The Hanged Man
Ian Rankin
The killer wandered through the fairground.
It was a traveling fair, and this was its first night in Kirkcaldy. It was a Thursday evening in April. The fair wouldn't get really busy until the weekend, by which time it would be missing one of its minor, if well-established, attractions.
He'd already made one reconnaissance past the small white caravan with its chalkboard outside. Pinned to the board were a couple of faded letters from satisfied customers. A double-step led to the bead curtain. The door was tied open with baling twine. He didn't think there was anyone in there with her. If there was, she'd have closed the door. But all the same, he wanted to be careful. "Care" was his byword.
He called himself a killer. Which was to say that if anyone had asked him what he did for a living, he wouldn't have used any other term. He knew some in the profession thought "assassin" had a more glamorous ring to it. He'd looked it up in a dictionary, found it was to do with some old religious sect and derived from an Arabic word meaning "eater of hashish." He didn't believe in drugs himself; not so much as a half of lager before the job.
Some people preferred to call it a "hit," which made them "hit men." But he didn't hit people; he killed them stone dead. And there were other, more obscure euphemisms, but the bottom line was, he was a killer. And for today, the fair was his place of work, his hunting ground.
Not that it had taken a magic ball to find the subject. She'd be in that caravan right now, waiting for a punter. He'd give it ten more minutes, just so he could be sure she wasn't with someone—not a punter necessarily; maybe sharing a cuppa with a fellow traveler. Ten minutes: If no one came out or went in, he'd make himself her next and final customer.
Of course, if she was a real fortuneteller, she'd know he was coming and would have hightailed it out of town. But he thought she was here. He knew she was.
He pretended to watch three youths on the firing range. They made the elementary mistake of aiming along the barrel. The sights, of course, had been skewed; probably the barrel, too. And if they thought they were going to dislodge one of the moving targets by hitting it ... well, best think again. Those targets would be weighted, reinforced. The odds were always on the side of the showman.
The fair stretched along the waterfront. There was a stiff breeze making some of the wooden structures creak. People pushed hair out of their eyes, or tucked chins into the collars of their jackets. The place wasn't busy, but it was busy enough. He didn't stand out, nothing memorable about him at all. His jeans, lumberjack shirt, and trainers were work clothes: At home he preferred a bit more style. But he was a long way from home today. His base was on the west coast, just down the Clyde from Glasgow. He didn't know anything about Fife at all. Kirkcaldy, what little he'd seen of it, wouldn't be lingering in his memory. He'd been to towns all over Scotland and the north of England. In his mind they formed a geography of violence. In Carlisle he'd used a knife, making it look like a drunken Saturday brawl. In Peterhead it had been a blow to the head and strangulation, with orders that the body shouldn't ever be found—a grand and a half to a fishing-boat captain had seen to that. In Airdrie, Arbroath, Ardrossan ... he didn't always kill. Sometimes all that was needed was a brutal and public message. In those cases he became the postman, delivering the message to order.
He moved from the shooting range to another stall, where children tried to attach hoops to the prizes on a carousel. They were faring little better than their elders next door. No surprise, with most of the prizes oh-so-slightly exceeding the circumference of each hoop. When he checked his watch, he was surprised to find that the ten minutes had passed. A final look around, and he climbed the steps, tapped at the open door, and parted the bead curtain.
"Come in, love," she said. Gypsy Rosa, the sign outside called her. Palms read, your fortune foretold. Yet here she was, waiting for him.
"Close the door," she instructed. He saw that the twine holding it open was looped over a bent nail. He loosed it, and closed the door. The curtains were shut—which was ideal for his purpose—and, lacking any light from outside, the interior glowed from the half-dozen candles spaced around it. The surfaces had been draped with lengths of cheap black cloth. There was a black cloth over the table, too, with patterns of sun and moon embroidered into it. And there she sat, gesturing for him to squeeze his large frame into the banquette opposite. He nodded. He smiled. He looked at her.
She was middle-aged, her face lined and rouged. She'd been a looker in younger days, he could see that, but scarlet lipstick now made her mouth look too large and moist. She wore black muslin over her head, a gold band holding it in place. Her costume looked authentic enough: black lace, red silk, with astrological signs sewn into the arms. On the table sat a crystal ball, covered for now with a white handkerchief. The red fingernails of one hand tapped against a tarot deck. She asked him his name.
"Is that necessary?" he asked.
She shrugged. "It helps sometimes." They were like blind dates alone in a restaurant, the world outside ceasing to matter. Her eyes twinkled in the candlelight.
"My name's Mort," he told her.
She repeated the name, seeming amused by it.
"Short for Morton. My father was born there."
"It's also the French for death," she added.
"I didn't know," he lied.
She was smiling. "There's a lot you don't know, Mort. That's why you're here. A palm reading, is it?"
"What else do you offer?"
"The ball." She nodded toward it. "The cards."
He asked which she would recommend. In turn, she asked if this was his first visit to a psychic healer—that's what she called herself, "a psychic-healer": "Because I heal souls," she added by way of explanation.
"I'm not sure I need healing," he argued.
"Oh, my dear, we all need some kind of healing. We're none of us whole. Look at you, for example."
He straightened in his chair, becoming aware for the first time that she was holding his right hand, palm upward, her fingers stroking his knuckles. She looked down at the palm, frowned a little in concentration.
"You're a visitor, aren't you, dear?"
"Yes."
"Here on business, I'd say."
"Yes." He was studying the palm with her, as though trying to read its foreign words.
"Mmm." She began running the tip of one finger down the well-defined lines which crisscrossed his palm. "Not ticklish?" she chuckled. He allowed her the briefest of smiles. Looking at her face, he noticed it seemed softer than it had when he'd first entered the caravan. He revised her age downward, felt slight pressure as she seemed to squeeze his hand, as if acknowledging the compliment.
"Doing all right for yourself, though," she informed him. "I mean, moneywise; no problems there. No, dear, your problems all stem from your particular line of work."
"My work?"
"You're not as relaxed about it as you used to be. Time was, you wouldn't have considered doing anything else. Easy money. But it doesn't feel like that anymore, does it?"
It felt warm in the caravan, stuffy, with no air getting in and all those candles burning. There was the metal weight pressed to his groin, the weight he'd always found so reassuring in times past. He told himself she was using cheap psychology. His accent wasn't local; he wore no wedding ring; his hands were clean and manicured. You could tell a lot about someone from such details.
"Shouldn't we agree on a price first?" he asked.
"Why should we do that, dear? I'm not a prostitute, am I?" He felt his ears reddening. "And besides, you can afford it, we both know you can. What's the point of letting money get in the way?" She was holding his hand in an ever tighter grip. She had strength, this one: He'd bear that in mind when the time came. He wouldn't play around, wouldn't string out her suffering. A quick squeeze of the trigger.
"I get the feeling," she said, "you're wondering why you're here. Would that be right?"
"I know exactly why I'm here."
"What? Here with me? Or here on this planet, living the life you've chosen?"
"Either . . . both." He spoke a little too quickly, could feel his pulse rate rising. He had to get it down again, had to be calm when the time came. Part of him said, Do it now. But another part said, Hear her out. He wriggled, trying to get comfortable.
"What I meant, though," she went on, "is you're not sure anymore why you do what you do. You've started to ask questions." She looked up at him. "The line of business you're in, I get the feeling you're just supposed to do what you're told. Is that right?" He nodded. "No talking back, no questions asked. You just do your work and wait for payday."
"I get paid upfront."
"Aren't you the lucky one?" She chuckled again. "But the money's not enough, is it? It can never recompense for not being happy or fulfilled."
"I could have got that from my girlfriend's Cosmopolitan."
She smiled, then clapped her hands. "I'd like to try you with the cards. Are you game?"
"Is that what this is—a game?"
"You have your fun with words, dear. Euphemisms, that's all words are."
He tried not to gasp: It was as if she'd read his mind from earlier—all those euphemisms for "killer." She wasn't paying him any heed, was busy shuffling the outsized tarot deck. She asked him to touch the deck three times. Then she laid out the top three cards.
"Ah," she said, her fingers caressing the first one. "Le soleil. It means, the sun."
"I know what it means," he snapped.
She made a pout with her lips. "I thought you didn't know any French."
He was stuck for a moment. "There's a picture of the sun right there on the card," he said finally.
She nodded slowly. His breathing had quickened again.
"Second card," she said. "Death himself. La mort. Interesting that the French give it the feminine gender."
He looked at the picture of the skeleton. It was grinning, doing a little jig. On the ground beside it sat a lantern and an hourglass. The candle in the lantern had been snuffed out; the sand in the hourglass had all fallen through.
"Don't worry," she said, "it doesn't always portend a death."
"That's a relief," he said with a smile.
"The final card is intriguing—the hanged man. It can signify many things." She lifted it up so he could see it.
"And the three together?" he asked, curious now.
She held her hands as if in prayer. "I'm not sure," she said at last. "An unusual conjunction, to be sure."
"Death and the hanged man: a suicide maybe?"
She shrugged.
"Is the sex important? I mean, the fact that it is a man?"
She shook her head.
He licked his lips. "Maybe the ball would help," he suggested.
She looked at him, her eyes reflecting light from the candles. "You might be right." And she smiled. "Shall we?" As if they were but children, and the crystal ball little more than an illicit dare.
As she purled the small glass globe toward them, he shifted again. The pistol barrel was chafing his thigh. He rubbed his jacket pocket, the one containing the silencer. He would have to hit her first, just to quiet her while he fitted the silencer to the gun.
Slowly, she lifted the handkerchief from the ball, as if raising the curtain on some miniaturized stage show. She leaned forward, peering into the glass, giving him a view of creped cleavage. Her hands flitted over the ball, not quite touching it. Had he been a gerontophile, there would have been a hint of the erotic to the act.
"Don't you go thinking that!" she snapped. Then, seeing the startled look on his face, she winked. "The ball often makes things clearer."
"What was I thinking?" he blurted out.
"You want me to say it out loud?"
He shook his head, looked into the ball, saw her face reflected there, stretched and distorted. And floating somewhere within was his own face, too, surrounded by licking flames.
"What do you see?" he asked, needing to know now.
"I see a man who is asking why he is here. One person has the answer, but he has yet to ask this person. He is worried about the thing he must do— rightly worried, in my opinion."
She looked up at him again. Her eyes were the color of polished oak. Tiny veins of blood seemed to pulse in the whites. He jerked back in his seat.
"You know, don't you?"
"Of course I know, Mort."
He nearly overturned the table as he got to his feet, pulling the gun from  his waistband. "How?" he asked. "Who told you?"
She shook her head, not looking at the gun, apparently not interested in it. "It would happen one day. The moment you walked in, I felt it was you."
"You're not afraid." It was a statement rather than a question.
"Of course I'm afraid." But she didn't look it. "And a little sad, too."
He had the silencer out of his pocket, but was having trouble coordinating his hands. He'd practiced a hundred times in the dark and had never had this trouble before. He'd had victims like her, though: the ones who accepted, who were maybe even a little grateful.
"You know who wants you dead?" he asked.
She nodded. "I think so. I may have gotten the odd fortune wrong, but I've made precious few enemies in my life."
"He's a rich man."
"Very rich," she conceded. "Not all of it honest money. And I'm sure he's well used to getting what he wants." She slid the ball away, brought out the cards again, and began shuffling them. "So ask me your question."
He was screwing the silencer onto the end of the barrel. The pistol was loaded, he only had to slide the safety off. He licked his lips again. So hot in here, so dry . . .
"Why?" he asked. "Why does he want a fortuneteller dead?"
She got up, made to open the curtains.
"No," he commanded, pointing the gun at her, sliding off the safety. "Keep them closed."
"Afraid to shoot me in daylight?" When he didn't answer, she pulled open one curtain, then blew out the candles. He kept the pistol trained on her: a head shot, quick and always fatal. "I'll tell you," she said, sliding into her seat again. She motioned for him to sit. After a moment's hesitation, he did so, the pistol steady in his right hand. Wisps of smoke from the extinguished candles rose either side of her.
"We were young when we met," she began. "I was already working in a fairground—not this one. One night, he decided there had been enough of a courtship." She looked deep into his eyes, his own oak-colored eyes. "Oh yes, he's used to getting what he wants. You know what I'm saying?" she went on quietly. "There was no question of consent. I tried to have the baby in secret, but it's hard to keep secrets from a man like him, a man with money, someone people fear. My baby was stolen from me. I began traveling then, and I've been traveling ever since. But always with my ear to the ground, always hearing things." Her eyes were liquid now. "You see, I knew a time would come when my baby would grow old enough to begin asking questions. And I knew the baby's father would not want the truth to come out." She reached out a shaking hand, reached past the gun to touch his cheek. "I just didn't think he'd be so cruel."
"Cruel?"
"So cruel as to send his own son—our son— to do his killing."
He shot to his feet again, banged his fists against the wall of the caravan. Rested his head there and screwed shut his eyes, the oak-colored eyes—mirrors of her own—which had told her all she'd needed to know. He'd left the pistol on the table. She lifted it, surprised by its weight, and turned it in her hand.
"I'll kill him," he groaned. "I swear, I'll kill him for this."
With a smile, she slid the safety catch on, placed the gun back on the table. When he turned back to her, blinking away tears, she looked quite calm, almost serene, as if her faith in him had been rewarded at last. In her hand, she was holding a tarot card. The hanged man.
"It will need to look like an accident," she said. "Either that or suicide." Outside, the screams of frightened children: waltzers and big wheel and ghost train. One of his hands fell lightly on hers, the other reaching for his pistol.
"Mother," he said, with all the tenderness his parched soul could muster.