Oh my good God! What I’m doing? Oh, bugger, shit and bollocks! What have I let myself in for now?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I feel like Hilary Swank in Million Dollar Baby – Jack and Miracle being my Clint Eastwood and Morgan Freeman. Since Larry kindly signed me up for national public humiliation, I have spent the past week being briefed by Jack, Larry and Miracle as to what I should, and more importantly what I shouldn’t say, when I am being tested by a leading parapsychologist who goes by the name of Bobby Walters.
Despite praying and asking all the voices in my head to help me out here, I haven’t heard one single voice. Not a bloody whisper! Where are these bloody voices when you most need them, hey?
‘Now, he may well try and trick you into taking his lead,’ Miracle advises me. Having been on some soul-searching holiday to the Himalayas with Max and consequently completely oblivious to what’s been going on here in the UK, Miracle arrived home to discover that I was in a deep pile of poo.
‘Don’t listen to him, or to anyone else for that matter. Go with your gut instinct. I’ll warn you Sam, this man is one of the top parapsychologists in the world. He’s good and will do anything to prove that he is right.’ Miracle says this with the sound of contempt, as though she has just eaten something unpleasant.
‘I’ve managed to get tickets for Max and me so I’ll be in the audience for moral support. Just trust in spirit and it won’t let you down, kid. I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through all of this, Sammy.’ Miracle says and hugs me to her huge bosom.
And she’s not the only one. I wish I had never got myself into any of this now. Why couldn’t I just be satisfied with doing a temping job or working in Tesco? I could have easily gone back to live with my mother – okay so it wouldn’t have been easy but at least I wouldn’t be headline news for stacking a tin of beans on the wrong shelf. Grrr to the whole world!
Larry informs me that Phil and Holly are eager to get me on their show - if I prove my worth, Channel Five will have me whether I’m a fraud or for real, they don’t care either way really. Either way it makes good telly. Charming.
I’ve been trying to avoid anything associated with the media, including the newspapers, radio and the TV, but this is proving somewhat difficult when Jack comes in with an armful of papers, turns the radio on in the kitchen and the TV on in the living room.
‘You OK?’ he asks as he dumps the pile of newspapers on the sofa.
‘Hmm, I think so,’ I say as I read through the notes that I’ve taken from Miracle about how to not look a complete idiot when I do this bloody test tomorrow. I wonder if they have one of those idiot’s guides for this kind of thing – The Idiots Guide to Dealing with Parapsychologists, perhaps?
‘Coffee?’ I ask as I make my way to the kitchen.
‘Please. Have you spoken to Matt or Paul today?’ Jack shouts from the living room.
‘No, not today. I’m still waiting for Paul to track down who took that photograph.’
‘Well, you’re making headline news again kid. Since Channel Five announced that they were going to prove that you are genuine, you’re back to page two again.’ Jack laughs.
‘Oh goody.’ I say dryly as I watch the kettle boil.
‘Sam!’ Jack suddenly shouts out. ‘Quick come here!’
‘What’s the matter?’ I walk as quickly as I can back into the living room precariously carrying two mugs of coffee in my hands and a packet of Bourbons between my teeth.
‘Look!’ Jack says pointing at the TV.
It’s the local Its Morning Time! show again and standing in front of the audience is Miss Make-Up herself. The banner beneath her says, “Is there really life after death?”
Oh not again. Can they not just drop it? When are these people going to think of something original to put on the TV?
‘And don’t for one minute think I am going to phone in again, Jack,’
‘No, look! Up there!’ Jack says pointing to the far end of the screen where there are a group of five or six people all wearing white t-shirts with, ‘Save Mystic Sam’, emblazoned upon them.
‘Ah, that’s nice.’ I smile, and it is nice to see that there are some people out there supporting me.
‘Err, look again Sam, who’s that?’ Jack is now off his seat and sticking his index finger into someone’s face in the audience. I squint my eyes and bend down to get a better look. Jack only has a 15 inch portable TV, which is so old that it tends to lose half the programme you want to watch by intermittingly turning itself off.
‘Oh my goodness! Is that…’ I turn the sound up.
Bizarrely, standing up in the audience is my landlady. What on earth is Ms Morris doing standing in the middle of the audience on a daytime television programme? She has her hands on her hips and her ample chest sticking out as if she means business. Oh no, she’s not going to tell the whole world that I’m a lousy tenant as well as a fraud is she?
‘Yes dear? Your name is?’ Miss Make-Up, asks
‘Valerie. Valerie Morris,’ Ms Morris says.
‘And, Valerie, what do you have to say about all this?’
‘I have proof that there is life after death and I also have proof that Mystic Crystal or Samantha Ball is the real thing, because it was Mystic Crystal who contacted my late husband, Frank,’ Ms Morris says.
I knew I’d heard that voice before! I knew it! But Ms Morris? Valerie? The Valerie. Oh my.
Valerie continues to inform the audience and Miss Make-Up how, before she called Mystic Answers, she was beside herself at the loss of her husband Frank. They had always done everything together and when he had been taken from her, it felt as though her whole life had come to an end.
‘Of course you get on with the day to day things and pretend that it’s not hurting and that you’re over it, but in truth you never do get over it and for someone like Mystic Crystal, Samantha, to give you a message, that only you would know, is worth all the gold in the world.’
Tears well up in my eyes. I hold my hand to my mouth. I can’t believe that the woman I thought was the biggest battleaxe on the planet has actually taken the time to stand up and support me. And who would have thought that Valerie, the woman who called me regularly at three o’clock in the morning, would be the same woman who was living just above me? No wonder she wouldn’t look me in the eye the other week when all this kicked off.
Jack and I stare at the TV. The small group of supporters chant “Save Mystic Sam!” as the credits roll up. Miss Make-Up looks as though she is losing the plot as she tries to talk over the audience and inform the viewers of what she has in store for them tomorrow. She finally gives up and holds her hands in the air in submission.
‘See, I told you she wasn’t so bad,’ Jack says referring to Ms Morris. ‘So she phoned you up then? You never said.’
‘I didn’t know it was her and she obviously didn’t know Mystic Crystal was me either, otherwise I don’t think she would have phoned me, do you? You know, I knew I knew that voice from somewhere, I just couldn’t figure out where and all the time it was Ms Morris, upstairs. Blimey, I won’t be able to look her in the face again,’ I blush.
‘Well, she obviously thinks a lot of you to get up there and protest your innocence,’ Jack says as he slurps his coffee.
‘Oh no!’ I suddenly think of something.
‘What?’
‘Well, what if someone reports that Ms Morris is also my landlady? I’ll be in even more shit than I am right now. People will think I’ve paid her to go on TV for me,’ It just gets worse the more I think of it.
‘That is not going to happen, is it?’ Jack says.
‘Well, I didn’t think I would be all over the papers and defending myself on national TV, but it’s happened,’ I say glumly.
Jack puts his arm around me.
‘It will all be all right, Sam, trust me…’
‘I know, you’re a lawyer.’
As me and Jack go through my list of things I must remember to say and not
say for the five hundredth time, Jack’s phone rings. It’s Amy.
‘Amy?’
‘Hi Hun!’ she trills down the phone.
‘Amy,’ Jack mouths and I roll my eyes to the ceiling and start doing a funny impression of Amy talking. For the first time in ages I stifle a laugh.
‘Where have you been?’ Jack asks. ‘Oh, right, yeah Dillon said. Yeah, she’s staying with me for a while. Hang on, I’ll get her,’ Jack holds the phone out to me.
‘Hiya Hun. How are you? Sorry I haven’t been in touch for a while, I’ve been staying with my mum in Spain,’ Amy says more brightly than I have heard her in ages.
‘But you don’t even like your mum,’ I say – this is true. Amy and her mum Lorraine are very similar in that they are both very competitive and will do anything to get to the top. Sadly they compete with each other too, mostly for male attention. I remember numerous occasions when Amy and her mum had arguments because Amy’s mum had taken a fancy to one of Amy’s boyfriends. I wince as I think about it. Handbags at dawn, is an understatement.
‘I know, but what with losing my job and all that, I thought I needed a break to get my head round what I’m going to do next. We’re getting on OK now. So how have you been? Had any more spooky experiences recently?’ Amy says brightly, ‘and why are you staying with Jack? I’ve been calling your flat all morning.’
‘What, you haven’t heard?’ I say.
‘Heard what?’
‘About me being in the papers? Oh, Amy you must have seen the news?’
‘No, I told you I’ve been in Spain, why what’s happened?’
‘Right you know the night I went to the TV awards ceremony?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, some bastard rang the newspapers up and said that I was a fraud,’ I say, reliving the moment all over again in my head.
‘No! You’re kidding, right?’
‘Nope. I’ve been in the press all week.’
‘OMG, babes. Who did that and why?’
‘God knows,’ I sigh. ‘I’ve spent the past week trying to gain back my reputation. I’ve got to go on live TV tomorrow and be tested by Bobby Walters.’
‘Bobby who?’ Amy asks.
‘Walters. He’s a top parapsychologist from the International Society for Paranormal Research.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘He’s the bloke who is going to try and prove that I’m a fake, Amy,’ I add dryly.
‘Oh, right. I am so sorry hun. Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, you’re all right. I tell you Amy, if I ever get my hands on the person who did this to me I will not be responsible for my actions. The papers will have more to write than Samantha Ball is a fraud, they will be reporting that Samantha Ball is a murderer!’
‘Blimey,’ Amy says, ‘you sound as though you mean that.’
‘I do Amy. This person has destroyed my career and my reputation with one phone call and I am having to work bloody hard to try and restore it and if tomorrow goes tits up, then I really am ruined.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I have never been more scared in my life. The TV company have set up a studio/test centre specifically for today. You’d think that we were in the headquarters of The Secret Service the way people are running around with all sorts of technical equipment attached to them. I’ve been frisked and frisked again with a hand-held metal detector sort of thing to check that I don’t have any hidden microphones or anything else hidden on me. I’ve been under close surveillance by a team of burly security guards who flatly refuse to let anyone into my dressing room – which incidentally has also been swept for any signs of bugs – the minute anyone approaches my little room one of them steps in front of the door and looks menacingly at them. Crikey. They won’t even allow Jack in the room, so I am sitting here on my own worrying if I am making the biggest mistake of my life.
Maybe I should have told Larry that I wasn’t interested in performing for the media by having to prove myself. At the end of the day I have enough money to coast for a while. I could just leave the country and join Paul in Australia. No one would know me there and I could get a sensible job as a caretaker of Koala bears or something and not have to endure being pointed at by passers by. What if I fail the test? I won’t be able to go out again. Children, encouraged by their parents, will throw things at me in the street and I’ll have to live in hiding in Jack’s for the rest of my life, asking him to pop to the shops every time I need a Kit-Kat.
The dressing room is pleasant enough in a tangerine and cream décor sort of way, with brown vases full of gold twigs dotted around the place, and I’m sure if I were some celebrity promoting my new book, instead of a psychic proving that she is indeed psychic then I would feel a lot more comfortable in here. As it is, I don’t. I don’t feel comfortable one bit, and I wish I could fast forward time so that this was all over. I’m not even allowed a phone just in case someone tries to send me messages down it. God, talk about being a prisoner.
Please, is there anybody there? I ask in my head. Bloody typical. When I was doing readings the voices just didn’t stop talking. Now, when I need them most, there’s just silence in my head. Where is everyone? I don’t understand this and I have to say, the prospect of joining my brother on the other side of the world is looking more appealing by the minute.
Anyone? Look, you got me into this bloody situation, so now it’s time for you to help me out here. Rita? Darren? Dad? Anyone?
Silence. Maybe this has all been in my head after all? Maybe I am going mad. Maybe I am schizophrenic?
‘You’re on,’ one of the security guards unlocks the door and instructs me. He holds the door open and then leads me by the arm down a long corridor. The noise from my high-heel boots echoes in the narrow space and I feel like someone on death row, walking to meet their maker.
Here we go then. Larry pats me on the back as I pass him in the corridor and the security guard assigned to me glares menacingly at him. Larry holds his hands up as if to say, hey man I wasn’t doing anything! I smile hesitantly at Larry, take a deep breath and try to look confident as I walk quickly behind the security guard.
I am so glad I put my Impulse on this morning. Why am I putting myself up for this? I’m sure someone once said even bad publicity is good publicity – oh yes, it was Annette, wasn’t it? Maybe if I just run now and go into hiding for a few months, this will all blow over. I can’t believe the injustice of it all. I mean, I wouldn’t mind so much if it was true and I did make it all up, but I’ve spent months now getting used to all these voices that keep randomly popping up in my head and I’m not going to let one person go and ruin it all for me now.
‘This way, Miss Ball.’ An official looking woman with a clipboard and a microphone placed on her head guides me to a small room and quickly shuts the door behind us.
The white room is sparsely furnished with just a black moulded plastic table and chair placed in the middle of it. A large TV screen is set into the far wall opposite me. In every corner there are cameras that whir to signal they are watching my every movement. I can’t blink without the motion detector whirring in to life.
The stern looking woman clips a small microphone on to my black shirt.
‘We’re almost set up here,’ she says into her headset. ‘Right, I’ll tell her. You are not to leave this room. Do you understand? Would you like some water?’
‘Yes miss, mam…um, yes please,’ I say, looking and feeling more frightened than Bambi. There isn’t even a bloody clock in here. Is this what prison feels like?
‘Yes, the subject would like water.’ Subject? Subject? Who does she think she is? The woman instructs to who ever she’s talking to that I would like a drink of water. I wouldn’t know. Evidently I’m not allowed to talk to anyone in case they tell me some secret information. I’m just the bloody ‘subject’.
The woman walks out of the door, passes me a bottle of water and then goes again and locks the door behind her. Let’s hope the
re isn’t a fire; I’ll never get out of here alive.
‘Miss Ball, I am parapsychologist Bobby Walters. I will be conducting the paranormal tests which you are to perform today for Channel Five. Are you comfortable, Miss Ball?’ a voice echoes inside the room. Eh? I look around the room.
‘Um… yes…I think so.’ I mutter.
‘Good. We will begin in exactly five minutes. For this experiment, you will be given a series of tests via the monitor in front of you. If you feel that you cannot answer a particular question, please indicate this by saying, pass. Is that clear?’
‘Yes. Thank you, Sir,’ I say.
My hands and legs are shaking so much. I put my head in my hands.
‘Miss Ball. Are you ready?’ The voice asks.
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
‘Then we will begin. Test one. Miss Ball, please look at the TV monitor in front of you and please tell us who this item belongs to.’ The voice instructs.
I look to the opposite wall and see that the TV on the wall has a picture of a copper bangle on the screen. OK, now I’ve heard of this before. Miracle told me about this. Now, what was it called? Bugger, I can’t remember. Tele-something-or-other. Anyway, this is not the time or the place to wonder what the correct terminology is. Right, come on then, spirits, tell me something about this object, I will them in my head.
Nothing. What? Nothing? My mind is a complete blank. There is literally nothing coming through. I keep looking at the image of the copper bangle on the screen in front of me and still I get nothing. Oh no! Please! I need someone to tell me whom this bangle belongs to!
‘Miss Ball?’ Bobby Walters says.
‘Yes, just a minute, please,’ I say nervously as I place my head in my hands again. The cameras in my small room whir in motion to detect my movement. I feel so hot and dizzy. I take a sip of water – it doesn’t help matters one little bit. Oh come on for goodness sake! You’ve spent months shouting at me in my head and when the chips are down you don’t say a bloody word!
‘Would you like to pass, Miss Ball?’ Mr Walters asks.
Oh no. I’m going to fail at the first bloody hurdle.
Oh Great, Now I Can Hear Dead People: What Would You Do if You Could Suddenly Hear Real Dead People? Page 22
