The Medium

by David Hatton

  The Medium

  by

  David Hatton

  Front Cover Design by Mat Yan

  Edited by Julia Gibbs

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  For the sceptics…

  Prologue

  “Millions of spiritual beings walk the earth unseen. Both when we wake, and when we sleep.”

  - John Milton (1878)

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome to the stage… the one, the only… Ms… Jackie… Wallace!’

  Red velvet curtains parted. Fog filled the stage and a black silhouette hovered in the distance, its features growing clearer with every step towards the cheering audience. Within the mist, a short, stocky fifty-something figure hobbled out onto the stage and took a bow. Her eccentricity bellowed from her short spikey purple hair, and multi-coloured gems bulging out of every knuckle. Jackie’s suit was of metallic blue and a silver Celtic cross hovered over her large chest.

  The roar of the crowd died. Jackie stared at her followers and patiently waited until it was deathly silent.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’ Jackie spoke with a Scottish brogue through a microphone strapped to the side of her head. ‘Thank you for coming to my show tonight. Let us transport ourselves to… the other side.’

  Fifty filled seats spread across the sold-out show. Their occupants all had one common purpose in gathering together.

  Death.

  The theme spread across a timber stage before them. Black candles, polystyrene skulls and cotton spider webs mirrored the feelings of abandonment which the attendees endured. They huddled together dressed head to toe in black.

  The Sleep Tight Hotel delivered a fitting ambiance for the event. It had opened its doors less than two decades before but the wallpaper had already begun to peel, the rich red carpet of the conference suite had grown ragged and the marble flooring in the lobby had scuffed following a thousand stomps of rubber soles.

  The bellowing roar of thunder growled from the speakers. Vibrations ran across the foyer disturbing the diners next door. Manchester had faced few earthquakes in its two-thousand-year history and the trembling provided an express delivery of distress to the Sleep Tight Hotel’s residents.

  A Guest Service Representative, dressed in a charcoal suit with the brand’s logo stamped on the breast pocket, left the reception desk and ran over to Conference Room B. He halted at the entrance. A large poster advertising the evening’s events brought a smile to the concierge’s face and he returned to the lobby, reassuring his guests.

  In Conference Room B, a spotlight beamed down over the star of the show, who stood in wonder on stage at a vision which her guests were unable to witness. Her large chest expanded and she closed her eyes.

  ‘I have a lovely wee man on stage. He must be in his eighties. He has white hair… well, what’s left of it. He’s finely dressed in a suit and he’s fondly looking into the audience, searching for his family. I’m trying to capture his name, it begins with a C. It could be Carl, a Christopher? …No… Cliff?’

  Jackie opened her eyes and gazed over her audience as they conferred.

  “Where are my memories?’ he’s saying.’

  On the back row a lady slowly rose up, gripping on to the seat in front of her, holding up a shaky hand to grab the attention of the host. Her hair was white, trapped beneath a hairnet and twisted in rollers. Her beige shirt held a gold brooch with a photograph of a gentleman matching Jackie’s description.

  Jackie clicked her fingers towards her assistant who was dressed in the hotel’s brand uniform. She ran towards the back of the room with a microphone and handed the device to the lady who was old enough to be her grandmother. The lights drew in on the woman who laid claim to the man in Jackie’s vision.

  ‘What’s your name, love?”

  ‘I’m Stella. Cliff is my husband.’ the lady confirmed in a frail Liverpudlian voice. The audience applauded Jackie’s hit and the medium exhaled.

  ‘He says he was confused in his last year with us. He’s looking around and saying ‘Where am I?’’

  ‘That’s right, he had Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘He’s right here for you, my dear. You’ll be glad to know he’s got his memories back now. He has fond recollections of you during his last year beside you, including that last holiday you went on together. He absolutely treasures that time with you. Does that trip ring a bell?’

  ‘It sure does, we went to France.’ Stella grabbed her chest, absorbing the emotional blow which Jackie shot her way. The spectators continued to applaud every message which resonated with Stella.

  ‘It might have seemed that he wasn’t altogether on that trip but he assures me he was taking it all in. He’s looking at the Eiffel Tower and remembering the first time you went there when you were young. He proposed there, didn’t he? The first time?’

  ‘That’s correct.’ Stella nodded.

  ‘Cliff said he’s watching over you every day as you sit at home and complete your crosswords. But he does worry about you cooped up in that little house alone and sad that he isn’t there anymore. He wants you to move on and enjoy your life. Go and travel, book that trip you’ve been thinking about.’

  ‘You’re right, I’ve been considering a world cruise but I didn’t know if I could go without him.’

  ‘Do it,’ said Jackie. ‘He wants you to go and enjoy yourself. Wherever you are, he’ll be right there with you.’ She placed a hand over her chest and rubbed her heart.

  Stella smiled, nodded and returned to her seat. She rummaged around in her trolley and stroked the cover of a brochure which she’d picked up only days earlier at her local travel agents. To her right, her daughter placed an arm around her and handed over a tissue which she used to dab her wrinkled eyes.

  The patter of claps slowly descended. The audience turned away from Stella towards Jackie, who bowed and returned to the centre of the stage as she prepared for her next message. She took in a deep breath, closed her eyes and exhaled.

  ‘I have a woman on stage tonight who is desperately looking for someone called Martin.’

  On the front row, a young man shot up and made claim to the name. He was in his early twenties, sporting a Marilyn Manson t-shirt and black baggy jeans. A skull pendant dangled from his neck. A cupboard of pandas would have accepted him with his pot belly, black hair, pale skin and dark eyes.

  Martin was one of the few males who attended Jackie’s shows. Her audience was typically made up of wives, daughters and mothers who came to find departed relatives and the lost unborn, desperate to know if they were comforted on the other side.

  ‘I have a woman here on stage tonight, Martin, who I believe might be your mother or maybe your grandmother. It’s hard to tell, she’s very faint.’

  The lack of accuracy did little to bother her followers. Most of them struggled to get a decent internet connection at home, never mind a direct line to the afterlife.

  ‘It’ll be my mum.’ Martin nodded.

  ‘You were close to your mum, weren’t you, Martin?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘She was quite young, wasn’t she… when she died? I’m sensing an illness.’ Jackie crouched over and placed her
hands over her head. ‘Where’s my hair gone?’

  ‘She had leukaemia.’

  The audience gasped; Jackie straightened up, composing herself, before turning to her subject to continue his reading.

  ‘She’s at peace now, no longer in any pain. She told me to tell you that she misses you and your father every day, Martin.’

  The audience applauded and Jackie returned to the centre of the stage to prepare for her next message. However an unruly Martin remained standing like a protester at Tiananmen Square. His stance forced the medium to double-take.

  ‘Are you OK, Martin?’

  ‘No, not really. My mum hated my dad. They couldn’t stand to be near each other. My nanny had to drop me off at their houses. Why the hell would she miss him?’

  The audience gasped. Chairs shuffled and lips hissed as they made a break for the exit. Others hung on, waiting for their heroine to ease their minds. Jackie’s followers mirrored those of Jesus Christ; having blind faith in her abilities whilst occasionally having it tested. Jackie might not be able to walk on water, but delivering a message from a passed loved one was as good to them as turning water into wine, a skill Jackie wished she had as she loved a bottle of Bordeaux.

  ‘Martin, when we die, all that hurt and anger that we felt in this life fades away. We look back with empathy for those who tortured us. In regards to your mother, she’s moved on from the pain your father caused her and focuses on the love she once held for him. She clings on to the good old days, of which she has many happy memories. After all, she had you, didn’t she? Without him, you would never have arrived and she will never, ever regret that.’

  The audience turned to Martin. He smiled, thanked her and sat down. The spectators behind him applauded and a sigh of relief whistled past the perspiring psychic on stage.

  The readings carried on for over an hour. Some messages grabbed the attention of their loved ones, others remained unclaimed.

  ‘Please remember, ladies and gentlemen, that while my readings may appear confusing at times, I have hundreds of people from the other side trying to get through. It can be quite daunting at times, I assure you. Sometimes their messages get mixed up as they fight for my attention. If any of you have children, I’m sure you’ll empathise, when they run home from school and are all desperate to tell you about their day at once. Sometimes the spirits come looking for loved ones who aren’t even here but it doesn’t stop them screaming for my attention. For others, they are nearby, but their relative in the audience is simply too scared to stand up. If that’s you, I encourage you to come forward as they are desperate to get in touch.’

  ‘For those of you who feel disappointed that the person you came to speak to tonight hasn’t made contact this evening…’ Jackie continued ‘…you can increase your chances of a connection by writing a letter and placing it in the bowl.’

  To Jackie’s right, a large fish bowl filled with letters stood above a small round table with an aubergine cover. On the opposite side, teddy bears, photographs and keepsakes filled a matching bowl.

  The bright lights of Deansgate and blaring music from the neighbouring bars lining the locks struggled to distract the audience from the events unfolding on stage. Jackie’s words warmed the cockles of those chilled by the draught filtering through the cracks in the hotel walls.

  Someone who was feeling a chill was Suzanne Walker.

  Suzanne sat in the third row eagerly waiting for the interval.

  ‘We’re leaving at half time.’ she whispered to her companion sitting to her right. ‘This woman’s a fraud. She’s nothing like Psychic Paul. I’ve seen his shows on TV, he’s the real deal. But this woman? How can she take advantage of these people?’

  ‘She usually gets good reviews, maybe she’s having an off-night?’ her friend reasoned.

  ‘Well regardless, I’m convinced this clairvoyant is a charlatan.’

  ‘I’m sorry I bought the tickets, I thought you’d enjoy it.’

  ‘I’m really grateful, honest. I’m just disappointed. I heard she was good too. Why does she try so hard to build the spooky atmosphere?’ Suzanne nodded to the skulls and cobwebs. ‘You don’t see them on Psychic Paul’s show. They’re just as fake as her act.’

  ‘I’m sorry you haven’t received a message yourself. Maybe that would have swung it for you.’

  Despite her intentions to stand out to the spirits, Suzanne had dressed surprisingly blandly. Her slim physique was slipped into a navy blue cardigan and a black sheath dress, and only her shoulder-length blonde hair made her distinguishable amongst her fellow guests, who were covered with veils, sunglasses and fedora hats. Her azure eyes contained a tinge of sorrow and as her sleeves ruffled up, her wrist offered a glimpse of a child’s name engrained on her skin.

  ‘Why don’t we just go now?’

  ‘Because I know what these mothers are going through,’ Suzanne whispered. ‘They want… need… a final goodbye. Just one night’s peace. I can’t take that away from them. I know I’d kill for it. No, I’m not causing a disturbance, we’ll just wait until the intermission and sneak off quietly.’

  She was in good company. Suzanne too felt the survivors’ guilt, the ‘what ifs’ and the unsettling final encounters with her loved one which kept her staring at the ceiling every night.

  ‘Have you tried leaving a message in the bowl, or a photograph?’

  ‘No, I’m not giving her hints. If she’s the real deal a message will come through naturally.’

  ‘To be fair, I haven’t seen her near those bowls all evening.’

  ‘Well if she really is psychic, she’ll know I’m unimpressed and up her game.’

  In front, a thin lady thrust her neck around to glare at the gossiping couple behind, her brown weave flicking to the side. On her third turn, she hushed them and returned to face the stage. Suzanne whispered an awkward apology and grew red as she awaited Jackie’s next message.

  ‘This is the last message before we have a wee break,’ Jackie said, returning to the centre of the stage. ‘Where is Suzanne?’

  She glanced up at the call of her name but remained silent. An elbow edged into her side. She turned and shook her head. ‘There’s lots of Suzannes!’

  ‘Suzanne…. Walk?.... Walker?’

  She stared on, her jaw lowered, her hands trembling. Bumps rolled out across her arms and fine hairs stood to attention. She felt the glue on the back of her legs oozing in, setting her into her pew. Her heart pounded and her usually tanned complexion grew pale.

  ‘Is Suzanne not here?’ Jackie gazed over her puzzled audience. ‘I have a wee boy here… Jason. He’s fallen off his bike and he’s eager to speak to his dear mammy. He says he’s six years old. He has bright blonde hair and dashingly blue eyes.’

  The clairvoyant hunched over and reached out her hand for the invisible boy as if she’d discovered a lost child in an overcrowded supermarket. Behind, a trembling Suzanne slowly rose up and timidly placed her hand in the air like a squirrel reaching for a nut in a predator’s habitat.

  The crowd inhaled. She buried her head in her hands to escape their gaze. The unwanted attention brought back memories of her schooldays when she was forced to perform a solo rendition of Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro on her flute before her peers in assembly. The wheezing audience caught the attention of a crouched Jackie, who turned towards the quivering creature before her and smiled.

  ‘Oh, Suzanne, it’s wonderful of you to join us here tonight. It hasn’t been an easy couple of years for you, has it, my dear?’

  Suzanne shook her head and a tear trickled down her cheek. Her companion raised an arm, holding out a hanky.

  ‘Your little boy is happy and at peace now. He spends his days playing with other children in the afterlife. His one wish is that you and Daddy would stop fighting so much.’

  Jackie paused, waiting for a response from the bereaved parent before her. Suzanne gave little away, forcing the medium to continue.

  ‘He also said to stop visit
ing the lamp-post where he died. Such an ugly place, it’s not suitable for your memories of him. Put those flowers somewhere pretty…like the park he used to play in just near your house.’

  Suzanne nodded her head. The rotting flowers piled up next to the dual carriageway.

  ‘I understand why you go there, love,’ Jackie continued. ‘You hope that by replenishing those flowers irresponsible drivers might take more care when passing by.’

  Suzanne tilted her head. It was true; it would never bring her son back but it might prevent others from becoming victims. The flowers also hid her memories of splashed blood and remnants of chalk etched into the tarmac.

  ‘Do you…’ Suzanne paused. Her words widened the eyes of those surrounding her who had yet to hear her voice. ‘Do you know who is responsible for this?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, my love. Jason didn’t see anything. He didn’t suffer though, let me assure you. He’d already left this world before the driver took off. I know that isn’t the answer you want, but believe me, Jason is in a great place and he’s at peace now. He just wants you and Daddy to be too. Don’t torture yourselves trying to punish those who might never be found.’

  Suzanne nodded, dabbed her eyes and grabbed the hand of her companion as she retook her seat.

  ‘I’ll leave your son’s love with you, my dear.’ Jackie blew a kiss towards Suzanne and returned to the centre of the stage. ‘Now for an intermission. I’ll be on again in an hour, so why don’t you help yourselves to a wee drink outside in reception?’

  Light poured down onto the gathering grievers, adjusting their eyes as they made their way out into the lobby and the medium disappeared behind the curtains. The diners in the Sleep Tight Hotel’s restaurant glanced up as the morose mourners hobbled out of the conference suite. A shriek of giggles spread across the queue for the buffet as word spread why the attendees appeared so sombre. The gossip did little to faze the crowd who gathered at the bar and evaluated the first half of the show. Others eagerly waited outside the conference suite with their cameras and autograph books, desperate to catch the attention of Jackie.