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

by Tracy Whitwell

She turns back to Caitlin. ‘Are you OK? She’s great, isn’t she?’

  Caitlin nods, clutching her tissue. Pat answers for her. ‘She certainly is!’

  Juliette looks at him for precisely three seconds longer than necessary then gathers herself.

  ‘Anyway, this is not the last you’ve heard of me. You made my day. I’ve booked a spa. I’m running back to get a bag together. Fuck men!’

  I snort. ‘Thank you, Juliette.’

  She’s already gone. I beam. Never a dull moment.

  Pat takes his sister’s arm. ‘Right, this one needs to go home.’

  ‘I’m not a child.’

  But she’s weeping again. She’ll need to cry this one out for the rest of the day, probably. I am so relieved I had something to tell her.

  ‘Thank you so much, Tanz. I didn’t even know how much I needed to hear that.’

  ‘You’re so welcome, Cait. I’m sure I’ll bump into you on the High Street now that I know who you are.’

  Pat crosses to my side of the counter and kisses my cheek. I react immediately to the smell of him. He whispers, ‘Call you later, after my shift.’

  Then he’s off with his sister, who leans into him like the walking wounded. I sit back down on my seat and open my water. I am now knackered, but also buzzing. I take a swig and peel back my banana. I am so hungry. A voice shocks me.

  ‘Well. Somebody’s popular.’

  I’d forgotten about Martin. He is sitting in the reading room with the door open so he can spy on me. He is a glaring, malevolent weasel-man.

  Angry Spooks R US

  After a swiftly bolted plate of salad and steamed cod at home, I have a quick conversation with Milo, who is climbing the walls with anxiety because he has a script-writing deadline, one that will prove he can write for a TV show he detests, God bless him.

  ‘My head’s exploding, Tanz. I hate every single character in the show and the producer is a massive knobhead.’

  ‘You’re not a knobhead, though, Milo. You are a total genius. You can do it. Think of the money, think of the fact that once you get that job you can finance your own projects!’

  ‘I know you’re right, but I’m eating my own feet here.’

  ‘Have a glass of wine, clear your head of everything else, then write the first thing you think of. That’s what you said works best.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m just panicking.’

  ‘I have every faith in you.’

  ‘Stop it, you’ll have me sobbing here.’

  Twenty minutes later and I’ve surrendered into the arms of Purple Haze and a raspberry mint martini with Sheila.

  Tonight she has outdone herself, wearing a multi-coloured shirt, black dress pants, a long gothic cardigan and rings on most of her fingers. The scent of Samsara greets me before she does. Sheila always looks fantastic. I can only hope I look equally cool when I’m older. She opts for an espresso martini. I love them too, but the caffeine sends me doolally at night. We sit at a high table with bar stools and I’m amused to see tricorn man is there in a different frock coat, once more beavering away at his laptop. He gives me the tiniest of nods as I look his way. I nod back.

  I fill Sheila in on the day’s adventures.

  ‘Bloody hell, if you didn’t believe you were made for this before then you must do now, love.’

  ‘I’m not a natural reader, though. I turn over a card and then I just say stuff.’

  ‘That is a natural reader! The cards basically facilitate your connection. Cards and their placing on the table can be consulted if someone is shut off or blocking you. Then you can take clues from the spread itself. The cards are a conduit, it’s you tuning in that really does the trick. And you did brilliantly today. You couldn’t have asked spirit for more.’

  It’s funny; Sheila says ‘spirit’, but I don’t define it in my head like that. I think of it just as people I’m chatting to. If I go all airy fairy about it, I don’t believe it myself. I don’t know what else to call it, though. Spirit, angel, guide…? I usually go for silly terms like ‘spooks’ instead. I wonder if that’s just me making the whole situation manageable by taking the piss? Whichever way I look at it, something very weird happened again today. Whatever it is I’m doing, I’m getting quite good at it. Sheila sips her martini and gets a Baileys cream moustache.

  ‘You know Tanz, you could try other stuff, see what you’re most comfortable with. I like the cards, I’m at home with them. But if they don’t rock your boat…’

  ‘It’s not that they don’t rock my boat, they’re beautiful. It’s just I seem to get the information in my head anyway, and if I then look at the card, it’s a little bit distracting. I start looking at the pictures for extra stuff. It sort of makes it less pure.’

  ‘Then try psychometry.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Holding an object in your hand, something belonging to the subject, like a ring or a watch. It helps you tune into them better, but you’re not reading the object, just using it to get closer to the subject because it’s filled with their energy.’

  This seems rather exciting.

  ‘It sounds as if the cards worked fine for you today, but if they don’t make you totally comfortable then find something else. You know you’ve got the ability, so it’s trial and error with what helps you hone it. Some people use runes, some use crystals.’

  ‘Some are just lying and are totally rubbish!’

  ‘Are you talking about Martin, by any chance?’

  ‘Might be. To be fair, I have no idea if he’s any good as I’ve not had a reading from him. And midget Rose West had a whole hour today instead of half an hour.’

  ‘Yes, but she may have felt she had to. Or she might fancy him. You know how crazy some people are. She might have missed the fact he’s gay as the hills.’

  ‘Ewwww. And the fact he’s totally creepy. Why did Maggie employ him?’

  ‘He can be a laugh when he’s not depressed. But his readings have completely died off because he’s stopped bothering to charm the customers. I actually think he’s potentially good if he would just try harder to care.’

  ‘Look, I know people who are depressed, half of my mates are, most of my family are and I can have TERRIBLE downers, but it doesn’t mean you need to be a wanker, does it?’

  ‘No it doesn’t, love.’

  Suddenly I remember the other cause of my excitement. ‘Oh, I forgot. The ghost-bust! Spill, spill!’

  A bald man walks onto the little stage and begins to play the acoustic guitar. Luckily he’s not too loud, but he does have a voice like a cockney Demis Roussos, which sets me off giggling. We are sitting on the other side of a large mirrored pillar so he doesn’t see, thank God.

  ‘Oooo, yes. One of those fluke recommendations. Friend of a friend. A woman who’s having problems in her bungalow. She rang and she sounded bloody awful. Really beaten down. She said she’d explain properly when we got there. I said yes, provisionally, depending on you. Obviously she’s supposed to pay us, but… well, she didn’t sound well off, put it that way. It’s usually sixty quid an hour plus a forty pound consultation fee. Do you think that’s bad?’

  I’m not sure what to say. I don’t like charging people for a natural gift, but ghost-busting is exhausting. And Sheila knows better than me about these things.

  ‘If that’s the going rate. Plus it is a specialist job. I’ve heard of people doing exorcisms who charge thousands.’

  ‘Tanz, they’re leeches. But we’ve all got to dispense with this, “I don’t like taking a fee” nonsense. It’s meant to be an exchange of energies, you know? That’s where that girl who gave you the flowers had it right. You can’t do it for nothing, especially if you’ve got nothing in the first place. It’s still a job at the end of the day.’

  Sheila’s already told me her husband was a grade one abuser. She has a permanently damaged knee because of one of his beatings. Apparently he was a handsome, rich crack-pot from the same kind of background as her. He made the money th
rough dubious means and after a year together he became more and more possessive and turned violent. When she escaped and divorced him she didn’t even try for the big house they shared or the cars or anything. There was no point. All she wanted was enough to buy her studio flat, and even he couldn’t say no to that, as it was so piffling compared to what she was entitled to. Everything else – bills, council tax, food, little luxuries – they all come out of what she earns as a tarot reader and sometime ghost-buster. She doesn’t claim anything, she doesn’t bother anybody, and she’d rather have her fags, her films and her tipple than any bloke. That’s what she says and I believe her. She doesn’t even bother looking at men now; she reckons she’s had her fill and I don’t blame her. It is a shame though, because she’s smokin’. And I don’t just mean the ciggies.

  ‘Anyway, I was thinking of this weekend – Saturday if possible because I’m at the shop on Sunday.’

  ‘Cool. I’m in.’

  ‘Goody. I’ll call her later.’

  I don’t intend to stay out late tonight, as I’m in the shop with Sheila tomorrow so I’ll be up vaguely early. But I do want another one of these cocktails. Sheila gets another espresso martini. I have no idea how she’ll sleep; she must be impervious to caffeine. We settle into a different couple of seats right at the back of Purple Haze, close to the exit and as far as you can get from the music. I am very curious about ghost-busting. It is depicted in such a sinister way in films, but last time we did it, it felt kind. I want to know if it’s ever sinister.

  Sheila thinks. ‘It’s always for the best when I do it. I don’t think people call me in when there’s no problem. Some people rub along fine with whoever is sharing their building, but if there’s a disturbance, you usually find that the spirit really does need to move on. The ones that aren’t so much fun are the ones that are staying in one place, reliving something awful. I found one of those when I was asked by a guard at Pentonville Prison to come and look at the flat he lived in. He was feeling ill in there and it was affecting his wellbeing. He was also getting scared. A big thing for such a tough bloke to admit.

  The flat linked on to the jail and as soon as I walked in I felt sick. The horrible feeling was coming from the bedroom. That directly linked on to a part of the prison where prisoners were hanged, before the death penalty was abolished. I went into the bedroom and the first thing I noticed was how bloody messy it was. I mean a total tip. The bloke in question said afterwards he hadn’t noticed what a tip it’d become. That happens a lot with disturbed entities, you find them in grossly messy rooms. It makes them feel comfortable.’

  The hairs on the back of my neck are on end. This often happens when I’m around Sheila. I wipe my hand over them and sup my cocktail.

  ‘So, I put the feelers out in the bedroom and I found someone all right, but he was very difficult to pin down. He was faceless. It was as if as a personality he didn’t exist. All he was – and I saw this because for a short while it was like I became him – was a messed-up soul who would empty his mind of who he was and let in a much darker and colder force when he killed. I saw my own hands around a young girl’s neck, then that vision disappeared and I saw a large knife in my hand, coming down towards an older woman in a kitchen. I could see the kettle! It was the most awful, chilling feeling, to have emptied all humanity from myself for those moments, and I soon blocked what I was getting from him. It was too poisonous. He had been hanged, that much was certain. And his spirit was very difficult to get rid of. I tried to be kind towards him, but it was a struggle. He eventually left, but I was bloody sickened for days. That wasn’t nice.’

  ‘Ohh. I’m not so sure about that kind of bust.’

  ‘I thought you were obsessed with murderers?’

  ‘Not dead ones that won’t fuck off.’

  If I don’t leave after this drink it’s going to get messy. A brisk walk home, soon, methinks. And a soak in the bath.

  A Little Bit of What You Fancy

  When I get home, I make myself a camomile tea and run a bath. Inka is all over me as soon as I get through the door. Because she rarely gets out her claws, I sometimes drape her around my neck when I’m moving about the flat. She loves this. The funniest thing about my closeness with Inka is that I’m allergic to cats. Only slightly now, as I’ve become more used to her, but I still sometimes wake up with a wheezy cough and I get the odd rash on my inner wrist, too. But it’s a very small price to pay for so much love. And make no bones, animals know their stuff when it comes to love.

  My bath, complete with bubbles, an expensively scented candle I pilfered from Elsa’s stash and my big white shower cap with red dots on it to protect my already clean and nicely coiffed hair, is the stuff of legend. I breathe out the day and go quiet for ten minutes. Today’s shenanigans were quite mind-blowing in retrospect. I send out some thanks for what I was able to do. I’m not sure who I’m thanking so I thank the Universe, which pretty much covers all bases. Of course, being a dark-minded Geordie lass, there’s a part of my brain that keeps reminding me ‘If you don’t know how you do it, then it could just as easily disappear’. I ignore the voice of my own paranoia. So what? Right now it hasn’t disappeared and I am so happy to have a new thing to learn. Or, rather, hone.

  I am dried, balmed, pyjama’d and under my (clean) white duvet with a book when my telephone rings. It’s exactly eleven p.m.

  ‘Are you in the house, favourite witch?’

  That accent, that voice.

  ‘How many witches do you know?’

  ‘Loads. Oh sorry, no, wait a minute, that’s bitches. I only know one witch!’

  The lad makes me laugh, what can I say?

  ‘Can I call around for a cup of tea, please?’

  I panic a little. Am I now going to have to get back up and put some bloody foundation on?

  ‘I’m already in bed, with no make-up, in my pjs.’

  ‘Last time I was at your flat I left you with no make-up and your hair standing on end, wearing an old Super Furry Animals T-shirt with holes in it.’

  That is true.

  ‘And I liked it.’

  ‘Pervert.’

  ‘You’ve got two minutes to make me a cup of tea. I’m nearly there.’

  Cheeky sod.

  The milk smells a bit suspicious so I make him a vanilla chai; that’s what he had last time and he said he liked it. I hate the stuff so it was lurking at the back of my cupboard. I’m a straight peppermint or camomile girl when I’m not tanking up on caffeine. I’ve just poured the water on the bag when he knocks. He’s wearing the same clothes as this afternoon and he gives me a warm hug on the doorstep.

  En route to the kitchen I reach in to switch on the living room light. He stops my hand with his own.

  ‘Where were you when I called?’

  I hand him his tea and lead him to my room, which admittedly looks very cosy with the little bedside lamp, twinkling lights and plumped duvet.

  ‘Can I be really cheeky and sit on the other side of the bed? Then you can go straight back to where you were before and when I let myself out you can just fall asleep like you were going to?’

  I think for a second. It sounds sensible, but also dangerous considering what went on last time he was here. But seeing as I’ve already let him in without my war-paint and in my checked pyjamas, I’ve already broken several of my own golden rules. So I shrug and stop thinking.

  ‘OK. But behave, I have to be up for the shop.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  He slips off his shoes and climbs up next to me. I’m inside and he’s on the duvet.

  ‘Do you realise you have broken my sister? She is basically a jelly in jeans.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Pat. She’s obviously a bit fragile.’

  He looks knackered, I notice.

  ‘That’s one word for it. I’m pleased, to be honest. She really needed to hear something and boy, did you deliver. That song. I have no idea how you did it, but getting that song, it sent her into another
dimension. Unless you are the best guesser on the planet, your powers just hit the jackpot.’

  ‘I looked on psychic Google, it told me everything about her.’

  He laughs. I don’t. Something has been niggling me. ‘Pat, I’ve been thinking. This “getting messages” thing. I’m wondering if it’s maybe not some kind of telepathy? Picking up on what people need to hear and on the memories of departed loved ones and feeding the information back to them, to give them what they need? Does that sound feasible? That it’s nothing to do with “spirit” at all?’

  ‘Jeez, deep. Yes, it sounds feasible, but either way it would be a miracle, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so. But it could just as easily have been telepathy that gave me the Joe Dolce song as your dad, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Why do you want to believe it’s telepathy?’

  ‘Well it’s a bit more scientific than talking to dead people, isn’t it?’

  ‘Actually no, not really. Reading minds isn’t yet a science, is it? And either way, look how it helped my sister. You’re a legend for giving her that hope.’

  Pat was so gentle with Caitlin this afternoon. So understanding. It hadn’t occurred to me before now how much he probably has to play ‘big brother’ to his elder sister.

  ‘You’re a really nice person, aren’t you?’

  He wrinkles his nose. ‘I’m just a normal lad getting on with shit. You’re the nice person.’

  He kisses me. It’s not the urgent, passionate crazy kissing from the other night. It’s slower and deeper than that. And he doesn’t make a move to do anything else. I try to do the same, but I’m afraid I can’t help myself. Without breaking the kiss for a second I pull the duvet from under him so that he’s next to me properly and then cover him again, so we’re both underneath it. But even with our arms wrapped around each other and our legs entwined I still can’t get close enough to him. I want every bit that can touch him to do so. But not with these stupid bloody clothes between us. He stops the kiss for a moment.

  ‘Aren’t I supposed to go so you can get your rest?’

  ‘I don’t want you to go. I want you to take your clothes off.’