Sex, Spooks and Sauvignon (Adventures of an Accidental Medium Book 1)

by Tracy Whitwell

She looks ill at ease, but eventually replies.

  ‘I dreamt my dad phoned me at seven o’clock in the morning and said goodbye on the day he had his stroke. The Andrews Sisters were playing in the background. He said he was going dancing.’

  My little mam’s eyes are filling up. I’m shocked.

  ‘He used to love dancing with me mam when they were young.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say you had that dream at the time? That’s so sad and amazing.’

  ‘I don’t like to talk about it because I don’t dream anything you can change. Like when your brother was attacked on holiday. I tried to tell him not to go and he thought I was being difficult. So I didn’t tell him what I’d dreamt because it would have just upset him if I had. And maybe if he wasn’t attacked there, he’d have been attacked somewhere else. If you can’t change anything it’s useless having it, I think.’

  ‘Wow. You dreamt it would happen?’

  Incredible. And that was quite a philosophical statement for my mam. I like her right now. The middle of my forehead feels weird, though. It feels strange when I’m talking to Sheila, too. Working at the shop has been pretty interesting so far, though it can get a bit boring when there aren’t many customers. Talking to Sheila is an eye opener. She believes a hundred per cent in what she does and she doesn’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks. She worked two days this week. The other reader is a bloke called Martin. He’s small-framed with worried eyes and a nervous laugh. I get this feeling that he’s trying to be more outgoing than he really is and he doesn’t get as many bookings as Sheila. Probably because he comes across as a bit depressed. No one wants a reading from someone who’s down. Except for other ‘down’ people. His regulars are all squirrels, like him.

  Suddenly my mam tries to launch into another volley about my selfish nanna and how she needs to make the tea in a minute and she doesn’t want my dad to be kept late. ‘Tea’ is what Geordies call ‘dinner’ and most people have their ‘tea’ before six o’clock and then have a snack later. She doesn’t really need to make it right now: no one is doing anything later, unless you count watching the TV all night as doing something, but tradition and habit decree it as ‘time to make tea’ and she will not vary by even five minutes. Therefore, nanna and her gammy leg are interrupting a vital routine. I refuse to get into this. Especially as I’m socialising at seven o’clock and need a shower. I make my excuses and go upstairs to get my glad rags on.

  ‘When in doubt go out and drink cocktails.’

  That’s my favourite saying, apart from, ‘How did this bottle get so empty?’

  Sleep? Not Likely

  When I open my eyes it is pitch black and for a moment I haven’t a clue where I am. This often happens when I stay at my parents’ house. I’ve woken up in a bit of a panic. The last thing I saw before I opened my eyes was a noose – a noose swinging from a wooden beam – accompanied by an awful chill through my body, like death itself.

  I really have to cut back on the murder magazines.

  I don’t even know where my phone is to check the time and I’m shivering, despite the fact the duvet is three feet thick and the central heating is on. I take a moment to slow my breathing, reminding myself it was just a nightmare, even though it feels like the devil himself just did a jig on my headstone. As my heart rate goes back to normal, I grope about on the floor, my eyes useless in the absolute darkness afforded by my mam’s lime green blackout curtains. Eventually, after plenty of fumbling, I locate my handbag and take out my phone. I groan at the time. Five a.m. As I’m getting further into my thirties I’m finding it harder to sleep the whole night through after a night on the booze. Especially when I mix my drinks. I often wake up criminally early, my head buzzing with all sorts of worries, and it can take a good hour to doze off again. This time, I’m not even sure an hour is going to do it. That noose and the feeling of cold nothingness… it was so real. I try to block it with other thoughts.

  Bits of last night flash back at me. The big hug hello between me, Milo and Chris… Milo doesn’t like leaving the house much, as he prefers to cocoon himself and write made-up stories for a living. Therefore, he gets pie-eyed before any evening out and this was no exception. He arrived already warmly drunk, with red-wine teeth. Milo never stays with a boyfriend for longer than three weeks as they always want attention and he never wants to give it, so he’s usually single. That suits me just fine as we have world-solving chats on the phone several times a week.

  As for Chris, he’s something to do with computers, I couldn’t tell you what. We’re not close like I’m close to Milo, but I’ve known him a long time and I think Milo might still have a crush on him (Milo was two years below us at school), so I don’t object to him coming out with us occasionally. He is single at the moment, too. He has eyes like giant chocolate buttons and ladies love to love him. But he’s very picky and extremely neurotic when it comes to girls. Sometimes I despair of him, especially when I bother to pick up one of his calls and have to listen for a good hour to his latest tale of agony with yet another weak, strange woman that he should have avoided like double VD.

  Last night we’d started off in a nice pub on Pink Lane with a civilised glass of wine for me and Milo and pints for Chris, then eventually found our way to some kind of reggae club, where we’d draped ourselves over big, loungy seats in the chill-out area and talked about relationships and our childhoods and stupid stuff you talk about with people you’ve known for ages. All the while they’d carried on with their beers and vino and I’d graduated to margarita glasses containing a dangerously blue liquid.

  At a late point in the evening, something odd happened. I was chatting with Milo, head bent towards him so he could hear me over the bass – which was so guttural it made my stomach vibrate – when Chris came back from the loo. As he passed I stopped what I was saying and grabbed his hand. He looked down at me and I got closer to his ear and words began to tumble out of my mouth.

  ‘Chris, it’s all changing. You’re going to get married next year. The girl you’ll marry is completely opposite to anyone you’ve ever had before. She’s not some over-glam fool. She’s got long hair, it’s auburn, she’s funny and her name is…’

  I thought for a second.

  ‘I think it’s Lynn.’

  He stared at me. I stared back. What was I bloody saying? He bent down and faced me.

  ‘Who have you been talking to?’

  ‘No one. I just… it just came out.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No wonder Frank used to call you the White Witch.’

  I felt a wrench at Frank’s name, but I was drunk enough not to indulge it.

  ‘He probably said that because I knew what he was up to before he did. He was clear as a glass of water.’

  ‘Frank once told me he could never get anything past you and that you could see inside people’s heads.’

  ‘Did he?’ I misted up.

  ‘Anyway, just so you know, I met a girl two weeks ago when they sent me to Manchester for that conference thingy. Her name is Linda. She is exactly how you’ve described, she is adorable and she takes the piss out of me and I’ve been having a secret affair by telephone. But I have to say, the chances of me marrying her are slim to zero. So, avaunt thee, evil witch!’

  Milo had only caught little snippets of what was going on (thank the Lord, as I don’t think he’d appreciate pronouncements of Chris’s upcoming nuptials), but he laughed drunkenly at Chris’s last sentence and struggled to his hazy, wobbly feet.

  ‘Can I get you another blue concoction, Fenella?’

  Chris snorted at the reference.

  ‘Hahahaha. I love Fenella…! “OHHHH, I HATE YEW CHORLLLTON!”’

  And thus my out of the blue prediction was side-lined by a ridiculous impression of an animated Welsh witch called Fenella from Chorlton and the Wheelies. That’s why I love having boys as friends. Uncomplicated.

  And now I’m awake at five a.m. with a toy drum beginning to play a samba insid
e my cranium. I switch on the lamp, reach into my overnight bag to redeem my paracetamol and neck two down with a huge gulp of water, from a tumbler strategically balanced on the Formica bedside table. Only when this is done do I warily allow myself to ponder the whole ‘prophecy’ business.

  I have often been referred to as a witch in my life and I mostly put it down to having good, old-fashioned intuition and (pre-bob) Kate Bush hair. I’ve always known when there was something not right about a person, if someone was hiding something, or when I was going to hear from a friend. But describing someone’s new – and as yet secret – girlfriend to them, even near-as-dammit, their name? That’s another level.

  I want to call Milo and talk about nooses and being a soothsayer, but he was so sozzled by the time we left the club that I put him to bed and came back to my parents’. If he’d been more alive I would have stayed there and we’d have chatted like we usually do. It usually takes a fair amount to render Milo comatose and tonight it was the final sambuca shot after several buckets of wine that did for him, I reckon.

  Despite my best intentions, my head is beginning to whirr. For now, I’ll let it. I’ll just lie still while the drugs kick in and hope my spinning mind calms down. Four hours of M1-driving madness is not best tackled on three hours’ kip and a stinking headache.

  I no sooner think this than I begin to fidget and restlessly tug at the duvet. It’s going to be a long night, whether I like it or not.

  Sex Cannot Be Ignored

  I’m wandering around Waitrose again. I do a lot of wandering when I’m not working. I came here for some fish to steam, some salad and some broccoli. I should get these from the local fishmonger and the local fruit and veg shop, really. I still might. I often mooch around shops then leave again; it’s part of my ‘walking to stay fit’ drive. If I don’t go swimming I walk around for an hour or two. That’s my rule.

  There’s a very good-looking man by the fridges comparing different pots of houmous. (I adore houmous, it features heavily in my life.) He has sandy coloured hair and is wearing a trendy suit. I don’t go for suits as a rule, but there’s something rebellious about the way he wears it, like he has to put it on for work but he hates to conform so he got Charlie Brooker or Stewart Lee to make it for him. I don’t know why I think of these two in particular apart from they’re funny men and I fancy them.

  I’m having trouble at the moment with my hormones. I haven’t had sex since I split up with Blake. Mostly because I was with him so long and it got so nasty that the thought of any more than flirting fills me with terror. It’s all very well fancying and being fancied, but I get myself embroiled so quickly once I’ve taken my clothes off, it’s just not worth the risk.

  That’s what my head tells me, anyway. But my body is rebelling against this by turning me into a caveman every time I spot someone vaguely attractive. Yesterday I almost got on a bus I didn’t need to catch because this rather gorgeous Kings of Leon-looking fella, complete with early-days-of-the-band beard, gave me an appreciative smile as I passed the bus stop. For all I know he was gay and enjoying my ensemble – I was wearing a rather becoming arm-cuff with a butterfly on it – but I just can’t control my rampantly roving eye any more. Worse than that, I’m not really one for masturbation, it makes me self-conscious. Or it used to. But last week I got cheeky with myself for almost an hour in the bath, thinking of this funny bloke from a dog food advert. Before you knew it I was up to my chin in suds and imagining him living down the road from me and me bumping into him in the corner shop and him unexpectedly knocking at my door after seeing where I lived, while I was taking a shower, and… Well the rest is nobody’s business, but I know I’m reaching critical mass when it comes to needing a shag. I have to do something about it; I’m just not sure who the victim will be yet. I certainly don’t want to be beholden to a bloke again.

  It’s crossed my mind I could contact an upmarket escort agency, but let’s be honest they might send a minger and you just don’t know where they’ve been, do you? As for vibrators, how do people use them without feeling completely stupid? I think they have a very particular sound. What if my neighbour brings all her friends round to stand with a glass against the wall and snicker at the dildo lady?

  I decide to abandon houmous-man and indeed get my greens from the fruit and veg place three doors away, like a responsible local should. As I pass the newspaper stand near the exit I notice a missed call on my phone from Elsa. Damn. Suddenly, I also hear a voice as clear as crystal in my head.

  ‘Call Sheila.’

  I stop short and a Lycra-clad lady with a basket and a primped toddler holding her hand walks into me from behind. I apologise, she growls something entitled-sounding and walks off. I reach around inside my brain.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Call Sheila. Go round and see her.’

  Fuck. This voice sounds male, but not rough or anything. Friendly. And it’s not like that other voice, you know, the one you hear in your head all of the time. Your narrator, which is basically you, putting a spin on everything that happens. (For me, usually a paranoid spin.) This voice is removed from that. It’s someone else’s voice. Murderers hear voices. As do schizophrenics. I read about murderers all the time. Double fuck. A tiny part of me is excited, the rest of me thinks I may be on some kind of devilish Candid Camera. I look around suspiciously. No one is even glancing in my direction.

  I pull the phone back out. I took Sheila’s number to give to Elsa. Sheila does home readings as well as shop ones. If she reads for Elsa at home, then she’ll be able to pocket all of the fee. Seems only fair. I press dial before deciding what to say to her. She picks up almost immediately.

  ‘Hiya, it’s Tanz… Er, a voice just told me to come and visit you.’

  There’s a throaty guffaw down the line.

  ‘Well, you’d better come round then. I just got back from the launderette. You called at a good time.’

  Why did she take that so well? The address she has given me is just round the corner. I insist on bringing her something and show up at the front door with a cappuccino for me and a large Americano for her. The building she lives in is stunning. She has a studio flat on the ground floor; she’d already told me this, but nothing has prepared me for what’s inside. It’s how I always imagined the interior of a gypsy caravan would look, when I had romantic notions of running away with a man with dark curls and a hoop earring who played the fiddle. I truly have lived in a fantasy-land since I was born.

  It is, of course, bigger than the inside of a caravan, but it has the same sense of being enclosed by a person’s whole being. Every wall, surface and item of furniture seems to be dressed in, or covered by, velvet, silk, flowers, angels, fairies or twinkly lights in gorgeous hues of purple, crimson, burnt orange, ochre, deep blue and scarlet. There is so much stuff, but it all fits and the effect is one of being cushioned from the world in a room filled with softness and beauty. I am well aware of how gay this makes me sound, but sometimes you just have to call a spade a spade and this place rocks.

  We sit opposite each other at a table beside the French doors, which lead on to a tiny terrace edged by pots of herbs and small rose bushes. We drink our coffees and I begin to feel a bit wrong for showing up here ‘because a voice told me’.

  But Sheila just says, ‘I had a feeling about you.’

  Oo-er. I am in awe of this woman who has people queuing up to hear her wisdom. She’s a down-to-earth Londoner, she has roots showing in her blonde hair and she wears cool clothes. She is not some self-important, self-professed mystic, lining her pockets while scaring people into coming back to her every week. ‘Dances to a different drum’ is how my mam would put it. My mam is only seventeen years older than me which means I often look up to older women who are wise and strong. My mam was always more like a big sister, really. Frank used to say I ‘collected new mams’.

  I clear my throat. ‘What kind of feeling?’

  I’m wondering if the coffee is extra strong as I’ve started
to feel dizzy. My forehead has this swimmy feeling, like I’m breathing through it, or I’m a Cyclops and I just opened my one big eye. I actually think I might faint. Sheila looks at me through cigarette smoke.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m just a bit dizzy.’

  She looks around the room then back at me. ‘The middle of your forehead, between your eyes?’

  I nod and she smiles. ‘That’s your third eye.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You’re clairvoyant, love. Actually, if they’re speaking to you, you’re clairaudient. It’s quite strong in you. Was that the first time you’ve ever heard a voice?’

  Wow.

  ‘I think so. I mean, I’ve always had ‘feelings’ about things, but that voice was quite distinct.’

  ‘Well, it must be your time to learn. Some people have those voices with them from childhood, some close off from it and open the door again later in life.’

  Sceptical is what I’m feeling. Everyone wants to be ‘different’ don’t they? But really… really, I know it’s not possible.

  ‘When did you learn?’

  ‘I had it as far back as I can remember. I saw ghosts everywhere. People no one else could see. Think it kept me sane, the madhouse I was brought up in.’

  I can’t help laughing at the notion of being ‘kept sane’ by the presence of ghosts. ‘I would be terrified if I saw a ghost.’

  She nods. ‘Probably why you hear them, love. Less scary for you. Lots of psychic people are scared of seeing spirits. Ridiculous, isn’t it?’

  ‘It was only once. How can I be psychic? I’m just…’

  ‘One not enough for you?’

  She laughs and drinks her coffee.

  ‘Of course love, it could be schizophrenia.’

  My eyes goggle and she tuts.

  ‘I’m joking! I know how mental illness affects the aura. You don’t have any signs of mental illness. Well, no more than any other normal adult! When a medium or a psychic speaks to another one, or sometimes even just stands next to them, there’s a sensation in the forehead, sometimes in the tummy. I get that when I talk to you and I think that’s why we’ve met. You need to develop. You have strong presences with you. I can feel three.’