by Julie Howlin
‘Yes – I was going to ask if there was any news about her.’
‘Well, I'm afraid she's dead.’
‘What?’
‘She went climbing, as I advised, but on the third day there was an accident – a safety rope not properly tied – Becky slipped and fell to her death.’
I gasped. ‘That can't be right – are you sure?’
‘I'm afraid so. This letter is from her father – it seems she told her parents before she left that a psychic had told her to go on this holiday rather than the safer one and they are looking to take legal action.’
‘Can they do that?’ I was horrified. Not only had I caused Becky's death, but I could be responsible for landing Gran in prison. I felt the blood draining from my face.
‘They can try. But I spoke with my own lawyer, and as long as I have the waiver Becky signed that says she understood that psychic readings are for entertainment purposes only, and that she would take full responsibility for any action she took as a result of our meeting, there's no case. And I do have that. All my clients sign those things and I keep them all on file.’
‘You told her to go climbing because of my dream,’ I said. ‘It's me they should be suing.’
‘It's not your fault, Tabitha. There is no way I'd implicate you in this. I'm the psychic she came to see.’
‘That's not the point,’ I sobbed. ‘I killed her! I trusted my dream like you always told me, and now that woman is dead because of me!’
‘No, Tabitha, no. Spirit works in mysterious ways, and we can't always fathom...’
‘That sounds like a cop out to me,’ I said. ‘Face it, Gran, I'm not any good. What you told me wasn't true! My dreams can't be trusted! If she'd gone on the beach holiday she would have been fine! There's no point in me trying to learn anything. I can't do it! Mum was right – you do talk a lot of bollocks!’
Gran was silent for a long time. Then, with a sigh, she got up and reached into the drawer of the sideboard and produced a business card. I took it. It was deep purple with silver writing.
‘Jonathan Van den Burgh,’ I read. ‘Psychic Healer and teacher.’
‘What's this?’ I asked.
‘You are a very gifted young lady, Tabitha, and in spite of what just happened, I'm proud of you. But I can see that you've lost faith in me, as well as yourself, and I don't think I can teach you anymore. It's time you went out into the world and learned from a qualified teacher and practised with other gifted people. Promise me you'll give it a try.’
‘I can't, Gran,’ I said. ‘Not only do I not get it right, but I'm positively dangerous!’
‘All the more reason you should join this group. They'll set you right. I don't want to see you waste that amazing gift you have. Promise me you'll give it six months. Promise?’
‘All right. Six months. Then I'm done,’ I said. I snatched up the card and left without saying goodbye. That was the last time I saw my grandmother.
3 psychic development group
My grandmother had been adamant that this Jonathan Van den Burgh should take over my psychic education. Although I'd been ready to throw in the towel as far as giving messages from spirit was concerned, a promise was a promise. My parents had always drilled that into me as I grew up. I'd promised to go and give it six months.
I phoned Jonathan Van den Berg. ‘Yes, we do have a vacancy at present,’ he told me in a formal voice with a public school accent. He reminded me of an announcer on Radio 4. ‘If you would like to come along next Tuesday we would be delighted to meet you.’
My heart was hammering all the way there. I was certain these people would all have perfectly reliable psychic talents, really strong, and be overflowing with confidence. They would take one look at me and mark me as the fraud that I am, and either tell me I had no business being in their group and show me the door, or let me stay and humiliate me by constantly putting me on the spot and showing me up.
The address was a large, dark red brick Victorian house. The paint was peeling from the rusty, wrought iron gate which squeaked as I opened it. The front garden was dominated by a large tree and a buddleia which had been left to grow wild. It had felt like walking up the drive to a haunted house - not much sunlight penetrated here yet the dandelions and weeds on the lawn somehow still managed to thrive. The paint on the front door was also peeling and on either side of the door were panes of stained glass.
I reached out to press the bell and hesitated. My churning gut was trying to tell me that all was not well here. I turned to walk away. But I knew Gran would ask me for a blow by blow account of the meeting, and might even check with Jonathan Van den Burgh that I had actually turned up. Before I could chicken out again, I pressed the ornate metal bell push and heard the shrill ringing inside. No going back now, I thought, and swallowed, hard as the door opened.
Jonathan Van den Burgh reminded me of an aristocratic vampire with black hair and pale skin. The kind who lives in a dark, brooding castle and oozes charm.
‘I'm Tabitha Drake,’ I stammered. ‘Maggie Flynn sent me.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Come in, come in. It's so good to meet you,’ he gushed. Something about him made me uneasy; the last thing I wanted to do was enter that house. But Gran trusted him. Gran wanted me to learn from him. I stepped over the threshold and followed him down the dimly lit, chilly hallway and into his front room where the group were assembling and engaging in small talk. I saw him for the first time in proper light and realised his complexion was quite sallow and unhealthy looking and his hair was quite greasy. And he looked much older than my initial estimate. Probably pushing forty.
‘We have a new member, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, propelling me into the room. The hum of conversation stopped, and I felt three pairs of eyes boring into me. ‘She has come to us courtesy of Maggie Flynn - in fact, we are honoured - this is Maggie Flynn’s grand-daughter and inheritor of her great gift.’
Why did he have to go and say all that? I smiled a rather weak smile as I took in the rest of the group for the first time.
There was a bald, bespectacled man in a prim brown suit and waistcoat sitting in a faded armchair in the corner. He did not even look at me, but mumbled something to his shoes. I could sense he didn’t really want me there, Maggie Flynn’s granddaughter or not.
A tall, thin, willowy woman surged forward and grasped me firmly by the hand. She was probably in her late fifties, wearing a long, wool skirt in lavender with a matching cardigan, a string of pearls around her neck. Her hair was swept up and hair-sprayed within an inch of its life. In a voice she appeared to have borrowed from Penelope Keith, she introduced herself. ‘I’m Cynthia Smythe-Gore, delighted to meet you.’ I smiled back, weakly, wondering just how long her delight would last once we got down to business and they realised I was not the next Maggie Flynn. Her bossy demeanour reminded me a little of my sister Caroline.
The only other person in the room was a petite woman, about my age. She reminded me of a drab little mouse. She was staring at me with her mouth slightly open. Looking at her, you’d think some film star had just walked into the room, not plain old Tabitha Drake. Jonathan Van den Burgh was staring at me. I clutched my handbag tightly in front of me, unsure what to say or do next.
‘I guess we should start,’ Jonathan was saying. ‘It doesn’t look as though Megan is coming.’ There was a distinct air of disapproval in the room, and I wondered what Megan had done to deserve it. I shivered, sure that before very long they would be disapproving of me in the same way.
The doorbell rang. Jonathan muttered something as he went to answer it. I heard a muffled exchange in the hall - a woman’s voice apologising for being late and Jonathan saying in a rather disapproving tone that we were about to start without her, and she knew what the consequences of that would be. Then I met Megan.
Our eyes met as she walked into the room and we instantly clicked. After the rest of them, she was refreshingly like me. She was wearing a flowing skirt, footless tights and a loo
se white cotton blouse. She had long, strawberry blonde hair, which fell to her shoulders in corkscrew curls. Like I wished mine did. I picked up psychically at once that she envied my perfectly straight black hair just as much. Before Jonathan had the chance to gush to her about my being related to Maggie Flynn, Megan had smiled at me, a warm, welcoming smile. I felt accepted for being me, not for who my grandmother was. The chilly room had started to feel a little bit warmer.
‘This is Tabitha, Megan,’ Jonathan said. ‘She’s going to be joining us. She’s Maggie Flynn’s granddaughter.’
‘Who’s Maggie Flynn?’ Megan asked, eyes flicking between Jonathan and me. You might think, seeing as I loved my gran so much and was really proud of her renown as a psychic that Megan’s question would have alienated me from her, but in this context, it made me warm to her even more - of all these people, she would have no expectations that I was going to be the most amazing psychic in the world.
We filed into Jonathan’s back room. I had expected it to be decked out in rich velvet hangings on the walls, a plush navy blue carpet and lots of paraphernalia like Gran had. The room had faded floral wallpaper, a threadbare beige carpet which was particularly worn around the doorway. There was not much furniture - the huge oak sideboard mystified me as I could see no way it could have fitted through either of the doors, and I wondered if the house had been built around it. In the centre of the room was a circle of six plastic garden chairs. The only clues that anything spiritual or psychic might be about to happen rather than some boring committee meeting was the dimness of the room, and a deep-violet cloth spread out in the centre of the circle of chairs. On it were two candles, an incense stick in a holder and a couple of crystals.
So began my first ever psychic development group session. Jonathan lit the candles and incense with a solemn invocation and then led a short meditation. I was glad of that - it put off the evil moment when I would be called upon to demonstrate this great gift I was meant to have and gave me a chance to reflect and try and pick up some vibes from the house and the people.
The house had seen a lot of sadness and loneliness. From what I’d seen so far, one did not need to be psychic to realise that the place had lacked a female touch for some time. Jonathan lived here alone. I got a strong impression of the spirit of an elderly lady who watched over the house’s lone occupant with sadness and regret that he had never married and seemed so isolated. His mother.
From Cynthia on my left I picked up an emptiness inside, to do with a relationship, probably her marriage, and some sort of on-going deception between her and her husband.
The mousy girl had been emanating an aura of awe - she was awestruck by everyone in the room, not just me, and I was relieved to detect a nervousness that matched my own. From the bald man I could get no impressions whatsoever - it was as though he had erected a spiritual wall around himself. I learned later that he had probably done exactly that. I was about to probe Jonathan when he began to round up the meditation.
He asked if anyone wanted to share anything. Cynthia went into a long and rather esoteric description of an angel that had apparently appeared to her during the silence. It seemed overly pretentious to me, as if she was showing off how super-spiritual she was. I was not sure whether this was for my benefit or to look good in front of Jonathan. If this was the tone of the group, I was never going to fit in.
‘Thank you for that, Cynthia. Anything from you, Edward?’ Jonathan addressed the balding man, who shook his head and looked down at his hands, clasped together tightly in his lap. ‘Okay. What about you, Lorna?’ The mousy girl looked terrified for a split second, and then shook her head. ‘All right. Megan?’ I was relieved that it seemed acceptable not to have anything to say. Megan said she sensed a beautiful energy in the room. Cynthia interrupted to claim it as the angel she had seen.
I was not really listening as I had been trying to work out what I might say when my turn came. I was not at all sure I wanted to share what had come to me - that our group leader was a sad, lonely bachelor whose mother despaired of him, and that Cynthia’s husband was probably cheating on her. Or she on him. Especially when I couldn't even be sure anymore that I was right about anything.
When Jonathan turned to me, I hesitated again. I didn’t feel comfortable there and was very nervous about how they would judge my ability. ‘I'm, er, looking forward to working with you all,’ I said.
‘Thank you, Tabitha,’ Jonathan said, smoothly, fixing his pale blue eyes on me. ‘We are very much looking forward to working with you, also.’ There was something about the way he looked at me that made my skin crawl.
‘Tonight we are going to practice some psychometrics,’ Jonathan said. ‘I want you to get into pairs - I believe we are an even number now that Tabitha has joined us.’
I’d been dreading something like this. I was not sure I’d feel comfortable in a one to one with any of these people, except, perhaps, for Megan. Edward did not seem to want to talk to me at all, getting Lorna to open up would be like getting blood out of a stone; Jonathan was giving me the creeps; and I didn’t want to have to tell Cynthia about what I had been picking up from her. I was relieved when Megan whispered, ‘Shall we work together?’ I accepted quickly as I saw Jonathan trying to make eye contact with me.
I felt relaxed with Megan, and my impressions from the ring she gave me were surprisingly strong and accurate. She had been wearing her grandmother’s ring, and I got several impressions which Megan confirmed. We swapped places and I gave Megan my watch to read.
‘You work for the police?’ She asked.
‘No. Mail order company.’
Megan frowned. ‘I'm definitely getting police.’
‘Could be my gran. She does that sort of thing.’
‘Perhaps - you're close to her?’
‘Kind of,’ I said. I hadn't visited since she’d given me Jonathan's business card, and I suddenly felt rather guilty. I hadn't even called and asked how it had gone with Becky's parents. I resolved that I would call her at the weekend for a chat, and I could tell her about the group and about Megan, and how she'd picked up about the police work.
Megan smiled. ‘That'll be it, then.’
There was another group sharing session in which the three pairs had fed back their experiences, and then Jonathan gave a lecture on psychic development. I have to admit, after a long day at work I found it hard to concentrate on his rather dry delivery - I had to keep pinching myself to make sure I didn’t fall asleep. I didn't remember anything he said, and I knew I was going to have to gloss over this part of the meeting when I related the evening’s proceedings to Gran.
Another meditation, a ‘closing down’ ritual to ensure we weren’t bothered by unwanted spirits on our way home and the meeting was over.
After tea, biscuits and more awkward small talk, Megan offered me a lift home, which I gratefully accepted.
As Megan and I headed for the door, Jonathan stopped me to say an effusive goodbye and that he sincerely hoped I would become a full member of the group. He stood just a little too close than was comfortable for a man I'd just met, and I found myself edging towards the door. He seemed to have no concept of respect for my personal space and edged forward with me.
He handed me a sheet of paper; the group’s Code of Practice. He told me to read it and next time I should arrive early and he would go through it with me.
On the way home, Megan filled me in on the rest of the group. ‘Watch out for Jonathan,’ she said. ‘He’s a bit of a lech, if you know what I mean. He came on to me when I first joined, and used to stare at me and then asked me out. I said no. I think he’s a bit desperate and he probably thinks it’s Christmas having two attractive single women in the group. Be careful.’
‘Thanks, I will - but I’ve got a boyfriend anyway. So what’s with the bald guy? I don’t think he said a word all night.’
‘Oh, Edward? Funny bloke. An amazing psychic, though. Incredibly sensitive, and I think that’s the problem. He’s go
t a phobia about strangers, so whenever anyone new joins the group, he shuts right down. Puts up these spiritual defences and hides behind them. It was six months before he spoke to me. Even when he feels comfortable with everyone, he doesn’t say very much. But when he does say something, it’s always really deep and so totally relevant that he amazes everybody.’
‘Lorna seems very shy, too.’
‘Yes, she is. Very little confidence in herself. Be careful about giving her your phone number, because she seems quite incapable of making a decision on her own. Once she’s got your number she’ll phone up for advice at any hour of the day or night. I’d swear she probably asks her spirit guide what colour knickers she should put on every morning.’
I laughed as Megan pulled up opposite the stairs to my flat. ‘She doesn’t call Ted, because she’s only been coming for four months so he isn’t speaking to her yet. She used to ring Cynthia, but she got an earful for that, because old Major Smythe-Gore is totally anti-psychic and so Cynthia doesn’t want him to know she’s going to a group like ours. She tells him she goes to play bridge on Tuesdays.’
‘Ah. The deception.’
‘What?’
‘I was getting a vibe from her that there was some sort of deception between her and her husband. I assumed it was one of them having an affair, but it could just have been that.’
‘Maybe. Anyway, here you are, I’ll see you next week. Whatever you do, though, don’t be late. Jonathan won’t tolerate that. In fact, the reason there was room for you in the group was because he had just banished someone for being late.’
Alone in my flat, I read the list of Group Rules. It had been reproduced on one of those old fashioned carbon copy Xerox machines so the type was mauve. The most important rule was absolute, unswerving commitment to developing psychically and spiritually, which in practical terms meant that if you missed a meeting for any other reason than being too ill to get out of bed, or the occasional holiday, you would be asked to leave. Even if you were too ill to get out of bed, not phoning Jonathan to inform him of the fact meant you would be asked to leave. And being late, for any reason, including the whole London transport system unexpectedly grinding to a halt, was also a sign you were not really committed and if you were not there by the time the Group started, on even one occasion, you would be asked to leave.
