Oh Great, Now I Can Hear Dead People: What Would You Do if You Could Suddenly Hear Real Dead People?

by Deborah Durbin

  I knew too, but without having to consult a psychic. Experience, pre my uni days, taught me that if nothing else. Older, married men will never, ever leave their wives, despite all the promises, threats and tears. I know because this is exactly what Tim promised me five years ago.

  I was taking a year out prior to going to university and decided to apply for a job working at the local hospital in the mental health department so that I could get some work experience. Tim was one of the hospital’s consultants and a handsome one at that. At first I didn’t consider the fact that he might be married. At just 19 years old, I was just very flattered by all the attention he gave me.

  It was only when we were out for dinner one evening and Tim had gone to the bathroom, leaving his mobile phone on the table that I discovered Tim was indeed blissfully wedded. Not only was he married, he had at least one child. His phone vibrated into life to signal that he had a text message and I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help but take a peek.

  Dad, mum says cn u bring a pint of milk home with you when u finish wk? Lv Nat.

  Despite telling myself that it must be the wrong number, I knew, deep down, that Tim was married and having a bit on the side. I was the side portion. So no, he was never going to leave her for you, my love. It didn’t need a psychic to work that one out, but I certainly wasn’t going to inform a total stranger of just how I knew.

  ‘Well, I hope your prince charming arrives soon for you.’ I say with a smile.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he will. In the meantime, I will put all my energies into my studies.’ The girl says, sounding much brighter than when she first spoke.

  I look at the travel alarm clock in front of me and realise that I have been on the phone for 45 minutes to this girl. Wow! £27 for little old me!

  ‘Is there anything else?’ I ask feeling a little more confident at having handled my first call so well.

  ‘No, but thank you so much. I will recommend you to all my friends,’ the girl says. I resist the urge to shout yippee!

  Replacing the receiver I take a deep breath. My palms are wet, my head throbs, but the feeling of elation is nothing I had ever felt before. Even when I passed my exams, I had never felt like I do right now. I manage a quick sip of water and a wee before the phone starts ringing again.

  ‘Sam, it’s Miracle. Well done on your first call. I was listening in and you were very good.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I say feeling very proud of myself.

  ‘You want another one then?’ Miracle asks.

  Oh, God. Do I? I don’t know.

  ‘Umm, ok,’ I stutter.

  ‘That’s good because I have your next caller here for you,’ Miracle laughs.

  I wait to hear who the next poor desperate soul is, worrying that it might be someone who does this all the time and will immediately know that I’m a fraud.

  ‘Hello?’ a man’s voice comes through. He sounds as though he’s middle-aged, but I guess you can never tell on the phone. He might be a young man with an old voice, or an old man with a young voice.

  I thought it was only women who phoned these lines. Unless of course, he misdialled?

  ‘Um hello.’ I say, ‘how can I help you?’

  ‘I want you to tell me if my wife is having an affair.’ The man asks.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Blimey, you’d think we were on the Jeremy Kyle Show.

  ‘What makes you think she is?’ I ask.

  The man goes into a tirade of reasons as to why his wife must be cheating on him, including the fact that she has had her hair and nails done today, is wearing perfume again and she wants to have sex with him. All the time. I listen to him as I shuffle the cards.

  ‘I mean since the kids have left home, she is constantly dolling herself up and going out with her so-called friends,’ he continues.

  So your wife is making herself look nice and demanding sex from you – are you bloody mad? I want to shout down the phone. This woman has obviously realised that she is no longer just a mother, she is a woman and is trying very hard to recapture what they both once had and this idiot is suspecting her of having an affair! I shuffle the cards again and place four down on the carpet.

  The four cards I place down tell a different story though. There is a man running away with a bag of gold in his hands and laughing at some people who are standing behind him. The next card shows another man surrounded by beautiful Goddess like women. The third card shows a woman sitting on a rock, crying and the forth shows the broken heart card that I drew for the last caller and Miracle.

  As I look at the cards, I’m suddenly overwhelmed with anger at this man and I’m not quite sure why.

  ‘Well, the cards you have are all about deceit and dishonesty,’ I venture.

  ‘I bloody knew it!’ he shouts, ‘I knew she was having an affair. Who is he?’ He demands to know.

  I shake my head as I suddenly realise what’s been going on. I don’t know how I know, but I just have this feeling. Call it that good old women’s intuition if you like.

  ‘Hang on one minute,’ I say cautiously, wondering whether I should just placate this chap and tell him that he’s right in his suspicions. But I can’t bring myself to do it. ‘As I said, there is a lot of deceit showing up here... but I don’t feel that it’s your wife who is deceiving you…’

  ‘What are you trying to say? Are you saying that I’m the one having an affair? Are you? Is that what you’re suggesting?’ The man’s voice becomes louder as he shouts into the phone. That is exactly what I am saying. I don’t think for a moment that this man’s wife is having an affair. What I do feel is that he is in fact the one who has been playing away from home. Don’t ask me how I know. I just feel that this chap is playing the old game of blaming his wife for his own misdemeanours. God, I’m good. I should be in marriage counselling.

  ‘No, I’m not suggesting that at all. All I am saying is that your wife isn’t the one who is having an affair,’ I confirm. I don’t care whether I’m right or wrong now. This bloke is seriously pissing me off with his attitude.

  ‘Where is your wife at the moment?’ I ask, momentarily wondering if she’s out on the town as we speak.

  ‘She’s at home. I’m… I’m in a hotel, if you must know… It’s for work…’ he stutters.

  Yeah, and I’m a psychic. Of course it is, mate.

  ‘And do you spend a lot of time away from home?’

  ‘Well, I have to. I have a very high-pressured job in the city. It’s part of my contract. I have no choice but to stay away,’ he says.

  ‘You don’t have to justify anything to me,’ I say. The man doth protest too much me thinks.

  ‘No, you don’t understand. It’s hard work. The constant pressure to reach targets at the end of the month. You have no idea how hard it is, and sometimes….’

  ‘Sometimes you need a bit of company?’ I venture.

  The line is silent for a minute. That silence confirms what I suspected all along. This man’s wife isn’t the one who is cheating. It’s him. Damn I am good!

  ‘I’m sorry,’ is all he whispers. The line is quiet again.

  ‘I don’t think I’m the one you should be apologising to, do you?’

  The man sniffs. Is he crying? I think he is.

  ‘I do love my wife. It’s just that I don’t see her as my wife. I see her as…’

  ‘Your children’s mother.’ I answer for him.

  ‘Yes,’ he confirms.

  ‘And she knows this. This is the reason why she is trying so hard to make herself look attractive to you again. This is the reason why she is wearing perfume and make-up and dressing up nicely and wanting you to… um, make love to her…’ Ewww, just saying this to a total stranger makes me feel slightly queasy, ‘and this is the reason she is going out with her friends more often. Your wife has realised that she is no longer just a mum. She is a woman who has needs, and wants to feel like a woman again and not just someone’s mother. If you’re never around to pay her complime
nts, or to take her out, if you’re always away in hotels in the company of other women, then what is she supposed to do? Sit at home and do your ironing?’ I ask. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t blame her one bit if she did have an affair, but she isn’t. She loves you too much to do that and what do you think she will do when she finds out about what you’ve been up to when you’re supposed to be working?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, my God, you’re not going to tell her are you?’ The bloke sounds genuinely worried at the prospect.

  ‘All calls are completely confidential, Sir,’ I assure him, ‘and besides, I don’t even know who you are. You could be one of a million men out there who are cheating on their wives.’ I know, but I couldn’t help having a little dig on behalf of sisterhood.

  ‘I won’t do it anymore. I promise you. I know she loves me and I will try to be a decent husband,’ he promises.

  ‘It’s not me you should be making these promises to.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry I deceived you though.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Well, it’s not me you were deceiving. It was yourself…and your wife.’ I say like a wise sage. I’m still a little miffed at the way he made out that he was the one being wronged. But then, that’s typical of men. They know they have done something wrong and yet try to turn it round to be the woman’s fault. And when they get caught out, they try to justify their behaviour! Not that I’m a bitter and twisted spinster or anything, but grrr to men in general.

  The night goes pretty quickly after that. Most of the callers I have want to know when they are going to meet Mr Right – hmmm, good question – and of course I can’t tell them, I mean even with a pack of cards in my hands I couldn’t say precisely when they were going to fall in love with Prince Charming and quit running after ungrateful toads, so I tell them what they want to hear. If the woman on the other end of the phone sounded furious at being a jilted lover, I tell her that her scum-bag of an ex wasn’t worth the tears and the sleepless nights and that fate would soon bring someone wonderful rushing into her life. If it was a woman questioning her partner’s fidelity, I would tell her that despite all the evidence stacked up against him, I went with what the cards said and focussed on her and her future – with or without a cheating man in her life.

  It is almost three in the morning and I breathe a sigh of relief that my shift is almost over when the phone rings again. My throat is sore, my eyes are tired and Missy abandoned me in favour of my bed hours ago.

  ‘Hello?’ I croak into the phone.

  ‘Sam, it’s Miracle here. Do you mind just taking just one more call?’

  Oh, bum. I was so longing to unplug the phone and collapse into bed.

  ‘No I don’t mind,’ I say. Why I can’t just say what I want to say, I’ll never know.

  ‘OK, I’m just putting you through.’ Miracle says. I bet she’s off to bed in a minute I grump.

  ‘Hello, I’m Mystic Crystal. I will be your reader for tonight, this morning, I mean,’ I say, trying to sound as though I haven’t been on the phone for the past eight hours and am in serious need of forty winks, also trying not to snigger every time I say the words Mystic and Crystal in the same sentence.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ an elderly sounding woman says. ‘I… um…’

  The woman sounds obviously upset. I mean who phones a psychic hotline at three o’clock in the morning if they’re as happy as Larry?

  ‘Take your time,’ I say. I suddenly feel overwhelmed with sadness.

  ‘I…um…my… well, you see my husband passed away four years ago and… I’m sorry I …’

  ‘You still miss him terribly?’

  ‘Yes. I do.’ She whispers.

  I start to panic a bit. What if she wants me to contact her dead husband? What will I say?

  ‘I thought I was doing fine, but I’m not. I can’t sleep at night – obvious seeing as I’m ringing you at this hour of the morning. I can’t think straight during the day time…’

  I know exactly how she feels. I think constantly about my dad and how everything around me reminds me of him. The photograph of our last family holiday on the fridge door; the pair of boots he bought for me because I was so skint and couldn’t afford them myself; the silver pen he bought me to take to university with me.

  It’s probably not a cool thing to say at the age of 26, but I really did love my dad. He was the coolest dad in the world and I can’t remember a time when we ever argued. I suppose being the only girl in the family, my dad treated me like a little princess whatever my age and I admit I could twist him round my little finger so easily. It was funny to see how far I could push him before he said no, which was invariably never.

  ‘Dad, can I have a lift to London at the weekend? Dad, Sarah’s been kicked out, can she live with us? Dad can you get me a loan for a car? Dad…’ It didn’t matter what my request was, my dad would always say yes, much to my mum’s annoyance.

  He had kept the news that he had prostate cancer quiet from the family until it could be silenced no longer. Dad never wanted any medical intervention, and by the time we knew about it, it had spread so far that any radiotherapy treatment would never have worked anyway. It broke my heart to see the tall, strong man I knew and loved turn into a helpless patient that I hardly recognised. He was only 65 when he died in a hospital bed. So, yes, I know exactly how this lady is feeling right now.

  I turn three cards over as I think about how this woman must be feeling right now. Lonely, confused, angry…

  ‘It doesn’t get better with time does it? I know they say it will, but it doesn’t and I do know what you are going through right now. Believe me,’ I whisper. The cards I’ve drawn mean nothing to me and I doubt they will bring light relief to this woman either. Nothing will bring her husband back, just like nothing will bring my dad back. I suddenly get a sharp pain in the left-side of my head and put my hand up to stop it hurting.

  ‘My head hurts,’ I whisper.

  ‘He died of a brain tumour,’ the woman says. Oh no, I hope I’m not about to go the same way. I close my eyes and see flashes of bright light zooming past my eyelids. I feel sick and dizzy all at the same time. All I want to say is, ‘Valerie, I’m all right. It’s all right to cry, love. It’s truly amazing here.’ I must have said it out loud because the woman on the other end of the phone line has broken down in tears.

  ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ I suddenly realise that I’ve made this woman cry.

  ‘No, no it’s not you, my love. It’s Frank. He was the only one who ever called me Valerie.’ Oh, boy, this is beginning to scare me a little now. I remember when we had to do a study on the effects on telepathy. This professor from Arizona proved that people who are sensitive and tired could effectively pick up mind matter from another person – empathic, I think he called it. This is what I must have been doing. This woman’s need was so strong that I must have somehow tuned into her mind and read her thoughts. Scary nevertheless. ‘I’m sorry I have to go,’ she says. Then the line abruptly goes dead.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It’s five o’clock in the morning and I still can’t sleep. I am so annoyed with myself for not being able to switch off, but the last woman caller I had just keeps going round and round in my head and I can’t forget her, or her husband Frank for that matter. The other callers were just common sense really, but that last one was, well freaky to say the least.

  Missy has curled up in a ball on my pillow. I swear she thinks she owns my bed. I really do. Oh well, I’ll give it another ten minutes and if I can’t sleep I’ll get up and clean the flat or something. If that doesn’t make me go to sleep, I don’t know what will.

  The next thing I know it is eleven o’clock in the morning and my mobile is meowing loudly in my ear. I unintentionally fumble under Missy’s bottom area mistaking it for a cushion. Missy looks at me with utter contempt.

  ‘Sorry, Miss,’ I whisper. Where’s the bloody phone. Ah ha, of course, in my boot, why didn’t I think of that first? My v
ision is far too blurred to focus on what name comes up on the screen.

  ‘Hello?’ I croak.

  ‘I see a short, ugly, stalker entering your life,’ Amy does her best impression of a fortune-teller, although it sounds more like she’s pissed.

  ‘Oh great, not you as well,’ I groan. ‘I take it you’re back from your holiday then, sweetie?’ I say throwing myself back on to the bed, narrowly missing squashing Missy.

  ‘I am, sweetheart,’ Amy says in a suspiciously happy tone, ‘and I hear that you have finally got yourself a job!’ she shrieks. ‘Although I have to say, you’re not much of a fortune-teller Samantha Ball, otherwise you would have predicted that I would have met the man of my dreams in the Maldives!’ Amy shrieks again. She’s a bit of a shriek-er is our Amy. At any given opportunity, she will shriek. Whether she is excited or sad for you, it doesn’t seem to matter, she will shriek.

  I’ve known Amy since we were eight years old and we were both forced to have home-made crowns strapped to our heads. We were the two wise men in our school Nativity Play. The third had not been as wise as he should have been; having eaten the semolina for lunch (silly boy) he consequently had an unfortunate attack of diarrhoea at the last minute, so he couldn’t participate in being made to look like someone wearing their dad’s best white shirt with a home-made crown strapped to their head.

  I liked Amy because even at a young age she was very competitive and liked to win, no matter what. Show her a game of dominoes and that winning spirit would surge through her like electricity. In PE she was her fellow students’ nightmare. Amy was aggressively competitive and from the first day she started at our school, I knew that she would stop at nothing to win whatever she had set her heart on.

  Amy was faster at rope climbing than me, and she was better than me at beating our tutor at chess, so it was good to have someone like that on my side rather than against me. In the saga of the missing wise man, Amy naturally took charge.