Oh Great, Now I Can See Dead People

by Deborah Durbin

  ‘But you’re not going through the change,’ Annette says. ‘Is Jack getting on alright in London?’

  ‘She ain’t going through the change either. She’s preggers,’ Ange informs me.

  Oh crikey! I hate it when this happens and I am still not used to it. And there’s Annette thinking that she is menopausal!

  ‘Sam?’ Annette shakes me from my thoughts.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Jack. How’s he getting on in London?’

  I’ve learned now not to question the information I’m given, but I have no idea how I go about telling Annette that her hot flushes are not a sign that she is going through the change, despite being in her early forties and with two teenage sons. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to say anything or not. I decide not is the best option right now. Instead I say,

  ‘Oh, Jack, yes, he loves it! It’s a dream come true for him, rehearsing for the Vibe Awards with some of the world’s best musicians.’

  ‘Well, he’s a talented young man and I am so pleased that the two of you are getting married. You’re made for each other.’

  I feel a warm glow wash over me. Annette’s right, Jack and I are made for each other and the sooner I can get the keys to our lovely cottage, the sooner I can make it our first real home together. OK, I know we did share his flat for a while, but that was only because I was in hiding from the paparazzi, so that doesn’t really count. Plus, at the time we were just good friends. Now it all seems so much more real. The mere fact that we have enough money to buy our own property is enough to make me want to burst with excitement and I can’t wait!

  ‘Oh well,’ Annette says, as she slowly pulls her feet out of the bowl of water and dries them on a paper towel on the floor. I quickly scan her stomach to see if there are any visible signs of pregnancy – there aren’t. ‘I guess we’d better get on with the show.’ She pops her headphones on, signals to Liam and flicks the ‘On Air’ switch.

  ‘Right, folks, that was ‘Bump in the Night’ by Allstars and as our regular listeners will know that can mean only one thing - we have the lovely Mystic Crystal in the studio today and she’s here to answer all your calls, so get phoning in,’ Annette says as she winks at me. I put my own headphones on and wait for Liam’s signal of a thumb up to signal that there’s a caller on the line.

  Ever since my attempt at dating the gorgeous sound tech and then realising that he wasn’t The One, I’m happy to say that Liam and I have remained very good friends. Ironically, Liam is now going out with Jack’s ex, Jasmine, you know, the skinny one with the big nose that resembles Concorde, and it is now Liam who has to bear the brunt of taking her to see arty noir French films.

  ‘And first on the line we have Petra. Petra, have you got a question for Crystal?’ Annette asks into her mic.

  ‘Um … yes … please,’ the caller mutters quietly.

  ‘How can I help you, Petra?’ All of a sudden my eyes mist over. I blink a couple of times in a bid to make them water. I must have some dust in them or something.

  ‘Um …I wondered if you could tell me if my mum is OK.’

  As I look up at the smoked glass screen in front of me that separates Annette and me from the sound studio, the mist in my eyes starts to clear, but instead of seeing Liam and Jeff, the newsreader, on the other side of the screen I see a strange hazy image. It’s not my reflection and it’s not Annette’s. I suddenly hear a voice inside my head.

  ‘Tell her I’m just fine and I’m sorry that she had to see me like she did,’ an elderly woman’s voice says. ‘I didn’t want to go in there. I had a bad feeling about that place. I knew that I would never leave there. Can you please tell her that I know it wasn’t her fault, but it wasn’t what they led her to believe either.’

  I relay the strange message and hear the caller gasp.

  ‘Does this mean anything to you, Petra?’ Annette asks, looking at me with concern.

  ‘It was my brother’s fault, not mine. He wanted our mum to go into a home and I was too preoccupied with work to give it much thought. He suggested it and I just agreed,’ Petra says quietly. ‘She was only seventy and full of life before my brother put her in that horrible place. The last time I saw her, she looked as though she had aged by twenty years.’

  ‘What do you think your mum means by it wasn’t what they led you to believe?’ Annette asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Petra says. ‘The last thing I heard was that she had died peacefully in her sleep.’

  ‘I didn’t, you know. That’s not the truth. It was a cover-up. Tell Petra to demand an inquest,’ the woman’s voice urges me. She seems very agitated.

  ‘Petra, can you do something for me?’ I venture. ‘Can you find out if you can get an independent inquiry into your mum’s death?’

  ‘Why? Do you think something happened there?’ Petra asks nervously.

  ‘I … I don’t know what to think at the moment, but your mum is telling me that something has been covered up about her passing.’

  Annette looks at me as if I may have just opened up a huge can of worms, but I can’t let this drop. Something happened to this lady and I have a feeling that it’s been covered up and someone is not telling the whole truth here.

  ‘OK, I will do that,’ Petra says.

  I look in front of me and where I should be seeing my own reflection in the smoked glass screen I see the image of a pretty, grey-haired woman smiling back at me. I gasp and put my hand to my mouth.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Annette mouths to me.

  ‘Um … yes … yes, fine. Right, who do we have next on the line?’ I ask, as I look at the glass screen again, only to see my own reflection looking back at me. Oh, heck. Was that Petra’s mum I just saw? Until now I have only been able to hear dead people in my head and, as strange as it might seem, over time I’ve actually got used to that.

  Oh, crikey! I can’t say I’m a hundred per cent confident or happy at having psychic abilities, but I’ve learned to live with them, and it’s not only become my job, it’s now my life, but I’m not altogether sure that I want to be able to actually see dead people. Miracle did say that the more I learn to trust myself, the more I will be able to pick up. I make a mental note to phone her later and tell her what I’ve seen.

  Annette looks concerned for a moment and then flicks a switch up to signal that the caller on line two is on air and ready to speak.

  ‘And caller number two, what can Mystic Crystal do for you?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah, er, hi. Yeah, I’d like to know how Mystic Crystal does it so convincingly,’ a young man says through the speakers of the radio. Oh, great, another sceptic to add to the list.

  ‘I mean, she’s very convincing and everything, but we all know it’s a load of bollocks. I just wondered how she does it so well,’ the male caller continues. ‘Take that woman just now. You’re not telling me that she’s for real. That magician, what’s his name? Darren something or other. He said psychics are a load of crap. I don’t blame you, mind you; if I could carry it off I’d be earning a fortune convincing people that there is life after you’re six feet under.’

  ‘Oh boy, is he gonna get a shock when he goes!’ An Irish woman’s harsh voice comes into my head. ‘Silly sod, where does he think we go? Frigging idiot!’ she continues. ‘Mind you, I thought I’d be going straight to Hell, me!’ she cackles.

  Who are you? I mentally ask.

  ‘Oh, sorry pet, I’m his Aunt Marion. Tell him you’ve got me here; that’ll scare the pants off the little bugger!’ Aunt Marion cackles again.

  ‘… and that’s another thing, how come, if they’re really up there, how come they can’t give her something useful like the lottery numbers for Saturday night?’ the caller demands to know.

  ‘Tell the idiot that he will still be an idiot, no matter how much money he’s got in the bank!’ Marion laughs.

  ‘Can I just stop you there a moment, love?’ Annette says. ‘Crystal, would you like to enlighten the gentleman, or shall we just cut him of
f now?’

  ‘No, that’s fine. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion on the subject. And I don’t feel that I have to justify myself to anyone. However, there would be no point in giving this caller Saturday night’s winning lottery numbers as he will always be an idiot, regardless of how much money he has.’

  ‘Eh?’ the caller responds, and Annette looks at me as if I might just have overstepped the mark, again.

  ‘His Aunt Marion has just told me to tell him that.’ I smile smugly and poke my tongue out at the microphone in front of me.

  ‘No way!’ the caller says.

  ‘Way,’ I reply.

  ‘Nah, nah, you don’t even know me Auntie Marion.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t,’ I shrug, ‘but she’s here with us now.’

  ‘She can’t be. She’s dead. Yeah, see, you didn’t expect that, did you?’

  Boy, and to think there are people like this out there on the streets!

  ‘Err, yes, and this is a psychic show,’ Annette says, pulling a face at her microphone. Liam and Jeff are wetting themselves laughing in the booth in front of us.

  ‘Yeah, well, if she’s that dead then ask her to give me the lottery numbers.’

  ‘I do apologise, pet. He’s a right ignoramus is our Damien. Tell him he’ll see the winning lottery numbers if he looks properly for them. I ain’t going to do all the work for him, you know. He’s a lazy sod that one, but he’s so bloody thick, you can’t help but feel sorry for the silly bugger and give him a bit of a helping hand. He can’t even hold down a job for five minutes. I don’t know what my sister Janet makes of him. The runt of the family I used to call him. Bloody hopeless, he is,’ Marion cackles again.

  I pass on the message with a chuckle to myself.

  ‘What’s she mean by that then?’ Damien asks. Has it not sunk in yet that I have been speaking to his dead aunt, therefore proving that there is life after you’re six feet under? Obviously not. I despair of people sometimes, I really do!

  CHAPTER THREE

  Having spent three hours in the radio station talking to people both very much dead and very much alive – and believe me, it’s the living ones who are the ones to worry about! I decide to call in to see Valerie, my ex-landlady. Despite her insistence that I call her by her Christian name, it still feels wrong somehow and I have to stop myself from calling her Ms Morris all the time.

  Valerie decided to sell her lovely Victorian house to a young couple who have convinced themselves that they can become property developers after seeing a property development programme kidding everyone how easy it is. I blame Sarah Beeny myself.

  Valerie has now moved into Sunny Valley Retirement Homes, a block of posh retirement apartments for people who wish to live out their autumnal years in luxury.

  And luxurious it is! Just to gain access to the building you have to get past Donald, the official security guard assigned to the complex. Despite being on first name terms with me, Donald still insists that my identity is checked at the gate every time I visit Valerie. First this elderly gentleman, dressed in a smart uniform of burgundy and gold that would not be out of place at The Hilton, looks me up and down and nods, and then he says, ‘Who are you wishing to visit, Miss Ball?’ followed by ‘Have you got any ID on you?’

  I thought he was joking at first. I mean, Valerie is the only person I have any intention of visiting and the only person I do visit, so I’m hardly going to say, Oh, hang on, I wish to visit the funny old man who collects butterflies in apartment seven instead today, please, Donald. And considering he knows me by name and knows all about me, it’s highly unlikely that I am an impostor impersonating me, now is it?

  ‘Afternoon, Donald,’ I say as I hand over my driving licence to him. I’ve given up trying to explain that this regular identity checking to ensure I am not a terrorist is really not necessary.

  ‘Good afternoon, Samantha, and who would you like to see today?’ Donald asks.

  ‘Oh, now let me think … Um … I would like to visit Valerie Morris, please.’

  ‘Very well. Yes, you’re clear to go,’ Donald says, as though he works for the SAS. Having scrutinised my driving licence again he presses a button to allow the large, reinforced gates to the complex to open.

  ‘Well, I suppose it is his job. I mean, if he lets people in without checking them properly, his job could be on the line,’ Valerie replies to my current moan about security conscious Donald.

  ‘I suppose. Anyway, how are you doing? Settling in OK?’

  ‘Oh yes. I love it here … well, apart from her next door. As mad as a hatter she is,’ Valerie says as she pours us both a cup of tea from a china teapot. ‘You know she was up until four this morning playing that bloody jazz music. I told her, I said, I know a young man who plays in a band, he’ll show you music. I’ve got a good mind to ask Jack and the band to come and rehearse in my apartment.’

  ‘You’ll have a job. He’s currently in London rehearsing for the Vibe Awards,’ I say glumly as we listen to the tones of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong thumping through the walls.

  ‘Ah, are you missing him, love?’

  ‘Yes, I am. A lot. I’m trying to hold things together and get things sorted for the wedding and chase up the solicitor, but this is proving harder than I thought.’

  ‘Can’t your mum help?’

  ‘Oh, don’t mention my mum helping! She’s gone into overdrive ever since I told her we were getting married. She is driving me to distraction!’

  ‘Well, that’s what mothers do, dear,’ Valerie chuckles. ‘I would be just the same if my son decided to get married. It’s a mum thing.’

  ‘I guess so. It’s just I want everything sorted out for when Jack gets back and it’s not going as I had planned it. The cottage is taking ages to sort out – have I shown you the photos?’

  ‘Yes, you have, Sam. Now, listen to me. Take a deep breath and relax. You’ll do yourself no good tying yourself up in knots about it all, you know.’

  ‘I know. You’re right. Deep breath,’ I say, inhaling deeply while trying to forget about all the things on my to-do list that are not getting to-done.

  ‘Have you thought of who will give you away?’ Valerie ventures.

  Valerie is far from my initial perception of a bitter battleaxe of a landlady. She’s actually a very sweet and wise lady who has had quite a hard life, and venture she might. I mean, it’s not every day a girl gets married, is it? And the one person who is meant to give me away is no longer here to do so. Every time I think about the fact that my dad won’t be able to give me away at my wedding, tears fill my eyes.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  And I don’t. I mean, I like Colin, my mum’s ‘friend’, as she likes to call him, and there’s always the option of one of my brothers, Matt or Paul – although Paul is bound to forget to turn up, knowing that there was something he had to do but couldn’t quite remember what it was, and Matt’s three years younger than me and it just doesn’t seem right for a twenty-four-year-old to give someone away at a wedding, does it? I just wish my dad was here. He would have everything sorted out by now. He would already have his father-of-the-bride speech organised. He would have booked the cars and made sure everyone who was meant to be on the guest list was on the guest list. My dad would have had everything sorted – if he’d been here.

  Valerie pats me on the arm.

  ‘It’ll all be just fine,’ she smiles.

  ‘Right,’ I say, quickly changing the subject. I don’t want Valerie to see me cry again! ‘I must go and see Miracle before I head home.’ I place my cup in the sparkling stainless steel sink. ‘Oh, by the way, Frank’s just told me, he suggests you turn the electricity supply off to number five.’ I chuckle.

  ‘Well, you can tell my dead husband that he was the one who always did the electrics, so he can bloody well do it,’ Valerie laughs.

  You may think this is a rather peculiar conversation to be having, but ever since Valerie’s late husband, Frank first contacted
me, I find that most days I have a message to pass on to her from him. I still don’t know quite how this happens, but it does. I’ve given up questioning why this has happened to me.

  Suddenly the jazz harmony that had been acting as our background music comes to an abrupt halt.

  ‘See, he was listening to you!’ I say with a smile.

  As I leave Valerie’s new home and wave to Donald, my mobile rings. It’s Jack.

  ‘Hey baby! How’s it all going?’

  ‘Not too bad. Still no news from the solicitor, but I did have a good show at the station today.’ I am so pleased to hear from Jack. ‘How are rehearsals going?’

  ‘Good. We’ve got all the tracks sorted, but Dillon keeps insisting that we’re not going to have enough time to do the full version of ‘Holiday’. I keep telling him it’s going to be fine, but he won’t have it.’ ‘Holiday’ was the song that Jack wrote when we were in Australia.

  ‘Well, Dillon is a natural born worrier. Tell him Mystic Crystal says it will all be OK. Trust me, I’m a psychic!’

  ‘And a sexy one at that!’

  ‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ I laugh. ‘Come home soon, Jack. I really miss you.’

  ‘I will and I miss you too. Loves ya.’

  ‘Loves me too, darling.’

  See, that’s all it takes to put a spring back in my step. As I drive to the Psychic Café Academy I feel as though I’m back on cloud nine again.

  ‘Someone looks very pleased with herself,’ Miracle says as I sashay my way into the office of the Academy as if I’m auditioning for Strictly Come Dancing, with a big smile on my face.

  ‘That’s because I am!’

  ‘You just heard from Jack.’ Miracle says.

  ‘Ooh, you’re good. You should be a psychic.’

  ‘Very funny. Now, before you head off there are cheques to sign and we’re going to have to put on a new course. We’ve had so many people apply for the Beginners’ Psychic Experience that we have too many for the one course.’