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

by Deborah Durbin

  ‘Oh look, there’s Tony!’ Suze points and waves to a man in the far corner of the room who looks like a conductor in his black dinner suit. He sends a regal wave back and then turns to the woman on his right and whispers something to her, as Billy does like wise to Suze. It’s no wonder these people are paranoid if all they do is spend their evenings whispering about each other.

  ‘And the winner of Best Breakfast News Programme goes to….’ The Paris Hilton look-a-like pauses for effect. ‘Wake Up!’ She shouts into the microphone.

  The table with the newsreaders cheer loudly and all run up to the stage at the front of the room.

  ‘Yeah!’ One rather smartly dressed newsreader shouts, as the rest of them gather around the microphone, trying to get a word in edge ways so that they can thank their agents, producers, mothers…etc.

  Once the newsreaders are ushered out of the room, the Paris-Hilton look-a-like looks at her notes.

  ‘We’re next.’ Suze whispers to me. ‘It’s the Best Day Time Magazine Programme next, we’ll nail it.’ She says confidently.

  ‘And the nominees for the Best Day Time Magazine Programme are….’ The hostess pauses for effect, ‘…Good Morning…’ A huge cheer erupts and I sit on my hands so that I don’t clap my all time favourite programme. ‘…Morning Latte…’ Another loud cheer goes up – this time I do clap my hands, ‘…and Your Home is Your Castle.’ Unfortunately for the Your Home is Your Castle team on the table opposite us, the only cheers come from their own table. I think it’s one of those programmes, like the soaps you have never heard of being up against Coronation Street and Eastenders – the only people who know what is going on in them, is the cast itself.

  ‘And the award for the Best Day Time Magazine Programme goes to…’ Ms Hilton lookie-likey rips open the pink envelope in her hands. ‘…Morning Latte!’

  A big cheer echoes around the room and Billy punches the air, Suze screams ‘Yeah man!’ in a very rock-chic style and gives Billy a high five. They both grab my hand and run up the stairs to the glittery stage with me in tow. Uh Oh! Where are they taking me? Once again I am a rabbit-in-head-lights as I stand looking out to the vast crowd with my gob open wide.

  ‘Congratulations!’ Paris, or whoever she is, hugs Suze as Suze waves a golden award in the shape of a star in the air.

  ‘Thank you, thank you all!’ Suze screams into the mic. Blimey, you’d think she was thanking Wembley. ‘You know this wouldn’t have been possible if it wasn’t for the whole Morning Latte team and that includes our very special psychic, Mystic Crystal here!’ Suze holds my arm high in the air – yikes, did I Imac my armpits? I feel that this could be that inappropriate moment when something that shouldn’t pop out of my dress will do so. I blush the colour of said dress and look down at my very pretty shoes.

  ‘And a very big thank you to our production team and Arnie, Penny, Lester…’ Billy reels off a load of names I’ve never heard of but I assume they have something to do with the programme. Suze grabs the microphone from Billy who looks furious at her.

  ‘And a huge thank you to our viewers. Without you none of this would be happening! Thank you all!’ She screams again – once a rock star always a rock star.

  After milking the applause for as long as they can, we are asked to leave the stage via the side curtains and the paparazzi photographers pounce on us and start snapping away.

  ‘Crystal! Over here!’ I hear a photographer shout as I turn. I smile as he shoots over and over again until I get flash eye.

  I’m then bustled along to make room for the next award winners. I haven’t a clue what anyone is saying, but I’m following exactly what Suze is doing. I’m pushed into a tunnel that leads back to the massive hall where all the celebrities are gathered waiting with batted breath to hear who has won the Best Actress award.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Before the after-show party is in full swing, I am ushered into a private room by Larry’s PA which is to be my fortune telling booth. Again no expense is spared and although I’m sure the organisers are taking the piss by making the room look like a fortune teller’s caravan on Blackpool seafront with a huge sign declaring ‘Madam Crystal is in Residence’, it actually proves very popular indeed and in no time at all the celebs are queuing up all eager to know whether they will win an Oscar for their latest performance.

  First up is one of the over excited children’s presenters who bounces in and I half expect him to start singing ‘I’m a Little Teapot.’ This guy has so much enthusiasm it’s unreal!

  ‘Hi there!’ he greets me excitedly, like a Red Coat entertainer – which I guess is probably what he was in a previous life.

  ‘Hi.’ I say with a smile. You can’t help but like the guy, even if he is wearing a silky, purple and yellow polka-dot shirt and a pair of turquoise cord trousers. I can’t help but notice that he also has a pair of lime green Crocs on his feet. Quick, someone call the fashion police!

  ‘So, what can I do for you?’ I ask as I shuffle my pack of cards. I hope I don’t smell. It is awfully hot in this booth, you know.

  ‘He wants to know if he should marry Tristan.’ An effeminate voice informs me and it’s not coming from the vibrant chap in front of me – unless of course he’s also a very good ventriloquist in his spare time.

  ‘Well, I really want to know if I should commit.’ The presenter asks.

  ‘Of course he’s totally wrong for him.’ The voice says. ‘He doesn’t love him like I did.’ And you are? I ask in my head. ‘I’m Leonard, my dear.’

  ‘Um…can I just ask you if you knew someone called Leonard?’ I ask.

  The TV presenter claps his hand to his mouth.

  ‘Leonard? You mean Leo? He’s here, in this room? Oh my God, I think I’m going to faint.’ Mr TV presenter says as he looks around the booth in panic and I think he might just faint at any given moment.

  ‘Well he’s not here, here, as in right here, but his spirit is here, if you get my meaning.’ I say, even I’m getting confused now.

  ‘So what does he say?’ The TV presenter asks eagerly, like a child high on orange Smarties.

  ‘He says that he doesn’t think Tristan is the right one for you.’ I pass on the message from the obviously gay spirit.

  ‘Bitch! He would say that, wouldn’t he? I mean it’s not like he ever liked Tristan, did you, Leo?’ The man in front of me shouts aggressively into the air, looking around him. ‘He never did like him you know.’ He says to me.

  ‘He’s too young for him. I mean come on, he’s hardly got any experience has he?’ Leonard snaps.

  Oh help.

  ‘Well, I’m going to marry Tristan whether you like it or not Leo! You’re not here and he is! You left me remember, for that hussy Patrick and where did it get you? Huh? I’ll tell you where, nowhere, that’s where! Was he there at your funeral, Leonard? No, he wasn’t and why was that? Because by then he was in France, canoodling with some Parisian producer, that’s why, Leonard. I was there. I was at your funeral, crying for you.’ The TV presenter snaps and breaks down in tears and then dramatically storms out of my booth, screaming something along the lines of, “I can’t do this!”

  Err, hello? Did that chap not think it the slightest bit unusual that I could hear his dead friend Leonard? Obviously not. Obviously Children’s TV presenters are used to having arguments with gay dead people all the time.

  Next to enter my booth is a middle-aged woman I recognise as Verity something or other from a recent Marks & Spencer advert. She breezes in to my ‘booth’, plonks herself dramatically in the chair in front of me and throws her fox fur shawl around her neck.

  ‘So, Dharling, tell me what the future holds for me,’ she drawls. The reason she drawls is thanks to the amount of botox the women has in her poor face. Her original features would probably never recognise her now. Her lips are vibrant red and look like they’ve been inflated using a bicycle pump.

  ‘You probably recognise me from Once Upon a Time. Fabulous director, Dha
rling!’ The actress says. Err, nope, never heard of it, sorry.

  ‘Yes of course,’ I say as I shuffle my cards and pass them to her.

  ‘She had an affair with him, that’s why she thinks he’s bloody fabulous!’ A woman’s voice comes into my head. She sounds like a Londoner and I stifle a giggle.

  ‘So, what does my wonderful future hold then?’ The actress asks.

  ‘She’ll grow old, wrinkly and those stupid lips will drop off before long if she doesn’t stop pumping them up – silly old trout,’ the other woman’s voice adds. I can’t tell her that! ‘Oh, what a shame, because that’s what’s going to happen,’ the voice confirms. ‘She’s got a drink problem too.’ I have no idea who is talking to me, but she’s obviously someone who knows this lady, and by the sounds of it someone who knows how to hold a grudge too.

  ‘Well…’ I study the cards in front of me. ‘I don’t think you will act forever more…’

  ‘Not act? Me? Dharling, do you realise who you are talking to? I’m Verity Star!’ The woman looks aghast.

  ‘I feel that you will devote much of your time to animals and teaching other young actors and actresses your craft.’ I add.

  Verity waves her arms in the air, very Shirley Bassy style.

  ‘We don’t have actresses nowadays, dear, we are all actors. Of course I am a very giving person, it’s my only fault.’ Verity muses to herself.

  ‘Ha!’ The cockney woman in my head laughs loudly, ‘Giving? She wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire!’

  ‘Excuse me, who are you?’ I ask out loud – oh bum, I must stop doing that. The actress in front of me looks at me, her eyes popping out of her head.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Oh sorry, no not you. I know who you are.’ I lie, ‘I was talking to…’

  ‘I’m Rita. She knows who I am.’ The voice confirms.

  ‘Right, um… Verity do you know, or should I say, did you know a Rita by any chance?’ I ask Verity cautiously.

  ‘Rita? What, Rita Monroe?’ Verity asks.

  ‘The one and only Darling!’ Rita cackles in my head.

  I nod.

  ‘What, is she here? With us now? Oh my God!’ Verity places a hand over her heart and feigns morose.

  ‘Poor, poor Rita. Oh we did get on well together. We were at the Palladium you know!’ Verity confirms.

  ‘Lying bitch. I couldn’t stand the old cow!’ Rita hisses.

  ‘Poor, poor Rita. She liked the you-know-what,’ Verity says in hushed whispers. I frown – I haven’t a clue what the you-know-what is. ‘You know, the old sauce,’ Verity does a mime of a drunk drinking out of a bottle.

  ‘Oh, right.’ I get it now.

  ‘Why the fucking lying cow! It’s her who can’t say no to a Between the Sheets, and I’m not just talking about the drink either!’ Rita snaps in my ear.

  I can see this double act have a few issues going on here.

  ‘Well, Rita sends her love and is looking out for you.’ I say with a most sincere smile.

  ‘Like fuck I do!’ Rita seethes, ‘I’m just counting the days till she drops down dead then I’ll really tell her what I think of the old trollop! Call yerself a psychic? Ha!’

  Well, I can hear you, can’t I? I think to myself.

  ‘Ah, bless her little heart,’ Verity says with what could be a smile, although with those lips it’s hard to tell, it could be a sneer for all I know.

  ‘I’ll leave Rita’s love with you then.’ I say, sounding not too unlike Colin Fry.

  Verity sashays out of my booth, dramatically flicking her fox fur over her shoulder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I wake bleary eyed and with a face that looks like I’ve been hit with the back of a shovel. Having taken readings for more than 200 celebrities I ended up collapsing into my hotel bed just as the sun was rising at four o’clock this morning. I couldn’t even be arsed to undress and as a result, my beautiful burgundy dress looks more crushed than crushed silk and there’s a bloody big stain of something, which smells faintly like coconut, slap bang in the middle of it – eww, goodness knows what that is. I don’t remember drinking anything with coconut in it last night. Mind you, I was so busy that Larry’s PA just kept popping in with refreshments for me all night. For all I know I could have been downing arsenic.

  The evening had been a great success – although I never did find out what happened to the children’s TV presenter. The one time I managed to exit my booth on account that I was desperate for a pee, I noticed that Suze was standing on top of a table belting out Bruce Springsteen’s, Born in the USA, at the top of her voice. The last time I saw Billy he was bitching to another permatan presenter from Hooray, Hooray, It’s Our Holiday, about some actress on Eastenders. I don’t know; the dizzy world that is celebrity, hey?

  As I head for the shower I switch on my phone that rings into life signalling that I have twenty odd messages. What did we do before mobiles? I wonder as I throw the phone on to the bed and step into the warm running water. There was a time when people would pop into their neighbours for a cup of sugar. Nowadays no one knows who their neighbours are. Instead of borrowing a cup of sugar they simple press a few keys and order a whole bag of it from Tesco.com. Apart from Ms Morris, I have no idea who lives in the other flats occupied by my neighbouring tenants. I occasionally glimpse people coming in or out of the house, but that’s as far as our social contact goes.

  As the water rushes over me I contemplate the previous evening’s events. So that’s what it’s like to live in the world of celebrities then – lots of ‘Mwah, Mwah, Dharling’ and very little else from what I saw. And they are so insecure! If I’d been given a pound for every time I’d been asked if they would get any further in their careers, I would be a very rich woman indeed this morning. ‘What about my next film role? Do you see me working with Harrison Ford?’ Chill out I wanted to shout! It’s not the end of the world if you don’t work with Indiana Jones you know!

  I hear my phone bleep-bleep again as I wash the soap from my hair and the make-up from my tired eyes and tut to myself. Can’t a girl have a shower in peace these days?

  By the time I’ve towelled myself dry and slipped into the complementary fluffy white bath robe, there are more than 50 text messages on my phone. My voice mail box is constantly buzzing with more messages. It’s either my birthday and I’ve forgotten, or everyone saw the TV awards last night and is texting to congratulate me.

  I start to trawl through the messages…

  Sam. Call me. Urgnt – Annette.

  Y R U Nt answring ur phone? – Annette.

  Call me ASAP – Larry.

  Ugnt – call me – Larry.

  Hv u seen yet? Not gd – call me – Matt.

  Sam – can u ring me plz – Matt.

  Shit Sam – wotz going on? Jack.

  Need 2 tlk 2 u – urgent – Larry.

  Call me as soon as u get this msg. We need 2 talk – Liam

  What the? I do wish people would send grammatically correct messages. It’s hard enough to work out what people are trying to say without abbreviating everything. And what the hell is going on? No sooner than I scroll through the numerous messages then another comes through, then another, then… well you get the gist of it. Not content with saving stacks of messages, my Nokia now decided to go into overtime with its cat noise ring-tone – I thought it was cute to have a meowing phone ring, but now it just sounds as though a cat is being slowly and very painfully murdered. I don’t have enough thumbs to read the messages and answer the phone at the same time, and no sooner than I hit the silent button, than it meows again.

  The only message that has stuck in my head is the one from Jack. If Jack has texted me then there must be something wrong, so I delete the other 49, ignore the meowing and ring Jack’s mobile.

  ‘It’s me, what’s up?’ I say as light-heartedly as I can muster.

  ‘Where are you?’ Jack says, panic rising in his voice.

  ‘I’m at a hotel in London
, why?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Plaza, on West End Street. Jack, what’s going on? My phone hasn’t stopped ringing all morning. Did you see me on telly? Was I OK?’ Now panic is in my voice.

  ‘Just stay where you are, Sam. Do not answer the phone, do not talk to anyone, lock your hotel room door and just wait until I get there. I’ll explain then. What room number are you?’ Jack orders.

  ‘121…but…’

  The line goes dead.

  Oh shit. This doesn’t sound good. I feel hot and sick all at the same time. What is going on?

  My mobile meows into life again and Larry’s number flashes up on the screen. Don’t answer the phone Jack said. Shit. What should I do? Has the world gone mad? Have we been attacked by zombies? I hesitate, watching the screen light up while all the time the bloody meowing noise echo’s around the room. Oh, oh, oh, I don’t know what to do!

  ‘Miss Ball?’ A male voice outside says as a knock sounds on the door.

  Do not open the door, Jack said.

  ‘Miss Ball? Are you in there?’ The same voice asks.

  Do not talk to anyone, Jack said.

  I drop down to the floor and crawl underneath the bed to hide. The phone is meowing, the door is knock knocking and I’m hiding under a bed in a top London hotel and I have no idea why. This really is not a good start to the day and I still haven’t dried my bloody hair, which means it will look like a ball of tumbleweed any minute!

  ‘Sam. Sam it’s me!’ A voice hisses through the door about an hour and a half later. It’s Jack – or is it? I am so paranoid by now that I don’t know who is who anymore. I’ve just spent the past two hours examining the shag-pile under the bed. My legs are as stiff as a corpse and every time I move in a bid to get comfortable I managed to catch my hair in one of the bedsprings above me.

  ‘Sam! It’s Jack. Open the door,’ he says.

  ‘How do I know it’s really you?’ I ask as I attempt to crawl out from under the bed – ouch! Bloody bedsprings!