‘How come you’ve ended up in London with that accent?’
He shrugs and wipes the bar. ‘I realised I didn’t like my career choice so I’m starting again. Fancied bumming around the world. I started here to get more money together. My sister lives up the road so I decided to stay in her spare room and save up a couple more hundred then go travelling for a year.’
‘Wow. When are you off?’
‘Jeez, are you trying to get rid of me already?’
‘You’re kidding me, not if I’m getting free champagne.’
‘What do you do?’
I hate that question. If I say actress, they immediately ask what I’ve done. As soon as I tell them it’s TV some people turn into idiots. I know how horrid that sounds, but you do definitely become interesting in the wrong way if there’s the remotest possibility that you might be a ‘celebrity’. Other people immediately assume you’re a knob. Others still are nice, but want to talk about it all night. But if I don’t say actress, what do I say?
‘I’m sometimes an actress. Right now I work in a shop.’
‘Crouch End is full of actresses, isn’t it? There was one in here the other night. Supposed to be famous, but I don’t watch TV so I’d never seen her before in my life. She started off a right snobby cow then got sozzled and Marina over there had to prise her off me with a crow bar. What shop is it?’
I think I wanted him to be more impressed. I’m a mass of contradictions. I’m well aware of this.
‘It’s Mystery Pot; it’s just up at –’
‘Oh, I know it. My sister loves that place. There’s this woman there who does the cards, gets it bang on every time apparently. My sister keeps trying to persuade me to get them done, but I’m scared.’
So his sister’s met Sheila, then.
‘Scared?’
‘I’m not sure I wanna know, you know? Does it help to know something awful’s going to happen before it happens?’
‘Why on earth would it be something awful?’
I look at him and suddenly something clicks in my head. A little ball of fire ignites and the café seems to go completely still. He’s drying a glass. I touch his hand.
‘You’ve lost someone, haven’t you? Someone close? And it’s changed everything? It’s a man. He says you needed to get away from the sadness at home. You’ve done the right thing.’
He’s staring at me with utter shock on his face. Fuck. I’ve blown it now.
‘What? How did you…?’
‘I’m so sorry. I should keep my gob muzzled.’ I now feel like crying. There’s such sadness there, I can feel it and I’ve gone and poked a stick at it. He looks like a lost toddler.
‘No it’s… Jeez… My dad died last year.’
‘Ohhh, that’s terrible. I’m sorry to bring it up.’
‘It was terrible. Especially for mum. I’ve escaped and she’s trapped there with the memories. But how could you know that?’
‘I didn’t. I don’t. I just said what I felt.’ I don’t want to say any more but I know I have to. It’s there, pushing at me. ‘I just have to tell you, press upon you, you’ve done the right thing. Your mum was worried sick that you’d lost your dad when you were so young. You could have reacted very badly. But now you’re doing something positive. And he approves too, I can feel it so strongly.’
He’s still staring, but he doesn’t look as sceptical as I thought he might.
‘I’m not that young.’
I get up off the seat.
‘Can you guard my drink while I go to the loo?’
Some Are Stuck and Some Are Visiting
I need to hide for a minute. He’s bound to think I’m a crackpot now. Men do not take kindly to spooky shenanigans; I don’t know many males who believe in this kind of thing and I don’t want everyone to think I’m one of those eccentric mentalists who wear billowing kaftans and coloured Birkenstocks and claim to know where Grandma Olivia hid her wedding ring before she died. Why couldn’t I have just had a nice flirt and gone home?
Still, I got it right didn’t I? I ‘felt’ something and I was right. Maybe I’ve helped him a little, even if I have freaked him out. I sense a buzz in the pit of my stomach, like a couple of hawk-moths are dancing in there. A small part of me, that I’m trying to repress, keeps saying the same thing, ‘You’ve always felt you were different and now you know why’. And I can’t help breathing the tiniest exhalation of relief.
After I’ve hidden for as long as possible without seeming weird, I comb my hair, replace my lip-gloss and decide to take myself off home and tell Elsa to meet me there if she still wants to see me. Today has gone on long enough.
As I push open the door I find myself blocked by the waiting frame of Pat. He takes my arm and guides me towards another door. I find myself outside in a tiny yard. The sky is darkening and a wall lamp is casting watery light down the painted white bricks and onto a couple of plastic chairs. He motions me to one seat and he takes the other beside me. He pulls out cigarettes and gestures around the tiny space.
‘The smoking room.’
He offers me one. They’re Marlboro Menthols. I like a menthol, especially when I’ve had a drink.
‘I started smoking when Dad died. I’m such a wuss, I only like the mint ones.’
‘Me too.’
‘Good. We can be wusses together.’
He lights mine first, his hand shaking a little. He lights his, and leaves it in his mouth as he takes the band out of his hair, which falls in waves around his face, then pushes it back again and re-ties it. He then takes a long drag and slowly blows out the smoke.
‘I have no idea how you just did that. I’ve been thinking about my dad all day. I don’t like to tell my sister because it makes her cry. You’ve totally spaced me out. How did you… know?’
‘I don’t know how I know. This is all new to me. I don’t really know anything. I just suddenly get a feeling and I say it aloud. My friend does that stuff for a living. She says it’s like being a vessel.’
This cigarette is making me fuzzy. I look at him again. He is shaken up. I can see it. My gob opens again.
‘You’re doing the right thing, you know. Your sister is comforted by you staying with her. Your mam has other family and friends. She will find a light at the end of the tunnel.’
I smoke, feeling a strange beating in my chest. There’s one more thing to say…
‘Your dad always knew you were going to travel and now you’re on your way. He’s very proud. Did he used to call you Pat Cat or Pat the cat?’
His intake of breath is sharp. Again I wonder if I should just shut up.
‘That’s what he called me all right. Pat the cat. I was always sneaking in and out of my window. I’m glad he’s proud.’
‘Why wouldn’t he be?’
I feel like his dad’s clapping. That’s all he wanted to say. I immediately feel his presence less strongly. He’s made his point.
Pat stares into space. There’s something very personal about sharing these things with a stranger. It makes me feel protective of him. I want to wrap my arms around him like I’m his mam.
‘I didn’t know witches drank cocktails.’
This breaks a slightly awkward silence nicely.
‘I’m no ordinary witch.’
‘I’m not being funny, but can we go for a drink somewhere when I finish my shift? I reckon I’m too stirred up to go home straight away?’
As he asks, my mobile goes off. I remember Elsa. I grab it out of my bag. Sure enough, it’s her.
‘Sorry Pat, just a sec.’
A very uptight voice greets me. ‘Where are you? I’m in Minnie’s. You’re not here?’
‘Sorry, Elsa. Give me a minute, I’ll be right out, I thought you were going to text from the station?’
‘I did! Then I jumped in a cab. I hate buses.’
She clicks off. I check my phone. There’s a text. I didn’t hear it come.
‘Pat, I’m so sorry. My friend is out there, sh
e’s upset about something, I’ve got to go and talk to her. Maybe we can chat later?’
‘You’re a proper Agony Aunt, aren’t you?’
Before I can think he’s got his arms around me and is giving me the sweetest hug.
‘Thank you. You have no idea.’
He smells divine. Cologne, fresh cigarette smoke and man. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to a hottie. Plus, I just saw him at his most vulnerable. I breathe him in, like some kind of filthy old perv. This hug is lasting too long now. I don’t want to take advantage of a situation that’s stacked so majorly in my favour. I just gave him something he desperately needed. I think about pulling away.
All at once he puts his lips on mine. Lovely, warm, juicy lips. Grateful or attracted? I don’t bloody care. I absolutely should not be doing this. If he opens his mouth, I am toast. I have to gather myself and get to Elsa or she’ll kick off. I stop, pull away gently and smile.
‘You’re welcome.’
When I walk back in, I’m quivering. Even my jaw is trembling. Christ almighty. Talk about conflict of interests. I don’t think giving messages to strangers is supposed to make me horny, but then I doubt everyone I give a message to will be as sexy as Pat.
There’s a Ghost in my House
Elsa is sitting by the bar. I have never seen such dark rings around her eyes. Apart from when she’s smudged lots of glittery black eyeliner around them, of course. She’s effortlessly rocking a floor length black maxi dress and tasteful silver jewellery, but she looks ill at ease and miserable. I go to her and give her a hug. So very different from the one I just broke away from. This one is testy and her energy is as grey as the circles around her eyes.
‘Have you ordered a drink?’
She scowls. ‘No, I haven’t. There’s no one bloody serving.’
Just then Pat appears and she moodily orders the biggest glass they have of Pouilly-Fumé. The most expensive wine they have, of course.
‘Another Kir Royal?’
Her shocked eyes whip across to meet mine. ‘You’ve been drinking champagne?’
‘Just fancied a change.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘I don’t know. An hour or two.’
‘Hmmm. Lady of leisure.’
I don’t think she means to be a cow, but she knows I miss my career and the money that came with it. Criticising me because I haven’t been working today is like criticising a bloke with a broken leg for not joining in his usual football game. I decide to let it pass this once, but next time…
Pat puts the drinks in front of us pronto and I thank him as he casts a disapproving eye over Elsa.
We sit at the table I was at in the first place and in a role reversal of last time we were here, Elsa starts to cry. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Elsa weep. I’ve seen her eyes filled with tears of rage and I’ve seen her at her weakest when she was mugged by some low-life who punched her for good measure. But this. This is tired crying. This is the crying you did when you were five and you had been running about in the park for hours and you suddenly felt emotional and drained and didn’t know why. My mam used to call it ‘tired temper’. My dad didn’t call it anything. He’d just scoop me up and put me on his knee with his arm around me until it stopped.
‘What’s going on, mate? Has something happened?’
She nods then dabs around her eyes with a tissue from her bag. Her mascara remains perfect. ‘Don’t laugh. There’s something going on in my flat.’
‘The oppressive thing, still?’
She takes a huge slug of wine. ‘I haven’t slept properly since I moved in. The only good night’s sleep I have is when I’ve had a full bottle of wine before bed. But I can’t do that all of the time, I’ll be a bloody barrel. And anyway, not even that always works. If I do nod off I get woken up at three fifty-five a.m. no matter what. Every single day. It’s bloody killing me. Tanz, there’s something in my bedroom and it won’t go away.’
The hairs go up on the back of my neck. Sheila taught me this thing for ‘protection’ earlier. I have to visualise a warm light around me apparently, protecting me from anything harmful or ill-intentioned. I attempt to do it now. I imagine an orangey light rushing through me, expelling any negativity, then surround myself with brightness, like a neon force field. I can almost see the dark fog around Elsa.
‘Are you talking about a ghost, Elsa?’
She slumps and shrugs. ‘I know that makes me sound like an idiot, but I don’t know what else to call it.’
‘You don’t sound like an idiot. What’s it doing?’
She looks pitifully grateful that I’m not mocking her. ‘It’s not so bad in the daytime. The flat just feels a bit claustrophobic, like I’m not the only one there. It’s not threatening really, though I don’t write there on my day off any more, I go to Costa round the corner with my laptop. But at night, when I get in, I feel positively unwelcome. I go into the bedroom and it feels cold, even with the heating on. I keep the light on and put the TV on in there for company, but it still feels awful, like something bad is going to happen. Most nights I start feeling as though I can’t breathe. I can’t get comfy at all and I feel like I’m being watched. Then if I eventually do nod off, at three fifty-five a.m., almost to the second, I jump out of my skin and wake up scared. Then I wind up lying on the sofa, which is too lumpy to sleep on.’
She takes another gulp of wine and I ignore my Kir. I really have had enough to drink now.
‘I’m sorry to whinge, Tanz, but I’m terrified of going to bed. I don’t like being there any more and I signed a year’s lease. What can I do? Can your friend at the shop help? Does she know anything about ghosts?’
I don’t know if Sheila can help. I don’t see why not, though. She was about to tell me about spirits that are ‘stuck’. I wonder…
‘Let me call her right now.’
I scroll through for Sheila’s number. A lifetime of watching Hammer movies and idolising Vincent Price, Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee has definitely left an impression on me. This kind of thing really excites me.
Sheila picks up, eventually.
‘Sorry love, I was having a fag and watching a Cary Grant film, Arsenic and Old Lace, do you know it?’
‘Oh my God, are you kidding me? It’s one of the best films ever made. Plus, it’s got Peter Lorre in it.’
‘I know. Well I couldn’t find the pause button, it took me a while.’
‘That’s OK. I’m sorry to disturb you.’
‘You’re not. That was great today. I’ve never met such a natural.’
I’m over the moon she thinks so. In other circumstances I’d tell her about Pat and his dad. The edited version, of course, without the thoroughly inappropriate lust at the end. But I don’t want Elsa to know. It’s my little secret for now.
‘Look, Sheila, I’ll be quick. I’m with Elsa, you know the friend I told you about, the one who wanted to call you for a reading?’
‘Oh yes. The one who puts make-up on to go to the gym?’
‘Hmmm. Anyway, she’s got a bit of a problem with her flat. There’s something, probably someone, in there and they’re stopping her from sleeping. They’re making the whole atmosphere rotten, basically, and she gets woken up at the same time in the middle of the night, every night.’
‘Right. Well, first off, have you protected yourself?’
‘Yeah. A few minutes ago.’
‘OK, have a delve.’
‘A what?’
‘You’re sitting with her now, are you?’
‘Yep.’
Elsa is sinking the rest of her wine, looking intrigued.
‘When you put down the telephone, have a delve. Think about her flat and feel about for any kind of energy you can pick up through Elsa. You’ll get an idea of who’s in there. We can pop over there after work tomorrow if she wants? We should be able to sort it, unless it turns out to be ‘complicated’. I reckon you’ll be a dab hand at ghost-busting!’
/> Suddenly I’m visualising Bill Murray with his backpack on and a laser beam coming out of his outsized spook gun.
‘Wow. Thanks, Sheila. Just a sec.’ I look to Elsa who’s dying to know what’s going on. ‘Are you around tomorrow evening at sixish?’
‘I can be.’
‘Good. Sheila, that’s fine. Let’s do it!’
‘Good girl. See you tomorrow.’
I wink at Elsa.
‘What? What did she say?’
‘We’re going to come and ghost-bust your house tomorrow!’
‘Really? I mean, how can you help? Isn’t it a specialised thing?’
‘Sheila’s going to teach me. Just a second, I want to try something. Sit still.’
I sit still myself, look at Elsa, then ‘feel about’ with my mind. Looking for a clue as to what’s going on. Two things come to me. It’s an old lady in Elsa’s flat and she is angry and confused. Plus, she’s not evil, she’s scared. Interesting.
‘You’re being haunted by an old lady. She’s terrified and she’s angry.’
Elsa almost jumps out of the seat. She glares at me with absolute alarm. ‘Please don’t, I have to go back there tonight. How can you possibly know that? That’s the last thing I want to hear. I’m bricking it as it is.’
‘Elsa, I have a very nice sofa bed. Don’t go back there. Stay at mine. Even if you have to get a cab to yours early in the morning for clothes and stuff for work, you’ll still get more sleep at mine than yours.’
I’ve never seen her look more grateful.
‘You are a life saver.’
‘Shut up.’
‘No, really. Who the hell else could I go to with a ‘haunting’ problem and they’d know what to do? How exactly do you know that about the old lady, though? I mean, anyone else would think I was mentally ill.’
‘You are mentally ill. Anyway, I’m not sure what’s going to happen. I may be awful at the whole spirit-clearing thing.’
‘Well whatever happens, you’ll be less scared than I am.’
Elsa glances at the bar. ‘That surfy-looking barman keeps looking over here. Do you know him?’
‘Oh, not really, we were just having a chat earlier. Nice lad.’
Sex, Spooks and Sauvignon (Adventures of an Accidental Medium Book 1) Page 5
