Oh Great, Now I Can See Dead People

by Deborah Durbin

  The members all let go of each other’s hands and stretch, yawn and chatter to their neighbour.

  ‘Oh, wasn’t she good?’ I hear one say.

  ‘And what about you and the Viking chap!’ another giggles with Mrs Horsham.

  ‘Fascinating stuff. Fascinating. I thought the community officer was coming tonight. I wanted to have a word about those damn tourists trampling all over my begonias,’ Mr Brent says to Mrs Jackson, who still refuses to acknowledge that her daughter has visited her.

  Marjorie stands up and cautiously looks behind her.

  ‘It’s OK, Marjorie, they’ve all gone now.’ I smile.

  ‘Even the little boy?’

  ‘Even the little boy,’ I confirm.

  ‘Right then, very good! Well done, Samantha. Very well done, dear.’ Marjorie starts clapping her hands together and before you know it, the entire hall is singing ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’!

  ‘Now, Cathy is about to serve refreshments in the kitchen if anyone is thirsty and if anyone would like to ask Samantha any questions, please feel free to ask her,’ Marjorie says.

  I smile politely but all I can think of right now is Gem. She is standing listening to Mrs Samuels talking about her mother and how accurate I was in my information. Gem looks as though she doesn’t have a care in the world. I really hope that’s true.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  By the time I get home it’s past midnight and I am exhausted. All I want to do is collapse into bed and I really hope that my unwanted house guest is not up tonight of all nights. I have to say, having initially been scared silly at the sight of real dead people, it kind of feels more real to me now. When I could only hear dead people in my head, I would still wonder if it was just me going mad. I mean, I did train as a psychologist, so if anyone knows anything about the symptoms of going mad, it’s me. However, the fact that I can now see who I’m talking to proves to me that I am not mental; I just have this unusual ability to connect with people who are … well, without a pulse.

  My answer phone flashes to tell me that I have three messages. One is from Jack, telling me that he hopes the evening went well, the second is from Miracle, saying much the same and the third is from … well, I don’t quite know who it is from, actually. All that is on the machine is a crackly whisper saying ‘Jack, Jack’ over and over again. When I try to replay the messages, the third message has been wiped from the machine. I quickly hit speed dial on my mobile.

  ‘Hey,’ Jack says sleepily.

  ‘Jack, it’s me, are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, just asleep, that’s all. Are you OK?’

  I don’t know. Am I?

  ‘Yes, just got in and there was a message on the phone. Someone was saying your name over and over again. I was worried about you,’ I say, trying to justify why I was calling him at some ungodly hour.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine, honey. You sure you’re OK? Did the séance thingy go well?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Look, I’ll let you get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you.’

  ‘I love me too. Sleep well, darling.’

  No sooner do I hang up on Jack than I hear a thump on the upstairs landing, then the train set starts up again. Oh, just bloody great.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ I scream up at the ceiling. The sound of the engine whizzing around the track stops as suddenly as it had started.

  I decided to sleep on the sofa and I wake up feeling as though I’ve been trodden on by a herd of wildebeest in the night. Not that I’ve ever been trodden on by a herd of wildebeest, but if I had, then I think I would feel very similar to how I feel now. My head aches, my back aches and I think at some point in the night I must have rolled off the sofa and banged my head on the coffee table because when I look in the mirror I notice that I have a huge bump on my forehead. It was either that or my house guest came along in the night and clonked me on the head while I was sleeping. I pray it was just my lack of ability to sleep on a sofa properly and not the doings of an attention seeking ghost!

  ‘Hiya! OK if I come in?’ Gem calls from the front door. She is looking particularly gorgeous in her white uniform. I on the other hand am looking particularly crap, in my attire of Winnie the Pooh pyjama bottoms and one of Jack’s one-size-fits-all promotional t-shirts for the band. Why they decided on olive green for a colour is beyond me. It’s not at all flattering, you know. In fact, I’ve a good mind to design a new range of Otherwise t-shirts for the girls as well as the boys, if only to prevent people looking like complete morons when their neighbour pops round unannounced.

  ‘Yes, come on in, Gem. You’ll have to excuse the state of me; long night last night and I seem to have an unwanted house guest in the house at the moment.’

  Gem swivels round.

  ‘Oh, right. I thought you might be a bit the worse for wear this morning, so I brought you this to help,’ Gem says, handing me a small brown bottle, with what smells like a mixture of vanilla, jasmine, lavender and lots of other yummy stuff inside it. ‘Just put a couple of drops on your temples and you’ll have a spring back in your step in no time!’

  ‘Oh, thank you. You are a life saver. I’ve got to go and see the producers at Living Today TV later and last night drained the life out of me,’ I say, as I attempt mentally to give my naturally unruly hair a good talking to in the mirror. As I glace at Gem’s reflection in the mirror I suddenly notice a grey shadowy figure standing behind her. It is the same figure that was standing behind her last night. I spin round quickly but the image disappears again.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Gem asks, as I look right through her.

  ‘Um … yes … sorry … slept on the sofa last night and I feel as though I’ve gone ten rounds with Rocky Balboa.’

  ‘You should never sleep on your sofa, you know. That’s why in this oh so modern world we have things called beds. Now, if you’re aching, I’ve got just the thing. Call in tomorrow and I’ll make something up for you. Now, I must go, I’ve got Mrs Bramley coming for a head to toe in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘OK and thanks, Gem. Have you heard from Simon yet?’

  ‘Not yet, but I expect they’re still settling in. He said they have internet access but it’s as and when they can get on to it.’ Gem smiles. ‘By the time he comes back, this little one will be born!’ She taps her tummy.

  ‘Well, just you look after yourself and thanks for this,’ I say, waving my bottle of magic potion at her as she heads out of the front door.

  I wish I could work out who it is that keeps appearing whenever I see Gem. Oh well, this is not getting my hair brushed, nor is it getting me to work.

  Having managed to make myself look more like a living human being rather than resembling the living dead and doused myself in Gem’s magical potion, I make my way into Bristol to meet up with the producers from Living Today TV in the Marriot Hotel. I’m no longer nervous at meeting TV producers. After my brush with the media last year, a meeting with Living Today TV to talk about a new psychic detective programme is going to be a walk in the park.

  ‘Hi, Sam, lovely to meet you,’ a young woman by the name of Georgia greets me at reception. ‘I’ve booked us into the Pascoe suite, if you’d like to follow me.’

  I do as I’m told and follow the woman up several flights of stairs – memo to self: get fit before the wedding, Samantha. I’m tempted to suggest we use the lift but Georgia, who incidentally oozes sex appeal and looks as though she spends every waking hour at the gym, thinks nothing of climbing ten flights of stairs and she bounds up them like Tigger on speed.

  ‘Here we are,’ Georgia says with a brilliant white smile and not so much as hair out of place. Whereas me, well, my hair is stuck to my face, I have sweat pouring down my tights and I really think I’m about to have a heart attack.

  Georgia opens the door to the Pascoe suite where there are three people sitting drinking coffee. Having mulled over the idea of this psychic detective thing with Larry, I came to the conclusion that it might be interesting. Larry, my a
gent, came to the conclusion that being paid five thousand pounds for each episode would bring him in a tidy bit of commission.

  The first person I look at in the room is a middle-aged woman and I instantly know who she is.

  ‘Petra?’

  The lady stands up and reaches her hand out to me. She’s as nervous as I am and her hand shakes.

  ‘Hello,’ she says shyly.

  ‘Have you two met before?’ a handsome man dressed in casual clothes asks as he makes his way over to introduce himself to me. ‘Mark. Mark Parker, producer for Living Today TV.’

  I look at Petra for a moment.

  ‘No, we’ve never met, well, apart from on the radio,’ I say, returning Mark’s handshake. ‘I just had a feeling, that’s all.’

  ‘See, I told you she was good.’ Georgia giggles.

  The third person in the room is a woman called Maria who has the title of programme manager.

  ‘Sit down, sit down, Samantha, you look exhausted,’ Maria says.

  ‘Thanks, not as fit as I thought I was,’ I laugh as I flump down into one of the black leather armchairs.

  ‘Now, you know why we are here,’ Maria begins in a whisper. ‘We’re running a new programme called The Psychic Detective. One of our researchers heard you and Petra on the radio the other week and she was so impressed that we managed to track down Petra and ask her if she would like us to investigate her mother’s untimely death at the nursing home.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the home’s manager?’ I ask.

  ‘Our research team tried but they won’t speak to us,’ Mark says.

  I look at Petra again. I really don’t want to get into another media fight, which is what could happen if I agree to help her, but I feel certain that Petra’s mother wasn’t meant to die when she did.

  ‘And how do you feel about this, Petra?’ I ask. At the end of the day, this is going to open some very sore wounds for her and if I’m right, this is going to upset her.

  ‘I just want to know what happened to my mum,’ Petra says quietly. ‘I need to know what happened to her, however upsetting it might be. I think Samantha is right. Something happened to my mum and I want to find out what.’

  ‘And what does your brother think of this?’ I ask, remembering that it was Petra’s brother who insisted their mother go into a nursing home.

  ‘He’s not happy about it and doesn’t want any part of this,’ Petra says, waving her arms around.

  ‘Do you think he’ll cause trouble?’ Mark asks nervously.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I think it’s more out of guilt than anything else.’ Petra smiles. She’s a pretty woman, but looks tired, as if she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in ages.

  ‘So,’ Maria asks, ‘do you think it’s something you would like to work on, Samantha? We have other cases lined up, including a child who went missing in 1963 and a man who mysteriously disappeared. Your agent said you were the best in the business.’

  Well, Larry would say that, wouldn’t he? I mean, he’s not going to say I’m crap when he’s getting twenty per cent in commission from TV rights, is he? Larry wasn’t able to attend the meeting due to trying to sweet-talk a publisher into signing me for an autobiography. I keep telling him I’m not old enough to have an autobiography, but will he listen?

  ‘I think this is something I have to work on,’ I find myself saying, and I think it is. I can’t let this one go. I feel as though I owe it not only to Petra, but to her mum too. Despite the fact that I am trying to organise my wedding, am missing Jack like mad and have more than enough work on my plate, when I look at Petra I just feel so sad and I think her mum would at least like to know I’ve tried.

  ‘Thank you,’ a woman’s voice whispers in my ear, and I take that as my confirmation to go ahead with this.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It’s gone six when I get home from Bristol. I throw my bag onto the kitchen counter and open the back door. It is so nice to have a home of my very own and it’s looking more and more like a home as the weeks go by. Vases of fresh cut flowers are in every room and it’s now got my personal stamp on it. I love it. I could do without the ghost in the house, but …

  ‘Missy! Missy!’ I shout into the small but perfectly formed garden. You know, if I put one of those cast-iron bistro tables and a couple of matching chairs just to the left and then create one of those arches with some rambling roses, it would be like having our very own secret garden. Our very own secret place, just for Jack and me to sit and relax in.

  ‘Missy!’

  Where is that bloody cat? This is the fourth time this week that she’s been late for her dinner. I bet she’s over at Mum’s again with that tomcat Spencer. Will that girl ever learn that it pays to play hard to get sometimes? The moment you let your guard down, it all goes downhill from there. I know from previous experience – start running after them and they will break your heart, Missy. Of course, now I’m with Jack, my soul mate, it’s all very different, and I don’t mind telling you, a little bit scary. I mean we’re going to be pledging to spend the rest of our lives together. To have and to hold, till death do us whatsit, no holds barred, for better for worse, and I don’t mind admitting that I do worry that once the novelty of knowing another person inside out wears off, Jack just might break my heart. Especially now he’s a heartthrob in his own right. Oh God, what if he runs off with a groupie? Now that he’s a gorgeous pop star, he will have women throwing themselves at him all the time. His management company have already told him they don’t want the fans to know anything about us getting married.

  ‘Missy!’ I shout again, not sure if I’m more annoyed that she hasn’t come home when I’ve bought her fresh salmon for dinner, or about the fact that I’m now worrying that I’m not good enough for Jack. I mean, Jack and I know each other inside out. We were friends for years prior to actually getting together as boyfriend and girlfriend. What if he gets bored with me? What if he meets some gorgeous young teenybopper who has posters of him adorning her bedroom walls? What if he decides it’s not very good for his image to be a married man when in a pop group? Oh bollocks! I wish my brain would stop thinking for just one minute!

  I decide that Missy must be still at Mum’s house. I don’t know quite how she manages it. I mean, Mum’s house is a good twelve miles away from my cottage and despite dragging her home she still manages to make her way back to the love of her life. Her poor little paws must be worn out. Unless of course she takes the bus, like Jack suggested.

  I close the back door, pick up my phone and speed dial my mum’s number.

  ‘Boomchakawahwah!’ someone who sounds not too dissimilar to my mother says on the other end of the line.

  ‘Hello, Mum? Is that you?’ I look at my phone, just to check that I’ve got the right number.

  ‘Hey! It’s mama’s baby girl!’ the voice says loudly. The reason the voice is loud is due to the Eddie Grant music playing in the background.

  ‘I’m gonna rock down to the electric avenue and then we’ll take it higher. Oh no!’ My mother, or at least I think it’s my mother, sings into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Mum? Is that you?’ I ask again.

  ‘Yo, baby girl! How’s it hanging?’

  ‘Mum, are you OK?’

  ‘Never better, man!’ my mother says.

  Oh God, I hope Mum hasn’t been taking those pills again that the doctor prescribed for her when Dad died four years ago. They will be out of date by now and who knows what they might do to her. Oh, Christ, I hope she hasn’t been trying to grow cannabis again.

  ‘Have you been smoking something, Mum?’

  ‘Nah, not yet,’ my mother says, as casual as you like. ‘I’m gonna rock down to the electric avenue and then we’ll take it higher. Oh no!’ she sings again.

  ‘Okay, um … Mum … um, I was just phoning to see if Missy was at your place. She hasn’t come home for her dinner again and the only place I can think that she would be is round yours, looking for Spencer again.’


  The background music stops for a moment.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, love?’ my mother says in her normal telephone voice.

  ‘Um … Missy. Have you seen her?’

  ‘Yes, dear, she’s here. I gave her and Spencer some semi-skimmed outside just now. You know you’re spoiling that cat, Samantha. She’s getting a right little fatty-bum-bum,’ my mother warns. Yep, this is more like the mother I know and love.

  ‘OK, well, I’ll be over in a minute to pick her up. Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Yes, fine dear, just fine. Boomchakawahwah!’

  Unfortunately all is not fine when I get to my mum’s house. As I walk up the path to the front door I can hear Bob Marley blaring out from the house. I look at the next door neighbours’ house, thinking it might be Mr and Mrs Gale having a party, but nope, it’s not coming from their house, and besides Mr and Mrs Gale are more likely to be listening to Classic FM than the king of reggae. Yep, it’s definitely coming from my mum’s house.

  As I open the front door with my key I stand in the hallway for a moment, unable to move in disbelief at what is in front of me.

  My mother, dressed in a flowing kaftan, which resembles something out of Joseph and his Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat, and with a multicoloured, woolly tea cosy/hat/thing on top of her head, is expressing herself through the medium of dance to ‘Buffalo Soldier’, with Missy hanging on for dear life in her arms. Missy looks bemused by it all, as well she might. I look equally bemused by it all. I mean, it’s not every day that you see your mother singing and dancing to Bob Marley, is it? Before I know it, she’ll be refusing to wash her hair, allowing it to form into manky dreadlocks.

  ‘Mum!’ I shout above the music. She can’t hear a word I’m saying, so I walk over to the CD player and turn it off.

  ‘Buffalo soldier, in the heart of the Caribbean … hey, I was listening to that!’ My mum turns round to see who might have interrupted Bob and his Wailers.

  ‘Oh, hello love. Just having a little dance with Missy here.’