‘Right. Sorry, but I had to ask.’ Jack comes and sits beside me.
‘So what do I do now?’ I ask.
‘We need to get on to your agent, your bosses at the radio station, Morning Latte and the tarot lines and put them all straight. Oh, and we need to get hold of your brother Paul, if anyone can track down who went to the press with this, he will. He’s used to dealing with the gutter press and we also need to get hold of Matt to update the website and work on a campaign to clear your name.’ Jack says.
Bloody hell, I feel like Dedrie on Coronation Street, when she was wrongly accused of something – I can’t remember what, I was only young at the time. Only this time t-shirts will announce ‘Save the Psychic One!’ Banners will be hung outside public buildings announcing my innocence. I don’t know whether I should just get my bucket and spade out of the cupboard and start digging a bloody big hole. I don’t think my nerves can stand all this.
‘And, we need to get someone like Max Clifford on board. You can’t go burying your head in the sand this time, Sam…’ Blimey is Jack psychic now? ‘…We have to fight this and fight we will! We will clear your name!’ Jack declares.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Larry is not best pleased with me at all. When I finally get hold of him he first of all swears like a Yorkshire man down the phone to me and then promptly orders Jack to meet him in his office immediately. They both think it’s for the best that I don’t go out. Talk about feeling two inches tall! In fact right now I wish I was two inches tall, at least then I could slip into my jean pocket and just disappear from this horrible world. Larry has arranged to read out a statement to the press at lunchtime and has told me not to speak to anyone, call anyone or do anything with anyone. I am to remain incognito for the rest of the day.
Anya is another one who is also peeved that her efforts to make me a star have resulted in a major catastrophe for day-time television. The only one who seems to be on my side is Annette.
‘Look, it will all blow over in a day or two,’ Annette assures me, ‘and besides, even bad publicity is good publicity. Just think of all the coverage you are going to get. I see it was on the local news this morning.’
‘Oh God,’ I groan. I can’t think of anything else at the moment. I know Larry said don’t talk to anyone but I can’t sit here all day on my own. ‘Annette, this is going to destroy me.’
‘Well, I for one know you’re genuine. You warned me about my car, didn’t you?’ Annette says.
‘Yes, but…’
‘Just keep your head down for a while. I’ll have a word with our producers and put them straight. You’ll be back at work in no time.’
‘Thanks Annette, oh and don’t tell anyone you spoke to me. Jack and Larry say I have to keep a low profile until we decide what to do.’
‘Jack? Who’s Jack then?’ Annette says curiously.
‘Oh, he’s a friend I’m staying with at the moment.’
‘A friend, hey?’ Annette laughs.
‘Yes, just a friend.’
I am sitting in Jack’s un-matching living room with Missy on my lap, waiting to hear from him. I’ve tried and tried to get hold of Miracle, but she is away and her mobile is switched off. If anyone would know what to do it would be Miracle. I’m sure she’s had her fair share of criticism in all her years of being a psychic. How on earth did I get into this mess? I should have stuck to treating (and dating) lachanophobia lunatics. I might not have got rich or fulfilled by it but at least I wouldn’t be plastered across the tabloids and hailed as a fraud and a liar.
Missy snuggles up to me. She always knows when I’m down – down? I’m ten foot bloody under right now, Missy! I didn’t sleep a bloody wink last night – I tell a lie, I must have slept at some point because I remember waking from a dream about being chased down the motorway by a torch wielding mob on horseback shouting, “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”, but apart from that incident, I didn’t sleep a wink.
Jack kindly gave up his bed for me, having sniffed the sheets first and confirming that they had indeed been changed – when is anyone’s guess, mind you. He slept on the sofa and got up with the lark to a) inform the shop that he was taking a week off and b) to go and meet Larry for a ‘crisis talks’ meeting – Jesus, you’d think I’d just started the Iraqi war.
I have tried desperately to keep myself occupied while I’m cooped up in this flat. I’ve even done Jack’s laundry and tidied his bedroom up for him, which, on reflection, I realise wasn’t such a good idea after all. I don’t know about you, but I’m one of those people who just can’t help myself from touching things in other people’s homes. I’m sure it’s an in-built curiosity gene that’s to blame, you know. Or maybe it’s just because my main life-partner is a cat. Whatever it is, I just can’t help opening other people’s drawers and rummaging about in them, or having a quick nosey under the bed.
Since the age of 16, I have known practically everything there is to know about Jack. What I didn’t know, and what I do now, is that he keeps a ‘special box’ under his bed. Not one to simply push the black ‘special box’ back under the bed - which incidentally is cleverly disguised as a box of Black Magic chocolates, and the only give away that it is a ‘special box’ with ‘special’ contents in it is due to the fact that it has a white sticker on it exclaiming, ‘Jack’s Special Box’- I felt I had no choice but to take a peak. I mean if I had just pushed it back under the bed, I would spend every walking hour wondering what was so special in the ‘special box’, wouldn’t I?
The reason I now wish I hadn’t let curiosity get the better of me was because when I gingerly opened the lid of the ‘special box’ I discovered a lot more about Jack than I already knew. I discovered that he secretly loves Garfield the cat. I have acquired this secret knowledge because inside the ‘special box’ is several Garfield keyrings, a Garfield notebook and a miniature tube of Garfield toothpaste. I have also exposed the fact that Jack is also an avid autograph stalker – having felt the urge to look inside the Garfield notebook, I noticed that it is full of autographs of famous people such as footballers, high profile pop stars and other bands he likes. I didn’t have Jack down as a man who collects autographs.
As I continued to wade through the leaflets of places Jack wants to visit, beer mats with parts of song lyrics scrawled on them and a miniature James Bond Aston Martin, I lift out a piece of paper which is folded into four. The paper is yellow with age and as I carefully unfold it, a small photograph flutters to the floor. Picking it up, I look at it. The resemblance to Jack is amazing.
The woman in the black and white photograph has very big hair to match her equally big shoulder pads and is smiling. It looks as though it was taken in one of those photo booths that you find in every bus station in Great Britain, and at a guess I would say the woman was in her 20’s when it was taken. There’s no mistaking the resemblance to Jack. Turning over the photo, there are two simple words written in pencil – With Love.
I look down at the letter and read the elegant handwriting.
My darling baby,
I am so sorry. Please don’t blame me. I did what I thought was for the best for you. I simply can’t take you with me. I will be back for you soon.
Love, your Mummy
This is Jack’s natural mother! Jack has never once mentioned her to me. Although I knew he had been in foster care for most of his childhood, not once has he spoken about his biological mother or father and I automatically assumed that she was…well I wasn’t really sure where she was, to be honest. It’s not something that has ever come up in conversation between us.
Poor Jack. He’s kept her letter for all this time, waiting for the day that she will come back for him.
I quickly put the photograph into the letter, fold it up again and place it back in the box in exactly the same place where I found it. I put everything back as I found it and push the box back under the bed. Tears sting my eyes. To think that Jack has been waiting all this time for his mum to return, n
ot knowing where she has gone or when she will be back.
‘Phone in and let us have your views? Are there any really genuine psychics out there, or are they all like Mystic Crystal Ball and out to rip you off? Get phoning and have your say, we’ll be right back after this short break.’
My thoughts of Jack’s mother are disturbed by the sound of a female presenter from the local It’s Morning Time chat show, which is on the TV in the living room. The woman smiles through two tonne of stage make-up, as a ticker tape with the show’s phone number, and email address scrolls by across the bottom of the screen. Why, the cheeky cow! I knew it was dangerous to leave the TV on.
Fresh tears sting my eyes as I try to blink them away and find something that resembles a pen in this mess that Jack so lovingly calls a home.
‘Welcome back!’ The presenter chirps four minutes later, as the studio audience of 35 or so applaud. I bet she needs the four-minute break to have her face re-plastered. ‘The discussion today is about whether you think psychics are ripping you off,’ the woman, who I already dislike intensely, twitters in her nasal voice.
‘You have probably all seen the recent headlines about the local psychic, Samantha Ball, or Mystic Crystal, as she also likes to be known, who claimed that she was a real psychic and turned out to be a fraud…’ she tut-tuts, ‘I’ve got an email here from Alison from Reading,’ Miss Make-up looks down to the card in her hand, ‘Alison says, “I think it’s appalling, I really do. Praying on the bereaved like that. I don’t think it’s right. They should have a professional body to regulate these people. I think it’s disgusting.’
‘Well, Alison, I for one am in agreement with you there, love, as many of you are,’ Make-Up Woman says with a stern look on her face.
This is car-crash TV at its best. I’m watching as my name is being slated right before my eyes. I hope my mum isn’t watching this. I know I should just switch it off and plug my I-pod into my ears and escape from it all, but I just can’t help myself.
‘Oh, we have a caller on the phone. Hi, and you are?’ The presenter asks.
‘Oh hello, I’m Derek,’ The caller says.
‘Hi Derek, and welcome to It’s Morning Time. What do you have to say on the subject?’
‘Well, my wife died some years ago and I was always tempted to go to one of these mediums, but since hearing about this I don’t think I’ll bother. It’s all a hullabaloo,’ Derek says in a pompous fashion.
‘It’s not and you know it.’ A woman’s voice says into my ear and it’s not Derek’s or Make-Up-women’s, I hasten to add.
‘I’m Gladys, his wife. Be strong dear. Be strong and you’ll prove them all wrong.’ The voice says and then fades away.
God damn it, I will be strong! I tap in the number that is flashing across the screen into the phone.
‘Hello, and welcome to It’s Morning Time!’ The chirpy receptionist’s voice chimes, ’and how may I help you this morning?’
‘It’s Samantha Ball here. I wish to be put through to the live phone in…now!’ I say.
‘Oh, um… can you hang on a moment please?’ The young woman at the end of the line stutters. She partly covers her mouthpiece, but I distinctly hear her say to someone, ‘It’s her! It’s Samantha Ball on the line! The psychic woman. What should I do?’
‘Um, I’m sorry to keep you waiting Miss Ball. You are through to the studio,’ the same girl says, after a moment’s confusion.
‘Thanks,’ I say as I look at the screen to see Miss Make-Up hold her hand up to her earpiece, then her jaw drop.
‘OK, can I just stop you there, Baby,’ she says to some stupid caller named Baby, who thinks that they should bring back public hanging for people like me. She should talk! With a name like Baby, in any sane world she should be first in line for the gallows. I mean, she’s a grown woman, for goodness sake! Surely she should have changed it by deed poll by now? Miss Make-Up holds her hand to her ear again and listens.
‘Uh, huh, yes, thank you,’ She mutters. ‘Well viewers, we appear to have an exclusive call in from Miss Samantha Ball herself. Miss Ball, are you there?’
‘Yes, I am, thank you very much,’ I snap, ‘and thanks to all of you for your support. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?’ I add.
‘Well, perhaps you would like to give your side of the story exclusively to It’s Morning Time?’ The presenter suggests.
‘Yes I would like the opportunity, if only to shut you parasites up!’ I snap. ‘For your information I am not a fraud. All the thousands of readings I have done have been genuine and I have proof.’
‘And what kind of proof would that be then?’ Snotty-TV-presenter-with-way-too-much-make-up-on says as she smiles into the camera as if maintaining direct eye contact with me.
‘You can ask anyone I’ve given a reading to, whether it’s been on my radio show, on the phone or in person. I have always been spot on. Ask anyone!’ I say. I’m bloody fuming and have to go careful that I don’t break out into a torrent of abuse.
‘Well, that’s as may be, but some would say that you are simply very good at speculating and reading body language?’ the smarmy cow responds.
‘What, on the phone? Or do you mean when I’m reading for someone on TV or the radio, when I can’t actually see them? I know you’re a bit thick but it would be impossible to read someone’s body language if I couldn’t actually see them, wouldn’t it? Please!’ I mock her – OK, so I know it sounds childish, but she started it. Silly cow!
‘So, where do you think these rumours have come from?’ The presenter asks. ‘It says in the press that they have come from a very close source to you.’
‘I have no idea, but what I do know is that these allegations are completely untrue and unfounded, and I will be damned if I am going to let some liar get away with trying to ruin my career. So whoever did this, if you are listening then look out because I will not sit back while some spiteful person has nothing better to do with their life, tries to try to destroy me and my reputation!’
‘You’re spot on.’ Gladys, the lady who I heard just earlier, says in my ear. ‘You want to find out who did this to you? Then think about what you just said, my dear.’ The voice fades away again. I haven’t got time to think this riddle through – I’m a little preoccupied saving the Psychic One here!
‘So watch out because I will find out who you are!’ I add.
Out of the blue a member of the audience stands up and starts applauding me, followed by another person, then another, until there are 12 or 13 members of the audience putting their hands together for me. Wow! I feel like crying. OK, so the whole audience isn’t with me, but a fair few are.
‘Well,’ the presenter chirps above the noise of the audience and presses her hand against her ear again, ‘Samantha, perhaps you might like to join us on tomorrow’s It’s Morning Time?’
‘Maybe later. I have to clear my name first.’
The members of the audience, who I have dubbed the first members of the ‘Save the Psychic One Club’, cheer again. A smile spreads across my face as I put the phone down.
‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Larry screams down the phone to me. ‘Do you know how much damage you could have caused by phoning that bloody TV station up? I told you I was going to issue a statement, now you’ve made me look a right bloody fool!’
‘When you’ve quite finished shouting at me,’ I reply to Larry’s outburst, ‘I felt I had no choice. That bloody woman was winding them all up and trying to ruin my reputation even more than it already is.’
‘Samantha, I am your agent and you should have consulted me first.’
‘Yes, you are my agent, Larry, and you get a nice commission out of me for doing nothing more than make a few phone calls, so if you want to continue to take twelve percent of my income, then I suggest you stop shouting at me and let me do this my way. I will not let some jumped-up ass ruin me, and if it means going live on TV to tell my side then so be it. Now, do what you’re being paid to
do and organise a press conference. I want all the papers that have run this story to be there. Phone me when you’ve sorted it out.’ I say and put the phone down.
I finally feel as though I am getting somewhere now and feel a fire burning in my stomach at the injustice of it all. Like hell am I going to hide away. I am going to find out who did this to me and I am going to make them pay for it.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Having had the courage to phone It’s Morning Time, I now feel confident to take on the whole world and prove to them that I am not a liar and a fraud. And, with this in mind, I have recruited as many friends and family to help me clear my name and try to find out just who it was that went to the papers.
Jack, my brothers Matt and Paul and I are already making good progress. Paul has been poring over newspapers for clues as to who this ‘close source’ could be. He’s already checked out Clive, who by all accounts has nothing more than a library fine to his name, despite being a first class weirdo, but they can’t hang you for that anymore apparently.
Paul has always had a fascination with underworld crime and consequently discovered that in Australia he could put his interest to good use and earn himself enough money to keep him in the lifestyle of a surf-bum that he had become accustomed to, by opening a small detective agency - by small we’re actually talking beach hut small. Most of Paul’s ‘clients’ come via word of mouth and are the sort of people you wouldn’t really wish to meet in a dark alley – I wouldn’t say his clientele were a dodgy bunch, but they usually hire Paul to pass messages from other small-time criminals, messages involving threats of missing fingers and the like. A far cry from your Miss Marple. I do hope that Paul’s offer of helping me out, doesn’t mean that if he finds whoever went to the papers they will end up with some missing digits.
Oh Great, Now I Can Hear Dead People: What Would You Do if You Could Suddenly Hear Real Dead People? Page 20
