Oh Great, Now I Can See Dead People

by Deborah Durbin

  ‘If you like it then yer should have put a ring on it,’ she repeats in my ear. I still haven’t got the hang of how to make her shut up without her getting in a grump.

  ‘Sammy! Are you awake yet? I’ve got something mega important to tell you. If you like it then you should have put a ring on it,’ she choruses, out of tune. Beyonce she ain't.

  Oh God, make her shut up for five minutes.

  I look bleary-eyed at my phone – 6.55 a.m. Aghh!

  After I spent much of the previous night reuniting Ange with her family, Jack phoned just as I was climbing into bed. I miss him so much it hurts every time I think of him and I worry about the amount of time we are spending apart and that it’s going to ruin our relationship before it’s really got started. Warning girls: never marry a successful pop star. You will spend your days worrying that he’s not getting fed properly and your nights worrying about where he’s sleeping. I only have to look at the band’s Facebook page to see that there are some pretty hot young things out there who all want to bed the band members. Jack’s got fifteen thousand fans alone, for goodness sake! And there’s one who just won’t leave him alone. Her name’s Bethany, or ‘Busty Beth’ as she likes to be called, and she is constantly messaging him through the band’s Facebook page – I’m sooo in lv with u Jack and I cn show u a gd time, and the like. I have to stop logging on and just trust that Busty Beth will bugger off and get busty with someone else. Failing that, I could always get Ange to haunt her for me.

  It doesn’t help matters that the band’s management team insist they keep girlfriends (and future wives) secret from the fans – they don’t project the right image for the band, apparently. Although most people in the media know that Jack and I are an item, the management don’t make a song and dance about it, and whenever the band are interviewed the media are pre-warned not to ask questions about relationships and to avoid the subject at all costs.

  It appears I have no need to worry though. Jack is as wonderful as ever and misses me as much, if not more, than I miss him, although I do wonder how this is affecting our sex life which has resorted to a lot of phone sex – more often than not resulting in mutual hilarity, rather than mutual orgasms. We tried text sex but that didn’t go well. Because my nails are so long and it takes me ages to compile a sentence, poor old Jack was spending a lot of frustrating minutes awaiting my response to ‘Wt r u wearing 2nt?’ When half an hour later I’d eventually typed back ‘Black silk kippers’, it kind of killed the mood a bit.

  Phone sex is not as easy as you may think either. For starters, it’s virtually impossible to set the mood when you’ve got a spirit guide as mad as a box of frogs in your ear advising you what to say:

  ‘Tell him you’re wearing crotchless knickers! I had a gorgeous pair from Ann Summers; leopard skin they were. Really turned Marcus on, they did.’

  ‘I’m not telling him that! And besides, I’ve never worn crotchless knickers in my life! Now sod off, Ange!’ I repeat – out loud.

  ‘You’ve never worn crotchless knickers?’ was Jack’s response.

  ‘No! Have you?’

  ‘Well no, but can you imagine it? Me, in a pair of crotchless knickers? Do they do those for men?’

  Oh gawd! Then I have a mental image of Jack in a pair of leopard skin crotchless knickers and it’s not an attractive image. So thanks to Ange’s suggestions we end up debating the pros and cons of underwear, which then led to us discussing whether Y-fronts will ever make a comeback, which in turn led us to discussing Jack’s band mate Dillon’s filthy Y-fronts that he hung out on the hotel balcony in the rain to wash them. Romantic – not.

  ‘If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it!’ Ange continues to serenade me as I hold the pillow over my head.

  ‘Ah! Ange, can you please be quiet for five minutes? You sound nothing like Beyonce!’

  ‘Ooo! And you do? I’ve heard you singing in the shower and you sound like Missy being strangled!’ Ange snaps back. ‘A bit narky this morning, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ange.’ I don’t want to make her angry so that she doesn’t speak to me again; I’ve got a whole host of spirits wandering around the village, possessing the village folk at every given opportunity, and at some point I am going to need her help to get them all back to where they belong. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all, and I only have a few hours to sort out who, if anyone, from Jack’s family is coming to the wedding and …’

  ‘Oh, just chillax a bit will you! He said he doesn’t want anyone to come; says he’s got no family.’

  ‘I know, but it’s going to look a bit one-sided, don’t you think – me with all my family and Jack with none.’

  ‘You’d be wise to just leave it, Sam,’ Ange says a little too seriously. ‘Anyway, I’ve got something mega important to tell you!’

  ‘Go on,’ I say, knowing full well that unless I let Ange tell me her important news, I will never shut her up.

  ‘Well, you know we were talking last night about my exes?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I grunt from beneath the pillow.

  ‘Well, I worked out how to visit them! You know, like, haunt them?’

  I lift the pillow off my head.

  ‘You did what?’

  Ange giggles like a child.

  ‘Haunt them. Sam, it was brilliant! You should have been there. First I mustered all my energy to visit Dan – you know the one who looks like a younger version of Gary Barlow. My God, he got the shock of his life when I turned the taps on in his bathroom! Then I wrote ‘bastard’ on the mirror with his toothpaste. Oh, I did laugh!’

  ‘Ange! You can’t do that!’

  ‘Why not? It’s not like I’m not telling the truth; he was a bastard. Anyway, I then went to pay a visit to Marcus – you know, the lush one who two-timed me with Stacey Fisher. That was hilarious, Sam, you should have seen me! He was coming down the stairs, stark naked, to get a drink – he always did have a good bod –and I managed to get a box of fish fingers out of the freezer and whacked him on the arse with them! Hee, hee, he yelped like a puppy! Oh, it was so funny, Sam! You should have seen him run back up those stairs! I tried to make a wooing sound, you know, all ghost like, but I couldn’t stop myself from laughing! Oh, I can’t wait to haunt Fishy Fisher tonight!’

  It’s lovely to hear Ange so happy and I can’t help but giggle at the thought of her ex being whacked on the bum with a packet of frozen fish fingers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  While Ange is on planet happy land today, I am walking around like a zombie. Not only did no one tell me quite how exhausting the life of a psychic could be, but also no one told me quite how exhausting organising a wedding could be either.

  The idea of me and Jack just buggering off to Las Vegas and being married by Elvis Presley is very appealing right now, but it would upset my mum too much.

  ‘And then there’s Colin’s family. Mum wants them to come. Then do I invite all of Dad’s side of the family just because they’re related to me, despite the fact that we haven’t seen them since my dad’s funeral?’ I ask Annette as we prepare for the lunchtime radio show.

  Poor Annette looks like a woman at breaking point. Poor love is in no way what you would call glowing in any way, shape or form. Her ankles have swollen, she’s permanently hot and has to stand, leaning on the desk, to do the show because the baby keeps lying on her sciatic nerve. And here I am worrying about place settings and table flowers.

  ‘And what about Jack’s family?’ Annette asks as she winces in pain.

  ‘He doesn’t have any – well, apart from his uncle and auntie; you know, the ones who own the fancy dress shop in Bristol. But he isn’t even actually related to them. He was put into care shortly after he was born and has no idea who his mum or dad are.’

  ‘Ouch!’ Annette looks very pale as she holds her hand to her stomach.

  ‘Annette, are you OK?’ Stupid question really.

  The Sixth Sense theme tune is playing, which is the lead up to my pro
gramme, meaning that I am on in about thirty seconds, but I’m more concerned about Annette who is looking whiter by the second.

  ‘Annette?’

  Annette clutches her stomach and falls to the floor.

  ‘Oh no! Jeff!’ I shout through the mic to the booth next door.

  Jeff looks up from his desk of switches that resembles the Starship Enterprise, but is in fact the sound system for Town FM.

  ‘Oh shit!’ he says, as he throws his headphones and latest travel report to the floor and rushes into our room.

  ‘Annette? Are you OK?’

  ‘Get her to the hospital, Sam, or she will lose the baby,’ I hear Ange say.

  I’ve never seen Jeff, who is very much a middle-aged man – pepper-grey hair, shirt, tie and dad-sweater – look so panic-stricken. Usually the only contact I have with Jeff is when he reads the news and travel report after me. He’s just your typical dad-type figure. Never married, Jeff has always kept himself to himself – or so I thought. Obviously got that wrong.

  ‘Sam, do something!’ Jeff begs as he sits by Annette’s side, holding her hand tightly as Annette doubles up in pain.

  I quickly punch 999 into my mobile and request an ambulance, while simultaneously flicking some switches on Annette’s desk and waving to Liam, the sound tech, to do something with the show.

  ‘I’m going to lose the baby, aren’t I, Sam?’ Annette sobs between surges of pain.

  ‘No, you’re not, Annette. Not if we get you to hospital now.’

  It seems as though I’ve been sitting in the hospital waiting room for hours, waiting to hear any news about Annette. They rushed her away on a trolley and Jeff has been wearing the floor out ever since she was admitted. Ironic really: when Annette told him about the baby, they both agreed that it was a one-night stand and that while Jeff would support her and the baby financially, neither of them had any intention of becoming a couple. Annette is off men since her husband decided life would be much better with a younger model in Amsterdam and Jeff is too stuck in his ways to start a family now. And yet here he is, pacing the floor and worrying about her.

  ‘She’s going to be OK,’ a young nurse smiles as she comes through the door which leads to the theatre.

  ‘And the baby? I’m …I’m the father.’ Jeff says nervously, glancing at me.

  ‘The baby is doing just fine. We will need to keep Annette in for a few weeks to settle things down. Baby was trying to make an early appearance, but she’s not ready to come into the big wide world just yet,’ the nurse says.

  ‘Can we see her?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s very tired at the moment, but you’re more than welcome to wait, if you want?’

  Jeff looks at me for some kind of decision.

  ‘I tell you what, you stay and I’ll go back to the studio and see if I can save the show,’ I tell Jeff.

  ‘Would you? Thanks, Sam.’ Jeff looks relieved. ‘And can you get Liam to do the news and weather reports? They’re all on my desk in time slot order.’

  ‘Of course. Give Annette my love and tell her I’ll call in tonight to see how she is.’

  I’m mulling over whether or not to go and see Dave and Maureen with an invitation to the wedding as I brush my teeth, when my mobile rings. It’s Jack. Odd, he never usually rings in the middle of the day. He’s usually rehearsing or sleeping off the night before.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ I answer with a mouthful of toothpaste.

  ‘Alright,’ Jack replies.

  ‘Uh-oh. He’s not happy,’ Ange advises.

  Uh-oh indeed. Jack only ever gives one-word answers when he’s in a bad mood or there’s something wrong. I spit toothpaste into the old enamel sink.

  ‘Sorry about that. I was in the middle of brushing my teeth. Are you OK? Bad day?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. I was just thinking about my mum, you know, with the wedding and all that. Just wondered what made them not want me. Anyway, what have you been up to today?’ Jack feigns bravado

  ‘Nothing much. My show got cancelled because Annette fell ill, so I had to go to the hospital with her, but she’s going to be OK …’

  I stop mid sentence because as I’m talking to Jack the mirror in the bathroom has misted up and writing is beginning to appear in the mist.

  I’m no longer listening to a word Jack is saying. Instead, I’m looking at the words in the mirror.

  I’m so sorry. I love you. The words form in the mirror.

  It’s then that I see the image of a young woman with big hair and Jack’s eyes.

  ‘It’s Jack’s mum, Sam,’ Ange whispers to me. ‘Her name’s Marianne Lewis. She’s just like me, Sam.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jack,’ I whisper into the phone.

  ‘What? Sam, are you OK?’ Jack’s voice softens.

  How can I possibly tell him his mum is dead?

  ‘Jack, I am so, so sorry, you know, about your mum,’ I sniff, tears welling up in my eyes. Then the floodgates open and I can’t stop crying.

  ‘Sam? It’s OK. Really. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’ve got you. Nothing else really matters to me. It’s just …look, I’ve accepted that my parents, for whatever reason, didn’t want me. Why else would they have put me into care?’

  Why indeed?

  ‘You’re everything I want and will ever need. I don’t need anyone else, Sam.’

  The writing and image I saw in the mirror have gone and I’m left staring at my own reflection – not a pretty sight considering I have black mascara tracks down my cheeks (that will teach me to buy waterproof mascara from the market because it’s cheaper) and toothpaste dribble on my chin.

  ‘Sam, don’t cry.’

  ‘I’m just so sorry, Jack, and I miss you so much.’

  ‘Look, it doesn’t matter. And hey?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You mean the whole world to me and I’ll be home soon. I love you more than anything else on this planet, Samantha Ball.’

  ‘I love me too,’ I smile.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I know, I know, sometimes I just can’t help myself, but on this occasion I am blaming Ange for this, because if you think I’m a nosey parker, then Ange is the epitome of nosiness. I can’t tell Jack that I know that his mum is dead, but maybe I can find out what happened to her.

  Someone, somewhere must know something and I intend to find out what, if only to satisfy Ange’s curiosity and give her something to think about other than Brangelina and Big Brother.

  I phone Paul in Australia and tell him the name of Jack’s mother – Marianne Lewis.

  ‘I thought you were the psychic,’ Paul says between mouthfuls of something; I’m guessing Vegemite or kangaroo, or whatever it is they eat in Australia.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘In which case, did you not think to ask the woman in the mirror how she died and why she put Jack into care in the first place?’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that, Paul.’

  ‘Well, why not? What’s the point in having psychic powers if you can’t solve mysteries?’

  He’s right of course. What is the point?

  ‘Well, I don’t know, but it just doesn’t seem to work like that. Maybe it’s so that people can have fun coming up with conspiracy theories. Imagine if all we had to do if we wanted to find out who killed Marilyn Monroe or Princess Di or whoever, was just ask a psychic? Or maybe it keeps people like you in a job?’

  My brother Paul is still part-time beach bum, part-time private investigator, and since coming to my rescue by uncovering the truth behind who sold a false story about me to the press, his ‘agency’ has been inundated with requests for work, much to Paul’s annoyance. He’d much prefer to surf the waves and polish his surfboard than work any day of the week.

  ‘Alright, leave it with me. I’ll get one of the lads to look into it.’

  ‘You mean one of your beach bum friends,’ I laugh.

  ‘I’ll have you k
now I run a very reputable business. And I employ three staff now!’

  ‘What, Mickey the Moaner, Cowboy Tony and Nine Fingers Nige?’

  ‘Exactly!’ Paul says ‘Leave it with me, sis.’

  ‘And not a word to Jack,’ I warn him.

  ‘Discretion is my middle name, sis. Discretion is my middle name.’

  It’s not, you know. It’s John. Both of my brothers’ middle names were named after our dad.

  I can see Paul now: sitting in his ‘office’, which is in fact a bar stool at the surf bar, tapping his nose and winking into the phone.

  Because my show has been cancelled for the day, I decide to go and see Valerie for a wedding dress fitting.

  ‘Hi Donald!’ I chirp as I approach the security gate.

  ‘Miss Ball, good morning. And who might you wish to visit today?’ Donald, in his lovely burgundy and gold uniform, asks.

  ‘Hum, now let me think …’ I say, looking up to the sky as if deep in thought.

  Donald waits patiently.

  ‘Donald! It’s me! You know very well who I want to visit!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Ball. It’s my job. Have you any ID?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake! Yes, here it is. The same driving licence I gave you the other day and the day before that.’ I hand over my ID and just like the last time Donald scrutinises it.

  ‘Very good, Miss Ball, you may go up now.’

  ‘One of these days I’m going to give him a fake driving licence, you know,’ I tell Valerie, who is behind me, pinning the back of my wedding dress together.

  ‘Ah, he’s only doing his job, Sam. Think of the trouble he could get into if he didn’t check everyone coming and going.’ Valerie says through a mouthful of silver pins.

  ‘I know, but come on, he knows who I am,’ I say, slowly turning as she continues to pin my hem. I have to say, Valerie has done an amazing job. I look and feel like a real princess. She’s created an amazing fitted dress from my description of, “think Kate Middleton, Victoria Beckham and Audrey Hepburn all rolled into one.”