Oh Great, Now I Can See Dead People

by Deborah Durbin

  I slowly back out of the room and shut the bedroom door quietly.

  ‘Aghhhh!’ I scream as I feel a cold hand tap me on the shoulder, and I spin round.

  There’s nothing there.

  Suddenly Missy sprints up the stairs and stops abruptly, hissing at the space between her and me. She jumps straight into my arms and purrs as if to tell me she is sorry for staying out so late.

  ‘Sam?’ Mum’s boyfriend Colin comes running up the stairs.

  I suddenly notice that the sound from the train in the bedroom has stopped. I must have a look of utter bewilderment on my face.

  ‘Sam? Are you OK?’ Colin asks. ‘I just brought Missy back and heard you scream.’

  My heart is still thumping loudly in my chest.

  ‘I … um … yes. Yes, I’m fine, Colin. Thank you for bringing her home again.’

  ‘You sure you’re alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Oh, the irony of it all.

  ‘No, I’m fine. Just feels a bit odd being on my own. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine now Missy’s home. Tell Mum I’ll give her a call tomorrow and thanks again for bringing Missy back.’

  ‘My pleasure. See you tomorrow,’ Colin says as he skips back down the stairs.

  ‘What was all that about, Ange?’

  ‘Piss off,’ my spirit guide says again.

  Great, now I have a spirit guide nursing a grudge.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Well, you’re a psychic now, what did you expect?’

  This was Miracle’s response when I phoned her immediately upon locating my mobile phone.

  ‘Well, I didn’t expect to see dead people in my bathroom mirror or for Jack’s train set to become possessed by Santa and a frigging snowman!’

  Well I didn’t!

  I didn’t think it was part of the deal. I mean, if we’re honest here, I didn’t grow up thinking, ‘Oh I know, when I grow up I want to talk to dead people. What fun that will be! No. I grew up thinking, Oh, I know, when I grow up I want to be Madonna and warble for a living. Later on I realised that there is and only ever will be one Madonna and, besides, leather trousers have a tendency to make me come out in a rash. Oh, and I can’t sing, so I decided I would become a therapist instead.

  And I would have made a very good therapist had there been enough Lachanophobes on planet Earth to enable me to earn a living from it. But there aren’t.

  ‘I don’t want to actually see dead people!’ I whine.

  ‘Look, sweetie, for whatever reason, you’ve been given this gift, so get used to it. Did you ask your spirit guide to help you?’ Miracle asks.

  ‘Yes I did - and she told me to piss off.’

  ‘Why on earth did she do that?’

  ‘Because I told her to shut up.’

  Now this is one of the most bizarre conversations that I have had to date.

  ‘Ah well, she’ll probably come back in a few days, if I know anything about Ange,’ Miracle surmises.

  ‘What, you know her?’

  ‘Durh, yes. Who do you think assigned her to you?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know really. This is still all new to me, you know! I just thought they popped up when you needed them, and besides, couldn’t you have given me someone nice like an old Native American or even a wise African witchdoctor, instead of someone who thinks she’s an extra from TOWIE, who just wants to get pissed, read Heat and go out on the town all the time?’

  ‘I just asked the higher plane to assign someone to help you because I knew you were developing faster than you could cope with. It’s not up to me who they give you, hun. You’re still a bit sceptical about all this, Sammy, and I feel that you don’t truly understand it all just yet.’

  Yer think, Miss Marple?

  ‘So you give me someone who has a permanent hangover and spends most of her time trying to get an eyeful of Peter Andre in the buff! Smashing!’

  Part of me thinks this is just too bizarre for words. I mean, I’m twenty-eight years old, for goodness sake! I should be chatting to living friends about whether Revlon is better than Rimmel, or whether Kate Moss will ever get back with Pete Doherty one day, not talking about Mr Andre’s peachy bum with dead people!

  ‘Ange is learning too, Sam. She hasn’t been in the spirit world for long. You have to understand her death was quite traumatic for her. She’s bound to have a few issues. Give it time and the two of you will be just fine. Now, can I please finish my dinner?’

  ‘Hum, I suppose so, but it was you who got me into all of this in the first place, so don’t be surprised if I call you in the middle of dessert to tell you that Missy has become possessed!’

  Thankfully, Missy hasn’t become possessed – well, not that I can tell. The only thing that Missy is suffering from is lovesickness, poor thing. Since we moved in she’s been pining for Spencer the tomcat. Maybe I should invite him over for tea or something. Although he’s a bit of a free-spirit, is Spence. He doesn’t have a home as such, and by all accounts he roams the city at night. See, Alexandra Burke was right: bad boys are good; even cats are attracted to the bad boys. Missy wouldn’t even touch her dinner tonight.

  Since my ghost-in-the-spare-room/bathroom incident the other night, I haven’t heard any more bumps in the night or seen any more dead people, thankfully. Mind you, that could be because I’ve remained permanently attached to my iPhone and avoided looking into any reflective surfaces. Bit of a problem when doing my hair and make-up and I’ve kind of had to rely on other people’s reactions when they see me to really judge whether I’ve managed successfully to apply my mascara and eyeliner in the right places or whether I’ve managed to make myself look like Alice Cooper – again.

  ‘Oh, Samantha, is there something wrong with your left eye?’ Mrs Jackson said yesterday when I popped into her shop – this was a clue to let me know that applying my make-up without the aid of a mirror hadn’t in this case been successful. I did, however, notice that her gift shop has a rather mystical air about it now. Among the home-made greeting cards and postcards depicting scenes of the village, objects including a wrought iron cauldron and some specially designed tarot cards with ‘Greetings from Castle Combe’ written on the front of the box have appeared on the shelves. There was also a distinct smell of incense in the air. I think Gem was right.

  My mobile rings; it’s Annette.

  ‘How’s my little psychic friend?’

  ‘Oh, not too bad, considering.’

  ‘Considering what?’

  Considering I have a trainspotting ghost and a spirit guide who still won’t do her job and thinks guiding me involves guiding me in the direction of New Look!

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ I say instead. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, two things really. You know that woman who phoned in the other day and you told her to ask for an inquiry into how her mum died?’ Annette says.

  ‘Humm … Petra?’

  ‘That’s her. Well, she phoned to say that when she told the nursing home that she wanted an inquiry, they got really funny about it with her. Anyway, some researcher from Living Today TV was listening to the show and contacted me to see if I could contact Petra, which I did, and they want to use her story in a new psychic detective programme and they want you to be part of it. They’ve heard good things about you and want to know if you might be able to dig up more about this lady’s death.’

  I feel myself going hot and cold at the same time.

  ‘Oh, Annette, I really don’t know …’

  ‘I know, I know. I told them that you hadn’t had a great experience to date of being on TV and that you would probably refuse anyway, but I thought I’d let you know. I’ve got the number of the researcher for you here in the studio. I didn’t know whether to bother you with it or pass it on to your agent, Larry, but you know what he’s like. The mere mention of a TV show and he’s off. Anyway, have a think about it.’

  ‘OK, I will. Thanks, Annette. What was the second thing?’

&n
bsp; It’s then that Annette suddenly and without notice bursts into tears.

  ‘I think I might be pregnant!’

  ‘Oh,’ is all I can stutter.

  ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Annette says quietly after about five minutes of sobbing into the phone.

  ‘I … well … I …’ I don’t quite know what to say. ‘How long?’

  ‘Call yourself a psychic?’ she half laughs. ‘Four and a half months,’ Annette says, her voice breaking with emotion.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What can I do, Sam? I have two teenage sons, no husband since Mark decided to sod off to Amsterdam with that tart from office supplies and no support whatsoever. What choice do I have? Shit! Fuck! Shit, Sam! What am I going to do?’

  ‘She’s going to have a beautiful little girl.’ A woman’s voice comes into my head and I remember it’s the same voice that told me to tell Annette to get her brakes checked on her car – which incidentally she didn’t and ended up with a broken arm and in a neck brace for four weeks!

  ‘Well, it’s your decision, of course it is, and you have me for support … but …’

  ‘But… what?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t matter,’ I say. I don’t want to be the person who has an influence on Annette’s decision.

  ‘No, tell me, Sam. What were you going to say?’ Annette persists.

  ‘I don’t want to, because it’s your decision and I should just be here as your friend, to support you, no matter what you decide.’

  ‘But as a friend you should also be advising me as to what I should be doing,’ Annette adds.

  Touché!

  I sigh.

  ‘If you decide to keep the baby, it will be a beautiful little girl,’ I tell her.

  Annette gasps and then cries – a lot.

  Oh shit, I didn’t mean to upset her.

  ‘Annette? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she sniffs. ‘I’m still here. I’m sorry, Sam. I … I’ve always wanted a little girl.’

  ‘I know you have, darling, but don’t let that be the deciding factor here,’ I say, trying to be logical about all of this. At the end of the day Annette has no support for her and her boys, let alone another child, and as far as I know, the father of this child is nowhere in sight either.

  ‘It’s Jeff’s,’ Annette says, as if reading my thoughts.

  Oh blimey!

  Don’t get me wrong, Jeff is lovely. He’s middle-aged and the kindest and funniest radio newsreader you are ever likely to meet. I don’t even know if he already has a family of his own. I know I should, being a psychic and all that, but I don’t. Jeff is a lone island, or at least that’s what I thought – obviously not.

  ‘What, Jeff at the radio station?’

  ‘Uh-huh. He doesn’t know yet though, so don’t say anything.’

  ‘Discretion is my middle name.’ I laugh, and for the first time in this conversation Annette laughs too.

  ‘But I didn’t know you and Jeff liked each other, you know, in that way.’

  ‘Neither did we!’ Annette laughs. ‘It just sort of happened by accident one night. We said it wouldn’t be wise to have a relationship in work and left it at that. I didn’t think for one minute that I would get pregnant! Oh, Sam! You’re the fortune teller. Tell me what I should do.’ Annette sighs.

  ‘I can’t tell you what you should do, Annette; all I’m getting is that you will have a baby daughter, if you decide to go ahead with this.’

  ‘Well then, it’s settled,’ Annette says assertively. ‘I’ve always wanted a daughter. I mean, I love Tom and Jake to bits, but it’s all Transformers and Play Stations with them. I want someone to go clothes shopping with, without them grumbling outside the changing room. And besides, I’ve managed to bring two up practically on my own, so another one isn’t going to make much difference, is it?’

  ‘Apart from the stinky nappies, sleepless nights, endless hours of watching Pepper Pig …’

  ‘Not to mention my age,’ Annette adds.

  I hadn’t even thought about Annette’s age. Besides, forty-four isn’t that old, is it?

  ‘Age is just a number, Annette. If you think you can handle it all over again, then I say go for it.’

  ‘Yes, I will!’

  ‘Now, I think you had better go and phone Jeff, don’t you?’

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘And my mother is still running around in a tizz because she can’t find a hat for the wedding. Speaking of which, we really do need to sort out who we’re going to invite from your side of the family, hun.’

  Jack sighs as he wraps his arms around me.

  ‘Let’s talk about that later. I’ve missed you so much …’ He pulls me in close to him and starts kissing my neck again.

  For the first time in weeks we’ve managed to get a whole weekend together, completely on our own – well, I say completely on our own, but that’s if you don’t count the hundred or so voices that keep talking in my head!

  No sooner had I checked into the hotel than a dead lady by the name of Joan came into my head when I was in the lift and asked if I would please tell the porter – her son – that she loved him, and to please tell him to do something with his hair. Following that a young man by the name of Jon came through and proceeded to tell me all about when he worked at the hotel as a barman and to pass on his regards to a waitress called Sarah-Louise, who he always thought was “well fit” – his words, not mine – and he regretted not having the courage to ask her out. Oh, and then just as I was making my way to the room that Jack’s management company had kindly booked and paid, for us, so that we could get some time alone together, an elderly gentleman decided it was a good time to tell me all about his honeymoon adventures in room twenty-eight – our room.

  In the end I had to beg and plead with Ange to ask them to please give us some privacy. Ange had refused to speak to me for the past two weeks, which also meant that I had no help whatsoever every time my unwanted house guest decided to pay a visit and play at being a train driver – which has been four times now. It took a lot of grovelling and a promise that I would take Ange shopping in Harvey Nicks before she would help me out and stop the lovely dead people from talking to me at some very inappropriate moments.

  Having spent the past month rehearsing for the Vibe Awards and putting together a new album with the band, Jack is exhausted and he looks it. His baby-smooth chin is now covered in stubble where he obviously didn’t have time to shave this morning, but it definitely suits him and he looks more handsome than the last time I saw him – which was fifty-seven days and five hours ago, to be precise. Not that I’m counting or anything.

  We spent a wonderful day in London, taking in the sights and generally getting up to no good. Whenever we visit London, Jack goes into challenge mode and tries to find the most outrageous dare to inflict upon me. Knowing that I will do almost anything in order to prevent myself from getting a double dare, Jack was in his element as we made our way round Harrods.

  ‘Double dare!’ Jack said excitedly at the prospect of me failing the first dare, which was to hop on one leg all around the first floor of Harrods. I fell over, flat on my face, within ten seconds. He then spent the next hour thinking up more ridiculous dares for me to do. He really is a child sometimes, you know.

  By the time we got back to the hotel I had completed a total of five dares and two double dares but Jack hadn’t managed to complete even one dare, and it wasn’t that hard – all he had to do was climb over the rails of Buckingham Palace, but would he do it? No, the big wimp! He said he was afraid of being shot by one her majesty’s guards, or some other feeble excuse.

  ‘Jack! We need to discuss this,’ I say as I wriggle free from his clutches in bed, despite not wanting to. ‘We’ve only got a few more hours and I don’t want to continue planning our wedding by text message, thank you very much.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have any family, you know that. Your family are my only real family.’

&nbs
p; ‘What about your Uncle Dave and Auntie Maureen? Don’t you want them to come?’

  Jack’s Uncle Dave and Auntie Maureen are the only people I know who have anything remotely to do with Jack - they’re not actually his uncle and auntie, so he’s not biologically related to them. Dave and Maureen kind of took Jack under their wing when he was a teenager; they gave him a part-time job in their fancy dress shop in Bristol when he ran away from the care home he was in at the age of fourteen and generally helped him out by providing him with a roof over his head until he was sixteen and got his own flat. Having been dragged up in a care home from the age of one, Jack doesn’t know any members of his family.

  ‘Yeah, maybe…’ Jack shrugs.

  ‘Well, I’m sure they would want to be there.’

  I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Dave on several occasions and was very grateful to him for providing me with a very realistic Scooby-Doo costume when the press were after me when my best friend Amy sold a made-up story about me, but I find it strange that Jack never wants to talk about his past.

  ‘Well, I’ll get hold of them and check that they will be able to come. You never know, they might be able to shed some light on your parents, seeing as how they were made your official guardians. I mean, someone somewhere must have agreed to them bringing you up. You never know, we might be able to track them down in time for the wedding...’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Sam, just leave it, will you! My parents never wanted me, OK? And Dave and Maureen aren’t even related to me; they’re just some couple who took me under their fucking wing when no one else cared!’ Jack snaps.

  ‘Leave it now, Sam,’ Ange whispers in my ear.

  ‘But…’

  ‘But what?’ Jack says.

  ‘Nothing. I’m sorry. Look, if you don’t want any of your family to be there, we won’t have any of them there,’ I say quietly, and snuggle back into him. I have to say I’m a little worried about Jack. Whenever I mention his mum and dad, he clams up. He has no interest in knowing who his real parents are, which I find incredibly strange. Surely you would want to know where you came from?