A bronze-haired woman sits by the bar in a basement jazz club. The barman shuts the till and turns towards her. ‘I’ve forgotten your name – June, is it?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Haven’t seen you in a while. Been busy?’

Bending to tighten her gold sandal, the Queen of Heaven looks up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. ‘You know how it is,’ she says in a breathless, yet strangely powerful voice. ‘Work, always things needing to be done.’

His glance skims her deep cleavage when she straightens. But Juno is intent upon two people in conversation on a nearby sofa.

 

Phil and Deborah are unaware they are being listened to. They have been friends for many years. Phil is gay and Deborah, forty-five, still smarts from her separation. On the table in front of them is a bottle of white wine, rather a good one, for Deborah has expensive tastes. ‘It could work,’ she says, pinging her glass with her nails. ‘Face it, it can’t be much fun being stuck out there – you pay a fortune in cabs. Move in with me, you’ll be more central and it’ll be cheaper because we’ll be sharing the bills.’

Phil squeezes her arm and smiles vaguely towards the band. There, he sees something that causes him to catch his breath: Aw no, anybody but him. It is Kieran, Deborah’s soon-to- be-ex-husband.

 

‘What is it about drummers?’ Kieran jerks his thumb in the stage’s direction.

His girlfriend, Jackie, turns to look at him, ‘What do you mean, “What is it?”’

‘What I mean is,’ he says, scooping a pile of peanuts from the bowl on the table into his mouth, ‘that wee one two and the nod to the side, as if: “I told you so – I’m in the know’’.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Jackie says. ‘I used to be mad about Tommy Lee.’

Kieran rubs his beard and squints at her. ‘The heavy metal guy? You’ve been having me on. Exactly how far back do you go?’

‘Not half as far back as you, dear.’

He sticks his tongue out. Jackie grins and sticks her hands up to her head in a devil gesture.                                             

 

Juno sighs as Deborah’s bony ring-laden fingers tap the table. Such paucity of rhythm must surely have stifled the heartbeat of Mother Earth, contributed to marital breakdown. Pray Deborah is spared the sight of her husband, less than four metres away, fondling the bare shoulder of the female beside him. Even Jupiter, with his hunger of the eagle, had not dared flaunt his mistresses like this. Then, thinking of the nymphs who had warmed her husband’s bed, the white snake of fury stirs and uncoils within Juno. At a giggle from the table opposite, she swivels her gaze to where Jackie’s skirt has ridden up.

 

‘Charlie Watts,’ Jackie says. She takes a mouthful of Rioja. ‘Mmhh.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘He was pretty cool.’

‘Yeah, he got it from me.’ Kieran gives his big I’M-A-MAN laugh while his hand creeps over her knee below the table. ‘Synchronisation, that’s what drumming is about.’ He slides his fingers between Jackie’s legs. ‘The jazz ones are the best. Buddy Rich was the fastest,’ he says, his voice rising above Twelfth Street Rag. ‘It’s about timing and maintaining –’ Startled by a hypnotic smile from a statuesque redhead sitting on her own by the bar, he pauses, blinks, oblivious to Jackie’s nudges with her empty glass. He looks away, looks again, but he can’t see the woman. His voice gets louder. ‘It’s about being in control of what you do.’

 

A clear jewel of sweat eases over Deborah’s collarbone as the band blasts its way through Amapola; her fingers have new urgency on the table: how muscular the arms of the young drummer are. She fancies being pinned by them to the floor, while his tongue performs a solo on her nipples. The musicians finish the set and Deborah gulps her wine, nudges a solemn-faced Phil and joins in with the burst of applause from the audience. She takes in the candlelit, low-ceilinged room. The buzz of talk and laughter and shimmer of excitement on the surrounding faces. Someone’s voice comes from near the empty stage. A loud, assuming voice. A voice she knows well. Then Phil says something. Something insistent. She shakes his hand off her arm and glares across the room into eyes fixed with familiar distaste upon her.

 

‘I don’t believe it.’

Jackie stares at Kieran’s face, tight and white as his jeans. ‘What?’ she says, glancing around and over to the queue at the bar.

‘Debs is here with that pal of hers, Phil.’

She follows his line of vision and sees an agitated woman’s gestures to the man next to her.

‘The bloody witch!’ Jackie rounds on Kieran. ‘What’s she doing here? She doesn’t even like jazz.’ Her voice takes on a note of satisfaction. ‘Remember – don’t you remember how she dumped all your old CDs in the bin before you moved out?’

‘Thanks for the reminder,’ he says. And the vinyl. Their covers tumble like a pack of cards: Gerry Mulligan, John Coltrane. Then there was Herbie Mann, Live at the Village Gate.

‘Well, I’m not leaving!’ Jackie folds her arms and shakes her bouffant head.

‘Just ignore her.’

‘What am I supposed to do?’ she demands. ‘Sit here while that bloody witch sends out the evil eye – look at her sneering!’

‘She’s been like that since she had her lips done.’

‘I’ll make them fatter.’

Laughing, Kieran strokes her leg. ‘Calm yourself.’

But Jackie shrugs his hand off. ‘Calm myself? What about her phone calls to my work – telling my colleagues all those lies?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I blame the counsellor guy for telling her to express herself. She had no problem with that! Telling her she was an abused wife – when it was me who was the abused husband! Putting up with her tantrums, her jaunts here and there – and all the while saying she’d no money.’

Jackie snorts. ‘So who paid for it all, then?’

Kieran flicks a peanut towards where Deborah and Phil huddle together. ‘My account, that’s what was paying for it. She was paying Freud out of my account!’

 

The musicians drift back to the stage, jostling each other, clowning for the benefit of the audience. Juno watches Deborah’s rigid body press deeper into the sofa. Forget about that peacock husband, she wants to tell her. Forget about that half-naked heifer beside him. Forget about lust. Forget even about vexation! The trouble with you mortals is you crave a banquet every day. What you need is a dose of abstinence.

 

‘Maybe we should go,’ Phil says. ‘You’ll only get more upset.’

‘Why should we?’ Deborah says. On her bedside table is a book about female empowerment: Awaken the Female Warrior Within. It tells her the key to this is being unafraid of darker energies. Each day, Deborah reminds herself: Whether light or dark, I will find my spark. Now, fuelled by the wine (and the contents of the miniature flask in her handbag), she is charged with sudden exhilaration. The power is within her – after all, isn’t this something her husband had recognised? He, whose most frequent assertion had been, ‘You’re a witch.’

Her angular face softened by the candlelight, Deborah sips her wine and silently pleads for justice. Divine Goddess, Goddess Divine, remove the evil within this place. Her body tingles. Her heart beats fast. Eyes scrunched, burping, she begs again. Divine Goddess, Goddess Divine, remove the evil within this place.

 

Juno waves away the barman’s attempt at conversation. Her eyes gleam like water on the darkest of nights and her breath comes swift, like the wind that slices through the thickest coat, the wind that strips trees bare and tosses wayward dogs and drunks into streams. She sees Jackie’s frizzy head leaning on Kieran’s shoulder and she breathes deeper still: vexation is righteous! Jupiter’s strumpet may have been crowned with stars, but this gaudy slut will know shame – as surely as Juno is the divine queen of gods and men. Let it be remembered the Queen of Heaven can cradle a child in her arms while grinding an asp into the dust with her bare feet. And her hands, these hands that deliver an infant into the light, these are the same that can snap a man’s neck like a wishbone. Blowing out lightly, Juno chuckles as alcove candles flicker and leap and cast long shadows upon stuccoed walls. Justice for lechery can be such fun.

 

A sudden spasm seizes Jackie’s neck. She jerks her head up and butts Kieran, who groans and clutches his chin. ‘What the –’                              

‘It wasn’t my fault – I got cramp.’ She massages her neck with one hand and picks up her wineglass with the other. But, as if propelled by an invisible force, the glass lurches and tips its contents over Kieran’s jeans. A crimson stain spreads across his thighs. ‘Look what you’ve done now!’ he shouts. ‘Look what you’ve done!’

 

Deborah’s heart sets up a crazy rhythm while the drummer observes her steadily. Her pulse races as his arms rise and fall. She starts at the gust that blows a door shut. The room seems to grow smaller and candle flames dance. At the sight of her husband and his girlfriend in animated discussion, she snatches up her bag. ‘That’s it,’ she says. ‘I’ve had enough.’

She charges past the bar, pausing when a hand reaches to steady her. For a moment Deborah meets eyes as green as Chartreuse, eyes that regard her with some amusement, yet also compassion. As if in a trance, she remains frozen until, feeling a jacket placed around her shoulders, she turns, shivering, to see Phil. She glances back, but the stool where the woman sat is empty. It is Kieran she sees.

Too busy despatching a vitriolic look in her direction, Kieran fails to notice the stool he now trips over. Sliding along the wet floor, he lands on his backside to Deborah’s clapping and cry of ‘Bravo!’ while guffaws erupt from a group of men at the bar. ‘Nice one, mate!’ As she watches her estranged husband stumble, scowling, to his feet, Deborah has a curious feeling of lightness. She tucks her arm under Phil’s. ‘C’mon,’ she says.

 

The room is stifling. Jackie feels great waves of heat wash over her. Somebody must be smoking, there’s a definite smell of it nearby. She laughs at the thought of Kieran’s floorshow, falling then hobbling off in a huff to sponge his jeans. A sudden blow to the side of her head and a torrent of water hitting her face silences her merriment. ‘My God, you’re on fire! Your hair is on fire!’ The strange voice, a rolling, crashing whisper, comes from a tall woman with a jug. ‘You caught your hair in the alcove candles when you leaned back.’ Fearing another deluge, Jackie tries to protest, but the woman disappears into the crowd.

In the Ladies, she peers dizzily at herself in the mirror. One hand goes to her head in disbelief, while the other grips the side of the basin. Her wail echoes around the room as the cruelty of the strip lighting reveals her predicament. ‘My hair! See what’s happened to my hair!’ Imploded in defeat, her crowning glory sticks to her head like singed candyfloss.

Standing at the next basin, a small woman with a caustic look examines her. ‘What happened?’

‘My hair caught fire in a candle,’ Jackie says. ‘Blame it on a witch.’

The woman finishes drying herself. ‘Good job you didn’t have any lacquer on or you would have shot up like a rocket.’

 

Juno smooths her dress and sighs pleasurably up at the night-time sky. There she is, crowned with lilies and roses, riding across the golden orb of the moon in her chariot, sceptre in hand. She may be Queen of Heaven, defender of married women, but her day’s work is done. A fine drizzle becomes a quick downpour. She hastens along the empty street, her footsteps fading as she vanishes behind a curtain of rain. There is the sudden clatter of horses’ hooves. Or perhaps it is just the rain.