So what about the issue of her view on the afterlife? Was that also a smokescreen for something else that simmered beneath the surface? Grace could remember when she was younger, before her father died, that she’d believed in God and sometimes talked to her grandmother, who’d died when she was nine. But when her father left her, she’d never received any kind of a sign that he still existed in another form. She could still recall the disappointment of her fourteen-year-old self, and the way her belief had faded like early morning mist. But in the extra-mural archaeology class she’d once taken, she’d learned that “absence of evidence is not evidence of absence”, and she supposed that also applied to the afterlife. Just because she’d had no evidence of one, it didn’t mean one didn’t exist.
But what about proof? She was a scientist. Her whole career focussed on the idea that you couldn’t accept something was so because of a one-off event—you had to carry out a set of carefully monitored trials and evaluate the results. And it was important to remember that a negative result was as important as a positive one—you couldn’t just discount a result because it didn’t fit into your hypothesis. Ash had been ninety-five per cent correct with his readings, but he’d still said some things that the person he was reading hadn’t understood. What did that mean? That he hadn’t interpreted the pictures he’d seen properly? Or that this was, in fact, a load of nonsense and she’d just been under his thrall, the same as the rest of the audience?
“Grace?” Mia touched her on the arm. “The bell’s rung. It’s time to go back in. Are you all right?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Grace admitted. “It’s making my head hurt.”
“I know. I can hear the cogs whirring inside your brain. Come on. Let’s finish the show, and then we’ll go home, have a glass of wine and have a chat about what we’ve seen, eh?”
“Okay.” Grace let Mia lead her back into the auditorium.
They took their seats quickly, because Ash was already on stage, pacing up and down, hands in the pockets of his jeans. A few people were still filtering in when he began, clearly eager to continue.
“Okay I’ve got a woman here called Dana who was a nurse, and she wants to talk to Jack. I think I’m over here.” He indicated at the back, to the far right.
Grace settled in her seat and listened as he relayed messages, making his way through seven or eight different people as the hour passed. Most of the people he read appeared to have had friends or relatives who had passed suddenly or violently, and it seemed to Grace that it was more important for them to be told their loved ones were now well and happy wherever they were. In that sense, did it matter whether Ash was actually talking to the dead, or indeed reading the minds of the audience, or however else he did it? It wasn’t as if he were asking people to give him the combination to the family safe, or the secret location of buried treasure. Every person he spoke to sat down happy and relieved at the things he told them. How could that be a bad thing?
She checked her watch—it was twenty past nine. The show was supposed to finish at nine thirty. She looked up as everyone clapped. He’d just finished a reading.
Everyone waited expectantly as he paced the stage, gaze fixed a few feet ahead of him. Grace scanned the audience, seeing the eager faces. There was such a small chance of him picking any one particular person, but everyone was still hopeful. And yet, even though it was unlikely they’d be picked, she could see they’d all enjoyed the other readings, and had drawn their own comfort from the validations he’d given the lucky few.
She looked back up at Ash. He’d stopped pacing and was smiling wryly. He glanced up at the audience and laughed. “Sorry. I’ve got a guy here who’s singing to me.” The audience chuckled. He waited again, still smiling. “He’s got a lovely voice—I’m pretty certain he was in a choir or something when he was alive.” He grinned. “It’s a song that has a special meaning for me, by the way, that’s why I’m smiling. He’s singing ‘Amazing Grace’.”
Grace stared. Freya made a kind of gasping noise next to her, and Mia elbowed her sharply in the ribs. But Grace could only stare, her heart doing a tap dance beneath her ribs.
Ash listened for a bit. He glanced up at the audience and smiled again. “I’m telling him he’s got a lovely voice and asking for his name.” He waited. Then he said, “His name’s Bill.” He gestured in their direction. “I’m over here, I think.”
“Oh Christ.” Grace nearly passed out.
“It’s you,” Mia hissed.
Freya’s eyes nearly popped out. “Was that your dad’s name?”
“Yes,” hissed Mia. “And he used to sing in a choir.”
“Fucking hell.” Freya prodded her. “Stand up.”
“I can’t.” Grace knew she’d die. “I can’t, don’t make me!”
“You’ve got to,” Freya urged. “He won’t let it go. He’ll keep asking questions until you admit to it.”
The two women in front of them had been listening, and one of them put her hand up and waved to the man in the suit who was walking slowly down the aisle with the microphone. “Over here!” She indicated behind her.
Grace slunk down in her seat, almost in tears. “Oh God, please, Mia…”
Mia gripped her hand tight. “Grace, you’ve got to do this. This is fate. This was meant to be. He’s not making this up, love, this is real. Your father wants to talk to you.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
“You’re not going to be sick. Come on. I’ll stand up with you.” Mia took the microphone as the man in the suit leaned across Freya and offered it to them. She stood, pulling Grace with her. “Here,” Mia said clearly into the microphone. Then she passed it to Grace.
Grace knew she was scarlet and clutched the microphone so tightly she felt it give slightly under her fingers. She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax and look up at Ash, trying not to remember there were around a thousand people now watching her.
Ash was staring at her, hands on his hips.
“Hi,” Grace said weakly. “Fancy meeting you here.” Her voice echoed around the auditorium. The crowd murmured, obviously realising something odd was going on.
Ash looked at the ground in front of him, then back up at her. He cleared his throat. “Maybe we should save this reading for later?”
Grace opened her mouth to agree, but Freya kicked her at the same time that a chorus of boos went up.
Ash held up his hand. “This young lady is known to me, and a) I don’t want to embarrass her, and b) it’s hardly a validation for you guys if I give messages for somebody I’ve met personally.”
“We don’t care!” yelled someone.
“Do it!” yelled someone else.
Grace’s pulse was loud in her ears. She could see the interest in the faces of the people around her—they were intrigued by the fact that she knew him, and they wanted to see if he revealed something about their relationship in her reading. He held out a hand. “It’s up to you, Grace.”
She heard the whispers as everyone realised why her father had been singing that song. She met Ash’s gaze, all the way up there on the stage. He looked wary—he didn’t want to do this. And she knew she shouldn’t agree either. It was madness.
But the truth was, she was burning to know what he was going to say. This was the ultimate test. She wanted to believe in him. But her brain wouldn’t let her. She needed him to convince her beyond all reasonable doubt that he could really speak to her father.
“Okay,” she said. “Go for it.”
The crowd murmured. Ash studied her, and she could see by the way he narrowed his eyes and his lips curved wryly that he understood her unspoken challenge. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Okay.” He looked at the floor. Then he went quiet. He closed his eyes.
Grace stood there, heart pounding, waiting for him to speak. Her mouth had gone dry, and her palms were slippery with fear.
“So I’ve got your father here,” he said, opening his eyes. “He’s about
six foot tall, tufts of grey hair over his ears and a very wide parting.”
“I’ve got a photo of him in my purse,” she said. “You could easily have seen that.”
The crowd murmured, obviously sensing she wasn’t going to make this easy for him. Her heart thumped. She didn’t want to make him angry or upset with her. But equally, she knew she had to do this. She had to test him.
Ash ignored her words, however, and continued, “He’s in uniform. Navy, I think.”
“Yes, true, he was, when he was younger.”
He nodded. “He’s showing me the actress Isabella Rossellini. Does that mean anything to you?”
Mia’s hand tightened on hers but Grace ignored it. “My mother’s name is Isabella. But you could have found that out from any of my friends.”
“True,” he said. Everyone in the crowd seemed to be holding their breath, conscious of the battle going on between them. He listened for a moment. “He’s telling me your brothers’ names, but I’m telling him I already know them. That’s not going to impress you.” The crowd tittered and they both smiled. He listened again. “He’s showing me the number eighteen, and the number four. The eighteenth of April, maybe?”
“That’s my parents’ wedding anniversary,” she admitted. “That’s a little more impressive, but a check at any records office would have sorted that out.”
He looked down. “Who’s Arthur?”
“That’s his father.”
He frowned thoughtfully. “He’s telling me ‘Grace’ again, but saying, ‘Not her, not her’.”
“It was my grandmother’s name—Arthur’s wife. I’m named after her.” The crowd gave a collective sigh. “Don’t fall for that,” she told them. “He could have got that from the records office as well.”
“You realise you’re ruining my career,” Ash said wryly, and the crowd laughed, while someone shouted, “We believe you, Ash!”
“Sorry,” said Grace. “But you’ve got to do better than that.”
He frowned. “He’s showing me the actress Mia Farrow…” His voice trailed off and he waved a hand at Mia. “Sorry, I know who that is.”
“Jeez, I told you Mia’s name.”
“Yes, Grace, I know.” He smiled then. “Your dad’s laughing and saying you don’t believe me. He’s calling you his ‘little sceptic’.”
Grace went hot. “You can tell him to stop being so bloody cheeky.” The crowd laughed and her cheeks burned even more. The truth was, the phrase meant more than he realised. Her father had called her that. She’d always been cynical, even before she’d lost her faith, determined to be a scientist from the age of eight, questioning and refusing to accept things at face value. It was a coincidence. There was no way he could have known that.
The odd thing was, even though she was determined to force him to prove it to her, she desperately wanted to believe him. She wanted concrete evidence that he wasn’t trying to trick her. She closed her eyes. Help me, Dad, she begged. If you really are talking to him, tell me something he would never know.
Chapter Fourteen
Ash continued to stop and look at the floor three feet in front of him between comments. “He’s showing me a motorbike.”
“Yes, he used to ride one.”
“You used to ride it with him.”
“Sometimes. I’m sure there’s a photo of me somewhere on the back with him.”
He started to walk up and down the stage. “He was a soccer fan, not rugby. He liked English football. He’s showing me the Arsenal strip.”
“Yes. His parents were English. He came over to New Zealand when he was six.”
“Impressed yet?” he asked.
“Nope. I’ve got an Arsenal scarf in my classroom. Jodi could have told you that.”
She realised she was divulging too much information to the thousand people watching and snapped her mouth shut, but she could see they were fascinated.
Ash paced again. “He liked singing in the choir.”
“Yes.”
“He was quite a religious man. He’s showing me the Bible.”
“Yes.”
“And so’s your mother.”
She snorted. “I told you that.”
He listened for a moment. Then he glanced briefly around the crowd. “I’m asking him to give me something I couldn’t have found out from the records office.” He gave Grace an amused glance.
“Go for it, boyo.” She was almost enjoying herself now.
He waited. “On your first day at school, you climbed a tree and got stuck up it. They had to call the caretaker to bring a ladder to get you down.”
She met his eyes, recognising the challenge in his gaze. “Yes,” she said slowly. “And I’m sure that’s been on Facebook.” The crowd laughed.
He thought for a moment. “I’m not telling her that,” he murmured.
“Telling me what?”
He shook his head and glanced up at her, giving her a strange look. Grace tried to think what he wouldn’t want to tell her. Something about her books?
“No,” he said, looking down again. He wasn’t speaking to her. “Something else.” He listened, then nodded and looked up. “Who’s Ben?”
Grace went still as he met her gaze. “You tell me,” she said.
He tipped his head. “I’m not entirely sure, but if I was a betting man, I’d say a Labrador/spaniel cross.”
Everyone turned to look at her. Her lips curved. “Yeah, okay, he was my dog. Are you going to tell me he’s here too?”
“He’s always around you. You were his favourite.”
Her throat tightened but she said nothing. It still wasn’t good enough. Any of her old acquaintances might have remembered her dog.
“He’s showing me a necklace with the word ‘Love’ on it. Like, the word ‘Love’ is hanging from a chain by two gold hoops. The chain’s gold too.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“You’re sure? You never had a necklace like that?”
“No.” Her lips twitched. “Looks like your source needs to sort out his facts.”
There was a rumble of laughter but Ash ignored it. “What’s the significance of the song ‘Brass in Pocket’ by The Pretenders? He’s singing it.”
“Um… That was the song he danced to with my mother at their wedding.” She frowned. How would Ash know that? An old friend of the family?
He was talking quickly now. “He’s showing me a picnic hamper. It has a blue-and-white-check tablecloth inside.”
Her heart was starting to pound. “Okay…we had one like that when I was young.”
“You used to wear the tablecloth like a cape.”
“It was a long while ago. I used to pretend to be Wonder Woman.” The audience laughed, and she smiled, but inside she was starting to get breathless. He must have spoken to one of her brothers. It was the only explanation.
He thought. “He’s showing me Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, you know, the one where he’s on a motorbike.”
“I’ve already confirmed he rode a motorbike.”
“But Steve McQueen has significance,” he said. “You used to look at your dad on the bike and call him Steve McQueen.”
She said nothing. She was breathing fast and shallow now. He could have guessed that, she thought, but it was a stretch, and she knew it. She could see people looking at her, nudging each other. It was hot under the lights and she knew she was sweating.
He was already moving on. “He’s singing ‘Silent Night’. He’s showing himself dressed in a Santa costume. He wore one once and sang to you and your brothers.”
“Yes.” Christ, how’d he find that out?
He carried on, in full flow now. “You went to Christchurch once with him. He’s showing me the cathedral.”
“No. I’ve never been to Christchurch.” She felt a sweep of relief, followed instantly by a pang of disappointment. He’d got something wrong.
He frowned. “It’s definitely Christchurch. I can see the tram. And
the cathedral. You were young. You were wearing a red coat.”
“No. That’s not me, Ash.”
He put his hands on his hips, stared at the floor. “Your dad’s wearing black. It was a funeral…an aunt, I think. It’s autumn—there are dead leaves on the ground. You walked through the leaves on the way to the cemetery. Your mum kept saying, ‘I can’t believe she’s dead’, and all you could think about was the dead leaves.”
“I…” Grace’s voice trailed off, and she only just stopped herself saying “fuck” out loud. How could she have forgotten? She was only five. It was her father’s sister. She’d had cancer. It was the only time she’d ever been farther south than Kaikoura.
“Gillian,” he said, naming her aunt, looking up and meeting her eyes.
“Yes.” She didn’t have to say any more. The look on his face told her he knew she understood. He’d known and she’d forgotten. How the hell is that possible?
The crowd began to murmur, but he cleared his throat and moved on. “You don’t like cut flowers. He keeps saying, ‘No flowers.’ You don’t like it when they die.”
“No.”
“So he’s handing you shells. Seashells, all different sizes and colours. He used to collect them for you.”
“Yes.” Grace’s head was spinning.
“He made you a necklace from them.”
“Yes.”
“He made you one each holiday, and you kept them. You have them in a box somewhere.”
“Yes.” Shit, shit, shit. Her palms were damp, but her lips were terribly dry, and she had to keep moistening them.
He carried on, relentless. “He bought you a ring for your thirteenth birthday. It was shaped like a bow, with a diamond in the middle.”
“Yes.”
“You lost it, just before he died. He forgave you, but you’ve never forgiven yourself.”
“Yes.” She’d started to shake.
“What’s Sirius?” he said. “And why’s he showing me a Dalmatian?”
An Uncommon Sense: Sensual Healing, Book 1 Page 13
