The house of the psychic is three-storeyed and sash-windowed, its creamy-yellow double front fringed with roses and terraced between two identical twins. The wreath of holly on the door is fat and luxurious, a single tasteful concession to the approaching season. Where the money lives; the phrase John likes to use when we drive through quiet exclusive streets like this one, or rather the phrase he liked to use in the time before Joel disappeared. These days we shy away from the possibilities of levity, cynicism, sarcasm, disparagement, as if they might scorch our flesh.
In my quest to find answers, John and I have driven much further than the ten miles or so that have taken us from our own quiet suburb to this exclusive street. We’ve visited pokey flats over takeaway restaurants, oddly business-like premises in bohemian commercial districts, over-embellished ex-council houses in neighbourhoods teetering precariously between gentrification and urban ruin; tumbledown cottages in small villages. This house is the first that we could almost certainly not afford ourselves. I like that. I like the implication of a success that’s superior to our own. The man we’re about to meet will be the right choice. This man has succeeded far beyond the rest, and therefore must – surely he must – be the diamond in the coal heap, the singular exception who can actually keep his promises. I reach for John’s hand and offer him a quick bright smile, not too large because we don’t do large smiles any more, but enough to let him know that I’m happy, that I have a good feeling about this one. And I do. I really do.
“We don’t have to go in.” John strokes my hand gently through the fur-lined leather glove. His own hand is bare, his coat unfastened, his head hatless. He’s always been more resistant to the cold than I am.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“We don’t have to do this. He’s got our email address and our phone number but he hasn’t got anything else, he’s not going to chase us or anything. We can just walk back up the street and get in the car and go home.”
“But why would we want to?” I’m genuinely baffled. “John, this guy’s good, I’ve been asking around and everyone says he’s great. He’s worked with the police even, there was a case over in Manchester and he helped them find this woman—”
“Who did you hear that from?”
“I can’t remember, someone online I think, but they had all the details, it was in the papers and everything.”
“But you didn’t hear it from the police?”
“Well, no, of course I didn’t. I’m not going to ring up Manchester police force and ask, am I?” John says nothing. “Okay, why don’t you wait in the car?”
“I’m not letting you walk into a strange man’s house on your own.”
“Are you just going to sit there and send out bad energy and ruin everything?”
“Bad energy.” He laughs a little. “Susannah, that’s not a real thing.”
“Yes, it is, of course it is, you just don’t call it energy, you call it mood. Bad moods can ruin parties and meetings, why wouldn’t they ruin this too?”
“If it’s a real thing then it should work whether I believe or not. I can’t make the lights go on and off just through my mood.”
As it happens, I know John is wrong. There have been plenty of cases of poltergeists triggered by unhappy people in the house. Adolescents usually, whose families are suddenly plagued by an outbreak of power cuts, temperamental kitchen appliances, blown light bulbs and intermittent telephone connections. But I don’t have time to argue now. Our appointment is for seven thirty, and it’s already seven twenty-eight.
“If this is what you’re going to be like, then you might as well not be here at all. I mean it John, you have to make the effort. You’re not going to ruin this, are you? Not when it might actually work?”
For a moment, I think he’s going to resist me, that he’s actually going to insist that we leave.
“All right.” His capitulation is both expected and surprising. Expected because I’m used to winning, surprising because we’ve both just remembered that me winning is not some sort of natural law. “I’ll come in.”
“And behave yourself?”
“I promise.”
“And you’ll join in properly?”
“I’ll do my best, okay? I’ll do my absolute best.”
I’d be happier with another promise, but it’s seven twenty-nine now and I don’t want to make a bad impression, so I lead the way through the gate and up the path and onto the wide stone porch. The garden is higher than the street, the steps higher than the garden, creating an unpleasant feeling of vertigo as I lift the lion’s-head knocker, careful not to scratch my gloves on the holly wreath. John hovers just behind me, as if he’s waiting for me to fall.
“Mrs Harper?” The man who opens the door is perhaps in his early forties, neat and slick in his black jeans and black roll-neck and black goatee beard and rimless glasses that are just the right side of theatrical. He’s not good-looking exactly but the energy he exudes makes you feel that he is, like an actor or a stand-up comedian whose projected persona can temporarily seduce you into finding them the most exciting person on the planet. “I’m James O’Brien. James, obviously, not Mr O’Brien. Lovely to meet you, thank you for being so prompt. And Mr Harper?” He greets John with a respectful handshake, but his attention is focused on me, taking my coat and hanging it for me on the good wooden coat hanger that waits for it on the pegs on the deep-red wall.
In most houses a red hallway would be oppressive, maybe even vaginal, but this tall wide house with its tiled floor can take on the red colour and make it majestic, like the entrance to a beautiful old music hall. We’re led into a room with a parquet floor where a small fire burns genteelly in the grate, and a spotted mirror in an old-gold frame shows us a dim startling glimpse of our faces. The walls bloom with outsized green roses that make me think of absinthe and arsenic. It feels both authentic and staged, a dreamy reminiscence of the glory days of spiritualism. It also feels dizzyingly expensive. I cautiously sit down on a green velvet chaise longue, feeling the wood shift slightly as John joins me. James O’Brien takes the spot on the sofa at ninety degrees to us. His body language is forward and open, in noticeable contrast to my own nervous neatness (feet together on the floor, hands folded in my lap) and John’s disengagement (back against the back of the chaise longue, arms folded).
“So how are you feeling about tonight?” His smile is quick, white and reassuring. “I’m getting the impression you’re a bit nervous, Mrs Harper? And Mr Harper, you’re feeling somewhat sceptical about the whole thing?”
“Oh, you spotted that, did you,” says John gloomily. I glance at him and he looks irritated, then ashamed of himself. “Sorry. But yes, to be honest, I am a bit sceptical.”
“Understood. Understood. Are you happy to go ahead anyway? Or would you prefer to put this on hold for now? Give me a call in a week or two once you’re really sure? Of course I’ll refund your payment in the meantime.”
This question takes both of us by surprise. John’s eyebrows go up, his arms unfold, he leans forward, beginning to copy the shape James is making with his own body. Is this a good sign, or a bad one? What if John accepts James’s invitation and gathers his coat from the hall and marches us back into the night? I don’t know if I could bear that. If I’m not talking to James or someone like him, all I’ll have left to keep me sane are my midnight walks and drives as I scour the city and the surrounding villages, looking for some faint trace of our son.
“Do a lot of your clients bail out at the last minute?” John asks after a moment’s thought.
“Not a lot, but some. And that’s all right. Sessions like this are an investment of time and emotion and the results are never guaranteed. I don’t want anyone making that investment if they’re not confident it’s right for them.”
Everything about this one is different. The house, so expensively tasteful. The man himself, well-groomed and well-kept, such a change from floaty batiks and fat torsos and copious silver jewell
ery. Investment. Results. Confident. Right for them. I feel a surge of hope. John pats my hand to get my attention.
“Susannah? It’s up to you, love. I’ll stay if you want to. If you’re sure you’re strong enough to go through this again.”
“You’ve been to quite a few others,” says James, with the faint tolerant smile that tells me everything I need to know about his opinions of those others.
“We have,” I admit.
He doesn’t say anything, just holds my gaze for a moment. He has one of the most expressively eloquent faces I’ve ever encountered. I’m completely different to them, he says to me without words. But it’s all right, you don’t have to go through with this. There’s no pressure. I don’t need your money. You can see I’m doing fine for myself already. In fact, I might even ask you to leave in a minute. I don’t want to put any pressure on you, because I’m just that good a person.
“I’m sure,” I say, before he can speak. “I’m definitely sure.”
The moment where he considers my words is painful.
“All right, then,” he says at last. “Then let’s get started, shall we?”
There’s a neat little mahogany table in the window and I wonder if perhaps we’re going to sit round that, but instead James leads us back across the hall and into a chilly, bare-boarded space with blackout blinds pulled down to hide the windows, and a single bulb imprisoned in a cheap white paper shade that glows like a moon. In the centre, a square pine table is crowded around with four institutional-looking wooden chairs. The heavy glass jug filled with ice water, the stack of cheap thick tumblers, could have been stolen from the dinner halls of my childhood.
“No distractions,” James says, that quick reassuring smile that tells me he’s aware of my surprise and is prepared for it. “I know some people go in for scarves and rugs everywhere but I’d rather keep everything out in the open so you can see there’s no enhancement going on.” He gives John a quick little conspiratorial glance as he says this, nothing sly or subservient, just one man acknowledging to another that yes, there are some terrible charlatans in this world, and it’s wise to protect yourself from them. “So, as I outlined to you on the phone, this is very much a preliminary session, all right? I’ll be working mainly to establish the connection between us, and to start to get a feel for Joel himself. We may find something useful, but that’s more likely to come in the later sessions, once we’ve established a good connection.”
I can feel John’s discomfort with this smooth casual segue into later sessions – I’d told him only one, it would just be the one – but I know he won’t argue now. He promised to support me properly and with an open mind, and I know that’s what he’ll do.
“I understand,” I say.
“And Mr Harper?”
John sighs and hesitates a moment, but then, thank God, he nods.
“Oh, I should probably say that there’s absolutely no commitment to any future sessions. I never ask clients to commit to a second appointment, it’s always down to you to say when you’re ready to proceed. Does that make you feel a bit more comfortable, Mr Harper?” John has the decency to blush. “Good. Now, before we get started, would either of you like a glass of water?”
“No, thank you.”
“Want to use the bathroom?”
“Oh. No, thanks.”
“Mr Harper?”
John shakes his head silently.
“All right, then. If you’d both like to take a seat?”
I perch nervously in the smooth slippy seat of the little wooden chair. John takes the one to the right of me. James sits opposite. The room is very cold.
“So to start with, we’re just going to spend some time concentrating on Joel, getting a feel for the kind of person he is.” He places his hands on the table. “I’m just going to take your hands, and if I can ask you to join hands too and complete the circle to allow the flow of energy…” He says this completely matter-of-factly, as if he’s asking us to turn on a light switch or show him where the fuse box is. “And now, if you can both think hard about your son, about a time when you were all together and you were really, really happy.”
“Do we close our eyes?” John’s voice is hoarse and nervous. This is a good sign, it has to be a good sign. It must mean he’s seen something that’s convinced him this is different.
“Whichever’s more comfortable for you. The main thing is that you concentrate absolutely on remembering the times when you were happy and together with Joel.” He glances at me. “And if you find that unlocks some emotions within you, either happy ones or sad ones, that’s absolutely not a problem, don’t feel as if you have to hide anything or hold anything back. But please don’t break the circle if you can possibly help it. All right?”
I’d thought I’d done rather a good job at hiding the tears that are already crouching in the back of my nose and throat. Unseen by James, John strokes the palm of my hand with the ball of his thumb.
Choosing a memory is like picking a rose from a bush full of thorns. If you want the sweetness, there’s no avoiding the pain. Which should I choose? Which would have the most power? Sitting in the rocking chair at midnight with Joel drowsing half awake in my arms, gazing out at our familiar garden turned strange by moonlight, watching the small scurry of the hedgehog as it rushes over the lawn to the safety of the shadows? The tightness of Joel’s fingers in my hair as he burst from the doorway of the playgroup and flung himself onto me? The clean damp scent of his sweat when we walked together in the park and fed the ducks, and he grew tired and I carried him home even though he was six years old and too heavy? Lying on our backs and watching the sunlight filter through the leaves of the apple tree?
Beside me, John takes a deep slow breath. I realise with a sharp stab of guilt that my happiest memories are of Joel and me alone. When I picture the three of us together what I mostly remember is anxiety, the careful delicate work of translating their meanings to each other without looking as if I’m interfering, endlessly modelling the behaviours I want to see from them both. No, Daddy, I don’t want you to push me on the swings, I want Mummy to push me! – Oh, Joel, sweetie, don’t worry, Daddy won’t push you higher than you want to go, all you have to do is tell him you’re getting scared and he’ll slow down, won’t you John? And besides, Daddy’s much stronger than me, he can push you for loads longer than I can… Or in a restaurant: Joel, Daddy only wants you to try his steak because it’s yummy and he wants to share, okay? He’s not trying to make you change your food, you can still have your chicken nuggets. In fact, why don’t we all try each other’s dinners? Why don’t you give Daddy and me a bite of your chicken nuggets?
“So I’m getting a picture of a little boy with blond hair, sitting in the sunshine. Somewhere in a garden? A back garden, with some sort of tree… a fruit tree… an apple tree. Mrs Harper, I’m thinking this is your memory, is that right?”
“Yes. Yes. That’s me. That’s what I was thinking of.”
John’s hand tenses slightly in mine.
“He loved the garden when he was little, didn’t he? He looks very very happy in this memory. Oh, and he has some sort of toy with him as well. Some sort of toy animal? A plushy toy animal?”
James’s voice is low and earnest now. I have to concentrate hard to hear him. I am acutely aware of the sound of my breath.
“Yes. Yes, he had, um—”
“That’s all right, don’t tell me, let the image come to me. I think he’s holding a… a cat? No, that’s not quite right… ah, okay, I’ve got it. It’s a dog. A dog made out of patchwork scraps of fur. Does that sound familiar?”
My heart is trying to drive me from my seat. I want to leap up and spring around the room. James has seen Scrap-dog. He has seen Scrap-dog. No one has ever seen Scrap-dog before. This man is the real thing. I’ve finally found him.
“Remember not to break the connection,” James says softly, and I force myself to keep still.
“So now I’m starting to get another imag
e. This time you’re somewhere with very big machines, lots of big machines. Um. Could you concentrate a little harder? I’m not quite seeing… ah, yes, some sort of vehicle. Trains, maybe? No, it’s not trains, it’s buses, although I think there might be some trains nearby? Somewhere very noisy. You’re waiting for a bus, all three of you?”
I’m bewildered, but to my surprise John speaks.
“Yes. I was thinking of the first time we—”
“Ah-ah-ah, don’t lead me, it’s best if you let me just… feel my way into the image… ah, yes, I’ve got it now. It’s the bus station. He’s about four years old? It’s a treat, I think, maybe a birthday? No, it’s not a birthday, is it? Something significant, though.”
I have no memory of this happening. How dreadful that this moment, which clearly meant so much to John, has tumbled through the leaky sieve of my brain and disappeared.
“Starting school,” John murmurs.
“Of course it is. I could get that it was something important, some sort of milestone, but not the exact one… and you took him on the top deck, I think?”
“Yes. The top deck.”
“I can feel how happy he was in this memory. How happy you all were. Thank you for sharing that with me.”
From behind my closed eyelids, I see the light flicker.
“Nothing to worry about,” James says. “Sometimes it happens when we make a particularly good connection, that’s all. Or it could just be dodgy wiring.” He hesitates, and clears his throat. “Now, I don’t normally do this so early, but since we’re doing some good work, I’d like to move forward in time, and I’d like, if you could, for you to concentrate on the last time you saw Joel.” I try not to flinch. “I know that’s going to be a difficult memory, so if you’re not comfortable with going this far we can simply focus on building our connection using happier memories. You’re in control, I’m just here to support you.”
Why am I hesitating? He’s found missing people before. People whose names were in the papers, although his connection to the cases is spoken of only in whispers, passed from one desperate mouth to another. He can have this memory if it helps. He can have all of them if it helps.
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