Jonathan had rarely ventured this far into the east side of town, despite spending the vast majority of his years in Willow Mills. As with any town, the further you travel from the epicentre, the more of a distinct reason you need to be there. Those who walked these streets did so with purpose, an A in their rear-view mirror and a B destination in mind. For Jonathan, that destination was Whistleberry Trailer Park.

Even if the trailer park had been a beating heart of the local neighbourhood, Jonathan would have been hard-pressed to know it like the back of his hand. The dreary acre or two had traded hands more times than a bottle of rum at a pirate's reunion over the past decade. The year Jonathan was born, it had been a bustling scrap yard, but that was soon shut down due to a failure to keep up with health and safety regulations. 

Once the council finally cleared the lingering memory of the past owners, including a rather stubborn and rusted carcass of a Toyota Camry, the land was repurposed and opened as an idyllic campsite. Yet again, Jonathan would have been forgiven for not committing this to memory, since a petition from local hotel, bed and breakfast, and hostel owners soon put an end to the idea of tent tourism.

For years, the land sat unused, in an official capacity at least. In a place like Willow Mills, if you leave a plot of land empty for long enough, someone will find a use. Youngsters used spray paint to mark out a homemade football pitch – a pitch that always seemed to be two yards too long on the right side. In the summer of 2007, the town hall decided to throw a charity concert, with local do-gooder Lindsey Luckhurst receiving council approval to set up a stage on the forgotten plot. 

Once the event had wrapped up, the soil remained scarred and shredded by tires, boots, and stakes for the rest of the year. Unfortunately, the concert ended up losing money – whether that was down to a lack of talent, generosity, or poor planning, Lindsey Luckhurst could write an essay if anyone would give her the time of day on the subject.

And so, what was once Whistleberry Scrap Yard and would eventually become a trailer park of the same name, was allowed to drift into the wilderness. Spray paint etched away in the breeze. Soil scars hidden by matted grass and prickly gorse bushes. Music and entertainment a distant memory. The tapestry of once was buried beneath years of neglect.

It wasn't until the autumn of 2021 that the council found a buyer for the Whistleberry wasteland, a trailer park company with a number of locations across East Anglia. Petitions from locals fell on deaf ears this time around, with the new development promising more than 50 new sources of permanent residence for the town – a far cry from a field full of tents. 

One by one, the new citizens arrived, some renting second-hand trailers from the landowners, others bringing their own mobile homes along for the ride. It didn't take long for Whistleberry Trailer Park to reach capacity, but an even shorter time for the land to once again fall into the periphery of Willow Mills. The people of Whistleberry preferred to keep to themselves, and the discontent masses, Lindsey Luckhurst among them, chose to whisper from afar.

As Jonathan approached the trailer park, it was a far cry from the Peak District holiday brochures you might see scattered and dog-eared in dentist waiting rooms. The photogenic rows of pearly white caravans looked more like crooked and yellowed teeth, scattered with little regard to symmetry. Blinds drawn, shutters pulled down, doors fastened, the whole place felt more like a scene from a black-and-white Western. Even the trees stood wispy and unimaginative, like cracks against a landscape of sombre greys. 

It was the kind of place where if someone passed away unexpectedly, neighbours would almost certainly use the phrase 'he kept himself to himself' when interviewed by the likes of Jonathan. And so he adhered to the local custom, pulling the drawstring around his hood a little tighter to fend off the brisk winter chill – keeping himself to himself.

It wasn't hard for Jonathan to track down the mobile home in question, belonging to an Esme Bellegrade – his latest interviewee. Although the trailer park wasn't exactly numbered or signposted, the décor of Ms Bellegrade's home aligned with someone in her profession – or at least the public perception of her profession. If the paying punters wanted crystal balls and Middle Eastern rugs, Jonathan guessed it made sense to lean into the stereotype. God knows he used to do it for his more nerve-wracking interviews. Somehow a tweed jacket, a pencil behind the ear, and a dog-eared notebook screamed 'promising journalist' a lot more than jeans and a t-shirt. Perhaps mystic-chic was the tweed of the tarot world.

As with any story, Jonathan had done a modicum of research before setting food across the muddy puddles of Whistleberry Trailer Park. But a modicum was all it was. That was not out of laziness or a loss of passion, although Jonathan often found himself suffering from such ailments. No, he found it was best to go into stories of this nature with an open mind and a clear page. He had always been taught that a good journalist serves as a vessel for the reader. You ask the questions they would want to ask. You unearth the truths they would want to learn. And you hold power to account when they are unable. If you walk into an interview armed to the teeth with all the research and history the world wide web has to offer, you risk losing an irrecoverable sense of intrigue.

Should Jonathan arrive as a newly-crowned expert in tarot, the room to learn from his interviewee would become narrow and mute. No, he intended to give his readers a background on the overarching topic, before letting the story itself do the talking. There is a fine line between creating a platform from which to write and drowning your readers before the article has even begun.

Jonathan scoffed at the arrogance of his own process. It was as if he were comparing a 15-minute sit down with a tarot card reader in Whistleberry Trailer Park to the Edward Snowden exclusive. Perhaps laziness and a loss of passion were less embarrassing.

As a child, Jonathan, or Johny to his friends and family at the time, was a relentlessly inquisitive young soul. A statement would prompt a question and a question would demand an answer. He still retained vivid memories of tip-toeing around the family home during the early hours, attempting to locate his Christmas presents weeks before they were supposed to be unveiled. It was like an itch at the back of Johny's brain that had to be scratched, no matter what. A mystery deserved an answer, and cracking the code before people expected you to was all the sweeter. These days, Jonathan found it hard to muster a crumb of curiosity even when the presents were parked on his lap. Little Johny would be disappointed or confused at the very least.

Knock... knock, knock, knock.

Jonathan rattled his knuckle rhythmically against the fibreglass door that seemed to bend to the will of even the gentlest pressure.

A muffled click, followed by a red glow through the curtained window, then a set of flat footsteps.

"Enter!" a raspy voice beckoned, somewhat begrudgingly.

Jonathan stepped gingerly through the doorway and brushed his feet against the course welcome mat, allowing the flimsy door to retreat of its own accord. An assortment of coloured beads and ribbons cascaded down from the ceiling, blocking the rest of the trailer from view – a clear divide from civilisation to divination.

"Take a seat," the same voice croaked. Something between an invitation and an order.

Jonathan could spy the outline of a woman through the beads, but by the time the waterfall of plastic parted enough for him to squeeze through, Ms Bellegrade had retreated into a back room – likely her living quarters. The journalist was left to take in his surroundings unaccompanied by a chaperone, the dream of any nosey writer.

The room somehow simultaneously exactly what Jonathan had expected, yet also wildly surprising. Had he not walked through the trailer door himself and felt the fibreglass against the hairs on his right knuckle, he would never have placed his location. The four walls had each been draped in the same dazzling satin sheets, a deep shade of purple that caught the light just right. The floor was carpeted – a blood-red material featuring dancing swirls of black and gold. Had the foundations of the trailer not creaked with every step of his boot, Jonathan would have put himself in the middle of an old country manor house.

The dark walls and dimmed lights made the space seem far larger than it possibly could be, as if the shadows lingered for metres and metres in every direction. In the centre of the room was a circular table adorned with a tablecloth cut from the same fabric as the wall hangings. There was a clear and meticulous theme. Some would say authentic to the trade, while cynics may label it staged. Whatever the case, it certainly made an impact.

The sheer number of candles flickering away in all corners of the room made Jonathan nervous, as if one unwelcome gust could send the entire trailer up in flames. As it were, the one window to the outside world was slightly ajar, and the grey curtains billowed as if extensions from the depressing outside world.

The walls were sparse, but that just made the few adornments stand out all the more. A round mirror placed awkwardly above head height. Symbols Jonathan recognised from his research painted in gold – stars, suns, swords, cups... the devil.

A calendar hung lonely on the far fall, and he took a moment to thumb through it. Near every month sat blank, apart from the pre-printed holidays and a reminder of an upcoming lunar eclipse. The only hand-written notation Jonathan could find was a red circle around June 17th. Before he could nosey any further, his host finally joined him in the room. He felt her presence before he heard the introductory cough. He felt her eyes on his back.

"Good evening," Jonathan nodded, brushing himself down as if he had been caught flicking his way through a dirty magazine. "Please excuse my... fascination."

"Mmm hmmm," Ms Bellegrade mumbled with a furrowed brow. Her face bore the etchings of a woman in her late fifties or sixties, but Jonathan found it difficult to place her exact age. Her eyes hung heavy, with shadowed sandbags propping them up from below. Whatever colour her iris was supposed to be was as close to black as can be, engulfed by the mystery of her pupils. Her circular spectacles sat on the end of a crooked nose – crooked enough to have a backstory – but a fine chain was on hand to catch them if they fell. The purple shawl around her head and flowing black gown made it near impossible to get a read on her.

Much like the beads guarding the entrance to her domain, Ms Bellegrade clinked and clicked with every sway – her gold decorations making both a visual and auditory statement.

"A rather irksome little man from your office told me to expect you at quarter past. It's nearly twenty-five past the hour..." she prodded.

A smile intruded across Jonathan's lips as he battled against making an obvious joke. Something about her being able to predict his late arrival. Ironically, Ms Bellegrade must have forecast such a remark, as her distaste for him was already clear to see. He didn't need a reading or divine intervention to explain when someone didn't like him.

"My apologies, I'm afraid I got a little lost on this side of to-"

"Shall we begin?" Ms Bellegrade interjected, easing herself down into one of the chairs on either side of the table – the only padded seat of the two.

Jonathan clicked his pen and scrambled into his own chair, "Of course... of course. Thank you for your hospitality. I guess my first question is simple. Can you really tell the future?"