The Society of Dirty Hearts

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When Christine and Julian arrived at Grandma Alice’s house, the dining-room had been made ready for communing with the dead. A blind had been lowered and thick curtains drawn, shutting out the early evening light. Six candles were lined like a fence around a bowl of steaming tomato soup in the centre of the oval dining-table. Six chairs were arranged at equal distances from one another around the table. In front of one was a slate and a piece of chalk. The house was bathed in the smell of fresh-baked bread. Grandma Alice was busy in the kitchen, removing a loaf from the oven, tapping its golden-brown crust.

“What are you doing, Grandma?” asked Julian.

Alice smiled down at him, her heavily made-up face wrinkling like an overripe peach. “Checking to see if it’s baked through, darling. If it’s not, it’ll make a sound like tapping on a hollow box.” A mischievous gleam came into her piercingly blue eyes, which seemed to shine out of her face as if gazing at something beyond Julian. “Or like the echo of a ghost’s voice.”

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