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

by Deborah Durbin

  ‘They’re willing to pay you that every week if you agree to come in every Sunday.’ Annette says with a pleading look in her eye.

  ‘Well… I’m not sure Annette. I wasn’t supposed to be here at all. I was only covering for my boss.’ I say. ‘I’ll have to check with her that it will be ok.’

  In all honesty I don’t think my nerves are really up to this live radio lark every week. But then again the idea of getting paid £300 for an hour’s work is very appealing.

  ‘Tell her to get the brakes checked on her car.’ A woman’s voice comes into my head. Oh, not again. I do wish this would stop happening. There’s a name for people who hear voices you know! I am not a psychic. I am just a good judge of character and a good guesser. I am not hearing voices in my head! ‘Tell her!’ The voice demands. Oh bollocks!

  ‘Well have a chat with your boss and call me tomorrow, but I really do want you to come back. I bet the producers will pay you more if you want me to ask them?’

  ‘Oh, no it’s not about the money.’

  ‘Well, ask your boss and see what she says.’

  ‘OK, I will and I’ll call you tomorrow. Thank you so much for making it a nice experience, Annette. Oh, and by the way…’ I venture, ‘I’m being told to tell you to get the brakes on your car looked at,’ I smile nervously just waiting for Annette to tell me that she doesn’t actually own a car and she is in fact an environmentalist who cycles to work every day. Instead she looks a bit shocked and then nods.

  As I sip my latte in the Town FM canteen, whilst texting Miracle about my concerns at hearing voices in my head, Liam the sound tech plonks himself down in front of me. As previously mentioned, Liam is one of those men who could easily come under the category of naturally good-looking – he has natural blonde hair that is spiked at the front and dazzling green eyes. He has an air of quiet confidence about him and like me, Liam is a jeans and t-shirt kind of person. Also like me he has a penchant for coffee.

  ‘I thought I would find you here.’ Liam says smiling, ‘how did you find it, your first live performance?’

  ‘Good. A bit nervous.’ I say, licking the coffee froth from my top lip. Oh no! I hope he doesn’t think I was licking my lips in one of those, you know, those suggestive-licking-your-lips-kind-of-ways. Suddenly my face feels almost as hot as my latte.

  ‘You did really well, considering it was your first time.’ Suddenly I feel very self-conscious. ‘So how long have you been a psychic?’

  The dreaded question. Do I admit the truth and tell him six weeks and I’m not actually a psychic and I just guess good and I hear departed people in my head? I blush again.

  ‘Not that long. Still learning the ropes.’ Which I suppose isn’t too far from the truth. I am still trying to fathom out how and why I have started to hear voices in my head. Maybe it’s because I spend so much time in my own company. You see it all the time in the papers. The nutter who claims to hear voices – they all turn out to be loners, you know. Note to self; must get out more.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Liam asks, shaking me from my thoughts.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘About coming to this new wine bar tonight. We get VIP tickets in return for mentioning it on air and I thought…’ Now it’s his turn to blush. Oh he is lovely.

  ‘Umm… yes I’d love to. Thank you.’ Blimey, it looks like I, Miss Lonely-Hearts-Club, just got myself a date!

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘So, what you been up to then? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning.’ Jack says.

  ‘I know.’ I reply. Having checked my answer machine, I found no less than 16 messages, 15 of which were from Jack wanting to know where I am and what I’m doing at such an unGodly hour on a Sunday morning. The other message is from my mother to tell me some obscure fact about the humble radish and to also enquire as to my whereabouts. Huh! I don’t lounge around the flat till lunchtime every Sunday you know!

  ‘Just fancied a run.’ I lie to Jack.

  Jack does that girly giggle that really doesn’t become him.

  ‘You? Running? Bollocks!’ Jack manages to splutter between laughing.

  ‘Yes!’ I snap a little too defensively. I sometimes forget that Jack has known me for the past God knows how many years and also knows when I am lying.

  ‘So, what have you really been doing from eight this morning until two thirty, Miss Ball?’

  ‘I can’t say.’ I say. If I try to lie again I will just make a complete hash of it. If I tell Jack the truth he will probably go and tell Amy, my mum and the whole of Bath come to that and then mysterious Mystic Crystal will not be very mysterious at all, will she?

  ‘What do you mean you can’t?’ Jack says sounds like a wounded kitten.

  ‘I just can’t, all right? Anyway, how did it go with what’s-her-name and the French film?’ I ask, changing the subject completely. I know darn well what her name is, but I’m still smarting from being dropped like a hot potato last night.

  ‘Oh no you don’t. I’m not telling you anything until you tell me what you’ve been up to.’ Jack says. I sigh. He’s not going to give up on this, is he?

  ‘If I tell you then you have to promise you are not going to blab to anyone – and that means in particular my mother and Amy.’ I say, ‘and you have to promise not to laugh.’ I add, knowing what Jack is like as soon as I mention anything remotely connected to psychic things.

  ‘Cross my heart and swear to what’s it.’ Jack promises.

  You see, unfortunately I’m born with that mysterious gene that prevents you from being able to make up convincing stories and well, lie. I’ve never been any good at it. I mean I start well, you know, with the little white lie, but then I can’t just leave it at that, I have to embellish it a bit more, in the hope that it sounds convincing. Then just to make sure it’s realistic, I throw in that one of my relatives has just died. People must think I’m very careless given the amount of times I’ve ‘lost’ them.

  ‘I was on the radio this morning. Town FM.’ I venture sheepishly – another grandmother-death-in-the-family is not going to cut it with Jack, given the fact that he knew my grandmother and actually attended her funeral.

  ‘Oh yeah, doing what.’ Jack doesn’t sound convinced.

  ‘A live psychic phone-in, if you must know.’ I say huffily.

  ‘What you? On the radio? Live?’

  ‘Err, yeah.’ I confirm – God, Jack can be so…. Grrrr sometimes!

  ‘What live? On the radio?’

  Do we have Little-Sir-Echo on the phone here?

  ‘Yes Jack. Me, live, radio. As in “Welcome to Town FM”.’ I say in my best radio presenters’ voice.

  ‘What THE Town FM?’

  I’m not sure what part of I-was-live-on-the-radio Jack is not getting here.

  ‘Yes Jack.’

  ‘Bloody Hell!’ Ah-ha, the penny finally drops. ‘How come?’

  ‘Because my….’ I was about to say psychic advisor, because I guess that’s what Miracle is really. ‘..boss, Miracle couldn’t do it and asked me to cover for her.’

  ‘Cool! So what was it like?’ Jack asks.

  I don’t want to freak him out by telling him that I have since discovered that I am the grown up version of the ‘I-speak-to-dead-people’ kid from The Sixth Sense.

  ‘It was good, I just did some live readings, that kind of thing.’ I play it down a wee bit.

  ‘Cool. You reckon you can get a demo of the band played for us then?’ Jack says.

  ‘I don’t know. They’ve asked me back next week, well every week actually.’ I say feeling quite proud of myself.

  ‘Double cool! So you’re gonna be like a psychic DJ?’ Jack laughs.

  I do wish Jack would take me seriously sometimes.

  ‘So are you coming to The Lion tonight or what, Mystic Sam? The band’s playing.’ Jack says.

  I’m about to say yes when I suddenly remember that I’m already booked.

  ‘Can’t sorry. I have a date.’ I smile as
I say it. In fact it has been so long since I’ve dated anyone that I have to admit it does sound good. I-have-a-date!

  ‘What you? A date? Who with?’ Jack says as I get a sense of deja vu coming on.

  ‘Well, don’t sound so bloody surprised! I’ll have you know I am in fact quite a catch!’ I say a little too defensively.

  ‘I know that. I just meant… When did this happen? Who is he? Where did you meet him and can I come too?’

  ‘None of your business and no, you can’t come too. You’ve got a gig remember and even if you didn’t have, I wouldn’t let you come anyway.’ I reply.

  ‘Oh right. OK then. I’ll call you tomorrow.’ Jack sounds all forlorn, which serves him right for trading in our Saturday nights in favour of some… some floozy Florence Nightingale.

  ‘Bye then. Loves ya.’ Jack says.

  ‘Love me too. Bye Jack.’

  I feel a bit of a cow-pat for being off with Jack, but it serves him right. Now, what does one wear to a posh wine-bar?

  I feel somewhat overdressed. Actually overdressed is an understatement. The wine bar in Trenchard Street is heaving with bodies – and they are all dressed in t-shirts and jeans. Having spent the best part of three hours squeezing myself into my little black dress - the one and only designer item I have in my wardrobe, thanks to a shopping trip in New York that Amy won as area manager of the year - and a pair of killer heels, I now remember that the dress code for a trendy wine bar is casual wear. Still, I do look good, even if I say so myself, and even if I do stand out like a sausage at a vegan conference.

  The Glass Half Full wine bar is decorated in a beautiful trendy style of what is currently referred to as minimalist, or in other words, as if they don’t have two kidneys to rub together. It reminds me of the student bars me and Amy used to frequent. The floors are bare, save for a coat of clear varnish; the walls are un-plastered, favouring instead, the trendy-loft-apartment-breeze-block-look, with a few canvas prints that look nothing like their subject, hung at interesting angles so that you have no option but to strain your neck in a bid to make out what the subject is meant to be, and even then you still have no idea.

  I spot Liam almost immediately. Did I mention that Liam is six foot four, so not that hard to spot him in a crowd, or a dimly lit room for that matter - bit of a problem for him though should he be playing a game of hide and seek, I should imagine.

  ‘Ah, here she is now.’ Liam says as I push my way through the jean-clad crowd. Isn’t it funny how any other evening I wouldn’t think twice about walking into a wine bar on my own? Tonight however, I feel nervous and I’m sure everyone is looking at me – which, considering I look as though I’ve just taken the wrong turning to an Oscar party, they probably are.

  ‘Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me.’ I mutter to the backs of people as I make my way to the main bar.

  ‘You made it then?’ Liam smiles as I finally reach him. I feel as though I’m on the verge of overheating. I’m sure it’s illegal to have so many people gathered in one room so lacking in ventilation, you know. I blow a stray curl out of my eyes.

  ‘Hi.’ I say, somewhat out of breath – did I memo myself a reminder to get fit?

  ‘Anya, this is Crystal.’ Liam introduces me to the woman standing next to him, as he hands me a glass of white wine. I momentarily wonder what they give you in a wine bar if you don’t drink wine. I suddenly realise that Liam just referred to me as Crystal and doesn’t actually know my real name. He actually thinks my name is Crystal. Do I correct him now or just keep quiet? And anyway, do I really look like a Crystal?

  Before I have time to say anything, Liam’s companion, Anya has already launched into a conversation aimed at me.

  ‘Lovely to meet you, Darling. Loving the dress! I’ve heard so much about you, Crystal. In fact I heard you on Town today; you were very good and so accurate. I particularly liked the bit with the woman who wanted to know if her fella was going to marry her – amazing! How did you know that?’ Anya says.

  Anya, also dressed in a t-shirt and very tight skinny jeans, with lots of trendy rips in them, exudes confidence and as well she might – she empowers gorgeousness – tall, willowy and graceful are just three adjectives that would sum Anya up. At a guess I would say she was in her early thirties. Her long ebony hair flows like a river down her back and she has the most perfect complexion a girl could ask for. Life’s really not fair, is it?

  I blush as Anya enthuses about Town FM’s new Sixth Sense programme. Liam, unable to get a word in edgeways, nods in all the right places and keeps us topped up with wine. I’m surprised he’s not bored out of his mind by now.

  ‘So are you going to become a regular for us then?’ Liam asks, as soon as Anya pauses for a moment to take a sip of her drink.

  ‘It looks like it.’

  Having phoned Miracle and updated her with recent events and voicing my concerns that I suddenly keep hearing voices in my head, she was only too eager for me to do the regular slot for Town FM. ‘I see big things coming your way, Samantha, so grab as many opportunities that are thrown at you, sweetheart.’ She said. Miracle then proceeded to tell me that if I was going to make it as a professional psychic I would have to put up with the voices, and something about opening and closing my chakras properly, whatever they are. She also assured me that the voices I have heard are real dead people and I’m not imagining things, nor am I going mad.

  According to Miracle we all have the ability to tap into our sixth sense and it’s only when we open ourselves up to that possibility, the non-living feel comfortable in contacting us. This is all way outside of the box for me at the moment, but it is earning me lots of money. As if this sort of thing happens to everyone everyday? She then went on to tell me all about the fabulous flat she had found with an equally fabulous sea-view and that the estate agent wasn’t all bad either!

  ‘Great, I can’t wait.’ Liam says with a gleaming smile. Ooh, I think he likes me!

  ‘So now you’re a pro at this game have you ever thought of getting into TV, Crystal?’ Anya asks.

  ‘TV? Oh God no. I’ve only done one session on the radio.’ I laugh at the very idea.

  ‘So? You’ve obviously made a good impression with the shows producers. They wouldn’t have asked you back if you hadn’t would they, Liam? So what do you think?’ Anya Asks. I look puzzled.

  ‘Anya is a producer for the BBC. Shows like What Your House Says About You, that kind of crap.’ Liam laughs.

  ‘It is not crap. It is real life media, I’ll have you know. I’m telling you Crystal, if we got someone like you on board our viewing figures would go sky high. What do you think?’

  ‘Oh I… ummm… I don’t know.’ I stutter.

  Miracle’s words echo in my brain telling me to grab opportunities and I know if it was Amy she would have bitten Anya’s arm off within nanoseconds, but I’m not Amy and I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should ring Amy. It’s all very well doing a radio phone-in, but on telly you’re there in full view of everyone who wants to prove you’re wrong. There will be letters of complaint, questions, and people wanting me to prove myself all the time. Oh I don’t know!

  ‘Have I got some news for you!’

  A voice I recognise calls over to me and I’m thankful for the diversion that is Annette. She sashays her way over to me and I say a silent thank you to whoever might be listening – and as things stand that could be just about anyone up there at the moment.

  ‘Annette, lovely to see you.’ I say and do the mwoah, mwoah thing that is so fitting nowadays. In my student days I used to laugh at the likes of Paris Hilton and Lindsey Lohan and their air-kisses, but I’ve since noticed that it is an essential part of social greeting etiquette between women who wish to great each other and it’s also a very effective way to keep your lip-gloss in tact.

  ‘You are not going to believe this!’ Annette says excitedly, ‘Hi Liam, Hi Anya.’ She says as an after thought. ‘You know that girl that phoned in today? The snotty little madam…
what was her name? Becky, that was it. The one you said was expecting a baby?’

  I nod remembering what a challenge she was.

  ‘Well, it turns out she is indeed pregnant! You were right, Darling! She phoned the studio to speak to you, but you’d already left. She said that after she spoke to you, she and her friend went out and bought a pregnancy test and it turned out to be positive! You were right all along. She’s only 18. Silly girl.’ Annette muses.

  ‘Blimey!’ Anya and Liam say in unison. I blush and take another gulp of the very pleasant wine.

  ‘See, I told you she was good. My little star!’ Annette says smugly to Anya.

  ‘I know, and I’m trying to persuade your little star to come on to one of the daytime shows.’ Anya smiles back. Forgive me, but it looks to me as though these two have a bit of rivalry going on here.

  ‘Well, it’s up to Crystal of course, but you know how fickle TV work can be and just remember, I saw her first.’ Annette warns.

  I look at Liam to help me and thankfully he gets the message. He holds out his arm.

  ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Yes please.’ I reply.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  You would think having just come back from a date after being ‘on the shelf’ for the past 18 months I would be on cloud nine, wouldn’t you? Wrong. Liam was lovely, don’t get me wrong. He did all the right things, said all the right things, and yet… After all this time of being a singleton, you would have thought that I would have been only too happy to have a date with a gorgeous, tall, sound tech, and I was happy. We had a very nice time at a small Italian restaurant in the town, but there just wasn’t that spark that I thought there would be, or should be. Maybe I’ve become a cynic over the years of failed relationships, but from what I remember, aren’t you supposed to have butterflies in your stomach or thunderbolts of lighting? The only feeling in my stomach is that of hunger, and the only thing that is going to cure it is a bacon sandwich.