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

by Tracy Whitwell

  ‘Hiya.’

  ‘Hey, Frank. How are you?’

  ‘Better than you. What’s with the driveathon? Nearly six hundred miles in a day?’

  ‘I wanted to go home.’

  ‘Were you scared?’

  ‘Of course I was. After yesterday, who wouldn’t be?’

  ‘We’re looking after you, you know.’

  ‘Well that’s very nice, but there’s not a lot you can do if that nutter Dan gets hold of me, is there?’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘Should I just drop it, Frank? The Mona thing? Should I let it lie?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You sound like a blinkin’ therapist, throwing my questions back at me. Look, I don’t want to let Mona down, but Milo wants me to drop it and my mam and dad want me to drop it, and they don’t even know what’s going on. I think I just need to know more about the situation. Forewarned is forearmed and all that. What can you tell me?’

  ‘I can’t help you with this, but I know someone who can. Do you want to meet her? She’s here now.’

  I’m scared. But always overriding ‘scared’ is ‘nosey’. ‘Only if she’s nice.’

  ‘She’s very nice… Now, still your mind, slow down all your thoughts and then ask questions. Direct, non-ambiguous ones, please. It can all get a bit literal over here. She’ll help you, though. She’s great.’

  I do as I’m told. I pick up Inka and put her around my neck, sit on the floor on a cushion and put the lit candle on the floor in front of me. I don’t know why I do that, but it feels right. I empty my mind and breathe, while watching the flame. Soon I feel a ‘closeness’. Someone has stepped forward, so to speak. Wow. She is blue, flippin’ sparkly blue. If I unfocus my eyes I can ‘see’ her to the side of me, just behind my shoulder. She’s bigger than any human I’ve ever met and she tells me she’s Jemimah. She is very tranquil.

  ‘Ask me a question. I shall try to help.’

  ‘Who are you, Jemimah?’

  ‘I am a friend.’

  ‘You’re a very big friend! And beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I don’t know what else to say. She has a shimmer to her, or that’s how it looks in my peripheral vision. I wonder why I can never see things square on, but then, as Sheila says, it’s probably because I’d flip out. Her voice is androgynous and soft, yet I can hear every syllable.

  ‘I want to ask you about Mona, if that’s all right? I want to help her.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Why did Carmen and Dan kill her?’

  ‘Money. Divorcing costs a lot of money. Carmen wanted the house. The lifestyle.’

  I’d guessed this, but I just want to make sure. ‘Why haven’t Carmen and Dan married yet?’

  ‘Mona is dead. They have done many sneaky things to cover it up, but if he files for divorce, people will look for her and discover their lies.’

  ‘Why did Carmen come to Sheila yesterday?’

  ‘Carmen is desperate to be very rich. She thought Sheila could give her the answers she seeks and also put her mind at rest that Dan will stay with her.’

  ‘Why did Dan come back to the shop?’

  ‘You interest him very much.’

  Oh God, I’ve always been a loony magnet. I’ve certainly dated plenty of them. ‘Would he hurt me?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Oh shit. I plough on. ‘This one is really important.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will I be able to find Mona’s body?’

  There is a silence. ‘If you so wish.’

  ‘I do so wish. I don’t think the police will take us seriously unless we find where she is.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘So what should I do?’

  ‘You will be led.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She is utterly still. The whole room is silent. It’s like I’m in a trance. Slowly, I feel her large presence fade into the background, but I know that if I ask her she will come back immediately. That’s a good thing.

  ‘Thank you so much, Jemimah.’

  Suddenly, Frank pipes up. ‘Jemimah’s one of your guides.’

  The spell breaks. Now I’m sitting on the floor of my ordinary room with a candle burning in front of me and the TV on pause. Inka, who has been a statue until now, suddenly climbs down and approaches the candle. Two whiskers are on fire before I manage to pull her away. What a doofus. I scoop her up and cuddle her. She now smells of scorched hair and is shaking her head about trying to get rid of the stink.

  ‘Frank, she’s amazing.’

  ‘Isn’t she just! Toodle pip!’

  And he’s gone. I blow out the candle, before Inka can burn off her whole head, and place it on the side table again. I pick up my phone and call Pat. For a while I think he won’t answer, then just as I reckon it’s going to answerphone he yelps, ‘Hello!’

  ‘Hi, Pat. What’s with the SOS?’

  There’s noise behind him, he might be in a pub. He might be at work. When he speaks his voice is lowered.

  ‘I’m now outside the kitchen at my sister’s. A minute ago I was inside the kitchen. She’s got some of her schoolteacher friends around. She’s not usually a major socialiser so I’m very pleased for her, but talking about six-year-old children and OFSTED for three hours is not my favourite thing. Plus, most of them are usually stuck in the house with their own kids in the evenings and now they’re off the leash, I have become their pet for the night. I’m starting to feel sullied.’

  ‘That’s not great.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Please tell me you’re calling because you want me to come over? I don’t care what we do, I will happily watch a documentary on the history of vacuum cleaners or help you paint a yak, as long as I can get out of here. Plus, you are probably the only excuse on the whole planet that my sister will accept, seeing as she thinks the sun shoots rainbow lasers out of your arse.’

  I groan a little, inwardly. I am such a fickle cow. I think Pat’s gorgeous, but it’s already late and I don’t want to wake up tired tomorrow. I am always worried about this ‘not getting enough sleep’ thing. I am a monster when I’m tired. Conversely, he’s asking a favour and I can’t say no.

  ‘OK. I have a yak here waiting to be emulsioned. I shall allow you a sympathy visit. Just so you can escape your sister, of course.’

  ‘Of course! Would you like me to bring you anything? Zubrowka?’

  ‘No, thank you. I have plenty. But I can’t be staying up. I need to sleep.’

  Half an hour later I hear a tap on the door. Outside is a grinning Pat, wielding his bike and a backpack.

  ‘Sorry it took so long to get here; trying to escape a bunch of wine-filled primary school teachers is not as easy as it looks. Plus, I stopped to get you this.’

  He delves into his backpack and presents me with a big box of truffles. He probably got them from the all night Tesco, but it’s still basically a box of chocolate heaven. Now I seriously have to let him off the fact that he’s arrived at my bedtime.

  ‘They look delicious. You’re not getting any!’

  ‘How kind. Should I make us a cuppa and we can dig in?’

  When we’re nicely ensconced on the sofa with the open box of chocolates and a vodka each, (a cuppa?) I relate the past couple of days’ adventures in absolute skeletal form; I make it sound less scary and I miss out anything about blue, sparkly angels or black, doom-mongering ones. There’s such a thing as overkill, even with someone as open-minded as Pat. Then, very quickly, the day’s driving catches hold of me and I’m nodding.

  Pat has to literally carry me to bed. I hope he didn’t come looking for a night of naughties – he’s more likely to be painting a yak.

  Mystery Pot Mentalists

  I’m so reluctant to be in this bloody shop today. Especially as a ‘reader’, something I’m grossly under-qualified to do. Last night I slept like a rock and I woke up thirty minutes before I was supposed to be here and had to aban
don Pat with barely a kiss. It isn’t very long before he leaves now, so I suppose it’s good that we’re not at it like rabbits every day. He is not, and will not be, my fella, so spending too much time together would be bloody stupid.

  My tiredness from too much driving has turned into a headache this morning, despite the night’s sleep, and I’m in a right strop. I hate doing things I don’t want to do. Plus, because Maggie is on the till, I have to be on my best behaviour and not swear or take the piss. I feel very much like swearing. I’ve set up the room like I’ve seen Sheila do, but it doesn’t feel the same. I’m basically a fraud.

  I drag my moody arse in there and close the door to sulk. Ten minutes later, Maggie pops her head in and, with jolly hockey-sticks enthusiasm, tells me I have a walk-in customer.

  I try to look professional and straighten my card-deck as a woman lumbers to the table. She’s a big lass, not so much fat, just big-built and clumsy. She’s in black. Black trousers, black jumper and black trainers with greasy, mousey hair. I wonder if she always dresses like she’s headed to a down-market funeral. I know I shouldn’t be nasty, but she is a slob and I’m in such a mood.

  ‘Hello.’

  She speaks like a sack of potatoes. The one thing in her favour is a pair of violet eyes, the trouble being that they are vacant and set in a doughy face. She is watching life from a planet in her head. After she sits, she produces a double pack of Jaffa Cakes and proceeds to shovel them into her face like there is definitely no tomorrow.

  I smile. ‘I’m Tanz, hello. I’m going to shuffle the cards, then I want you to do the same and hand them back to me.’

  Probably covered in Jaffa Cake residue, for fuck’s sake…

  ‘If there’s anything you’d especially like to know about, just bear it in mind as you shuffle the cards.’

  She shuffles, still chewing, and hands the cards back to me. I lay eight of them down on the table, carefully placing them, hoping it looks like I know what I’m doing.

  My first impression is that her dad is ill. I tell her this, but she shakes her head.

  ‘I’m not here for that. I have a love problem. I love a man and he loves me, but we have troubles.’

  I look at the cards, I wrack my brain, but there’s no man. I put the feelers out; I can’t feel anything from this woman and I can’t find a bloke. This is pitiful.

  ‘So, I’m looking and I’m not sure who this man is. Is he your partner?’

  ‘No. Not yet. But he cares for me, I know he does and I just want to know when we will be together.’

  She speaks slowly, I can’t work out if she’s thick or mentally disabled. As I say, I’m in a rotten temper. I’m now flailing, because there is no sign of a bloke in the cards or in my head. And my instincts are telling me that this woman is not well. Obviously bringing this up is not the best idea. So I go for plan B. Talk to her. Forget the bloody cards.

  ‘When did you first meet him?’

  ‘He works at the deli.’

  ‘And is he nice to you?’

  She puts another cake in her mouth. ‘We don’t talk. We look at each other. I know that he wants to be with me, but it will take time. How long do I have to wait?’

  I want to bang my head on the table. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t want to upset you, but I don’t think he feels the same as you do, this man at the deli. I think he has a family and a life. In the cards I don’t see an involvement at this moment for you. I see other things. I can see that your dad hasn’t been too well and I can see your mum wasn’t the most supportive… and I see that you get very down, sometimes.’

  Actually I can’t ‘see’ these things in the cards so much, but I can feel them and it hits me that my first impression was bullshit. She’s not just some thicko who dresses badly. She suffers from chronic depression and… what? Something else. She glances at me vacantly; I’m wondering about that glassy look now, I think it may be medication. Strong anti-depressants, or sedatives, or anti-psychotic drugs – maybe all of them? I don’t know. There are things, big things, I could get from holding this lass’s hand and concentrating. But I doubt she would be stable enough to talk about them. Or she may be too doped up to care.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m called Vella.’

  ‘I’ve never heard that name before. Nice. You like Jaffa Cakes, I see?’

  ‘It’s my breakfast.’

  I nod encouragingly. I don’t know what I’m nodding at. If she’s on medication it would probably explain why she’s so hungry and it could have caused her to gain weight. Now I feel awful. I’m so bloody horrible.

  ‘Where do you live, Vella?’

  She indicates vaguely with her head. ‘Just a place. Up the road.’

  I am well aware of open facilities in the area for people with mental issues. I wonder if any of her carers know what she’s spending her money on.

  ‘Well, Vella. The thing is, I think you have to feel stronger in yourself before you get yourself a boyfriend. The man you like, even if he’s looking at you, I think he’s just being friendly. It feels like he already has a wife. And you can’t go taking other people’s husbands, can you?’

  ‘When will we be together? I know we will.’

  ‘Vella, I’m sorry, but I can’t see it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She stands up, clutching her Jaffa Cakes, now dwindling in number.

  ‘Vella, you haven’t had your full half hour you know?’ Sheila told me that when Maggie is on the till, people have to pay upfront for readings. ‘You should get some of your money back.’

  She isn’t even listening; she is leaving the room. I follow her into the shop; she doesn’t look back.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

  She lumbers off. My stomach is clenched with nerves. That poor lass. How could she even afford this?

  ‘Maggie. She is mentally ill and drugged up to the eyeballs; I shouldn’t have been reading for her.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, you probably perked her right up!’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  There’s no point arguing. Maggie is a business woman in her own topsy-turvy way and a client is a client. I don’t know how Sheila does it. I’m pretty sure with a customer like that you just have to put down the cards, find out what they want and try to be understanding as you explain it’s not going to happen. Or lie. Just a white one. I doubt Vella will remember anything about this reading in a few hours. She might even imagine that I told her, ‘Yes, yes, he loves you. You’ll get married soon’. This kind of stuff scares the hell out of me. This is the second time in a week I’ve been completely uncomfortable in this shop.

  I go and sit back in the reading room. I remember Sheila saying the shop needed to be smudged after the other day’s shenanigans. I wonder if she’s done it already? Maybe not. Maybe that’s why my first reading was such a disturbed one. I sit, hold my head in my hands and speak to Jemimah.

  ‘I don’t like doing readings like this, in a shop. The money’s a great help; it’s not like I’m rich. But it doesn’t sit well with me. How do I get out of it?’

  I don’t hear anything for a moment or two and then comes a calm, androgynous voice. Clear and succinct. ‘All will be well.’

  ‘All will be well’ isn’t exactly the same as, ‘the roof will cave in in five minutes and you’ll be able to go home’, but it will have to do.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I decide to go to the coffee shop to escape this place. I’ll pop to the one across the road where I can spy on who’s coming in and out of the shop. I’m still freaked out about Dan Beck, but I can’t tell Maggie about the murder scenario. There is no room for that kind of nonsense in her head. She’ll tell me I’m being silly and dramatic. This, ironically, from a woman who claims to be able to converse mentally with her stabled horse from her living room.

  Maybe she can… See? I’m open-minded.

  Anyway, I slip out, waving my phone to show her she can reach me if I’m needed, while she serves a couple of black-clad,
teenaged waifs with matching purple hair. As I’m crossing the road, I spot a tiny, bespectacled figure coming towards me. It is miniature Rose West, looking very anxious.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Her voice is extraordinarily timid and accented. I stop walking.

  ‘Is Martin working today?’

  ‘Erm, I’m very sorry, Martin doesn’t work at the shop any more.’

  Her face caves in at the edges. ‘Oh no. That’s my fault. Oh no. Who’s reading instead?’

  ‘It’s me, supposedly, but I’m just off for a cappuccino.’

  She bites her lip. ‘Could I talk to you, just for a minute, while you have your coffee?’

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. I can’t even drink in peace without some Mystery Pot mentalist dogging my tracks. She has an interesting accent, though. I’d put my money on Croatian. ‘Erm. OK. I’m just going in here.’

  We walk in together and I order my usual, while she gets a little bottle of orange juice. We sit at a table a foot or two from the window, which has a wonderful view of the shops opposite and the constant, endless traffic.

  She doesn’t say anything for a minute or two. I’m not sitting having my escape coffee next to a midget mute, so I clear my throat.

  ‘So, ermm…?’

  ‘Nada.’

  ‘Nada, I’m Tanz. What did you want to talk about?’

  ‘The other day. I had a reading with Martin.’

  ‘I know. I was on the till.’

  ‘Yes. Well, we had a chat. He was very understanding about things. I needed to talk.’

  ‘Is that why you extended the reading to an hour?’

  ‘Yes. He was helping me think things through. He is a good man, Martin. Very shy, I think, but kind.’

  ‘When you left, you looked alarmed. I thought Martin had scared you.’

  ‘No! Martin gets it right. I like to get a reading once a month, just to hear what he has to say. He was frustrated with me because I couldn’t take his advice, even though he was completely accurate.’

  Oops.

  ‘Wow. I am now confused.’

  ‘I don’t want to ruin your coffee break, but I have to say something in Martin’s defence because my husband is a big bully. And I can’t talk to that woman in there. What’s her name?’