The Medium

by David Hatton

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Courtney nervously said.

  ‘You’ll be fine. Jackie will lead the dialogue. You just need to let her know whether she’s on the money with her reading.’

  ‘I’m not really dressed for the occasion,’ Courtney protested, dusting down her top.

  ‘You’re dressed perfectly. We want to see normal people, not some fame chaser.’ He winked and stroked her arm.

  ‘OK, well if you’re sure.’

  She took Rory’s hand and stepped down the steps towards the stage. A make-up artist applied foundation to her face and a stagehand attached a microphone to her chest. She took a seat opposite Jackie, who busily rushed through her notes.

  ‘Three, two, one… action.’

  ‘Welcome back! I’ve asked one of my audience members to join me on the couch for a more thorough reading. Tonight we have Courtney from Manchester. Welcome, Courtney.’

  ‘Hello, Jackie.’

  ‘Now as you’re sitting in front of me I’m seeing a lot of pain, you’ve not had an easy life, have you, Courtney?’

  ‘No, it’s been really hard.’

  ‘Your mother died young didn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Courtney nodded.

  ‘And your father also died?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Now as I move on to your father, I’m seeing lots of green, a planet… and rows of green seats tiered up. Does this make any sense to you?’

  ‘Yeah he was an MP for the Green Party.’

  ‘I’m seeing lots of debating but lots of arguing here too. But the arguing is at home, not in Westminster.’

  ‘Yeah, we had a turbulent relationship with my brothers. They kept asking him for favours which went beyond his ethics.’

  ‘I’m seeing building plans, does that make sense?’

  ‘Yeah, they asked him to sneak through planning permission on their houses even though it was protected land. My dad was a good man and stood by his word. He said no. They stopped talking to him and I fell out with them when they refused to come to his funeral.’

  ‘They went after the will too, didn’t they? I can see money.’

  ‘Oh yeah, they won too, sadly.’

  ‘Well please be rest assured your father is so proud of you. He urges you to make up with your brothers as life is too short for arguments.’

  ‘Thanks, Jackie, I will!’

  ‘I’ll leave your father’s love with you, Courtney.’

  ‘Cut!’ Alan shouted. ‘OK, guys that’s a wrap.’

  The production crew thanked the audience for attending and ushered them out of the building. As they exited the studios, a cameraman filmed them.

  ‘It was brilliant!’ said one audience member, staring into the camera as she left the studios. ‘Jackie Wallace is a genius!’

  ‘I’ll definitely be going to one of her stage shows next time she tours!’

  Courtney was ushered off her seat and out of the studios before she had a chance to thank Jackie, who’d walked off to meet her agent. The door slammed behind her after she was thrown out into a wet and windy Manchester night.

  She took out her phone and dialled. On the third ring, the receiver answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, George, it’s Courtney. I’ve got a story.’

  A rustling at the door informed the medium that her post had arrived. She rushed downstairs and collected the dozens of letters that littered her doormat. Sitting down at the dining table, she opened the first envelope, which had a cheque enclosed from a celebrity gossip magazine. Since she revealed the killer of Suzanne Walker live on national television, she’d been approached by several media agencies, desperate to get the psychic star on their books. Lust had offered her the most interesting offer; an opportunity to respond to letters for their magazine from their readers. Thousands of letters arrived at her door every week anyway, she might as well get paid to respond to some.

  With her growing popularity, she recruited an admin assistant, Faye Martin, who read through her mail and forwarded her those of particular interest. Within the selection, a brown envelope caught her attention. Jackie opened the package and took out the bougainvillea cotton paper which gave off a whiff of lavender as she retrieved the paper. The note was handwritten with a fountain pen from a lady whom Jackie had provided a message for at one of her shows.

  Dear Jackie,

  However can I ever thank you enough? You’ve turned my life around. When my Cliff left this life, my world was torn apart. I couldn’t get out of bed and the tears never stopped flowing. You brought me back to life. After your show, I decided that keeping Cliff’s ashes by my bedside was only keeping me attached and wouldn’t allow me to move on. I took your advice from your message to go and book a trip and I’ve since been travelling the world on a cruise, sprinkling him in each port of call. He’d always wanted to see the world. I now have so many places where I can visit him. I am also getting out there and meeting people. I’m no longer existing. I’m living.

  I am forever in your debt.

  Love

  Stella

  Jackie lifted the letter, breathing in the lavender before holding the note against her chest. Hundreds of letters arrived similar to Stella’s every day but her delight remained as fresh as the arrival of her first correspondent who wrote to her many years before. ‘Forever in your debt’ was a phrase Jackie had become accustomed to; in Stella’s case, her debt mounted to one hundred pounds according to the cheque stuffed inside the envelope.

  Fortune was a blessing Jackie had kindly received. It wasn’t just widows who sent her cheques; newspapers, magazines and television networks had all shown interest in being part of her success story. A psychic telephone line used Jackie as the face of their service. The number was posted on the screen on each episode of her television show; she didn’t answer the phones but she was happy to accept the royalties.

  And she owed it all to Suzanne and Michael Walker. Her agent also deserved her gratitude. Following the revelation live on air, Annie Leonard caught her attention with a lucrative offer. With tanned, wrinkly skin, bleached blonde hair and a cloud of smoke elevating from her constantly lit cigarette, Annie was far from the agency image Jackie had expected. Only her dusty black suit and empty briefcase provided any evidence of executive status.

  ‘I’m going to make you a star,’ Annie croakily announced, before handing her a golden-hello cheque. ‘I don’t know how you do it and I don’t care. Sign this and you’ll be rich for life.’

  Recognition arrived soon after. There were few newspapers which hadn’t featured her story. People approached her in the street asking for readings or simply passing on their gratitude.

  But her fame wasn’t appreciated by everyone.

  The anniversary of her mother’s death arrived on a Tuesday. As per the invitation following their previous meeting, Jackie made her way to her sister’s house in Langley. Once again, Margaret’s car was nowhere to be seen, tucked away from the vandals she lived beside. Unnerved by her sister’s unfounded fears, Jackie parked her yellow Mini outside the house and peered up to the window where her mother died.

  She rang the doorbell and waited. A minute later, Margaret answered the door and raised her eyebrows. She glanced up towards both sides of the street and breathed a sigh of relief that the pavements were empty.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I came for Mammy’s anniversary meal. You invited me? You sent me a text after we last met up?’

  ‘That was before.’

  ‘Before?’’

  ‘Before you shamed our family with your so-called career making headline news. The twins are talking about ghosts and ghouls thanks to your freak show making daytime television. You have broken their values and ruined our lives. I’d rather you leave unless you’re willing to give up this charade.’

  ‘But, Margaret, you’re my sister.’

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t want your blasphemous shite in my house or around my
children. You’re an embarrassment to me and my family. Do you have any idea how I felt at church on Sunday? All the congregation questioning me on my infamous sister. I was disgusted to admit we were related. You’re an abomination.’

  ‘Oh, spare me the spiritual prevarications. The reason you hate my talent so much is because Mammy showed more interest in me. You didn’t have the talent and you hated it. I had that bond with her. You had nothing.’

  ‘You mean you lied to her like you did the others. You fooled her while I was the one caring for her right up to the end.’

  ‘And what a good job you did of that…’ Jackie bit.

  ‘Shut up!’ Margaret cried. ‘I loved her more than anybody.’

  ‘If you loved her, you would let me in and we’d remember her together. She’d hate us arguing. We’re her daughters.’

  ‘Never!’ Margaret folded her arms.

  ‘I’m sick of this,’ Jackie wept. ‘I try and I try with you. All those years I lied for you. Pretending to be somebody else. Well no longer, Mags. I’m done. You won’t see me again.’

  ‘Good riddance.’

  As the door closed, Jackie wedged her foot in the way to stop it from slamming. She pushed back on the door and leaned into her sister, grabbing her collar.

  ‘Wasn’t it Jesus who said ‘let who is without sin cast the first stone’? Well I’m looking at you, Mags, and you can drop yours.’

  Jackie let go and straightened out the collar on her sister’s blouse. Pale and shaken, Margaret gripped on to the door and crouched to regain her breath. A neighbour passed their drive; a mid-fifties man in a blue beanie hat and long black coat was walking his dog and caught sight of the battling sisters. His brown Staffordshire terrier bent over to urinate on a nearby lamp-post but the walker pulled on its lead to move on.

  ‘Jesus befriended prostitutes and you can’t even acknowledge your own sister. You are nobody to me, Maggie. God help you when you walk up to those Pearly Gates. They’ll be shut and double locked for you, dear.’

  ‘Go away or I’ll call the police,’ Margaret quivered.

  ‘With pleasure. Just remember, Maggie, I know what you did.’

  ‘You know nothing,’ Margaret called before slamming the door.

  Walking through town the following morning, she spotted her picture on a billboard outside Oxford Road Station advertising her television debut. The advert caused her to momentarily blush before a disgruntled bystander distracted her from her embarrassment.

  ‘You fraud!’ the man called from the entrance of a coffee-stand outside of The Cornerhouse cinema, sloping down from the railway entrance. The café proprietor took his flap-cap off and waved it in Jackie’s direction. His puffy green jacket and blue jeans kept him warm as the weather bomb blew past his stall, knocking paper cups over into the road. ‘I believed in you but you’re just like the rest of ’em. A bloody liar!’

  Surprised by the entrepreneur’s claims, she approached him, eager to escape the attention from prying pedestrians on their morning commutes. Walking up to the pop-up coffee-hut, she collected the cups and placed them back besides his hot-drinks machine, before wrapping her pink woolly scarf around her mouth to protect her drying lips. Browsing through her pocket, she collated some change and placed it on the gentleman’s stall and asked for a coffee.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked as he poured her brew.

  ‘No, I’m bloody well not. I trusted you. I came to see you at your show when my wife died. You gave me a message but now I know you’re just like the others. All frauds. You’ve ripped out my heart all over again. Now clear off!’

  ‘I don’t understand, what have I done?’

  ‘You heard the man.’ A small florist to the right of the coffee stand provided a secondary pop-up service, offering bouquets to husbands and boyfriends who needed a quick fix for the forgotten birthdays and overlooked anniversaries before their trains arrived. The owner was a tall stocky woman with scruffy brown hair, red chubby cheeks and black fingernails as sharp as drawing pins, which she dug into Jackie’s arm. With her turquoise cagoule and black trousers, stained with mud, she looked prepared for a day at the allotment rather than a day at work. ‘He told you to bloody well clear off, now do it or I’ll make you.’

  ‘I just don’t understand!’ Jackie protested.

  ‘Don’t make me tell you again.’

  Jackie paced up Princess Street, escaping the muddy clutches of the florist and her coffee-wielding friend. Turning left onto Piccadilly Gardens, she tiptoed past jugglers and musicians lining the garden path with their crafts. She was overshadowed by a large wheel, providing tourists a towering glimpse over the cottonopolis.

  ‘Big Issue.’ A bearded man in an orange vest approached her.

  ‘No, sorry, no change I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh it’s you. I wondered when you’d face your downfall.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Jackie turned around and marched up to the man who had the nerve to discuss her downfall. ‘You’re the second person to say something like that today. What have I done?’

  ‘Don’t you read the papers?’ The man walked on, attempting to push his publication on another wonderer through the rainy city.

  Bewildered by his question, she rushed into the Arndale Centre and glanced over the headlines in a newsagent. Beneath the red stamped logo of a national paper, big bold black letters revealed the motivation behind the negativity she’d received all morning.

  MANCHESTER MEDIUM UNCOVERED!

  Psychic Medium, Jackie Wallace, has been accused of cheating after being stung by our very own reporter, Courtney Sandstone. Upon entering the clairvoyant’s show at Granada Studios in Manchester, Sandstone was quizzed by researchers for the production to which she provided a false story of her dying parents. Wallace, famous for revealing the killer of Manchester resident, Suzanne Walker and her son, claimed she had been in touch with the fictional characters described to the production crew upon arrival. The news will come as a blow to her fans and Suzanne Walker’s husband, Michael, who had relied on her answers to find his wife.

  She lifted out her mobile and called her agent.

  ‘Have you seen the papers?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a bugger of a situation but we’ll get round it, don’t you worry about that.’ Annie responded with a husky voice.

  ‘I knew I should have refused any help that night,’ said Jackie. ‘This isn’t how I work.’

  ‘We needed to ensure your debut show was spectacular, we needed all the help we could get.’

  ‘I’ve never needed people feeding me information before, I should have said no. Look at where it’s got me. I should respond and tell the papers what happened. I was forced into it by the producers.’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid. Look, no publicity is bad publicity. Remember that actor who was accused of shoving a hamster up his whatsit?’

  ‘Erm… yeah…’ Jackie replied, confused by how her situation had any resemblance to the disgraced thespian.

  ‘Well that incident put him on a global platform. He won an Oscar last year.’

  ‘So I shouldn’t be concerned?’

  ‘Nah, go and get some coffee and get on with your day. This’ll blow over before your tour.’

  The dial tone indicated that Annie had hung up. Her agent’s suggestion of coffee made her thirsty. Looking across the centre, she spotted the green glow of a coffee shop chain. Licking her lips, she wondered to the outlet and purchased a latte. She grabbed her drink and sat down at a nearby table.

  ‘There’s that medium!’ A teenager pointed and laughed as he passed her table. He turned to his friend and jabbed his elbow. ‘Did you see her in the newspaper?’

  ‘Oh yeah, what a loser.’ The boys had spiked Mohawks, blue baggy jeans and black t-shirts with alternative rock bands stamped across the front. ‘Didn’t believe in that shit anyway.’

  Jackie rummaged through her handbag and collected a book. She opened the novel to the middle pages and lifted it above her face to hide
her infamy, before downing her drink.

  The clinking pottery meeting the face of a glass table caused her to look up. Before her, a barista placed a fresh cup of coffee down on Jackie’s table. A young woman with an olive complexion, black hair and a golden stud through her eyebrow smiled as she pushed the cup towards her. She dressed in a white shirt, black trousers and a green apron, stamped with the chain’s logo.

  ‘I didn’t order this,’ Jackie said and pushed the cup back to the server.

  ‘It’s on me.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ Jackie searched her bag for change. ‘I’ll pay you. You shouldn’t be throwing your pennies away on me.’

  ‘You’re Jackie Wallace.’ The barista raised her hand, rejecting Jackie’s offer of payment.

  ‘Not a name to be proud of today, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m a big fan. I think you’re really talented. I saw you on The Morning Show and I’ve bought tickets to see you on stage in a few weeks. I can’t wait.’

  ‘Well I’m glad I haven’t lost all my fans.’

  ‘Some people will never believe what you do. So what? You’re never going to change their minds. But for every nonbeliever, there’s a believer and you should concentrate your efforts on them. Forget the papers.’

  A tear sprang from Jackie’s eye. She stood up and embraced the fan. Upon her departure, the barista placed a newspaper on the table which had been left behind by another customer. At first, Jackie pushed the newspaper aside; she’d read enough about herself for one day. However a leaflet tucked between the pages caught her eye. Her photograph covered the front with the astrological symbols sprinkled around her face. The advert for her upcoming tour had run with the local paper all week, however an adjustment had been made to the latest print. Stamped over each date, the words Sold Out shattered any remaining fans’ interests in attending her shows. A gasp of delight escaped Jackie’s lips.

  Annie was right; there was no such thing as bad publicity.