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

by Tracy Whitwell

  Less cheerily, I woke up with a silent scream on my face having dreamt a very realistic dream that Dan Beck was knocking on my bedroom window. Oh, how much less cheery was I to find a bat on the pillow next to me, in my confused half-awake state. A pointy, black bat? A bat that was actually Inka’s tiny head, the rest of her under the duvet as she attempted to emulate my own sleeping position. Still less cheery was the realisation that someone really was knocking at my window. A terrified peek through the blinds revealed a crow banging a snail off the corner of the pane like something out of the bloody Omen.

  That was enough to catapult me out of bed and into the shower at four a.m. I chucked everything I needed into a bag, opened the cat flap and filled up Inka’s feeder. A quick note through nice old Steve’s door and I was away at four thirty-five a.m. A new world record, I reckon.

  Now, safely at the beginning of the M1 with Aretha Franklin lulling my ears, I feel I’m leaving that dark stuff behind me and barrelling towards safer territory.

  Hallelujah.

  Scary Mammy

  When I arrive, at nine a.m., my parents are already pottering. Dad’s in his shed, probably having a fag and listening to his little radio. He must be on lates today. When I get through the door, my mam comes in from the kitchen and stops dead. She hasn’t combed her hair yet and she’s all in apricot. She looks like a baby chick.

  ‘Eee, hello. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Welcome home, Tanz!’

  She clutches me awkwardly. ‘Eeeee. I didn’t mean it like that. Are you not working today?’

  ‘No. I’m, err, I wasn’t feeling very well.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing! Just couldn’t sleep; think I wanted to see you two nutters.’

  She’s looking extra anxious this morning. What on earth is going on here? She hasn’t even offered me an unwanted cup of tea yet.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Mam, you’re being shifty. What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing. I just…’

  ‘What?’

  She gives a dramatic pause. Sometimes I think my mam should have been the actress, she’s a master of the dramatic eye-blink and the martyr’s sigh. That’ll be me in fifteen years.

  ‘If you must know, I’ve been very worried. I want to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘With that psychic stuff you’ve been messing with.’

  ‘What? Mam, I’m not messing with it. It’s messing with me!’

  ‘Well whatever it’s doing, you’ve got to stop.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had a dream.’

  Bloody hell. For the first time since the oven-chip incident, my mam just sent a shiver up my spine.

  ‘I had it the night before last. It wasn’t a very nice dream. I’ve been fretting ever since.’

  I don’t know if I can take any more scares, but I’m now intrigued. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know…’

  She’s definitely the master, this one.

  ‘Mam, come on. I’m very interested in this stuff, you know that.’

  ‘All right. If you’re sure…’

  ‘Mam!’

  ‘All right!’ She sits on the rock-hard two-seater and clears her throat, like a regular Hans Christian Andersen. ‘I dreamt that I was in some woods. It was night-time and there was a big hole. A woman sat up in it. I got the fright of my friggin’ life. She had long, brown hair and she was holding the sides of her face and screaming. She wouldn’t stop. And she was bleeding, Tania. Bleeding everywhere. Then it was daytime and I was still in the woods. There was a fallen tree, like a big hollow stump and there were flowers. Bluebells.’

  Holy fuck. Bluebells again. And Mam really does look freaked.

  ‘You were sitting on a rug next to the bluebells and the stump. It was sunny and the birds were singing. I thought you were on a picnic blanket, then I saw it was one of them posh-looking rugs and it was covered in blood. You were on this blood-soaked carpet and the sun went dark and I looked over your head and there was this black angel floating over you. I started screaming at it to go away, but it just hovered over your head like the angel of death. It had no face apart from these scary, droopy eyes. I was sweating when I woke up. I didn’t ring you straight away because I didn’t want to frighten you.’

  Oh my Lord. I have absolutely no way of computing this. I’m glad she didn’t call me as I’d have had an embolism. I was already terrified yesterday and now my mam is describing stuff I’ve told nobody. Bluebells and droopy eyes and blood and rugs and MONA. Mona’s energy is so strong, she’s even reached into my mam’s dreams. This is beyond incredible.

  ‘Is there anything you need to tell me, Tania?’

  If I tell her what’s going on she’ll be beside herself. She looks so frightened already.

  ‘Not really, no. Do you think maybe you’re just worried about me being involved in spiritualism, after what your mam said about your nanna, with the ghosts and everything?’

  Her face changes. She doesn’t like being patronised, my little mam.

  ‘No, I don’t. It felt very real and I don’t dream wrong.’

  She is indignant and earnest when she says this. What the hell else has she dreamt? I decide a half truth is the best way to diffuse this for now.

  ‘I can’t lie. I’ve been having nightmares Mam, and the dream you just described is very like one I had myself. That’s why I’m a bit shocked. Maybe we’re both tapping into the same thing. But I don’t think I’m in any danger or anything, I’d tell you if I was.’

  I have my fingers very tightly crossed behind my back as I say this.

  Just then my dad enters, Zorro following at his heels like a love-struck shadow. Dad’s wearing his overalls, so DIY must be on the cards.

  ‘Tell her, Bob!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Mam jumps in, nodding knowingly. ‘She didn’t feel well. She’s been having nightmares. Didn’t I tell you? There’s something going on.’

  ‘Mam!’

  He crosses his arms and looks me up and down. ‘We’ve been talking and we’re worried. What’s happening?’

  ‘Erm, how about hello, Tanz?’

  He remembers himself and opens his arms. ‘Hello, come here.’

  So I jump up and he gives me a big hug. I want it to go on for ages: that familiar smell always makes me feel better. But if I cling on for too long he’ll know I’m out of sorts.

  ‘Now. What’s been happening?’

  ‘Nothing? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well… it’s just, if you’re not in any trouble, then I don’t want you to get in any trouble. You’re our daughter, all right? You don’t usually come home out of the blue. Would you tell us oldies if you were in trouble, or scared or worried?’

  ‘Of course I would.’ Wouldn’t.

  ‘Because if you’re ever up the proverbial without a paddle, come straight home, we’ll look after you. We’ll pay for the petrol. Or the train.’

  ‘Dad. That’s lovely. But honestly, there’s nothing wrong.’

  He’s making me feel like I might be in trouble. They both are. So much for the safety of Gateshead.

  ‘OK. But no woods, all right? She’s never wrong, your mam.’

  Boy, he’s serious. I really, really love him for supporting my mam in her spookiness. I had no idea he had such faith in her. Just once in a while I get a glimpse into a part of their relationship that I don’t know much about.

  Mam looks at him and nods. He goes back out. That’s the most words I’ve heard him speak at once in years.

  ‘Did you hear him?’

  My mam’s hilarious. ‘Of course I heard him.’

  ‘Well, just be careful. It’s got me worried, this.’

  ‘I promise I’ll be careful, Mam.’

  ‘Good.’

  I spring up and put my jacket back on.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘For coffee. I’m going to buy the bigge
st cappuccino in the world with a vanilla shot. Then I’m going to see Milo.’

  ‘All right. If you pass Marksies will you get me some crinkle-cut beetroot?’

  ‘Yup.’

  The only food she’ll buy from a ‘posh’ shop. She loves it like I love my seafood sticks and houmous. Bless.

  ‘Errm. Mam. Lots of love, right?’

  ‘Uhuh.’

  Back in the car, Van the Man is crooning ‘Sweet Thing’. Good old Van Morrison. We don’t go in for ‘I love yous’ in my house. We also don’t usually go in for conversations about deadly portents in dreams, especially not ones in which my dad gets involved. This is dark stuff. Not only did my mam dream about Mona, she dreamt about the carpet. She hit so many nails on the head, it’s almost impossible to believe, and I don’t even want to think about that black angel. My only hope is that it’s not a warning, it’s simply my mam tuning into my fear.

  I call Milo, it’s ten a.m. None of my other friends would be around, even if I wanted to see them: they’ve all got day jobs. They put me to shame, the lot of them. But it’s Milo I need, anyway. He doesn’t answer the first time. He does the second.

  ‘What the fuck’s happening, Tanz? It’s the middle of the night! Did your mam die or something? She better have, or you’re finished in this town.’

  ‘Milo! Don’t wish death on my little mam!’

  He coughs a groggy cough. ‘Fair enough, I’ll just wish it on you. Are you all right, sweet cheeks? I was up till the wee hours. I’ve been writing a play about a family of dwarves who live in a cave on Whitley Bay beach and kidnap unsuspecting American tourists to make into sexual zombies and send off to rob the Esso garage. It’s called ‘Yankee Doodle Tanker Wankers’.

  He’s made this up on the spot, of course. Right now he still happens to be slaving on that TV script, trying to become part of a stable of ‘reliable’ writers and earn some proper money. And it’s driving him nuts. I sometimes wish he was an actor, as Bill and Joe, my agents, would lap him up. Gay, pretty, clever, northern and warped like a 45-vinyl left on the windowsill in summer. He would make a splendid Thespian if he wasn’t so crippled by his own introspective demons.

  ‘I’m getting a gargantuan cappuccino, you want one?’

  ‘Get in!’

  ‘Muffin?’

  ‘Ahhhhhhh. Marvellous. Skinny lemon poppy seed, since you ask, you cheeky little so and so!’

  That’s my Milo.

  Duvet Daze

  Two duvets piled on the floor, settee cushions, pillows, blankets – we are lying there like Cleopatra and Mark Antony, both sipping coffees the size of Egypt, muffins already munched. Never has Milo been this quiet. He is simply too freaked to speak. Milo loves a bit of drama, but not if it’s real and especially not if it’s about ghosts. He likes pretend-y stuff. Twice, during my summing up of Mona, Dan and Carmen’s tale he grips my wrist so hard it causes actual pain.

  Eventually, when I tell him about my mam’s dream, he shrieks.

  ‘Oh my God, Tanz, you have got to forget this ghost. I’m sorry she’s upset and all that. Scary, spooky lasses are terrible things, but you can’t have anything to do with it.’ He stares over my head. ‘Dark angels are not good. Don’t you watch horror films?’

  ‘I do, Milo. But I think her dream was about the badness of the killers. Until I help Mona, that darkness is going to be hanging over me. So I’ll have to go and help her. Then it’ll clear. But that doesn’t mean I’m not scared. I’m pooing myself.’

  His eyes are like dinner plates. ‘I think you’re mental. You didn’t know her. Why get involved? Why’s she involving you? It’s selfish. She’s a selfish spook.’

  ‘She needs someone to be there for her. She’s lost.’

  He puts his hand to his chest and he clears his throat. ‘Look, I’m no psychic medium, but I’ll do what I can to help. Just don’t leave any dark angels at my flat: it’s hard enough keeping this place tidy.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘How long are you up for? You fancy a wee tipple across town tonight?’

  ‘I can’t, I’m working tomorrow in that bloody shop. I don’t want to, but I promised. I really, really want to get out of it, though.’

  ‘Are you telling me you’re driving back the same day you came?’

  ‘Yeah, but not straight away. I’ll have a little sleep first at my mam’s, then I’m off.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘I just wanted to pop up. Wanted to see you.’

  ‘Now I’m worried. You never come up here without enough time to drink alcohol.’

  ‘Hmmmmmm.’

  ‘I can come back down with you, you know? I can bring my laptop and work at yours just as easily as working here. We can listen to my new compilation and buy a massive bucket of sweets for the journey!’

  That is so nice. For all of his naughty banter, Milo is one of the kindest, gentlest souls I’ve ever met. And if I say I’m talking to ghosts, then I’m talking to ghosts. He would never doubt me. Despite the coffee, my eyes flicker as I snuggle into the duvet nest.

  ‘That’s lovely, Milo, but you’ve got a deadline and you’ve probably got a million things to do.’

  I know he’s having his own nightmare with this script commission and I don’t think me distracting him will help. However, were he really writing a film about smaller-than-average zombie makers living in caves, I’d be happy to load him straight into my car and take him to my place. He could describe ideas for plot twists and stay up all night writing and I’d supply him with nice bottles of red wine and a bowl of gobstoppers. It still amazes me that two mates from a normal comprehensive became an actress and a writer. We are just so glamorous.

  As my eyes flicker I feel a blanket being lightly draped over me.

  ‘Have your sleep here, why don’t you, and I’ll make us some tasty pasta when you wake up.’

  I’m asleep before I can reply. He makes fantastic spaghetti with spicy meatballs, so I nod off knowing I’m in for a tongue-tingling treat.

  The Angel of the North

  Of course I over-stayed at Milo’s. Two hours’ kip then the best, tastiest food. We decided I would drive back up north in the next fortnight, as soon as his script was finished and dispatched, and we would have one of our legendary all-nighters in the Toon. We then giggled about nonsense until I realised it was three o’clock and I’d have to go and see my parents for an hour. In the end, I drove back to London at peak time. I’m an idiot. And I didn’t even go to see my nanna, so I’m also an idiot who’s going to hell.

  On top of all this, I got a call from my agents, Bill and Joe, which held me up a bit before I left. Mostly it was Joe’s call, but Bill piped up here and there, bellowing Scottish obscenities about the producer being ‘a fucking bellend’. They were very, very pissed off because they’d put me up for a job and it had been offered to some vacuous pretty girl whose Geordie twang was as convincing as my Martian accent. The first ep had aired and she sounded like she was Danish or something. I wasn’t surprised; the acting world was never fair, but this one was particularly galling.

  ‘OMG Tanz, the part was made for you. It said thirty-four-year-old, gin-soaked, fast-talking Geordie! I mean, come on! And it’s an all-Geordie show with hardly a northerner in the bloody cast.’

  ‘Are you calling me an alcoholic, Joe?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ve never even seen you with a drink in your hand.’

  I could hear Bill roaring with laughter behind him. Pair of gits.

  ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t usually call you about this stuff, but I wanted you to know how hard we work for you and how ridiculous it is out there at the moment. What are they all doing?’

  ‘They’re doing what everyone else is doing. Promoting telly faces and ignoring has-beens like me.’

  ‘Fucking bollocks, we will have a great job for you soon. Promise.’

  I felt very sorry for them, actually. They really thought I had that job in the bag at the time. I don’t dare think t
hings like that any more.

  Fast forward to my flat, ten o’clock at night, and I’m travel-weary, dreading work tomorrow and needing a shower. Inka comes and sits on my lap, purring like a freight train, which is usually a great comfort. At least she hasn’t taken a dump on my duvet today. Bonus. Carefully, I pick her up and lay her on her favourite fluffy cushion.

  ‘Ten minutes, babelicious, I’ll be back.’

  My shower head is super powerful. It splooshes away the worst of the fear and weariness from the last twenty-four hours, especially when I douse myself in grapefruit shower gel and allow the water to get a teensy bit too hot. I emerge like a citrus lobster and return to my silky feline, scrubbed, moisturised and wrapped in a six-inch-thick bathrobe.

  I light a nice white candle on the side table next to me. It smells of figs. I grab my phone charger and look for my phone. I eventually locate it in my coat pocket. Two texts. One from Elsa and one from Pat.

  Elsa’s says, What you doing this weekend? Would love to take you out. Lots to tell xxx

  She’s probably got a bloke. That’s what she means when she says ‘lots to tell’. It must be easier without an umbrella-wielding, dead pensioner looming over her flat. I don’t want to live through another one of Elsa’s doomed romances though, so I ignore that one.

  Pat’s says, Help me! X

  Both of these texts are cryptic, I notice. Pat’s seems to be demanding an immediate response. He sent it half an hour ago. I’m sure he can wait a little longer. I actually can’t be chewed with a night of shagging tonight, shocking though that is. I’m too worked up about the shop tomorrow. I am not a tarot reader. I don’t know what I am. I quite like the word ‘sensitive’. I’m that all right, usually with the word ‘over’ preceding it. If anyone asks, I’m a ‘sensitive’. Until I come up with something better.

  With the candle casting a lovely, calming scent about the room and Inka reinstalled on my lap, warmly revving her engines as I tickle her ears, I close my eyes for a second and let the aroma envelope me.

  Without thinking much about it I ask for protection from my ‘angels’. Immediately Frank says hello. Not quite an angel, but he’ll do. He hasn’t piped up much in the last twenty-four hours.