The Medium

by David Hatton

  As part of my research, I went to see a very famous medium on stage in Manchester. I’d seen her before on television and was quite impressed by what I saw in her TV series. However it soon became apparent that most of her work on stage was cold reading and throughout her show, she threw out random names and vague messages which went uncalled, and yet the audience remained convinced by the two or three hits which she achieved and were practically giving her the answers.

  I was horrified to hear her tell one audience member that she was responsible for her son’s death as she’d had an argument with him minutes before he’d sped off in fury on his motorcycle leading to an accident; it was horrific to see someone who had clearly come to the show for comfort to leave with that awful feeling, which she’d likely already carried since he passed. Attendees openly spoke about who’d they’d come to see and placed letters in a bowl, freely available to the medium before she took to the stage. She’s had widespread criticism in the press after several slip-ups in the past. I’ll refrain from mentioning her name; she has a habit of suing those who query her gift.

  Social media has made it easier for mediums to have access to our information. We put our entire lives on show to the public and it’s not only criminals and marketing teams who can use and abuse the information we so freely give over to these platforms. As an experiment I even contacted someone who’d responded to a psychic post on Facebook and pretended to be a medium, having just scanned three posts on her profile and used stereotypes based on her age and her photographs. I told her afterwards who I really was and she was surprised at how easy it was to make her believe that I had supernatural abilities.

  In writing this, I didn’t intend to expose mediums but like all my work I wanted to create a gripping novel based on the stories and people I’d come across. Belief is very personal and people take a lot away from these messages so I’d hate to take anything away from anyone who has found comfort in a psychic. And like any agnostic person, I’m open to the possibility that there could be people out there who potentially have the gift.

  The work of psychics was simply a backdrop to the real story of The Medium, which was about deception, devotion and how even those with closed minds on either side of an argument can lose sight of what’s most important. Michael, in his ability to open his atheist mind to an alternative reality, was able to find the answers he’d desperately longed for and move on. As Derren Brown said, ‘both atheists and believers can be as arrogant and witless as each other.’

  With that I leave you, the reader, to make up your own mind and hope you find comfort in whatever path you choose to follow.

  David Hatton

  With Thanks

  I would like to say thank you to the following people:

  Mum and Dad - who together worked as my sales department, ensuring all who brushed past them bought my book

  My partner, David - who is ignored for a few months a year while I work on my second job but always remains supportive

  Chris Davis - who gave me honest feedback on the book, which helped develop the story

  The sceptics and the believers who inspired the characters

  To all those who bought my first book, The Return, left reviews and/or told their friends and family about it! As an indie author, I need all the publicity I can get, so thank you!

  Also by David Hatton

  The Return

  by David Hatton

  Beverly Hahn has the surprise of her life when her husband, Marty, knocks at her door, ten years after he was declared dead in the September 11th terrorist attacks in New York. As Marty attempts to reclaim his life insurance, Beverly has to face those who supported her through the grief she had no entitlement to feel.

  Out now, available as a paperback or E-book on Amazon

  Feedback for The Return

  From Amazon, Good Reads & Facebook:

  “The Return perfectly captures the emotional turmoil of a family devastated by the 9/11 attacks. A decade on their loyalty to one another is tested to the limit in a turn of events not one of them could have foreseen.”

  “Sensitively written. The author has a good insight into the feelings of the American population after that event.”

  “An intriguing and moving story about love, loyalties, betrayal, deceit and forgiveness. The story of the Hahn family is well written and flows throughout the book.”

  “A thought-provoking and sensitively written novel of how human character flaws can lead an unexpected family into turmoil beyond their imagination.”

  Coming Soon…

  The Exhumation

  by David Hatton

  In 1876, a plot to steal President Lincoln’s body in exchange for ransom was foiled. Over 130 years later, the body has been snatched once again. Detective Darnell Jackson is on the case to find the former President’s body but soon discovers it was stolen for more than just money. As Jackson becomes more emotionally involved in the case, he discovers the secrets that America has hidden away from their citizens for too long. Should Detective Jackson reveal the darkest secrets of their former president?

  Coming Soon…

  The Catfish

  by David Hatton

  Rachel McCann has barely opened the doors to her own law practice when she’s approached by Karen Irvine, instructing her to defend her son’s name after he was catfished by a local vigilante gang: The Predator Hunters. How far can a mother go to get justice for her child?

  For up to date information on new releases, visit:

  The website: www.david-hatton.com

  Email David at: davidhattonbooks@gmail.com

  Follow on Twitter: @davidhattonbook

  Follow on Facebook: fb.com/dhattonbooks

  A sample chapter from The Return by David Hatton, now available on Amazon.

  Amelia Hahn sat in her bedroom completing her maths homework. A knock at the door interrupted her.

  ‘Thank God for that!’ She sighed with relief and pushed the geometry assignment, set by Miss Hubbard, across her desk. She had squinted at the questions for over an hour like a magic-eye portrait, but all she had achieved was a headache.

  She prompted her visitor to enter, stretching and yawning as the door opened. It was her older brother, Benjamin, who held equally droopy bags beneath his eyes. He hadn’t changed out of his white shirt and charcoal trousers since he arrived home from school, but his stripy tie and blue blazer were quickly abandoned on his bedroom floor.

  'Are you OK, Kid?' He approached her desk and rubbed her shoulders. 'They’re not distracting you too much, are they?'

  'I can't decide which is worse; their shouting or this dumb assignment.’ Of course she knew which was truly worse; the homework would at least be over soon.

  'Do you want some help?'

  Benjamin picked up a pen and pulled up a seat next to her. The wooden desk sat beneath her bunk bed. A cotton candy machine appeared to have erupted in Amelia's sleeping quarters as every inch of the walls, floors and bed covers were coated pink. Even her grey onesie had sneaked in the occasional pink love-heart, stitched into the breast pocket and hood.

  Pulling the textbook towards him, he read the questions which she was struggling with, before gazing through her exercise book to assess her answers. A smile scarred his face as he filled in the blanks.

  ‘I wish I could be more like you.’ Amelia groaned. ‘You manage to answer the most complex of puzzles, while I struggle to add up the simplest of figures.’

  ‘Hey, don't be silly. Don't tell anyone... but I'm jealous of you too. Life ain’t exactly an easy ride for me either, you know?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I might be able to answer a few sums, but you're good with the people stuff. I'm hopeless at all that.’

  Three years his junior, Amelia was shorter and plumper than her sibling. Her curly blonde (almost white) locks, tied up in pigtails, contrasted with Benjamin’s dark short hair. Amelia looked more like her mother with her petite nose and unusually pale skin,
while her brother took after their father with his strong jaw line, olive complexion and Roman snout.

  'Well you'll be off to Cornell in a few years. That's something I'll never get a chance to do. You'll make Mom and Dad proud.' Benjamin had visited the Ivy League college twice already with his parents to ensure his personal development plans captured all of their entry requirements.

  'Have you ever considered that I don't wanna go to Cornell?'

  'You don't? But Dad will be devastated! You need to keep up the family tradition.' Amelia pleaded, crushed that her own academic record failed to continue the Hahns’ long line of Cornell graduates.

  'No. I wanna go Harvard and study American History. I wanna get far away from here. I doubt they'd notice if I was here anyway,' a bitter Benjamin grouched, nodding his head towards the corridor.

  'What about me? You can't leave me here with them! You're the only person to keep me sane in this house. I can't cope with their arguing alone.'

  'Hey, don't worry. Why do you think I picked Harvard? Boston is near enough so you can come and stay. Anyway it's all a dream. I doubt Dad will ever be able to afford the sixty-grand fees anyway. My only hope is a scholarship with the mess we're in.'

  ‘Do you think they’ll ever get on again?' asked Amelia. Their parents' arguments had continued for almost two years and she’d grown accustomed to the noise, but this evening’s row had dragged on for longer than usual. 'I know they love us, but I can't remember one day when there wasn't a row in this house. We couldn't even escape an argument on Christmas Day for God's sakes.'

  'It depends if Dad ever manages to sort out our money problems.' Benjamin explained.

  They had been up to their eyes in debt since their father stepped down as Regional Director for a national communications firm. Marty was a good man but management was not his gift and he made some terrible errors of judgement, which led to profit losses and redundancies. Since his downfall, he worked as an office administrative assistant for a rival organisation for just ten dollars per hour.

  For many people it was a liveable wage, but they wanted to live the high life during the peak of their financial success. Bank loans and credit cards paid for their lifestyles, including their two Lexus four-wheel drives and the mortgage on their four-storey town house on the Upper-East Side of Manhattan. The banks gave out loans like Seattle gave out rain and everybody wanted a lush lifestyle even if it meant living beyond their means.

  'Is it my fault they argue?' Amelia asked, wiping a tear from her cheek. 'I'll go to a state school if that's what it takes.’

  'Don't be silly,' Benjamin intervened, aggravated by his sister's self-deprecation. 'You didn't do anything wrong.'

  'But it could save them so much money if I went somewhere else. There are some awesome state schools. You’ll be fine because they don't pay for your education as you have the scholarship, besides I don't think I can keep up with my class. They’re all so bright and I'm just hopeless!'

  'There was a great thinker who said ‘If you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, then it will live its whole life believing it’s stupid’. There are lots of different types of genius, Kid, you just need to find what you’re good at.'

  'See, you always manage to do that!'

  'Manage to do what?' Benjamin appeared perplexed.

  'Pull out some quote from a great thinker, I wish I could do that. I wouldn't know where to begin!' Amelia’s voice ached with despair.

  'I can regurgitate what I read in a book, big deal. It’s those people who can apply their knowledge who’re really intelligent. That ain't me.'

  'Sorry Benji, but I struggle to believe that.'

  The siblings enjoyed each other's company today, but that hadn’t always been the case. During their younger years, Amelia despised her brother as he was older, cleverer and was allowed to do the things which her parents considered her too young to do. Benjamin stayed out late and attended parties without their mother calling their friends’ parents ahead of the celebrations. Now that she was older, she had the same privileges that he had and her brother's genius became vital, ensuring she passed her exams, even if it was a mere pass that she achieved.

  ‘They’ve really dropped the ball this time.’

  'They're not bad people, Benji.' Amelia said. She stroked the pane glass of a frame holding a photograph of the family at the Cape.

  'No, I know. They're just caught up in their money problems and trying everything they can to overcome them... just like we are. I just wish they could do more to meet your needs.'

  'I have you.'

  It was to him whom she had first come to when Amelia received her first period. She brought her stained underwear to him and cried on his lap. He researched sexual health information on the Internet and took out a book on family planning from the school library to advise his younger sibling.

  Their lives contrasted from outside to in. On the outside they posed as rich upper class some-bodies, who despite their setbacks still lived the high life. The reality was they lived hand-to-mouth and were no different to the poor white trash that filled the streets of Bronx.

  ‘We better finish up, Kid, I gotta go.’ He clipped the cap on her pen and placed it in her pencil case.

  'Where are you going tonight?' Amelia always asked, knowing the answer would always be the same.

  'Never you mind. You really wouldn't wanna know. Anyway, I think the civil war is over.'

  Slamming the hardback text book closed, he looked up at the clock for the time; it was almost midnight. He listened out for any noise below, but for the first time that evening, the house was blissfully silent.

  Amelia collected her books and placed them into her bag, which sported a picture of the Backstreet Boys on the back of it. She threw the backpack onto a white plastic chair in the corner of the room and embraced her brother.

  'Tell me we’ll get out of this.' Amelia sobbed into his chest,

  'We will, one day. We just need to win the lottery,' he joked, but neither of them laughed. Kissing his sister's forehead, Benjamin said goodnight and returned to his room. The teenager chilled out in his room, smoking from his pipe, which he retrieved from a shoe-box under his bed. The box stored his cigarettes, a collection of porn, a clump of marijuana and a stash of rolled-up dirty cash.

  Secure with the knowledge that his family were all in bed, he retrieved his black hooded top from the closet, sneaked out of the window and climbed down the drainpipe.

  The tube to Christopher Street took minutes. He approached the bustling street, ignoring the drag queens coercing passers-by into their bars. He hung out by a corner beneath a street lamp until a black Jaguar pulled up and the window slid down. After several minutes of whispered negotiation, Benjamin slipped into the vehicle and left the bright lights of The Village behind.

  *

  On the fourth floor of the town house, Marty and Beverly Hahn lay in bed watching their favourite movie, Meet Me In St. Louis. They heard the creak of their son's window opening below, but it was a warm September evening, therefore it was understandable that their first-born might be a little uncomfortable in an unventilated home.

  The exhausted couple recovered from the row and the post argument make-up session. They refused to retire to bed on an argument; unfortunately they always picked up where they left off the next evening. However, these late night moments in bed, as they snuggled up and looked out at the stars through their rooftop window, reinforced their devotion to each other.

  Marty stroked his wife’s red hair and kissed her forehead, coated with her unusually pale skin. Her scrawny physique hid any evidence that she had given birth to two children. The gel, mixed into Marty's spiky black hair, had hardened and flattened from the pressure of his pillow as he lay with his wife. Fragments of hair, detaching from his head, floated down onto his toned stomach.

  'One day, Hunny, we’re going to be right on top again,' Marty insisted. He smiled as he kissed his wife's neck. A light tickle caused Beverly to shiver as h
er husband stroked her arm.

  'How do you manage to remain so optimistic?' Beverly asked. As she lay on his chest, she breathed in his fragrance: Old Spice, a familiar scent he had worn since the day they met.

  'I just know it. One day we’re gonna be rich again and when that happens I'm going to marry you all over again! We’ll renew our vows in Las Vegas!'

  Marty stared up into the roof window in wonder, gazing into their future. The September evening sky remained light and he used a remote control to shut the mechanical blinds, blocking out the summer glare through the glass ceiling pane.

  'Las Vegas? Classy.' Sarcasm reeked in Beverley’s tone.

  'It’ll be awesome just to elope and marry all over again, somewhere away from everyone. Just us two this time, rather than those hundreds of guests, half of which we couldn’t have picked out of a line-up.'

  'It was all image to my dad. He wanted to impress his friends, rather than securing a special day for me. We could ask him for money.’ Beverly suggested.

  ‘Not this again.’ Marty sighed viciously. ‘I’ve told you time and time again, we’re not asking that man for money.’