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

by Deborah Durbin

  ‘What do you mean how do you know it’s me? It’s me, you wally! Now open the bloody door!’

  This is all very MI5.

  ‘Well you say that, but I’ve been under the bed for two hours and I don’t know what’s going on.’ I wail.

  ‘Jesus Christ. Right, OK, Um… right, your middle name is Abigail.’ Jack says. He’s correct, but then anyone could have found that out by looking at my birth certificate.

  ‘Tell me something only Jack would know,’ I say – God this is stupid. I know it’s Jack. It’s Jack’s voice for goodness Sake, but he did tell me to not answer the door to anyone.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sam. OK… um… oh yeah, you’ve got a birth mark in the shape of a strawberry on your right buttock,’ he mutters.

  ‘How do you know that?’ I shriek.

  ‘Because I’ve seen it on numerous occasions, when we’ve been swimming. Now open the fucking door, before I announce your bra size to the lift attendant. I look a right prick stood out here.’

  I crawl over on my hands and knees and reach up and unlock the door. Jack, looking very sexy – oh my God, did I just think that? - dressed in biker leathers, a crash helmet on his head and carrying a large plastic bag, a spare helmet and a pile of newspapers in his hands, rushes in, shuts the door behind him and locks it. He takes his helmet off and looks at me for a moment.

  ‘Man, you look like shit,’ He says, reaching out to give me a hug. And I do look like shit. My hair, which I had every intention of drying has taken on a life of its own and I now resemble Medusa on a bad hair day. But I don’t care. I hug Jack to me, inhaling the combined smell of leather and Jack and I want to hang on to him for as long as I can.

  Finally Jack holds me at arm’s length and looks at me with a very serious expression on his face.

  ‘What’s going on Jack? One minute I’m getting up to all sorts in a dream about George Clooney and the next my mobile is bombarded with messages from people telling me to call them immediately.’

  ‘You haven’t spoken to anyone, have you?’ Jack asks.

  ‘No, well apart from you. Someone knocked on the door earlier, but I didn’t answer it.’

  ‘Good girl, now take a deep breath and look at these.’ Jack unfolds the eight or so newspapers he’s had clutched under his arm.

  PSYCHIC TO THE STARS – FRAUD MORE LIKE!

  MYSTIC CRYSTAL – WHAT A LOAD OF CRYSTAL BALLS!

  “I MAKE IT ALL UP” – PSYCHIC TO THE STARS CONFESSES!

  TV PSYCHIC, OR CON-ARTIST?

  Every newspaper from the tabloids to the broadsheets screams the same headlines, followed by a picture of me at the awards ceremony last night, smiling and waving to the photographer.

  Oh, sweet Jesus!

  My eyes scan the headlines. One after the other they all say more or less the same thing.

  Samantha Ball, or Mystic Crystal, as she likes to call herself, claims she has no psychic ability whatsoever and makes the whole thing up….

  Oh God, I feel as though I’m about to be sick. Tears cloud my eyes as I try to read the rest of the story that has gained national coverage, all the while my stomach feels as though it is about the throw up the entire contents of last nights buffet supper.

  A source close to the psychic cheat, whose clients have included A list celebrities and MPs, says, “She told me herself she has no psychic skills and just makes it all up. The only thing she’s qualified for is treating people with vegetable phobias. She thinks it’s all a bit of a laugh.” Samantha Ball, 25, from Bath, who until recently was an unemployed graduate, began her extraordinary quest to deceive bereaved clients into believing she was contacting their loved ones. She freely admits that she has no knowledge of spiritualism and yet has managed to con her way into a very lucrative career, with her own radio show on Town FM, daily appearances on BBC’s Morning Latte Show and numerous columns for women’s magazines…Miss Ball was unavailable for comment…

  ‘Oh my God! Jack, have you seen this?’ I stutter between tears. ‘I’m in every fucking newspaper, on every fucking front page. I feel as if all the blood is draining out of me. I have to sit down. Jack kneels down beside me and places one leather-gloved hand on my knee. Unavailable for comment? I haven’t even been asked to fucking comment!

  ‘But who would do this to me? It’s simply not true, Jack. I do have psychic abilities – admittedly I didn’t think I did at first, but I do Jack, I really do!’ I wail. ‘Look at them all! They are all saying I’m a liar and fraud. What am I going to do, Jack?’

  I start to cry into his shoulder, and then he pulls me closer into his chest. Once the tears start I can’t stop them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I feel like a fugitive on the run – or at least how I think a fugitive on the run would feel like right now. In the 30 minutes that Jack has been here, there have been four knocks on the door and numerous phone calls from reception informing us that people from the press wish to speak with me to get my side of the story – yeah, right.

  I have appointed Jack as my official spokesman – well with all this going on, I need someone to help me. Funnily enough, I always thought of spokespeople as officious looking men dressed in suits, who read out statements to the press at the front of equally official looking buildings, not a leather-clad biker in a vintage t-shirt and spiky hair.

  As the phone by the bed rings into life again Jack picks it up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘No, and can you please inform the press that Miss Ball is not available for comment. Miss Ball has left the building.’ I hear Jack say. ‘No, I imagine she is back home by now. Yes, her bill will be settled today – thanks.’

  My eyes flash again over the headlines of the tabloids, which are spread out all over the bed. It feels as if I am in a very, very, bad dream and any moment now I will wake up, snuggled under my duvet with Missy sleeping on my head and think, thank goodness for that, it was only a dream.

  But it’s not a dream; someone – a source close to me apparently, according to the papers - has gone to a whole lot of trouble to ruin my reputation and it looks like they may well have succeeded. I have been vilified to the extreme. All I can think of is who would hate me so much as to do this to me?

  I look at the photograph on the front page of The Sun, taken from last night, “Con artist Samantha Ball at last nights TV award ceremony,” screams the headline. As I slept, some sleazy photographer was busy emailing my picture to all the editorial offices of all the British press.

  ‘Right,’ Jack says in an authoritative manner, ‘get yourself dressed in this, and we’ll head off back to Bath. The longer we stay here the more calls we are going to get and the harder it will be to get out of here.’

  ‘I can’t go back to Bath, Jack!’ I stutter, ‘the press will be camped out on my doorstep.’

  ‘Maybe, but you won’t be there. You’re coming back to my place.’ Jack assures me.

  ‘What about Missy?’

  ‘I’ll pick her up from your mums later. For now we need to get out of London.’

  ‘But I have to clear my name! I have to tell everyone that I am for real. Oh Jack. And what the hell is this?’ I wail looking puzzled at the Scooby Doo costume Jack has handed to me.

  ‘It’s the best I could get at short notice,’ Jack says.

  Jack pulls me up from the bed and hugs me tightly.

  ‘It’s going to be all right, sweet cheeks. Honest, trust me, I’m a lawyer.’

  ‘Strictly speaking you’re not - a lawyer, that is. You never did your training contracts, remember,’ I point out, and sniff loudly.

  ‘Yeah, but they’re not to know that, are they? And if we were in America I could legally practise law.’

  ‘But we’re not in America,’ I add.

  ‘And you know how many people with law degrees who can help you out right now, Scooby?’ Jack asks as I pull myself into the life-size dog’s costume. Surely he could have got me something different, like…oh, I don’t know, but somethi
ng other than Scooby bloody Doo!

  ‘Good point; I’m sorry Jack, and thank you so much for coming. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

  I’m tempted to ask where Jack’s girlfriend is and what she makes of it all, but I don’t.

  Thankfully Jack had the foresight to work out where all the emergency exits are in the hotel and parked his friend Dillon’s motorbike out the back by the kitchens. I feel more of a fugitive than ever, dressed up as Scooby Doo. All I need now is for the Mystery Machine to turn up and for Velma to announce ‘I’ve got a plan!’

  I put my black full-face crash helmet on my head as we tiptoe out of the hotel room and make our way down the fire-exit staircase. I am terrified that someone will see us and start taking photographs or try to stop us from making our getaway. I mean, we have a bloke clothed head to toe in black leather, with Scooby Doo tiptoeing behind him. Why is this happening to me? Don’t cry, Sam, don’t cry.

  Within minutes, we’re tearing down the motorway at 90 miles an hour. I’m hanging on to Jack’s back for dear life as he manoeuvres the bike from the slow lane to the middle and back again, my tail swishing in the wind behind me. I desperately want to look behind me to make sure that no one is in hot pursuit of us, but I daren’t move in case I lose my grip and go flying off the back of the bike – now that would be a nasty way to go. Knowing my luck today, I would hit the road and get run over by an on-coming truck.

  ‘You OK?’ Jack shouts into the microphone attached to his helmet, above the roar of the bike.

  ‘Scoobyroobiedoo!’ I squeal back, unsure if I am or not.

  In just over two hours we are back at Jack’s flat and I hurry inside as quickly as I possibly can for fear of being seen.

  ‘You can take your helmet off now,’ Jack laughs, ‘I don’t think the paparazzi are hiding in the cupboards.’

  I gingerly take my protective hat off. I know I must look a sight – I never did get round to blow-drying my hair and I still have the body of a bloody Great Dane.

  Having consumed a very large rum and coke to stop me shaking – not my usual tipple but that’s all Jack had in, which I believe was left over from the Hawaiian party he had last year. - I do hope it’s still in date – I sit with my head in my hands while Jack puts on his lawyer walk and paces around the living room, swirling a glass of bandy in his hands – very Alfred Hitchcock, Jack.

  Jack’s flat is much as your would expect any other bachelors flat would be like – in other words, a right mess, where nothing whatsoever matches. There are several empty cans of Fosters dotted around, the piece de résistance being a collection of cans stacked – sorry sculpted – into a miniature version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  The entire flat is furnished with second-hand items that have absolutely nothing in common. The Art Deco style sofa is not in any way in keeping with the 80s black-ash coffee table. Neither is the 60s hanging wicker chair, or the giant leather bean-bag styled like a Rubik’s cube, sitting in the corner. Looking at Jack’s flat you would think you had just walked into a second-hand furniture store.

  ‘So,’ Jack says, as he paces the wooden floorboards in his leather trousers. He has removed his jacket and underneath is a black t-shirt with the slogan, ‘It’s a great day until some bastard spoils it’ – ain’t that the truth. ‘Who else knew you were going to the award ceremony last night?’ he asks.

  ‘Who didn’t know more like! It was on Town FM and Morning Latte, that’s a good few million for starters.’

  ‘Right, so who would know and would hate you enough to do this to you?’

  I know Jack is trying to help but these questions are not really helping me. I didn’t even know I had a ‘source close to me’ and if I had, I would have been more careful what I said to them.

  ‘You tell me. I haven’t upset anyone or fallen out with… oh, hang on a minute. There was Clive-the-weirdo…’

  ‘Clive the what? And just who is this Clive?’ Jack looks at me as if he’s interrogating a suspect.

  ‘A client of mine, or at least he was a client of mine.’

  ‘A client, eh? What sort of client would that be then?’ Jack smiles.

  ‘Not the sort you’re thinking about for a start. He suffers from lachanophobia. He’s Colin the Carrot man’s cousin. I agreed to treat him, but he got a bit weird on me – waiting outside my flat, spying on me, phoning me up, the usual thing weirdo’s like to do on their days off. I told him to bugger off and leave me along – he wasn’t very happy about it.’

  Jack grabs a notebook from his cluttered desk, which is actually an old cider barrel, and jots down ‘Clive – lunatic’ in big letters.

  ‘Think he would want revenge for you dumping him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose he might do. And I didn’t dump him. I just gave him the brush off.’

  Would Clive go to so much trouble to make me pay for not going out with him? Maybe he would. I didn’t think he would turn out to be a stalking weirdo. Mind you, I’m not a very good judge of character at the best of times and it is little wonder I haven’t attracted more weirdoes in to my life really.

  ‘Clive,’ Jack muses. ‘OK, who else might you have pissed off recently?’ Jack asks.

  ‘God, you make it sound as though I do it all the time!’

  ‘Think, Sam. Think of anyone who might want to ruin you.’

  ‘I don’t know, Jack. You? Why haven’t you phoned me before this morning?’ I suddenly say. Well, it is possible, I suppose. The last time we had contact I told Jack to f-off. No, Jack would never do that to me, I realise before he replies.

  ‘Me? You are joking right? Who came and rescued you from the clutches of the world’s media today? The only reason I haven’t been in touch is because the last time you texted me you told me to fuck-off, remember?’

  ‘Well you shouldn’t have phoned in pretending to be someone called Stewart.’

  ‘Who?’ Jack says looking puzzled.

  ‘Stewart, remember? You phoned Town FM claiming to be a caller?’ I say, jogging his memory.

  Jack shakes his head and looks at me as if I now have two heads.

  ‘Haven’t a bloody clue what you’re going on about, Sammy,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, course you don’t,’ I laugh.

  ‘No, I really don’t,’ Jack says in all seriousness and by the way he is looking at me, he really doesn’t have a clue what I am going on about. Oh bugger!

  ‘We broke up. Me and Jasmine. Broke up.’ Jack suddenly says as he continues to wear out the floorboards.

  Yippee!

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say. Secretly I am over the moon. She wasn’t Jack’s type anyway and I have to admit I felt a little left out in the cold. Before, whenever Jack got a ‘girlfriend’, she would fit into Jack’s other plans of seeing his friends and band practice. With Jasmine, Jack kept her completely under wraps as if she were something special, and he dropped everyone and everything.

  ‘Yeah, well, it would never have worked between us. Can you believe she asked me to marry her? I mean, seriously, can you see me as a married man?’

  I look intently at Jack and actually, for a split second, yes I can. God, what am I thinking? Stop it Samantha! I scold myself. Jack looks to his feet and quickly changes the subject.

  ‘Anyway, can you think of anyone else?’

  ‘What? Oh, I don’t know Jack. I do hundreds of readings a day, I don’t know if I’ve told someone something they haven’t liked or not. I suppose Liam could be a possible contender.’

  ‘What, the chap from the radio station?’

  ‘Mmm, we’ve been out a couple of times, but… well you know how it is. I don’t know whether it’s going anywhere yet or not. Apart from knowing what he does for a living and what sort of films he likes, I don’t know much else about him.’ I don’t think for a moment that Liam would be so nasty to do this, but then again…

  ‘Liam…’ Jack muses and writes his name down.

  ‘He’s a really nice g
uy…I don’t think he would do something like this. And besides, he doesn’t even know my real name.’

  ‘OK, anyone else you can think of?’

  ‘There was this woman called Beryl who wanted to know when she was going to be filthy rich – she wasn’t very nice. Oh, and the other week there was that drug addict girl, what was her name… Tina? Tanya, that was it. She was an odd one and I discovered that she had murdered her boyfriend. Maybe she knows that I know and is out to get me! Maybe I’m gong to be her next victim?’ I say with panic in my voice.

  ‘Look Sam, I’ve got to ask this…’ Jack pauses,

  ‘…Have you been making it up as you go along?’

  My stomach does a flip and I suddenly feel very sick, not to mention hurt that Jack might not believe me either.

  ‘No, I haven’t, Jack. I can honestly say that. Cross my heart and hope to die. Okay, so I may have when I first started doing this, and originally I only took the stupid job so that I could pay off my uni debt, but for some reason I was spot on every time and…’ How on earth do you tell someone that you hear voices in your head? They can still have you committed for that you know. Oh, sod it; I’ll just have to come out with it. ‘I know this is going to sound really weird, but I hear voices in my head, Jack,’ I say, ‘I’m like that kid in The Sixth Sense, I hear dead people. I really do Jack and yes, I know schizophrenics do too, but I’m not schizophrenic, Jack. I’m really not.’ I look up, waiting for Jack’s response and he doesn’t disappoint - he looks shocked.

  ‘For real?’

  ‘For real,’ I confirm. ‘I know it sounds unbelievable but I really do hear real dead people. That woman you heard on the radio, the one you called an odd ball, that Tanya woman. She had killed her boyfriend and I only know that because he told me so, Jack! And only last night I had an old actress called Rita Monroe talking to me – err, she’s dead by the way. She wanted me to pass on a message to Verity Star, the actress, you know, the one from the Marks and Spencer advert. And before that I had the dead friend of a young man who was involved in a car crash. He told me in great detail what had happened.’ The more I think about the conversations I’ve had to date with dead people, the more incensed I am that I am being pulled to pieces by the press. This whole thing is going to ruin me, and I’ve helped a great many people.