by David Hatton
‘Yeah let’s see how we do in Portugal. I’ve still got back pains and you know my shuffling keeps you up.’ Elizabeth stroked her lower back and pushed her stomach out, pulling a face of discomfort.
Robert finished his breakfast, downed his coffee and kissed his wife’s cheek, before departing the kitchen. A stunned Elizabeth stroked her cheek and lifted herself off her stool.
‘Robert,’ she called and he turned around. ‘Maybe I could look at going back to work when all this house stuff is done. I get a bit bored and lonely here sometimes. I need someone else to talk to in the day.’
‘Yes, maybe. There’s always something in the house needing doing though and it’s handy that you’re in. And we don’t want that back of yours getting worse.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Elizabeth bowed her head. Her husband ran off upstairs to the bathroom.
As she cleared the plates, she caught a glimpse of her reflection within a wall-hanging mirror in the hallway. Her dark sagging eyes appeared bruised from exhaustion, her long brown locks grew greasy and grey, splitting at the ends, and the tendons in her neck stretched out across her throat. Broken by the woman staring back at her, she dropped her crockery and cried.
The sound of her husband stumbling down the stairs restrained her. Robert returned from the bathroom, dressed in his suit, and folded his tie in front of the mirror. His procrastination allowed Elizabeth to wipe away her tears. Once composed, she collected his packed lunch which she’d prepared earlier, and handed it to him with his briefcase. She kissed his cheek. He turned to her, held her head in his hands and locked lips, before setting off to work.
His Mercedes had barely reached the end of the drive when Elizabeth whipped off her dressing gown, grabbed her own keys and escaped her castle for a premonition.
A glass pyramid formed the gateway to Stockport. The Mercedes sped past the bank’s blue tower block, leaving the motorway, and drove down over the River Mersey and onto a backstreet, where a small cluster of shops served the morning business travellers. The aroma of cooking fat flowed out of a working man’s café and queues formed outside of a petrol station. The mills had long gone but Stockport retained the bustling industrial chaos of its past as the locals made their commutes.
Joining them on their journeys, Robert pulled up at a news stand to retrieve a newspaper. Making casual chit-chat with the proprietor, he folded the paper in half and placed it under his arm without so much as a glance at the headlines. He paid for his goods and left the establishment.
Returning to his vehicle, he threw his purchase onto the passenger seat. The newspaper unfolded upon impact with the leather interior exposing a photograph of his brother and Jackie Wallace. Robert pulled the newspaper towards him and read the bold headline above. GHOST WHISPERER IN HUNT FOR MISSING WOMAN!
*
The outside appeared like any other suburban terraced home. The red-brick building with its vibrant garden retained the peaceful ambiance of a retirement settlement. Inside, the burning scent of frankincense filled the air. In the centre of the living room a round table, layered with a silky aubergine cloth, held a crystal ball on top and a chair on either side. A deck of cards was spread out in the shape of an arch. A black candle lit the table as the curtains shunned the room into darkness.
Elizabeth shivered as she entered the abode. She sat down on the gold-plated chair, the seat cover wrapped with purple velvet. She’d picked out a modest black dress for the occasion. Jackie Wallace joined her; a veil hung down over her pale face from a hair-clip bonnet and a black floral laced cardigan covered her frail arms. Beneath, a white blouse and black trousers made her fit for a funeral. She collated the cards, shuffled them three times and spread the deck across the table.
A telephone call broke the silence. The ringing from the cordless phone destroyed the chilly atmosphere, returning the distraught client back to a troubling reality. Jackie located the base of the phone and ripped out the cord from the wall.
‘Sorry about that, love,’ Jackie said and lifted the end of the connection lead. ‘If only I could quieten the spiritual world so easily. It’s been a mad wee morning.’
Returning to her seat, Jackie closed her eyes and hovered her hands over the cards before lifting a small wooden baton, no larger than a teaspoon, and tapped the side of a Tibetan gong, giving out a small chime.
‘So, Elizabeth, today you’re going to pick out three cards. With each card, I’ll analyse the interpretation of that card to predict what the future holds for you. Is that clear?’ Jackie began and Elizabeth nodded. ‘OK, please can you pick your first card?’
Elizabeth’s jittery hand reached down and the tip of her index finger met the corner of the card and slid it towards the medium. Turning it over, she met the seething stare of the Grim Reaper. A black cloak covered the skeleton and a scythe rose high out of its bony hand. A gasp escaped Elizabeth’s lips.
‘The Death Card.’ Jackie spoke calmly. ‘Don’t worry, my love, lots of people are frightened at first by this card, but please be assured that it doesn’t mean death in a literal sense, but instead the end of an old way of life so you can begin a new one. However, in your case, Elizabeth, I believe it represents grief that you hold for a loved one.’
A tear jerked from Elizabeth’s eye and she collected a tissue from her purse, dabbing her cheek. Her head gently rocked.
‘Please select your second card.’
A monstrous creature filled the face of the hand-picked card; his harpy feet latched on to a pedestal, his bat-shaped wings rose high above him and the horns of a goat pierced out of his skull. His right hand hung high, almost waving at the quivering client who received the reading, the other hanging on to a fiery torch. Two naked demons stood to each side of the beast and the name of the card was stamped below: The Devil.
‘Am I the devil?’ a tremulous Elizabeth enquired. Her skin grew deathly pale and her vacant eyes turned a bloody red. The medium shook her head, closing her eyes as she prepared her analysis.
‘Not necessarily. I can’t believe you’re an evil force. But somebody close to you is. Maybe the evil force is at home.’
‘The only person at home is my husband.’
‘I’m only telling you what the cards tell me, my dear.’ Jackie raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. ‘Now turn your third card over.’
A bearded creature dressed in a cloak wandered through the unknown with a lamp and a staff. A perplexed Elizabeth examined the card, attempting to attain her own analysis of it.
‘The Hermit. Elizabeth, this card can be translated in two ways. The first is that The Hermit has to withdraw him or herself away from society to feel comfortable. I believe you’ve been doing this for some time but I don’t believe this is why the card has appeared for you.’
‘What’s the second interpretation?’
‘The second interpretation is that The Hermit needs to return from isolation and share his or her knowledge about something that he or she has been hiding.’
Elizabeth gulped. ‘Am I…The Hermit?’
Jackie nodded her head. ‘I believe so. What are you hiding, Elizabeth?’
‘I can’t.’ The lonely housewife sobbed into the medium’s shoulder. Her cheeks were irritated as the salty tears soaked into her skin, turning her pale jowls red.
The medium brushed the grieving client off her shoulder and stood up. Natural light burst into the living room as she opened the kitchen door. On the counter, a newspaper displayed the headline covering Jackie’s role in the search for Suzanne. She lifted the newspaper and threw the front page on top of the Tarot cards, which held Elizabeth’s fate.
‘Do you know something about this?’
Elizabeth sobbed, gasping for breath as she witnessed the photograph of her sister-in-law. The image was taken on their last trip away to Portugal as a family.
‘What is it, Elizabeth? What are you hiding from us? You can tell me anything. This is a confidential service. Anything you tell me stays with me.’
‘I was with Suzanne the night she went missing…’
11.
“Everyone who is born to the Earth has a psychic ability lying dormant.”
- Derek Acorah (2004)
Bustling businessmen pushed through the dawdling consumers, charity collectors urged pedestrians to hand over their bank details for a monthly payment plan and a disfigured street artist sat on a skateboard and played a flute. Corporate giants lined both sides of the cobbled Market Street as shoppers ran through, jumping on a central escalator up into a food hall as they escaped the infamous rain of Manchester. To one side, rhythm and blues bellowed out of a music store, promoting the greatest hits of a deceased artist who’d collapsed the previous day, while a bearded man dressed in an orange florescent jacket called for the attention of his fellow citizens, drawing their eyes to his Big Issue magazine.
Attempting to escape the commotion of the city centre, Michael Walker ran past the shops towards his office, already late for his first day back at work since playing truant the previous day. He handed what remained of his change to a homeless man and jogged on, stopping only to collect a packet of cigarettes and chewing gum from a kiosk inside the shopping centre. His own image caught his eye as he handed over a note, catching the headline above the photograph taken with Jackie the previous evening. Below, Suzanne’s smile was as radiant as the Portuguese sun behind her. Suddenly all concept of time and his work schedule waned.
‘Are you going to pay for that, mate?’ the proprietor called. ‘This isn’t a library, you know.’
‘Sorry, here.’ Michael threw a twenty pound note on the counter and collected his purchase, leaving the change behind. Disgruntled strollers mumbled as he knocked into them, his vision distorted by the morning headlines. Collapsing on a nearby bench, he read the article.
A woman’s disappearance is being investigated by a local spiritual medium. Jackie Wallace, 55, from Chorlton, South Manchester, became involved with the investigation after having repetitive visions of the victim’s dead body. Suzanne Walker went missing six months ago leaving husband Michael to wonder what happened to his beloved wife. Wallace contacted Walker after she had several visions of the victim, leading her to believe his wife, Suzanne, is hidden at the bottom of the canal near his home in Castlefield. Wallace’s previous visions have already been proven correct in the past as she has helped many clients find lost photographs, keys and legal documents. While she has never found a body before, Suzanne’s widower, Michael Walker, believes it is worth opening up the investigation. However, the search for the body appears to be doomed from the very start as Greater Manchester Police have refused to reopen the investigation despite Wallace’s spooky claims. They argue a lack of government funding and significant evidence makes it a dead case. Mr Walker, from Castlefield, is now seeking financial help to find his missing wife. This is not the first tragedy to strike Walker. Back in 2008, his six-year-old son, Jason, was killed by a hit and run driver. Jason’s killer was never found. Mr Walker made headlines again in December following the disappearance of his wife. While he was deemed a suspect at the time, charges were never brought upon him. Ms Wallace is now encouraging anyone who has further information to come forward, and anyone who can provide any financial help to get in touch so they can move the search for Suzanne Walker further and answer the questions Mr Walker desperately needs answering.
Michael threw the newspaper in a nearby waste disposal container, emptying his half-empty coffee cup on top of the story.
‘Hey, are you the guy from the newspaper with the psychic?’ asked a teenager, sitting on his bike, rubbing out the end of a cig onto the metal lid of the bin.
Escaping the attention, Michael rushed into the entrance of his workplace and hid behind fellow suits into the elevator. Upon reaching the eighteenth floor, he slipped out of the lift unnoticed and found refuge in his office. Louise sat opposite him; her vibrant clothing did not match her mood. A stern glare pierced Michael’s skull, ignoring the small wave and shrugging smile he offered her. Embarrassed by her rejection, he sat down and answered the ringing phone before him.
‘Bradshaw’s Recruitment Expertise, Michael speaking. ‘How I can help you today?’
‘Hello, Michael. This is David Carlisle from The Oldham Times, I wondered whether I could ask a few questions about your relationship with the psychic medium, Jackie Wallace?’
‘If you don’t mind, Mr Carlisle,’ Michael sighed. ‘I’m currently at work and don’t have time to speak to the media. Everything I wanted to say has already been said. If you’d like any more details, please contact the newspaper or Jackie Wallace, who I’m sure will be pleased to speak to you.’
‘Tough day?’ piped up Mavis as Michael slammed down the phone. Her square black specs hung on the tip of her nose, a plastic chain clipped to the side of the frames slung around her neck down towards her lilac woolly jumper. Her short hair was dyed a vivacious red and wrinkles ran down from her eyes.
‘I’m getting chased everywhere about this medium story. It’s so embarrassing. We should be focusing on my wife’s disappearance, not this ghost story.’
‘Hey, don’t bite the hand that feeds. If people are contacting you, it means they’re reading the story. If they’re reading it, there’s a chance someone might cough up the cash for her search.’
‘I guess.’
‘Just don’t get swept up in this newfound fame! Who was it that said ‘celebrity is a mask that eats into the face?”
‘John Updike?’
‘That’s the one…’
A birthday card and pen slammed down on his desk. He peered up and found Louise strutting off without even a second glance at the man who rejected her forty hours before.
‘What’s up with her?’ Mavis lowered her glasses and stared over the frames towards the runaway recruiter.
‘Oh she’s just mad with me. I messed up,’ Michael said as he signed the card, unsure of who it was actually for. He signed a simple Best Wishes and passed it on to his colleague.
‘Wow you must have done something really terrible to wipe the smile off Little Miss Sunshine.’
‘It’s going to take a lot more than an apology to get her back on side, that’s for sure.’
An hour passed and Michael had taken as few as four calls regarding recruitment leads. Instead, his line was flooded with queries regarding his media debut. The diversion away from his usual duties did not go unnoticed by his manager, Craig, who pulled him aside for a one-to-one.
‘I’ve been listening to your calls, Michael, and I’m not happy. I think you should go home until this media malarkey blows over.’
‘But, Craig, I need the money. Please let me stay.’
‘I’m sorry, but that’s not my problem. I pay you to recruit, but your flutter in the newspapers makes it an impossible task. Therefore I’m asking you to leave. Now.’
‘But this flutter is because of my missing wife. It’s not like I’m on Big Brother! Please have some compassion.’
‘Michael, we have been more than supportive in this office regarding your situation but if you decide to come back to work, you should be willing to work. This episode of so called news is nothing more than chip paper in my view. Using supernatural sources to locate a dead body is something I watch in a television drama, I don’t want it in my workforce. If the police aren’t willing to take this seriously, then neither will I. Now if you don’t leave in the next few minutes I’ll have you removed by security. And if that happens, believe me, you won’t be allowed back.’
Daunted by the thought of unemployment, Michael left the office. He switched on his mobile phone, which had been flooded with voicemails from varying newspapers requesting interviews with the widower and his freaky new friend. Ignoring the messages, he peered through the phone’s address book, hoping to find the number of somebody, anybody who may
not have caught sight of the headlines and could lend a sympathetic ear. Several names scrolled down from his younger days at university in Leeds. A shudder overcame him as he considered what his alumni friends now thought of the former atheist now chasing ghosts. With nobody left to turn to, he headed home.
Five identical towers lined the canal fanning north, anchoring into the urban hub of Castlefield. Fallow-brown tiles coated the exteriors and blue balconies clung on to the front. The third quintuplet formed the home of Michael Walker, who arrived home after a frustrating morning at work. A lone woman perched outside of the entrance stood up upon Michael’s arrival and shuffled over towards him.
‘Hi! Forget your fob?’ he asked, shaking his keys as he passed her. ‘I’ll let you in.’
‘Michael Walker?’ The flustered visitor approached him, grabbing his upper arm as he passed. She appeared out of breath and sweat dribbled down from her hairline. Despite her poor fitness, she was slim and towered over him even with flat loafers. Michael took a double glance at her, questioning where he recognized those familiar eyes.
‘Can I help you?’ Michael enquired. ‘If you’re a journalist, I don’t have time to speak.’
‘I saw you in the newspaper today. You’ve been working with Jackie Wallace.’
‘I wouldn’t call it work… but yeah, I’ve been liaising with her.’
The woman before him appeared agitated, fidgeting and scratching her crusty red elbows.
‘I need to warn you that she’s a liar and a fraud. You need to keep well away from her.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Just please, for your own good, stay away from her before she draws you in and rips you off.’
Before Michael could question her further, she rushed off, stepping over green shrubbery. Flabbergasted, Michael retrieved his phone and began to dial Jackie’s number, desperate to find out more about his visitor who whizzed out of the car park in a blue BMW.