The Medium

by David Hatton

  ‘I know ’er! She lives on my estate. She’s had everyone,’ the man shouted at the screen. A bewildered Michael raised his head, feigning interest.

  To his left, a small office with an open window provided access to a reclined policeman, slumped in his chair and completing a cross-word. The rotund officer appeared bemused as the grieving father distracted him from his puzzle.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Can I help you?’ the officer replied with an impatient tone. His sagging cheeks remained static as he turned away from his crossword to help the younger man before him. To his left, a calendar with topless models had been marked with his countdown to retirement, which was only weeks away.

  ‘I hope so. I’ve come to provide details about the location of a missing person.’

  Constable Davies dropped his puzzle and rolled his chair closer to the window. The wooden frame around the bay had begun to rot and the visitor avoided the splinters spiking out of the timber as he placed his hand over the reception entrance. The revelation transformed the officer, who within seconds had collected a notepad ready to take down the witness’s statement.

  ‘Sounds interesting. Tell me more.’

  ‘I believe my wife, Suzanne Walker, is in the bottom of the canal, close to the Watergate Apartments in Castlefield.’ Michael’s voice croaked as he broke the news, the reality hitting him harder every time he revealed the fate which his wife had faced. ‘I believe she was murdered.’

  ‘And how did you come to find out this information?’

  ‘Erm…’ Michael stuttered, struggling to form the only evidence he held. ‘A psychic medium told me last night.’

  The bulging belly of the officer began to jiggle. The pad and pen fell onto the floor and the officer’s head banged on the desk. A roar of laughter escaped his moist lips.

  ‘I’ve heard it all now,’ Constable Davies chuckled, his spittle firing over Michael’s baggy red hoody. ‘A psychic medium? Come on, get out of my station and stop wasting my time.’

  ‘I’m being serious. She’s really good. She’s called Jackie Wallace. You should speak to her. I know it sounds crazy but I think you should check it out.’

  His laughter continued as he picked up his phone and dialled four digits to an inside line. After several rings, the receiver answered.

  ‘Hey, Jim, you’ve gotta hear this. So this guy walks in and tells me a psychic knows where his missing wife is. I’ve heard it all now!’

  Surrendering, Michael left the station. To his right, the Sir Ralph Abercrombie pub called his name. He went in and laid down his problems to his old friend, Stella Artois.

  A rainbow of colours filled the front lawn. A golden huddle of sunflowers, a red range of roses and a yellow troop of lilies formed the entrance to Jackie Wallace’s home. The red-bricked terrace sat peacefully in a quiet crescent in the southern suburb of Chorlton. Within the florescent garden, the medium kneeled over her plot, trowelling the soil to add a collection of tulips to the bed. Her flowery blouse matched the array before her and a straw hat protected her from the overbearing sun beaming down.

  Next door, a cemetery provided smoother access to potential clients. She lined the entrance with her business cards next to the florists and crucifix sellers who also stood by hoping to make a quick buck off the bereaved.

  The building she inhabited was a modest but comfortable home, just enough for the singleton and her pet cats. Jackie had never married, nor had she had kids, and at the grand age of fifty-five, she doubted either would ever happen. Dating was tough for the medium; the men she dined with attempted to catch her out, while those who believed in her work wanted to use her as a constant line to their lost loved ones.

  Only one man had ever managed to capture her heart. His name was Geoff, a sales executive, whom she met at a mutual friend’s wedding. Accepting her gift, but not abusing it, Geoff was everything Jackie had been looking for. He was tall, dark and well dressed. Described as a silver fox, he had a welcoming smile and sense of humour to fit. He held a good shape for a man approaching fifty, sculpted into his black turtleneck sweaters. Jackie couldn’t believe her luck when she met him, wondering why he’d have any interest in a self-described dumpling.

  They dated for six months before they moved in together and he proposed. She accepted and the excited couple envisioned a lifetime of happiness ahead of them.

  However a promotional opportunity for Geoff at work took him to Holland. He asked her to join him, but having gained some local notoriety after her support to the Bolton mayor, she’d managed to build up a following in the region, leading her to decline Geoff’s offer. Their careers were too important for them both and they parted ways, only for Jackie’s fame to later wilt like her heart. She’d lost touch with Geoff, but photographs of their time together remained in a small plastic wallet in her bedside table.

  The light disappeared from her floral patch. A silhouette towered over the bedding, surprising the gardener who turned around to greet her visitor. He was finely dressed in a black pinstriped suit. His dark hair held grey wisps and a diamond encrusted Rolex was wrapped tightly around his wrist. Jackie held her hand over her watch and glimpsed at the time.

  ‘Hello?’ Jackie greeted the visitor. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Jackie Wallace?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘The medium?’ he asked.

  ‘The very same. Have you got a booking? I’m sorry if I missed you, I thought I’d checked my schedule…’

  ‘I’m not in your schedule. I’m not here to hear your ghost stories. I’m here to tell you to keep away from my brother.’

  ‘Who’s your brother?’ Jackie enquired.

  ‘Michael Walker.’ The connection clicked. He was slimmer than his brother but there was a familiarity in those hazel eyes, as was his contentious tone, which she’d endured the previous evening. He’d mentioned him during her visit the previous evening. ‘I believe you paid him a visit last night?’

  ‘I did visit him, yes. He’s a lovely wee man, we get along well. Why are you so against our friendship?’ Jackie stood up, removed her gloves and threw her gardening garments onto the lawn. Patting down her elbows, she brushed the soil from her top.

  ‘I don’t know how you do what you do, but I want you to stop manipulating my brother. He’s been through enough without you dragging up the past and opening doors which are supposed to remain shut. He’s finally moving on. Let him be.’

  ‘How did you get my address?’

  ‘Never you mind. Just keep away from Michael.’

  ‘Mr Walker,’ Jackie gulped. ‘I’m sorry you don’t like what I do, but your brother is old enough to make his own decisions. Now I’ve told him what I know and it’s up to him, and him alone, to decide whether he should seek my advice again. Do you understand?’

  She broadened her shoulders and stepped towards him. Her stature softened the intruder. Satisfied that she’d said her piece, she opened the door, stepped inside and began to close it.

  ‘Good day to you, sir!’

  As she closed the door, Robert placed his foot next to the frame. The door bounced off the rubber lining of his black shoes. Jackie pushed harder against the door and her shoes scuffed soil into her cream carpet.

  ‘Stop taking advantage of my brother! Leave him alone!’

  Robert’s face was pale and his furious eyes widened. Smelling his uncertainty, she rested off the door and opened it.

  ‘What are you so worried about? Got something to hide?’

  Across the road, a concerned neighbour exited his house and approached the quarrelling couple. Dressed in his gardening gear, a beige shirt and soiled brown chord trousers, he towered up to the muscly young visitor.

  ‘Is everything OK, Jackie?’ he enquired.

  ‘Everything’s fine, Bill. Mr Walker was just leaving, weren’t you?’

  Robert nodded. Confident that his neighbour was safe, Bill left the warring couple to their woes and returned to his house. A defiant Ro
bert returned to Jackie.

  ‘I have nothing to hide, I just think my brother has been through enough without another person trying to take advantage of him. Now leave him alone.’

  ‘I suggest you keep away from my house. If Michael does choose to follow my advice and call the police, it’ll be him you have to keep quiet, not me.’

  The psychic stepped inside and slammed the door behind her. Peering through the spyhole, she watched Robert bow his head and step away, returning to his Mercedes.

  A little shaken, Jackie approached her kitchen and made herself a cup of tea, adding sugar to absorb the shock. A grey cloud hovered over her home, preventing her from returning to the garden. The kitchen she inhabited was small but modern and had a dining table to the side. Black worktops rested above beige cupboards. The lilac walls held a kitten-themed calendar and a painting of a canal near her former boyfriend’s home in Holland. Geoff had sent the painting shortly after his departure but she hadn’t heard from him since.

  Sitting down at the oak dining table, Jackie took out her diary and browsed through her afternoon schedule. As she highlighted the name of the booking, a knock at the door startled her. The client was not due to arrive for an hour. Jackie cautiously walked up to the door. Glimpsing into the spyhole, she found a morose Michael behind it.

  ‘Hi, Michael,’ Jackie said as she opened the door. ‘They didn’t believe your story then?’ He shook his glum head. A raindrop shattered on his shoulder. She glanced at him from top to toe; his soaked hoody hung over his jeans, which bore the same green stain she’d eyed the evening prior. ‘You’d better come in then.’

  Michael followed her into her home. The house was less kooky than he expected. No pagan symbols, skulls or crystals surrounded her living space. Instead the magnolia walls, the watercolour paintings and the cream couch with brown cotton cushions mirrored a show home, not too dissimilar to his own abode. A silver key, large enough to open a castle gate, hung from a wall with the Bolton coat of arms stamped on the brim.

  ‘What did the police say?’

  ‘They laughed at me.’ Michael relived his traumatic morning.

  ‘Well that’s not surprising…’ Jackie said. ‘It’s one reason why I didn’t go myself. I’m sorry to put you through that. I just figured with your passion to find your wife they might have thrown you a bone.’

  ‘Sadly not. I don’t know what to do. Without the police, we can’t search the canal and I certainly can’t afford a diver on my own.’

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ She glanced at the clock; it was almost six and her stomach was rumbling.

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘Fantastic, I just need to make a phone call.’ Jackie called her client, cancelled her evening appointment and invited Michael into the kitchen where he filled her in on his morning failures, while she knocked up a stir-fry.

  ‘So come on then, what happened?’

  ‘I went down to the station and told them that my wife was in the bottom of the canal and that I knew that because Mystic bloody Meg told me!’

  Jackie rolled her eyes at the association with the famous fortune teller, known for her loose predictions on the National Lottery.

  ‘I can’t blame them I suppose. It sounds madder than the Immaculate Conception.’

  ‘Not a religious man then?’ A smile sprouted across their thwarted faces.

  ‘I just can’t understand it, you read about mediums helping the police all the time. Why can’t they help me?’

  ‘Well clearly Greater Manchester Police have more time on their hands than we once thought if they think they can do everything without our input.’

  To Michael’s left, French windows led out into the back. The overcast sky grew darker and Jackie’s multi-hued garden disappeared within the evening mist. A tabby cat stood by the door, which Jackie opened to allow him to enter. The feline ran in and jumped onto Michael’s knee and rested, gently printing on his jeans.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Jackie asked and her guest nodded. ‘Have you given out my address to anyone?’

  ‘No I wouldn’t do that. Why?’

  ‘I just had an odd visitor this afternoon, not to worry though.’ She wrote his brother’s name down onto her pad and closed it up, placing it in a drawer underneath her workbench.

  ‘So we just have to decide what we do now.’

  ‘What we do now?’ Michael asked. ‘What can we do? The police won’t help us. There’s no hope.’

  ‘There’s always hope, Michael.’ Jackie smiled as she tossed the ingredients into an oily wok and tossed the vegetables around the base. ‘You said it yourself, we just need to find a diver to go down there instead.’

  ‘And like I said, I can’t afford one.’

  ‘Well we just to need to find the money then, don’t we?’

  Jackie smiled and returned to the wok. Michael gawped at the psychic chef, attempting to gaze into her silent plans.

  As they dined and consumed a bottle of Merlot, they discussed their next steps, which would land them the opportunity to search the canal. Michael left Jackie’s home with a full stomach and a tipsy head, confident in their arrangements which would be revealed to the world the following morning.

  With an empty house, Jackie returned to her schedule, glancing at the clients she’d booked in for the following day. As she browsed through the names, handwritten in a red leatherback diary, she suddenly realised how Robert had sourced her address. The first client due the next morning was Elizabeth Walker.

  10.

  “Mediumship just happens to be my gift, but we all have gifts.”

  - Colin Fry (2007)

  A curved dip in the mattress provided the only evidence that she had ever slept beside him. The previous evening she snored next door. The aroma of burning fat brought him a blissful distraction from his woes. His wife was in the kitchen cooking his breakfast. A full English every day would be detrimental to any man’s health, but for Robert, who spent hours in the gym after work, it was merely another element to burn off as the bacon barely touched the sides.

  A red robe covered his nudity. A sneaky glance down into the kitchen from the landing gave him the satisfaction that Elizabeth would be occupied for several minutes; the sausages hadn’t even met the bottom of the pan yet. He stepped into her bedroom and softly opened the bottom drawer of her bedside cabinet. The base of the oak drawer was lined with white wallpaper decorated with pink floral patterns. The liner failed to fool Robert, who slid the deceptive sheet aside to find the true contents of the drawer, covered with mismatching garments to distract any snooping visitors. A blue leather-bound page-a-day diary, forced closed with an elastic band, hid in the corner of the chest. Robert opened the journal and whisked his fingers through her agenda.

  The top item was to visit Jackie Wallace. Beside the entry, it listed her full address. Jackie’s business card was attached to the page with a paperclip.

  ‘Robert! Breakfast’s ready!’ Elizabeth shouted up the stairs. A startled Robert slammed the diary shut, replaced the elastic band and returned the drawer as he found it. The room was a neutral yellow, personalised with a few pot-plants.

  ‘Coming!’ he yelled. He ran downstairs and found his wife pouring the contents of his breakfast onto a plate and which she placed next to his copy of the Financial Times on the island in the centre of the kitchen. He perched on a stool and she sat parallel, drinking a cup of tea, dressed in her robe.

  No words passed between the couple while Robert consumed his fried breakfast and read the latest stock prices. Walnut cupboards fronted aubergine walls with French windows opening into the garden. Outside a set of rattan table and chairs filled a small terrace and stone steps led down into a larger garden.

  The Victorian building sat in the heart of Didsbury. The neighbours’ homes had all faced conversions into apartments and student lettings, however the Walkers had held on to the three-storey semi-detached for themselves, turning the former shack into a dream home.
The ceilings were high, the rooms were grand and the fireplaces were rustic but over time they’d added their own modern charm to the historic building. Spotlights beamed down from the ceiling, underfloor heating warmed their feet as they stepped over stone tiles and flat screen televisions were stamped onto the walls of the communal spaces.

  ‘What are your plans for the day?’ Robert broke the silence, causing Elizabeth to choke on her tea.

  ‘I thought I’d clean the house, the usual.’

  ‘Well I have some chores for you. I’d like it if you went down to the Trafford Centre and bought us some bits for the house. Cushions, throws, something to lighten up this place. God knows it needs it.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t planning on going out today. It’s getting dusty here and we need to get the bathrooms prepared for the renovation.’

  ‘Come on, Lizzie, we need things for the living room.’

  The lounge had recently undergone a makeover and they’d spent weeks finding suitable decorations to add to the Edwardian and yet contemporary setting.

  ‘OK,’ Elizabeth grumbled, muttering complaints under her breath.

  ‘We should get away soon. Maybe we could have a week in Portugal. It’s been a long time since we’ve flown over there.’

  ‘That sounds wonderful, Robert,’ Elizabeth blithely replied. A smile stretched her cheeks. She hadn’t stepped into their second home for over two years, despite her husband continuing to pay the mortgage on the property. The white stone villa held four bedrooms and an outdoor infinity pool which stretched out into the Algarve mountains.

  ‘I’ll book flights. It’ll be good to get away from it all. Maybe when we get back we can look at sharing a bed again.’