by David Hatton
A distraught Michael called Suzanne, who rushed home from her mother’s. They made the journey to the morgue together. They peered down at their little boy’s broken body and confirmed that it was Jason. Suzanne screamed. He cried and dragged her away from the corpse as she latched on to his chest.
Not a day had passed where he hadn’t looked back at that day with regret, hypothetically analysing every decision he made that day.
What if I just had let him stay in the house that day?
Why didn’t I worry when he didn’t come home?
Who did this?
The latter remained unanswered. Michael clamped his teeth down onto the neck of the glass beer bottle as he considered the justice he desperately sought for his family. The beer had run dry and his lips begged for another. He stood up and threw the empty into the recycling bin, before making his way to the refrigerator.
A buzzing stopped him in his tracks. A light flashed on the intercom. He glanced at the time; it was almost eleven, an unusual time for visitors. Fascinated, he approached the door and pressed a button.
‘Hello?’ Michael answered.
‘Hello, Mr Walker,’ the caller replied. It was a familiar voice which he’d heard earlier in the evening. ‘I’m sorry it’s so late, may I speak with you?’
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Jackie Wallace… the medium.’
Michael glanced into the screen of the intercom, which showed footage of the caller outside. Before him was the short plump psychic whom he’d witnessed performing on stage earlier in the evening.
‘What do you want?’ Michael asked.
‘Let me in and I’ll tell you.’
‘Not before you tell me why you’re here.’
On the screen, Jackie prepared herself like she had for almost every reading that evening. She closed her eyes and breathed in, before leaning into the camera.
‘I know where your wife is…’
7.
“The question of the afterlife was the black hole of the personal universe: something for which substantial proof of existence had been offered but which had not yet been explored in the proper way by scientists and philosophers.”
- Raymond Moody (2012)
Jackie Wallace appeared different offstage. She remained short and stocky, but she looked less like a walking corpse and ready to walk into a job interview. A beige shirt and black trousers covered her large frame and her white foundation had lost its ghostly aura. A pagan symbol dangling above her chest provided the only glimpse into her spiritual world.
‘Mr Walker, thank you for letting me into your home.’ Jackie walked past Michael as he opened the door. Her red summer jacket had already been removed, wrapped around her arm and after snooping around his living room, she slumped down onto the couch without invitation. ‘In my line of work you often get the door slammed in your face. I know this must be a strange call for you.’
‘You’re not wrong.’ He shut the living-room door and sat down across from Jackie on a matching leather armchair. ‘Are you aware I’ve just come to see you perform tonight?’
The medium rooted through her handbag and picked out a pair of black rectangular-framed specs. She blew her breath onto the frames, rubbed the glass and placed them over her eyes.
‘I knew you were there, Mr Walker, but I don’t like the word perform. It makes my gift sound like an act… what I do is very real.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Michael said, bewildered by his own apology. ‘What do you want?’
‘I have a message from beyond the grave,’ Jackie said without an ounce of humility.
‘Spare me. If I wanted to hear stories of ghosts and ghouls I’d pick up a Stephen King novel.’
‘Please just hear me out,’ she pleaded.
‘OK, what is this message from beyond the grave?’ Michael said, making speech marks with his fingers. ‘Why couldn’t you give me this supposed message at the show? I’m not being funny, but it’s a little late for unsolicited calls.’
Jackie glimpsed at the time on her gold-plated watch and shot up from the couch. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were ready to go to bed. I’ll come back another time.’
She grabbed her coat and made her way to the door but a disgruntled Michael stood in her way.
‘Well you’re here now, you might as well tell me why. Curiosity has got the better of me. I just don’t see why you couldn’t have told me this earlier tonight.’
‘To be fair you didn’t give me much opportunity to. You left in the intermission.’ Jackie pursed her lips. ‘That’s kinda rude, Michael.’
‘I find it rude when you upset grieving parents with your lies.’
They stood in silence. A bookcase to the side of the couch held a collection of novels, recruitment textbooks and Richard Dawkins’s The Magic of Reality. Between the books, a framed photograph of Suzanne and Jason on a barge, sailing across the canal outside his apartment, took centre stage. Jackie picked up the photograph and stroked her fingers over Jason’s face before replacing it on the case.
‘You have a very cold aura, Michael.’ She shivered as she turned away from him and took a seat back on the couch.
‘That’ll be the draught.’ Michael nodded towards the balcony doors which remained open. He straightened the photograph which Jackie had just manhandled and took a seat across from the psychic.
‘I’ve learned to trust my instincts,’ she replied before recommencing her reading. ‘In answer to your question, I didn’t want to bring up the message in front of the audience tonight as it’s a wee bit delicate.’
‘Delicate? But surely all of your readings are delicate.’
‘Well of course, but this message is a little different, Mr Walker.’
‘Please call me Michael.’
‘Michael, what I’m about to tell you isn’t something I’d share on stage. It’s a matter so sensitive that you may wish to involve the police.’
Anticipating a long night ahead, Michael became parched.
‘Should I put the kettle on?’
Steam filled the kitchen, condensation poured down a steel backdrop behind the stove and a whistle alerted Michael to his brew. He made two strong instant coffees and returned to Jackie. As he placed her mug down on the glass table he became suspicious of her motives.
‘I hope you’re not expecting me to pay you for this information. I’ve already paid thirty quid to see you tonight and I’ll be damned if I’ll pay any more. I’m used to paying that to see world famous rock stars, not some clairvoyant from Chorlton.’
Like a hostage at gunpoint, Jackie placed her hands in the air. ‘I’m not asking you for anything, only for you to hear me out.’
‘Thank God.’ Michael sighed with relief. ‘Even if I could afford to pay you, I wouldn’t. How did you know where I lived anyway?’
‘Michael, I’m a medium. The spirits brought me here.’
‘Is that what you call the local directory?’
‘I’ll give you that one.’ Jackie giggled and gave him a sly wink.
‘So come on then… what’s the message?’
‘Mr Walker… I mean, Michael…. What I do is not easy, it’s incredibly difficult… at times heart-breaking. And at times… dangerous.’
‘You should be telling this to a shrink, not some grief-ridden recruitment consultant,’ Michael grumbled; her claims making her a suitable patient down at Broadmoor.
‘When I’m awake…’ Jackie continued, ignoring her host’s jibes, ‘I see ghosts all around me. I can see them like I can see you right now. I can see them in this apartment.’
Michael glimpsed over his shoulder.
‘Listen, Jackie… I’ve lived here for two years and I haven’t seen anything.’
‘Well you need the gift, Michael, but I assure you, they’re here.’
‘Anyone I know?’ he enquired, but the psychic shook her head.
The flat had only one previous occupant since the units were built and they’d moved on to a b
igger place in Oldham. Michael scratched his head wondering who could have possibly left their aura behind in this newly-built complex.
‘There are other occasions when the ghosts are just a vision or a noise but most of the time I can see them like I can see you sat right in front of me,’ Jackie explained. ‘I can’t switch it off. It’s a curse. I’m constantly hassled by them day and night. I don’t do this for a profit, Michael. I do this because I have to.’
‘So why do you charge for the service?’ Michael folded his arms and sat back. Having caught a glimpse at her prices for private sessions, he struggled to empathise with her.
‘I have to make a living, Michael…’ she stressed. ‘I’ve tried being a nurse, a shop assistant and even a writer. But they don’t leave me alone. Do you know what it’s like trying to have a conversation with a customer or trying to inject someone in the arm while having four or five people screaming down your ear telling you they want to speak to their children? I need to eat, Michael, I need to live! And selling my gift is the only way I can do either of these.’
‘Pretty hefty pricing for something you have to do.’
‘A doctor has the ability to save a life but no one expects him to do it for free,’ she said with a firm tone.
‘I don’t know if that’s comparable.’
‘And what is it you do, Mr Morality?’ She sat back and folded her arms, her eyebrows pointing towards the ceiling.
‘Hey, I’m a recruitment consultant, I help get people into work.’
‘Yes for a lump of commission, I suppose?’ She lowered her glasses and offered him a stern stare. He gulped and shied away.
‘Fair point. So have you always had this…’
Struggling to justify a title for her service, Michael paused. Talent? Skill? Ability to deceive?
‘Gift?’ Jackie suggested. He nodded, settling on her terminology. ‘These visions began when I was little girl before I can even remember. My mother had the gift too and would watch me play with little girl ghosts. Some of them were from the eighteenth century. They all had horrific injuries, many were murdered. As a child, I innocently believed they were all normal children despite some of them running around with blood-stained dresses.’
‘It sounds like a scene out of The Shining,’ Michael said with a slight shiver.
‘When I began school, I was sent to the psychologist as they thought I was ill. My mother soon put a stop to that, she knew my mind was as straight as theirs. As I grew into my teens, I began giving messages to my friends and family. Of course I was bullied for being the freak of the class. To the other pupils I was a very odd girl.’
‘If that’s true, that’s very sad,’ said Michael.
‘I tried different jobs when I left school, but it never worked out of course, until I joined a spiritualist church where I found like-minded people. They took me in and treated me like I was one of them.’ A smile spread across Jackie’s face. ‘I was so talented. I needed a bigger audience and through word of mouth, I soon became somewhat of a local celebrity.
‘I never made it big….’ she continued. ‘Not like some of the others in the industry. That Psychic Paul sells out stadiums. But I go where my work takes me. I don’t do it for the money. I enjoy what I do despite the hassle it brings at times. I help people and that’s what gets me out of bed every day.’
‘So what has this got to do with Suzanne?’ he asked, frustratedly looking at his watch; she’d been sitting with him for nearly twenty minutes and so far all he’d heard were her memoirs.
‘The other types of ghostly visions I have are in my sleep. Often it’s when I, or someone else, has lost something. Usually it’s something small like a set of house keys or an important document. I constantly have the same repetitive dream until I go to the place where I saw in my visions and… guess what? There they are! I had the same with the Bolton mayor the other year. He couldn’t find a photograph of his late daughter which had fallen out of his wallet. I told him to look under the seat in his car. And what do you know? There it was!’
‘Have you seen my wife?’ Michael’s heart raced.
‘The last few weeks, Michael, I’ve had constant dreams about Suzanne. Hearing her screaming, yelling… crying to be found!’
‘She’s alive?’ A smile stretched across his face.
The shaking of the psychic’s head pulled Michael’s optimism crashing down faster than a broken lift shaft.
‘I’m afraid not, my love. It’s her soul which is screaming, not her. She’s screaming to be moved on. She needs you to move on too. And without you knowing where she is, with no confirmation and constant questioning, you can’t do that either.’
‘But I am moving on! I’m getting out there and living a life at last!’ he assured. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you, Michael? Have you moved on? Why else would you have come to my show tonight if it wasn’t for answers to where your wife is?’
‘I didn’t come to hear from you where she is. I came because I found out that she believed in all this malarkey and thought that if I got inside her way of thinking, I might be able to work out where she is myself. I don’t need some medium for help, thanks.’
‘Don’t you, Michael? You seem pretty desperate to me. I can see your aura and it is black!’
A bewildered Michael stared down at his torso to catch a glimpse of his aura. The tatty brown jumper brought a shameful reminder of how little effort he’d put into his meeting with Louise.
‘She’s crying to be found…’ Jackie continued. ‘So the answers to everyone’s questions can be revealed. She’s lost, Michael, and she needs you to find her.’
‘So where is she?’ Michael hovered on the edge of his seat.
Jackie stood up and walked over to the window. Brushing away the curtains drifting over the patio doors, she stepped out onto the balcony. She raised her hand and stretched out her index finger, wrapped with a ruby-encrusted ring. Her gem-coated finger pointed over the balcony towards the water before them.
‘She’s in there.’ she said calmly.
Michael stood up in silence and followed her over to the window and looked out to see where Jackie’s finger pointed towards.
‘She’s in the bottom of that canal.’
8.
“Both atheists and believers can be as arrogant and witless as each other in frustrated debate, and people may choose strong and unapologetic words to raise awareness of their agenda.’
- Derren Brown (2006)
A lone leaf sailed across visibly still waters. A light breeze delivered the only current to the usually static waterway. The lack of sunlight provided a limited glimpse below. Had a body slept beneath the water where Jackie Wallace’s gold-wrapped finger pointed towards, it remained invisible to all who walked within its path.
Michael stared over the canal for several minutes, silently attempting to capture any of his wife’s remains, but to his disappointment, little resurfaced besides a deflated football. Frustrated, he turned around and re-entered his apartment.
‘Why should I believe you?’ he snapped. ‘These claims you make have little substance.’
‘You don’t have to believe me,’ she replied with a serene stupor. ‘I’m just telling you what I believe. It’s up to you what you do with this information, but I urge you to call the police.’
‘Well if you believe it, why don’t you go to the police?’ He stormed up to the medium and stared into her eyes. She stared back with the eyes of Medusa.
‘And say what? That I’ve had dreams that I saw some dead woman in the canal and maybe they should check it out? They’ll think I’m as nutty as you do.’
‘And you think that when I walk in and tell them a medium suggested it, they’ll believe me any more than you?’ Michael broke into psychotic laughter, holding on to his bulging belly as it jiggled.
‘Well maybe you just tell them you remembered she walked down there alone sometimes? Come on, Michael, be inventive!’
‘So, let’s ju
st say for a second that you’re right. Suzanne is deep down there in those waters. I go to the police and let them know that I just happen to think she’s down there. They find her… who do you think they’ll be looking to for answers? Me! That’s who! And I’m not going to be accused of that again. I’ve been there, done that and bought the bloody t-shirt.’
The suggestion of his involvement in her death began days after her disappearance. The newspapers printed his image on their front pages with the headline Killer Husband above. The police questioned him several times and forced him to undertake a televised plea to Suzanne, asking her to return home while psychologists analysed his body language to determine his involvement. No concrete evidence was found against him and he was removed from any further investigations; however, the press continued to haunt him.
‘I don’t know, Michael, I’m just telling you where she is.’ The psychic shrugged.
‘Who the hell do you think you are anyway. How dare you come over to my house and bring up this history which I’m trying to move past?’
‘Why else would you be at my show tonight if it wasn’t for answers?’ Jackie probed. ‘Here I am giving them to you.’
Blinded by her argument Michael paced up and down the hallway, unsure of how to respond. He pulled at the remaining strands of hair, clung to the sides of his head and rubbed his temples, massaging the agony aside.
‘Michael!’ Jackie called, clutching on to his arms, bringing him back into the room. ‘Sit down and listen to me.’ She pulled him over and placed him on the chair. He slumped to one side, his eyes gazing into the unknown. A lone tear burst from his duct and rolled down his cheek. The medium sat beside him and rubbed his back. ‘I’ve told you what I believe and it’s up to you what you do with this information. I’ve done my bit. I just hope I can sleep at last now as this has kept me up at night for far too long.’