The Medium

by David Hatton

  I thought she said she hadn’t read about the case? He scratched his head. Snooping through the cuttings, he found story after story regarding Suzanne’s case printed within the previous weeks. Why would she lie?

  Slamming down the papers onto the desk, he accidentally nudged the mouse, which in turn forced the monitor to load up. On the screen, a webpage displaying a family tree appeared. He knew the site; his father had visited the same page to research his own family tree, which was hanging on his wall at home. He glanced down the names of recent searches, in which Wallace was not listed. He rummaged through the stack on the desk again and found a sheet of paper with a ticket website’s branding printed across the header and footer of the letter. Upon the sheet was a list of attendees due to attend her show at the Lowry Theatre, who’d given their consent to sign up to a mailing list for Jackie’s future shows. It detailed their name, home and email addresses. He matched the names to those searched on the genealogy site.

  Identical.

  ‘Jackie?’ Michael called up the stairs.

  ‘I’ll be five minutes,’ Jackie called.

  ‘No need to rush.’

  He sat down and began to type in his name into the search bar. He only managed to type three letters in before a suggestion came up.

  WALKER – Michael (Manchester, UK).

  She’d searched him before.

  He clicked on the suggested search and discovered a mountain of information which he was unaware was available. His parents’ birthplaces, his great grandparents’ adventures in America and a death certificate outlining the heart attack which killed his grandmother. He thought back to the first night when he met Jackie where she made the spectacular reference to his late nana.

  ‘Bitch,’ Michael whispered.

  Desperate to uncover more, he clicked on her web history. A link to the Wikipedia page of television presenter, Francesca Dumont, was viewed the night before Jackie appeared on The Morning Show. He browsed through the details of her personal life before she found fame.

  In 2001, Francesca was in a serious car accident, in which her cousin, Melanie Gorman, died instantly in the collision. Francesca spent several days in a coma but made a full recovery after the accident.

  Amongst the web history was his FaceHub page. He scrolled through and found the last message from his late wife. Love you, Chicken.

  Further browsing proved Jackie had researched his family long before Suzanne’s death. The hit and run accident had been read about across several news sites. He viewed the date when the page had last been viewed; 4th December.

  The day before Suzanne died.

  Footsteps descended down the stairs. Michael exited the website, switched off the monitor and slipped back into the kitchen, grabbing his brew on entry. His heart raced.

  ‘Right I’m ready,’ Jackie sighed. She’d changed into a yellow tunic dress and wrapped a black waistcoat around her torso. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  ‘I am. Can I be really cheeky and ask one more question about the afterlife?’

  ‘Go on then.’ She chuckled and rolled her eyes. ‘But I’ll have to start charging you soon!’

  ‘I had a sister when I was a kid. She died of cancer when she was seven. She was called Ruth. I’ve always wondered whether she carried on and enjoyed childhood in the afterlife.’

  ‘Yes she’s around. She’s with your grandmother, who is ensuring she has an enjoyable life in the beyond. She spends her days in the park in Grasmere. A short walk from your parents’ house so she can be near your mother,’ Jackie explained before grabbing her bag. ‘Are we off then?’

  ‘So she’s still a child then? She didn’t grow up?’

  ‘When you die, Michael, you stay the same age. She’s a beautiful little girl. Your mother would be proud.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Jackie gasped, staring at the gritted teeth of her supposed friend.

  ‘There was no sister. I made her up.’

  ‘Why would you that?’

  ‘To catch you out, you lying bitch! You’ve been taking advantage of me all this time.’

  ‘Look, I’ll be honest, we were in a rush, you caught me off-guard. I just wanted to get on and, yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have just fobbed you off like that. I’m just really hungry.’

  ‘What you mean is… you wish you’d had time to check out my family tree for the details. I know how you do your little tricks. You research public records and social media on your clients and then use it to sell them a bunch of lies. It’s just a damn shame I don’t have a Wikipedia page like Francesca Dumont, isn’t it? That would have made your readings easier.’

  ‘Michael, where are you getting all this from? This is ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s all on your computer.’

  Jackie glanced at her computer. It appeared as stagnant as it was before she ran upstairs, except for a humming beneath the desk. Shaking her head, her eyes glared with fury.

  ‘First of all, how dare you go on my computer without my permission. Secondly, I admit sometimes I do some prior research as the television executives expect a lot from my shows; it just allows me to have a back-up if the spirits don’t come through.’

  ‘Bollocks. You read up all about my grandma before you came to see me. There’s several sources on my son before Suzanne arrived at the Sleep Tight Hotel.’

  ‘But that message I gave you from Suzanne?’

  ‘It was all on my FaceHub page.’

  ‘Michael… you…’ She stuttered. ‘You need to calm down and stop making these horrible accusations. Psychics have very complex ways of doing things. Occasionally reading up on backgrounds can bring me closer to the spirits. The same can brought on by a letter or a photograph.’

  ‘Oh shut up, Jackie,’ Michael snapped. ‘I know how you do your job and it’s nothing more than a quick online search. How you knew my brother was involved, I don’t know. Then again, Elizabeth was on your books, wasn’t she? She could’ve told you that information herself.’

  ‘Michael. Go home and calm down. You’re becoming irrational. You need to stop making these claims against me which simply aren’t true!’

  Silence fell over them. Michael scratched his head and pulled at his blue hoody as his temperature rose. He still had a burning question in the back of his head.

  ‘The one thing I can’t point my finger on is how you knew where Suzanne’s body ended up. It could have been a luck I suppose. You knew where we lived. Why no one else considered the canal before, I don’t know. But you knew the exact spot.’

  ‘Get out of my house, now!’ Jackie yelled. ‘I told you, it was in my dreams.’

  ‘Some people will do anything to become famous, won’t they, Jackie?’ The final piece of the puzzle slotted into place. ‘What was it that Updike said? ‘Celebrity is a mask which eats in the face.’ I think you’ve grown to believe in your own abilities haven’t you? You had your local fame but it wasn’t enough, was it, Jackie?’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re saying, Michael. You’re scaring me.’

  ‘You were right. The devil really does take many forms. You killed my wife, didn’t you?’

  ‘No! I swear, I didn’t. This is crazy!’

  ‘You killed her, buried her in the canal and then bided your time to make your big reveal. How lucky you were that I just happened to turn up at your show! And it worked! You got what you wanted. And we all bought into it. You even had me, an atheist, hanging off your every word.’

  Three slow claps followed.

  ‘Stop! Please!’ Jackie cried. Her eyes watered and her skin grew red. Blood filled her eyes and she shook her fists in the air.

  ‘I will destroy you, Jackie Wallace. Wait until the police find out about this, or better yet, the papers!’

  Taking out his mobile phone from his pocket, he began to dial.

  Jackie stormed around the room. A large silver ornament, handed from the Mayor of Bolton giving her the key to the town, hung gracefully from a wall, bolte
d on by a large nail. Carefully lifting the decoration, moulded into the shape of a key, off the wall, her hand dropped under the pressure of its weight. She paced up to Michael, lifted her arm, and swung the key against his head.

  The blow knocked him onto the floor. Blood poured out of the back of his head and stained her cream carpet.

  He lay on the ground. Lifeless.

  She sighed and placed the key on the floor. Stepping past the body, she opened the living room door.

  A grip around her ankle pulled her to the floor. A loud thud shook the house as she met the ground. Michael lay beside her, staring at the killer.

  ‘You mental bitch!’ He shuffled forward, crawled on top of her and pinned the medium to the ground. A light wooziness overcame him, distorting his sight.

  Jackie reached out and grabbed the bloody key from her side. She took a second swing, narrowly missing a ducking Michael. He threw his hands around her throat, preventing the wind from entering her pipe.

  ‘I will not let you destroy my career,’ she croakily called. ‘I’ve worked too hard to get this far, Michael. You can’t take this away from me now.’

  A third swing knocked Michael off her. The pair wrestled across the living room floor. Michael’s phone slid further away from his grip. Climbing back on top of her, he pinned her left arm to the floor with his knee. He looked around for her right arm.

  It was too late.

  A final swing of the key met his temple.

  And all went black.

  26.

  “Science seeks truth. And it does not discriminate. For better or worse it finds things out. Science is humble. It knows what it knows and it knows what it doesn’t know. It bases its conclusions and beliefs on hard evidence.”

  - Ricky Gervais (2010)

  The painting on the wall appeared blurred and at a right angle. To his right, the stained carpet was seeped in blood; the warm moisture leaking from his skull. Pushing himself up, Michael felt woozy as the rush of blood swirled across his head. A sharp pain throbbed across the side of his head. He winced as he stroked the wound.

  His eyesight returned. Glancing around the room, he found the front door open; the light burning his retina from the midday sun. Silence indicated his attacker had gone. Beside him, the key which caused his agony lay coated in his fluids.

  Nausea overcame him. Unable to step onto his feet, he vomited across the floor; a sharp burning tickled his tonsils. He felt around and retrieved his phone, dialling triple nine into the keypad before pressing the green phone icon.

  While it seemed like a lifetime, an ambulance crew and police arrived a few minutes later. They inspected his head and took him to the hospital for a check-up. Five hours and a CAT scan later, he was released, bandaged up and with enough painkillers to overpower a racehorse. The police arrived at his apartment shortly after to take a full statement.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t be long before we find her,’ Detective Morgan assured. ‘She’s pretty famous. Someone will recognise her.’

  ‘I sure hope so.’ Michael nodded. ‘For my wife’s sake.’

  ‘Did she actually say she killed Suzanne?’

  ‘Why else would she run away?’ he shrugged.

  ‘Maybe she got scared. You were about to blow her secrets. That’s a lot of angry parents and widows to contend with. Not to mention the money she’d lose out on. She had to stop you.’

  ‘I suppose, but it doesn’t look good that she knew exactly where Suzanne was.’

  ‘If she’s guilty, we’ll find out.’

  ‘Well you’ve been useful so far, haven’t you? I’ve done most of your work for you.’

  Morgan ignored his jibes and left. He sat on the balcony and stirred over the betrayal of his supposed friend. The warmth of peace, which she’d delivered to him earlier, now left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn’t fathom how she could be on stage all evening and yet manage to follow his wife home and murder her.

  Only one person could answer that question.

  *

  Dinner had just been served when Elizabeth was called to the warden’s office. She scooped up her meal with a fork and downed the serving in just a few mouthfuls before being escorted off to visit the most senior member of the prison staff.

  Her brown locks had grown grey and her clothing had to be adjusted for the round bump forming above her pelvis. A purple shiner splattered across her eye; a delivery from Lusty.

  The warden’s office was to the right of the main entrance to Strangeways. Stamped across the centre of the blue door was the inhabitant’s name, William Barrow MBE.

  Three knocks and a welcome call later, Elizabeth stepped into the office. A desk and two chairs formed the centre of the room. To the left, a bookcase of psychology books slept beside an award for the prison’s facilities. Behind the warden, framed newspaper cuttings of the 1990 riots showed the prisoners on the roof of the building which she now called home.

  ‘Sit down please, Elizabeth.’

  Barrow had a tall but slim frame, wore a grey suit with a coat of arms over the breast pocket and his scalp bounced under the light where he’d shaved the remaining wisps of his youth. His lips were thin, just a line above his jaw, and his large nostrils sprouted white hairs.

  ‘How can I help you, Mr Barrow?’

  ‘Sir William.’

  ‘Sir William, sorry.’ Elizabeth struggled to keep eye contact with the warden as his amblyopia allowed him to glance in two directions at once.

  ‘You’ve had a visitor’s request.’ He handed her an envelope.

  ‘Who would want to see me? I haven’t had anyone write or call in months.’

  ‘Well that’s the interesting part. It’s your brother-in-law.’ ‘Michael?’ she asked and he nodded. ‘Why would he want to see me?’

  ‘Beats me.’ Barrow shrugged. ‘But I need to understand whether you will accept this invitation and whether you foresee any trouble from his visit.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be any trouble on my side. I can’t promise anything from him. I killed his wife and son.’

  An eyebrow rose above the lazy green eye of the warden. He opened his briefcase and lifted out a newspaper and a leaflet, before handing the articles to the prisoner. The leaflet showed the famous medium, who Elizabeth knew all too well, with a Wanted warning across the page.

  ‘I think you can cut the crap on the murder, Elizabeth.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why is she wanted?’

  ‘Take the newspaper and read over it, but I’m guessing your sentence may be reviewed soon. Why in God’s name did you plead guilty?’

  ‘I couldn’t face it.’ Elizabeth wiped the moisture from her eye. ‘I couldn’t face a trial. I wanted it to be done with. Hearing the evidence against me on the day I faced the charges, it was horrible. I was already going to prison. I just wanted it to be done with, rather than investigations into every pocket of my life. I wanted to leave with a little dignity.’

  ‘But you were handed a life sentence. This is crazy!

  ‘I may not have held the instrument which killed Suzanne Walker, but I ruined her life the day I ran over her son. I deserved the maximum sentence.’

  ‘Well you’re not going to get completely away with this, perverting the course of justice is a pretty serious crime. You allowed a murderer to continue to walk the streets of Manchester. Did you think she was capable of Suzanne’s murder?’

  ‘Hell no.’ Elizabeth furiously shook her head. ‘I thought she was the real deal. I feel like such a fool.’

  ‘With that in mind, would you like to accept Michael Walker’s invitation?’

  ‘I don’t think I have any other choice…’

  The clearing for visitation took several days. During that time, Elizabeth shared her concerns with her friend Karen, debating whether she’d made the right decision to meet Michael. These intimate conversations were undertaken in the prison library, where Elizabeth worked three days a week, organising the journals and text books alongside h
er friend.

  The library was small but had few users. It had several rows of cases, requiring ladders to reach the higher shelves. Inmates had the option to read fiction or study towards an A-Level. Elizabeth and Karen learned Chinese together although their dreams of reaching the Far East to utilise their new language skills were unlikely to be fulfilled.

  She walked in and found Karen on the computer. They embraced and Karen pulled back, lifting her friend’s face towards the light.

  ‘That’s another mark on your pretty little face.’

  ‘It’s Pat. She thinks I snitched on her for using this place for dealing drugs. I’ve already told her I hadn’t.’

  ‘That was me. It wasn’t true but I had to keep her away from you.’

  ‘I can’t take much more of this,’ Elizabeth cried.

  ‘Then tell the warden, he’ll protect you!’

  ‘What? And be more of a grass? I think not. I just need to keep my head down. It’ll pass. I’m scared for the baby more than anything else.’

  ‘At least you’ll get into a mother and baby unit when it’s here. I’ll miss you though.’ Karen bowed her head.

  ‘Oh don’t do this. I’ve already got Michael coming today, I don’t need two people making me feel bad.’

  ‘Hey… come on.’ Karen wiped her friend’s tears away. ‘Look, you’re doing this for him, remember? You need to answer everything he asks, truthfully. Then you’ll both be able to leave everything behind.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She peered up to Karen and embraced her, leading to a lingering kiss.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  Karen nodded and straightened Elizabeth’s hair, before pushing her towards the exit. Placing on a blue bib over her torso, Elizabeth stepped into the visitor’s room. She glanced around the tables and chairs and found a morose Michael staring at his twiddling thumbs at the back. Prison guards lined the walls, watching over the proceedings. Taking a deep breath, she paused before making her way to him. He wore a branded blue hoody and jeans; he was pale, thin and had stitches to the side of a bloody gash.