the nurse moved her away from the bed. She felt his hand slip from hers.

He was spluttering now, trying so hard to stop hacking long enough to speak. "I've had the hospital contact your uncle in Norfolk. He will take care of you."

Becca didn't understand. She edged closer to the bed; confusion written over her face. Uncle, what uncle? His delusions were worsening.

"He's a good man, Becca. Promise me you'll let him take care of you. Promise me," he pleaded and began hacking again. This time the coughing was more violent, and the spasms wracked his frail body.

The doctor asked the nurse to escort Becca outside and the woman placed her arm around Becca's shoulders and ushered her out.

Becca turned back to look at her father. He could no longer speak, but his eyes still burned with the same question.

"I will," she said.

The blast of a car horn brought Becca back to the present. She waved an apology, and then waited for several other cars to pass before she crossed the road. Now as cold on the inside as she was on the outside, she bit down on her lip to stop it trembling and willed the hotness in her eyes to stop. Tucked away in her little world of pain she wandered into the city centre, unaware of the journey until she reached the city centre market.

The air ripe with the smell of vegetables, shellfish and fried bacon, she took shelter from the wind and squally rain beneath the canopied market stalls. Hoping the assorted record and book stalls would provide her the usual and necessary distraction, she milled around for nearly an hour before coming away with yet another Bowie album and several dog-eared paper backs. She liked the throng of Norwich market, with its colourful characters shouting out in their singsong, local accent.

From the market she decided to make her way down to the little back streets where the smaller, independent artisan shops were situated, especially Anglian Arts- a quaint artists' supplies shop. Next to music, art was Becca's other passion in life, but one which she'd lost interest in over the last few months. The shop with its low-hung door, twisted oak beams and higgledy-piggledy floor was a treasure trove. One wall held an array of brushes, from the cheap plastic handled variety to the hand-made, Kolinsky sable ones, and another wall was awash with colour. Becca's art teacher had set her a new project that morning, based on the theme of reflections and she spent some time choosing the paints she would need to work on it at home. Maybe she would find the necessary inspiration if she was armed with some new paints and a new set of brushes?

Becca left the art shop and decided to meander her way through the side roads to her bus stop. The evening was drawing in and the temperature seemed to be dropping rapidly. She stopped to pull the zip up further on her coat, when a sign in a shop window caught her eye.

Celebration of the Moon offers you the highest quality Pagan, Wiccan and New Age supplies. God and Goddess statues, Incense, Tarot, Candles and much more. Experts in Crystal Magick.

She moved closer and peered inside the dimly lit shop. Flickering candles were mounted on sconces around the walls, their light reflecting off countless shiny objects displayed inside. Becca's magpie-like tendencies for trinkets and such-like, called to her. An older woman dressed from the neck down in a floaty, purple tie-dye dress, who was wafting a feather duster over some items on a shelf, turned around and smiled at Becca, gesturing for her to enter. A gust of wind picked up, chilling her further and blowing some grit into her eye. Chilled and with thirty minutes to spare before her bus was supposed to arrive, she turned the handle and went inside.

The immediate warmth of the shop wrapped around her in a thermal hug, as the heady scent of burning incense enveloped her senses. In the background, a delicate tune of tinkling bells and whale song, played.

"Hi, come in and get warm." The woman's voice was deep and syrupy.

"Thanks."

Becca began to browse the array of items on sale. Small, glass hookah pipes sat next to fairy figurines and green-man wood carvings. Wicker baskets held crystals and semi-precious stones, while Celtic crosses, horseshoes and dream catchers were mounted on the walls. A stack of angel and tarot cards balanced precariously by the till.

Tash would absolutely love this shop.

"Are you looking for anything specific?"

Becca shook her head. "No, just browsing."

"Take your time. I'm going to make some tea. Would you like a cup?"

"Oh, no thank you, I'll be leaving in a minute."

Becca continued to browse, this time through the self-help book section. Yoga, meditation, visualization. She wondered what her uncle would say if he could see her now.

"Here." The woman passed her a spotted pink mug. "You look like you need a drop of this."

"Err, thanks." Becca took the mug and inhaled the sweet floral vapours of the pale green liquid.

"It's Passionflower. Good for calming the nerves and ridding the body of anxiety."

Becca took a sip. Like all herbal teas she'd tried, the aroma was far superior to the taste itself. She pulled a face.

"You get used to it, and I'm told the more anxious you are, the more bitter it tastes."

She took another sip. Bitter was too nice a word to describe the flavour.

"Keep sipping. Here, take 5 minutes." The woman offered her a small wooden stool as she herself sat on the edge of the windowsill. "Not seen you before, have I?"

Becca shook her head. "No, I've just moved here from Manchester."

"How are you finding it, here? I'm Jenny, by the way."

"I'm Becca. Err, it's good, I guess."

"Not as exciting as Manchester, I'll bet?"

Becca smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

"So, what brings you to my little shop on this foul autumn evening?"

The tea was beginning to sweeten, and Becca did feel a little more relaxed. "I was just on my way to the bus station, after buying art supplies, when I saw your sign."

The woman gave Becca an appraising stare then nodded to herself. "Have you ever heard of an aura, Becca?"

Becca shrugged again.

"Everyone has an aura. Some are less dull and barely visible; some are undeniably bright and clear. The colour of the aura can tell you a lot about a person."

Becca couldn't help thinking about what her dad would say if he was here right now. Mumbo-jumbo. Yes, that was the word he'd have used. She drained the contents of the mug and placed it on the counter.

"You have a black aura, Becca."

Becca giggled. "I'd better be off. Thanks again." She picked up her bags and made to leave.

"It can mean several things. I'm thinking you have suffered a great loss and I think that you are still suffering. But I also think there is something else that is affecting you, I just can't quite see...

"I really must go."

The woman rushed over to the door, blocking her path. She reached out and grabbed Becca by the arm but recoiled as if she'd been stung, falling back against a free-standing fixture. A winged horse statue on the top shelf wobbled and fell to the floor, breaking into several pieces.

"My goodness, are you okay?" Becca asked, moving towards her.

The woman flinched and backed away; her eyes wide in an expression Becca couldn't decipher.

For several moments they remained in awkward silence.

"I have been practising crystal magick for nearly thirty years and never, in all that time, have I felt a surge of energy like I did just then." The woman examined the palm of her hand. "You are wearing a crystal, are you not?" She looked up at Becca.

"Sorry, I really don't understand what you are talking about."

"Do you have a crystal on you right now?"

Becca thought for a moment, her hand automatically going to her neck.

"I have a stone in my necklace that's a little crystal-like, I guess."

The woman nodded. "May I see it?"

The clock on the wall showed that she only had a few minutes to get to the bus stop in time, but she was fascinated by the woman and her reaction.

"I guess."

"Come." The woman walked over to a small table in the far corner of the room. A soldering iron, chains and small stones covered the surface. She switched on a desk lamp, as Becca unzipped her coat, pulling the necklace out from under her top. She unhitched the clasp and offered it to the woman, who was putting on a pair of small round glasses.

"No," she said abruptly, then smiled. "Don't pass it to me, just place it on the table."

Becca did as she was instructed and placed it on a small square of black velvet fabric.

The woman moved the light so that its beam fell directly onto the pendant. She gasped and dropped the magnifying glass. "I've never... this can't be... how on earth?"

She took a deep breath, picked up a magnifying glass and peering at the pendant again.

"Where did you get this?"

"My uncle gave it to me. He said it was a family heirloom."

The woman sniggered.

"Why?"

"And you don't know what it is or what it's worth?"

Becca used to love watching the Antiques Roadshow. Watching people being told the fifty-pence vase they bought from the car boot sale was really an eighteenth-century treasure worth thousands of pounds. Or better still, the smug man in the cravat with the three thousand-pound painting, being told it was a worthless fake; the look on his face the only thing priceless.

"Is it worth a few quid then?" Becca asked, intrigued. She had absolutely no intention of selling it, but she would certainly not be wearing it every day if it was worth more than just sentimental value.

"You cannot put a price on this!"

Becca felt a frisson of excitement.

"Besides no one would want it anyway."

The frisson fizzled out.

"Sorry, I'm still not understanding you. Is it valuable, and how did you know I was wearing it?

"I really can't believe you don't know what this is. I mean, it's the first one I've ever seen to be honest, but I have read about them."

"What is it?"

Jenny took a deep breath and looked at the window to the street outside, where people were rushing past on their way home from work. The wind had increased, and the rain was now battering the glass.

"If this really and truly is what it appears to be," she said in a hushed voice, "it is a Vessel."

Becca screwed up her face, a little in disappointment. "Isn't vessel just another word for container?"

"It is, but it's not the stone itself that is interesting, it's what is inside it, that is."

"But isn't it just some glass or cheap crystal."

"No. No. Legend has it that..." Jenny was interrupted by Becca bursting out laughing. The conversation was now sounding more like the script from an Indiana Jones movie.

"Legend has it that the Stone of Custos, or as I know it, The Vessel, is actually a visual representation of a person's soul."

Becca suddenly felt very cold. She zipped her coat back up.

"To anyone else, the stone looks clear and unsullied, yet the person whom the stone represents, sees something entirely different."

Becca could hardly breathe out the words. "Like what?"

"No one knows. Some records describe people seeing colours, some have seen images, some have professed to seeing angels. What do you see?" She turned to Becca.

Becca looked down to the stone. The table light refracted through the stone, giving off a rainbow of colours across the velvet fabric. All she could in the stone were the slight flaws in the stone, the barely- there black lined of fissure and cracks, certainly no images or angels.

She shook her head. "Nothing. I see nothing."

"Ah, well that's a shame. Clearly it isn't what I thought, or maybe it just isn't your vessel."

Becca nodded.

"Look, I really think this is something rare and I would love to get a second opinion. Do you know, they say that demons would wear these necklaces as trophies from those whose souls they had claimed. Maybe you could leave it..."

"Thanks for your time." Becca grabbed at the necklace and quickly shoved it into her coat pocket. "I have to catch my bus." She hurried over to the door,

"But you can't go yet. There is so much I need to tell you about the stone and what could happen."

"No! No, thank you, I haven't time."

"But, you must. It's not sa..."

Becca had reached the door and quickly turned the lock.

"Hey, we didn't even get to talk about your aura."

Becca pulled open the door. The wind howled in, blowing out some of the candles around the shop.

"No time. Thanks."

Becca dashed out to the street and ran till she came to an alleyway. She ducked inside, put her hands on the wall and lowered her head, taking in great gulps of air, and then she retched. Her body dry-heaved over and over.

She remembered. She remembered everything. She had to get home.

She scooped up her bags and as she rushed out of the alley that led back on to the main road, she collided with a man.

"Careful, young lady. You could hurt yourself."

"I'm so sorry." She bent down and picked up the spilled contents of the bag. "Sorry."

"Well, you take care," she heard the policeman calling after her. "Take great care."