Clairvoyant

Iona Charlton stood just inside the entrance of her newly opened unit in the bustling North London shopping centre, her heart fluttering with a mixture of pride and nervous anticipation. The sign above the door, painted in elegant silver letters that caught the overhead lights, read Clairvoyant Readings by Iona. She had spent weeks preparing the small space: draping deep purple fabrics over the walls to create an intimate atmosphere, arranging crystals and tarot decks on a velvet-covered table, and positioning a single comfortable chair opposite her own for clients. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, blending with the distant aroma of coffee and fast food from the food court nearby.

It was opening day, and though the mall’s steady stream of shoppers flowed past her doorway with only a few curious glances, Iona felt as though she had finally taken a real step toward the life she had always dreamt of. No more working from her tiny flat or relying on word-of-mouth alone. This was hers.

“Looks proper professional, doesn’t it?” said Kara Christensen, her oldest friend, as she adjusted one of the decorative candles on a side shelf. Kara’s bright smile and practical jeans-and-jumper combination brought a welcome touch of normalcy to the mystical little shop. She had driven over early that morning with a bottle of sparkling wine and a box of pastries, determined to celebrate.

Acacia Broderick, Iona’s mentor for the past five years, stood a little further back with her arms folded, surveying the space with a critical but approving eye. Acacia was a striking woman of thirty-five, she stood a confident five foot eight, her straight brown hair falling neatly to her shoulders, with discerning brown eyes and a long black coat that gave her an air of quiet authority. She had taught Iona how to read cards properly, how to listen between the words clients spoke, and—most importantly—how to protect her own energy after each session.

“You’ve done well, my dear,” Acacia said softly, her voice warm yet measured. “The energy here feels clean. Focused. Just remember to charge what you’re worth. Not everyone can afford to be given readings for free, especially when you’re trying to build something sustainable.”

Iona smiled, though a faint flush of embarrassment coloured her cheeks. She knew Acacia was right. She had always been too soft with people—single mothers, heartbroken teenagers, elderly gentlemen who simply wanted someone to talk to. More often than not, she waived her fee entirely if she sensed they needed kindness more than a paid consultation. It left her finances precarious, but she could not bring herself to turn them away.

“I know, I know,” Iona replied, tucking a strand of her long, wavy auburn hair behind her ear. “I’ll be stricter now that I have rent to cover. Today’s just about getting the doors open and seeing who walks in.”

Kara grinned and slung an arm around Iona’s shoulders. “That’s the spirit. First customer gets a free reading from me pretending to be your glamorous assistant. I’ll tell them they’re going to win the lottery or meet a tall, dark stranger. Works every time.”

The three women laughed, the sound light and hopeful against the low hum of the shopping centre. For a moment, everything felt possible. Iona picked up the small crystal ball she had placed on the table as a centrepiece and turned it slowly in her hands. It caught the light and sent tiny rainbows dancing across the walls.

She had no idea, as she stood there smiling with her friends, that eyes elsewhere in the mall had already noticed the new arrival. Nor did she realise that in the shadowed corners of North London, certain men kept careful ledgers of who owed what for the privilege of doing business on their territory.

For now, the shop smelled of possibility, and Iona allowed herself to believe that her gift might finally be enough.

Iona had only just finished rearranging a few crystals on the velvet table when her first client stepped hesitantly through the doorway. The woman was in her early forties, clutching a worn handbag and looking as though she had not slept properly in days. She explained in a quiet voice that her husband had left her the month before and she simply needed to know whether there was any hope of reconciliation.

Iona listened with genuine sympathy, her hazel eyes soft as she drew a simple three-card spread. The reading was gentle and encouraging, focusing on healing and new beginnings rather than false promises. When the woman rose to leave, visibly lighter in spirit, Iona waved away the offered payment with a warm smile.

“No charge today,” she said. “You’re my very first customer in the new shop. Consider it a gift for good luck.”

The woman thanked her profusely and left with tears in her eyes.

Acacia, who had watched the entire exchange from the side of the room, stepped forward with a sigh. She crossed her arms over her tailored blouse and fixed Iona with a steady gaze.

“Iona, love, that was kind, but you cannot keep doing this,” Acacia said firmly. “You have rent, utilities, and now a proper business unit to maintain. Giving readings away might feel good in the moment, but it will sink you before you even get started. You must start charging everyone who walks through that door—starting with the next one. No exceptions.”

Kara nodded in agreement from where she leant against the wall, though her expression remained more sympathetic. “She’s right, babe. You’ve got a gift, but gifts don’t pay the bills.”

Iona opened her mouth to reply when the shop’s atmosphere shifted. A man in a well-cut dark suit entered, his polished shoes silent on the tiled floor. He was broad-shouldered, somewhere in his late thirties, with close-cropped hair and a face that looked as though it had seen its share of rough nights. He scanned the small space once before his gaze settled on Iona.

“Afternoon,” he said, his voice carrying the unmistakable gravel of North London streets. “You the owner ’ere? Iona Charlton, is it?”

Iona nodded, suddenly uneasy. “Yes, that’s me. Can I help you?”

The man offered a thin smile that did not reach his eyes. “Name’s Vince. I represent the North London Cartel. We like to make sure all the businesses in this patch stay safe, protected against any… unfortunate damage or trouble, yeah? New shop like this, we start you off nice and easy—low weekly rate to begin with. Then we can review things once you’re properly up and running. Sound fair?”

Iona felt the colour drain from her face. Kara and Acacia both stiffened beside her. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice steady.

“I… I appreciate the offer, but I won’t be able to afford even a low amount right now,” she replied. “The business has only just opened today. I’ve barely taken any money yet. Could we perhaps discuss this in a few weeks once things pick up?”

Vince’s smile faded. He slipped his hands into his pockets and regarded her for a long moment, the casual posture somehow more threatening than any raised voice.

“See, that’s the thing, love,” he said quietly. “The Cartel don’t really do ‘maybe later.’ Protection starts now. But don’t worry—we’ll work somethin’ out. Mr Drake likes to meet new faces personally when there’s a conversation to be ’ad. He’ll be in touch.”

With that, Vince gave a small nod to each of the women and turned on his heel, leaving the shop as quietly as he had entered. The incense smoke curled uneasily in his wake.

Iona stood frozen, the earlier warmth of the day evaporating like morning mist. Acacia placed a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder, while Kara muttered a low curse under her breath. For the first time since opening her doors, Iona realised she might have invited far more than she had bargained for.

Vince pushed open the heavy door to the back room of the old pub that served as one of the North London Cartel’s quieter meeting spots. The air hung thick with cigarette smoke and the low murmur of voices. Carter Drake sat at the far end of a scarred wooden table, nursing a whiskey and reviewing a ledger with the kind of focused calm that always put people on edge. At forty-five, Drake was an imposing figure at six foot three, his dark brown hair cropped close and his hazel eyes sharp as they flicked up when Vince approached.

“Boss,” Vince said, dropping into the chair opposite him. “Just come from that new unit in the shopping centre. The clairvoyant bird—Iona Charlton.”

Drake leant back, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “And?”

Vince rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s only been open a few hours. Had a couple of mates there with her. Nice little setup—crystals, curtains, the whole mystic bollocks. I gave her the usual welcome speech, started her on the low weekly rate like we do for new faces. She went white as a sheet, said she couldn’t afford even that right now. Reckoned the business ain’t taken off yet and asked if we could wait a few weeks.”

A heavy silence fell. Drake’s expression didn’t change at first, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. He set his glass down with deliberate care.

“She what?” His voice was low, laced with that East London edge that made men twice his size think twice. “We ain’t a bleeding charity, Vince. New shop, new debt. She pays for protection same as everyone else, or she learns what happens when she don’t.”

Vince nodded quickly. “Told her you’d want a word personal, like. She didn’t argue, but you could see the fear in her eyes. Proper soft type, I reckon. Long red hair, does the whole fortune-teller look. Probably thinks waving crystals around makes her special.”

Drake let out a short, humourless laugh that held no warmth. “They all think they’re special till the rent’s due. I don’t give a toss if she’s readin’ tea leaves or sellin’ magic beans—she’s operating on our patch. She pays, or she works it off another way. Simple as.”

He drained the rest of his whiskey and stood, buttoning his suit jacket. The watch on his wrist caught the light—expensive, heavy, a reminder of exactly who held the power in this part of the city.

“Get the car ready,” Drake said, his tone flat and final. “We’ll pay the lovely Miss Charlton a visit tomorrow. Let her know exactly what ‘protected’ means round here. And if she still reckons she can’t pay…” He shrugged, the gesture casual but loaded. “Then she’ll find out I always collect what I’m owed. One way or another.”

Vince rose with him, already reaching for his phone to organise the details. The Collector had made his decision, and in North London, that was as good as law.