The Black Museum

Chapter 1

Herne Hill, June 2022

Cross the Tracks Festival

Maureen – or Mo – or Major Mo – or even Dictator Mo, as she was known by the rest of the festival organisers – flicked the pages on her clipboard backwards and forwards. She was perturbed, nonplussed and a little bit put out because there was a large fly in her ointment. Something was here that shouldn’t be. She ran the tip of her index finger down each page of the list but could not find a booking for a rickety old wooden caravan on her ‘master form’. Mo always knew who was coming, and when and what they were going to be supplying but she looked left and right, scratching at her dreads.

Plot 16 was reserved for The Harlem Trotters Pork BBQ and was right where it should be, and in Plot 17 was the Death Chilli Deli, again, right where it should be; but there was no record of a wooden caravan. Plot 18 had not been taken by anyone, not as far as she was aware, and she was just about to march up to the rear of the caravan, bang on its door and ask the owner to move on when she checked again to find that Plot 18 had in fact been taken by The Black of Beyond – Magical Tattoos.

The Black of Beyond – Magical TattoosMo could have sworn that it had not been there five minutes ago, but if its name was on the list, then the caravan was getting in. She closed her folder and snapped the elastic band around it, just to keep everything in its place. Then she went in search of a drink and some good music. This was the last time she would volunteer to help organise Cross the Tracks.

“Well, until next year,” she chuckled to herself.

She walked away, and night fell.

Charlie Watson was the ‘plus one’ for his mate Nathan. He hadn’t really wanted to go to a festival. The images of enlightened and spiritually liberated numpties surfing through mud and whatever it was that the chemical toilets leaked out had never really piqued his interest but Nathan, his best mate from school had begged him and promised him any number of banker benefits to do the right thing and man up. Charlie, who could have easily played the Covid card, decided to help a friend out and agreed to join. He had played the wingman before and hated himself for doing so afterwards. This weekend had been different. Nathan’s girlfriend’s friend was called Emily. She was remarkable in every way. She had that Emilia Clarke thing going on. She was blonde, feisty, clever, sensitive, and far more intelligent than he was, about everything. She’d sussed him straight away. He’d been trying to work out how to put up the tent and she’d just grabbed the fabric, given it a shake and then staked the fully formed shelter to the ground with plastic pegs before he’d had a chance to show his hunter-gatherer skills.

wingman“Now that’s out of the way why don’t we find a drink and you can tell me how you got roped into coming to the festival as well,” she said.

“I wanted to come,” said Charlie.

“Really? Who’s headlining tonight and who’s on the main stage tomorrow?” said Emily with a look on her face that suggested she already knew the answer to that question or any other.

“The Charlatans are on the main stage tonight, and tomorrow it’s The Killers.”

Emily laughed and said, “that was last year. At the Virgin Festival. In Peterborough.”

Charlie was embarrassed at his stupidity. He liked this girl. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but he just did, there was something natural about her. He didn’t need to big himself up or create a false narrative. She would see right through it anyway.

“Okay, smart arse, who is headlining tonight then?” he said.

“I haven’t got a clue,” Emily replied, giggling.

“You’re a bit of a berk, you know that?” said Charlie.

“It’s just like looking in a mirror, isn’t it,” she smirked.

And after that short exchange, Charlie and Emily became soul mates, lovers and partners in crime – all in the space of an afternoon. They listened to music, queued for hot dogs that were more dog than hot, made love under the trees, and then as a mark of their true and undying love for each other, decided on a temporary tattoo.

The gypsy caravan was wearing its Sunday best. Garlands of wildflowers had been wound around the wooden spokes of its wheels and lanterns of all shapes and colours swung gently from the roof, as if pushed by invisible hands. The caravan’s engine was giving the grass under the tree a trim and Emily, who had once upon a time harboured desires to become a jockey, wandered up to the nag and patted it on the neck.

“She won’t pay you any attention when she has a mind to feed,” said a voice from within the caravan.

“Now, if you had an apple or a handful of wild oats, then she might look up for a second or two if you were lucky.”

The owner of the voice appeared in the doorway at the rear of the wagon and Emily stepped away from the horse. She couldn’t work out from the tone of the man’s voice whether or not she had taken a liberty with it so she erred on the side of caution. Charlie pointed at the sign hanging from one of the branches of the nearby tree.

“Are you open?” he asked.

“Always,” said the man.

He pushed the bottom of the caravan door open with his foot and beckoned them inside with a theatrical wave of his hand. Charlie stepped up first and Emily followed.

“Tardis!” they both said simultaneously.

“You are not the first to call my humble home that. It is the skill of the carpenter to make it appear so roomy, but there is no science to it. A little magic, perhaps?” The man’s voice was pleasant, there was an Irish lilt to it. He wore old-fashioned clothes, a homespun shirt and hard-wearing corduroy trousers that were buckled at the knee. His boots could have doubled for a pirate captain’s in a Christmas panto, and he had tied a burgundy cotton neckerchief around his neck. His face was brown. Hours of sitting outside had given it a rustic tan, and his hands appeared strong and steady. A good sign for a tattooist or someone who handles the reins each day.

The walls of the caravan were decorated with the designs of the tattoos that he offered. All of them were incredibly intricate, and the needlework was incredible. Emily thought she saw one of the designs flicker but when she looked more closely, she realised it was just a trick of the light. At the far end of the caravan there was a wooden stool, a comfy-looking bunk strewn with pillows and racks of different coloured inks, arranged in straight lines along the walls. When the light caught the small glass jars it created a rainbow effect, albeit a rainbow that was straight. There was also a small desk with a neat row of brushes, and pens with golden nibs.

“Please take a seat and tell me what you want. You can have anything on the walls and if you cannot see what you desire there, you only have to tell me, and I shall draft you a sketch in no time at all,” said the tattooist.

“How long do they last?” Emily asked.

“Only a short time, a couple of days at best, and then it will be as it is now, gone forever.” The man sat down on his stool and took up a piece of paper and one of his pens.

“I’ll go first,” said Emily. She already knew what she wanted.

“Can I have a symbol that means ‘truth’, please, here on my forearm?” She pointed to the inside of her left arm.

“Truth? Why of course, young lady. Sit yourself down, and tell me … what colour would you like?”

Emily sat down on the bunk and looked up at the rows of bottles and jars. Each of them wore a beautiful hand-drawn label in copperplate script. One of them was called Mary Blood Red, another was Sad Prussian Peter. Brave Brown the Bard, read another.

Mary Blood RedSad Prussian PeterBrave Brown the Bard“They have interesting names,” she said.

“All things have names, colours too. It gives them power, and if you know them, you can understand them better,” said the man.

“Oh,” said Emily. It was the best reaction she could come up with on the spot.

“Now then, shall we begin?” he said, taking her arm in his strong hands.

“Why not?”

Emily sat back on the bunk and watched as the man drew on her skin in a deep green colour that she didn’t remember choosing, but didn’t mind either. He was very good. The quality of his penmanship was remarkable and his linework was beautiful. He hummed as he worked and never looked up. Before she knew it he was wiping her arm with a smooth, scented cloth.

“All done! What do you think?” he asked.

Emily loved her new ink, and the colour, only temporary of course, was so vivid that it looked like a real tattoo.

“It’s amazing!” she exclaimed and sprung up from the bunk to show Charlie.

In the natural sunlight it was even better and Emily squealed with delight.

“Your turn now,” she said to Charlie.

He chose the image of two crossed daggers, observed in the nautical style, with a moon and stars above.

“A fine choice for a strong young man,” said the tattooist.

Later, after they had shown all their friends and bored them to death with how skilled with his pen the tattooist was and how quaint his little caravan, like something out of a fairy-tale, they laid out on the grass beside their tent, held hands and looked up at the night sky. This was the last night of the festival. Tomorrow was Sunday, and the day after that was a work day. Neither had been in their current jobs for long enough to consider taking a sickie, so they made love under canvas and fell asleep, both feeling happier than they had done in a very long time.

They woke to the sounds of stirring and movement outside their tent. Zips flew up and down and lighters flickered below cigarettes. A dog barked, and someone nearby farted, making Emily giggle. Lots of the other festivalgoers were on the move already, trying to avoid the inevitable crush at the gates and the exhausting squeeze of the Tube.

Charlie and Emily waited until it was relatively quiet and then stuck their heads out of the tent, not quite ready yet to leave its warmth. The delicious aroma of fresh coffee and bacon sandwiches wafted across the park towards them. If someone hadn’t flushed the nearby Portaloo and sent a mushroom cloud of gas their way, it would have been the perfect start to the day.

Later that morning, after a mighty hot dog and a banger sanger, they packed their tents away, collected the empty cans and packets of used wipes and said their farewells to each other. Emily kissed Charlie hard on the mouth and they promised to call each other later, for a chat.

The caravan was locked up, the lanterns were gone, and the sign that hung from the branch of the tree was no more – but the horse was still munching on the grass nearby. Inside the caravan, the man was awake and busy. He was sitting on his bunk, fully dressed. He was taking the small tissue squares he had used to wipe the arms, legs and backs of his customers from a small drawer under the rack of ink bottles and smoothing them flat.

He had quite a collection but there were only two that he could use properly, so he discarded the rest, putting them all into a bowl on his wash stand and setting light to them with the flame from an oil lamp. Then he took two empty bottles from the drawer and carefully attached a label to each one, and after he was satisfied that they looked suitably neat and tidy, he inserted one tissue square into each bottle.

“I shall name this one ‘Emerald Truth’, and this one, ‘Black as Night’,” he said softly.

Then he started to hum. It was a mournful tune and the oil lamp flickered and nearly went out as if it were retreating from the sound. The tune wandered on and on and after a spell, the Irishman picked up the bottle marked Emerald Truth and began to gently tap on the glass with the golden tip of one of his pencils. A faint glow appeared inside it and soon the bottle was full of light, and the symbol that the man had drawn on Emily’s skin formed. At first it looked beautiful and intricate, but soon it began to twist and turn in on itself. It stretched and tore and started to disintegrate. Bits of the design wilted and decayed until there was nothing left of it. The light flared then disappeared. All that was left was an inch of green liquid at the bottom.

The man looked very happy with himself and placed the bottle in his rack. Then he picked up the remaining bottle and began to hum once again.

The following morning, Charlie awoke to the dulcet tones of Nick Ferrari on LBC, and Emily to the bang and crash of Absolute Radio. Both went about their morning rituals, feeling energised and ready to face the week ahead. But something wasn’t quite right and neither could put a finger on what it was.

Each of them was pretty sure they had enjoyed a fantastic weekend. The music had been off the scale and the people had been friendly, but neither Emily nor Charlie could remember who they had met or what they had done after pitching their respective tents. It was all a bit of a blur. Emily could not have picked Charlie out in a police line-up and Charlie, who was a serial gossip when it came to his lovemaking prowess had nothing to say for a change. The only thing that they remembered about the festival was having an amazing temporary tattoo.

Mo, whose job it was to help clean up after the hordes had dispersed and make sure that the vendors and food wagons hadn’t left any of their equipment in the park, weaved from one plot to the next, making notes about the conditions of each. There would be no space or place for them next year if they had blotted their copybook. When she got to the plot where the old rickety caravan had been, there was no sign that it had ever been used. It was immaculate. She couldn’t even find a single cigarette butt or a squashed tin foil container in the grass. If anything, the plot looked lovely, green and fresh. And when Mo looked for the festival booking for the temporary tattoo artist known as The Black of Beyond, there was just an empty panel where his details should have been.