Oh Great, Now I Can See Dead People

by Deborah Durbin

  ‘Fine, but I don’t think we are going to achieve quite the same effect as if you had actually been there on the day,’ I say, recalling the reason why Mark was in another corridor.

  ‘Ah you’ll be great,’ Mark assures me.

  ‘So what happens next? I mean, how many other pensioners are they poisoning at that home?’

  ‘I guess the police will want to talk to that old dragon, Mrs Lance, and there will be a full investigation.’

  ‘Right, well, let me know when you need me next. Oh, and Mark?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you by any chance got purple boxer shorts on?’

  ‘Erm … yes. Why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason,’ I say smiling to myself.

  ‘So it looks as though Petra’s mum was poisoned’ I say as I relay the story to Miracle.

  ‘Well hopefully they will do a full investigation and justice will be served. Now, about this séance, Sam,’ she continues. ‘It sounds to me as though we have a few unwanted party guests left over from Halloween, so what I need you to do is to try and work out who they are and just how many have escaped into our world.’

  ‘And I’m going to do this how?’ I have enough trouble playing hide and seek with my mother, let alone dead peeps!

  ‘You need to see all the people who came to the séance and see if they act out of character again.’

  ‘You mean like my mother.’

  ‘Yep, your mother, Mr Brent, Mrs Horsham, anyone and everyone who came to the séance,’ Miracle says.

  ‘And then what? Douse them in salty water and say three hail Marys?’

  ‘No, Sam. We will need to get them all together again and do another séance so that we can send all the spirits back.’

  ‘But what if I can’t get them all together again? Mrs Horsham’s thinking of going to Spain to have a boob job!’ I cry. Oh great, now I’m going to have to fly out to Spain and track down a middle-aged woman who is about to have her boobs enhanced!

  ‘You’ll just have to try and do your best, Sam, and it’s probably best not to tell anyone what has happened. We have enough trouble as it is convincing people we’re for real without word getting around that we let dead people roam the earth, possessing village folk. The next thing you know they will be gathering firewood and looking for the biggest stake they can find to tie you to.’

  Oh bloody marvellous!

  Once I’ve finished working out with Miracle how I am going to track down everyone who attended the séance and popped in to see Valerie about her designs for my wedding dress, I decide I’ve had enough excitement for one day and head for home.

  As I drive up the road I glance to the left, where I see Mr Brent in his garden in a passionate embrace with Mum’s friend, Mrs Samuels - the one with one leg shorter than that other; not that you can tell.

  Oh bloody hell! And what has he done to his garden? As I slow down – God, I must look like a right voyeuristic nutter – I look at the garden. Instead of the normal pretty, gnome-adorned picturesque cottage that Bath is used to, there is a four-foot wide moat, complete with drawbridge, surrounding his house. God knows how long it took him to dig that out! I mean, he’s no spring chicken. Mr Brent, complete with axe, looks like he’s smothering Mrs Samuels to death. The poor woman’s legs are splayed all over the place. I wind down the window.

  ‘Are you OK, Mrs Samuels?’ I yell.

  Mr Brent and Mrs Samuels look up from their cuddle against the wooden stocks. Mr Brent looks as startled as a rabbit caught in the headlights and promptly drops Mrs Samuels from his clutches.

  ‘Agghh!’

  Mrs Samuels loses her balance and clonks her head on the offending stocks, knocking herself out. Oh my goodness!

  Before you can say, “The Vikings have landed” I’m out of the car, have jumped the moat – not easy in a pair of heels, I might add – and am administering first aid to Mrs Samuels. Since Jack’s drowning-in-the-sea incident I’m a bit of a Florence Nightingale these days; I can spot a fractured fibula or a compressed coccyx at fifty paces.

  With Mrs Samuels in the recovery position – see, I told you I knew what I was doing – she comes round after a few seconds.

  ‘Oh my,’ is all Mrs Samuels says.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Oh, yes dear. I don’t know quite what happened there,’ Mrs Samuels says. ‘And who on earth is that?’ she points at Mr Brent, who looks equally confused as to who he is and why he’s dressed like a Viking. ‘And where the hell is Henry?’

  ‘Henry?’ I ask, looking down at her.

  ‘The king ... my husband, Henry?’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ I hear Ange say.

  Uh-oh indeed. Mrs Samuels thinks she’s Anne Boleyn or one of the many wives of Henry the Eighth.

  ‘Maybe it’s the bump to the head?’ Ange ventures.

  Hum, maybe. Or maybe like Mr Brent and half the village, Mrs Samuels has also become possessed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  So then, what’s a girl to do when faced with the prospect of a village half-possessed by the spirit world? Go home and sulk for a bit, that’s what.

  The kittens, who I have temporarily named after the characters in the Wizard of Oz,– my all-time favourite film – seem fine when I return home and Missy is completely smitten with every one of them and is proving to be a good mum, feeding and cleaning them all day long. Spencer is equally smitten and keeps bringing home little presents in the form of various rodents, by way of congratulations to his girlfriend – personally I’d prefer flowers. It’s such a wondrous sight to see this little feline family together in their new home. Having vacated the airing cupboard on account of it being far too small for a family of ten, they have now relocated to the comfy armchair in the lounge.

  I look at Missy and think how proud I am of her. She returns my look with the look of what a clever cat she is as she expertly picks Scarecrow up by the scruff of the neck and jumps up on the chair with him.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven … hang on, where’s Dorothy? I look around the living room to see if she’s fallen off the armchair, or is stuck in the litter tray again. Nope. Where is the little bugger? It’s then that I hear a little mew from above and the train starting up again.

  ‘Oh not again! Ange?’ I say as I run up the stairs, two at a time.

  I tend to keep the train room door closed and it’s still shut when I reach the top of the stairs.

  ‘Meow!’

  The noise is coming from inside the room.

  ‘Ange? I could do with a bit of help here, please?’ I ask, and take a deep breath.

  ‘I don’t know what to do!’ Ange cries, rather too quietly for Ange.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I mutter as I quickly visualise a circle of white light surrounding me – a little trick that Miracle taught me for when I need to protect myself. As I open the bedroom door, I stare in astonishment at the site of Dorothy the kitten sitting in the middle of the train track with the express train going full pelt around the track, circling her over and over again. Dorothy mews at me.

  ‘It’s alright, darling,’ I say, scooping her up into my arms. I look at the plug where the power is for the train and notice that it is turned off, which only means one thing.

  ‘Right, I’ve had enough of this! If you’ve got something to say, then say it, otherwise piss off, you’re not welcome here!’ I shout above the rumbling of the train that is gathering momentum as it goes by. Suddenly it stops and I hear someone cough behind me.

  ‘Clive?’ I hold Dorothy closer to me.

  Oh, this is not good. Standing at the top of the stairs is Colin’s cousin Clive, looking more and more like an undertaker by the day, dressed from head to toe in black, and sporting a top hat. The big question is, what’s he doing here – he’s dead.

  Clive smiles a rather sinister smile.

  ‘I’m sorry, Samantha, I didn’t mean to make you jump,’ he says, staring past me at the train track.

  ‘What are you doing here?�
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  I will not be scared by someone who is dead. I will not be scared by someone who is dead, I repeat in my head.

  ‘I think we have some unfinished business, don’t you? Nice train track, by the way.’ Clive smiles again.

  ‘No, we don’t, Clive. Now go away please,’ I say, trying not to sound as though I’m about to wet myself.

  Dorothy meows at him and Missy runs up the stairs, hissing.

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ Clive says, and with that he is gone again.

  I place Dorothy back with her mum, who licks her enthusiastically.

  ‘Well thanks for the help, Ange,’ I mutter. ‘I thought my spirit guide was supposed to help me, not be a pain in the arse!’ I snap angrily as I make my way to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to help you,’ I hear Ange whisper.

  ‘Yeah well, you’re supposed to know, Ange! That’s why you were assigned to me, wasn’t it? To help me with all of this? I’ve got enough on my plate without having to deal with you all the time. I’ve a good mind to ask for a refund!’ I snap, as I put two heaped teaspoons of hot chocolate powder into a mug.

  It’s then that I hear Ange starting to cry and I don’t mean just a few tears because she’s been told off, I mean huge, shoulder-heaving sobs, and now I feel really bad, but I’m right: why give me a spirit guide at all when she can’t even help me in any way?

  ‘Ange? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to have a go at you,’ I say, pouring the hot water into the mug.

  More sobs.

  ‘Ange? What’s wrong?’ This isn’t like Ange at all.

  ‘I … I hate it here. I want to be down there with you. I don’t want to be a bloody spirit guide! I want to be me – normal Ange. I want to be alive again!’ Ange wails.

  Oh crikey!

  ‘You want to talk about it?’ I say as I make my way back to the lounge. ‘I’ve got the new copy of Heat in my bag for you.’

  ‘I want to be able to actually read it, Sam, not just listen to you telling me who’s hot and who’s not. I want to be able to taste chips with loads of vinegar on them. I want … I want to be able to comfort my sister and my mum. I want to hug them and tell them that I’m OK. They’re in bits, Sam. I …’ Ange starts to cry again.

  ‘Tell me all. In your own time,’ I say comfortingly. Ange makes a huge blowing-your-nose sound.

  ‘I had everything to live for. I was your all-time party girl. I had a good job as a receptionist for Pulse FM and I loved life. I really loved life, Sam. I was going to become a radio DJ and tour the world. I had a good home life too – okay, so we might all seem a bit brash at times, but we always looked after each other.’

  Ange goes quiet for a moment.

  ‘Who’s in your family, Ange?’

  ‘Well, me dad left when I was thirteen, so it was just me, me mam Jackie -you’d like her – me sis, Ali, and me cousin, Pip; that’s not his real name, he’s actually called Michael, but we nicknamed him Pip on account that he used to like dressing up in me Auntie Sue’s dresses, so we called him Pippa – Pip for short. He was on Jeremy Kyle once,’ Ange adds proudly.

  Right, OK then. I know from my therapy training that all Ange wants to do is talk, so I let her as I snuggle down on the sofa and just listen.

  ‘And then there was this guy called Marcus – he was well lush.’ Ange says.

  Having spent half an hour sobbing about how much she missed her mum Jackie, her sister, Ali, and Pip and Auntie Sue, Ange has moved on to tell me all about her relationships, including Marcus, who was a bit of a ladies’ man by all accounts.

  ‘I really liked him: that was until I found out he was cheating on me with Stacey Fisher from the chippy – the bitch – and she stank of chip fat too,’ Ange adds.

  ‘Then, after him, I started seeing a guy called Dan, but he got a bit possessive – wanted to know where I was going, what I was doing all the time. He even tried to control what I was wearing.’

  I can’t imagine for one minute anyone trying to change Ange. She wouldn’t change for any man.

  ‘Now if I could just master how you haunt people, he is one person I would happily haunt, and that Marcus and Stacey bloody Fisher. Anyway, the night I had the fateful accident, I was out on the pull with Ali. I was looking well gorge, Sam.’ Ange goes quiet again.

  ‘Ali was mortified. I could see her face as I was lying on the pavement. She was desperately hitting me in the chest – you can’t imagine how much my boobs wobbled! But I was already above her looking down.’

  I feel tears welling up in my eyes.

  ‘I don’t want to be here, Sam!’ Ange wails again. ‘It’s not fair! I was only twenty-five! I want to see my family. I want to argue with Pip over why he’s always borrowing my boob tubes. I want to go shopping in Primark with Ali. I want my mam to know I’m around her.’

  ‘Then we will tell her,’ I say, without really thinking.

  ‘You mean you will contact her for me?’ Ange says, her voice like that of a small child.

  ‘If you want me to contact your mum, I will, Ange.’

  Ange brightens up a little.

  ‘I haven’t been able to see them since I … you know … I don’t know what to do to make myself get there. I remember our phone number though,’ Ange says excitedly. ‘It’s 020 192 6655.’

  I make a mental note.

  ‘Can you phone her now?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Please?’ Ange begs. ‘She’ll be home now. She never misses EastEnders.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Ange!’ I huff and grab my phone. ‘Right, what’s the number again? And just so you know, if your mum has a head fit on me, I will never speak to you again!’ I snap as I punch in the number Ange dictates. The phone starts to ring.

  ‘If that’s you again, our Trevor, I’m going to bloody kill you; you know EastEnders is on!’ a woman answers.

  ‘That’ll be our Dwayne,’ Ange confirms. ‘He always rings right in the middle of EastEnders. Drives Mam mad, it does.’

  Great, I bet Ange’s Mum is in a bad mood now.

  ‘Um … hello, is that Jackie, Ange’s mum?’ I ask nervously.

  ‘Yeah, who’s asking?’ the woman replies. ‘Pip, turn that bloody noise down!’ she shouts above the EastEnders theme tune. She sounds cross.

  ‘Um … Jackie, my name is Samantha Ball. Otherwise known as Crystal Ball.’

  ‘What? Hang on a minute. Pip! Will you turn that frigging TV down, I can’t hear meself think! Say again, love. You’ll have to speak up; this idiot can’t seem to work out how to operate the remote!’

  Ange chuckles in my ear.

  ‘Can you hear me now?’ I shout into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Yes, love, no need to shout, I ain’t deaf yet yer know. What can I do for you and if you’re selling anything I’m not interested,’ Jackie says.

  ‘I said my name is Samantha Ball, otherwise known as Crystal Ball. Psychic to the stars.’ God, now I do sound as though I’m trying to sell her something. Before Jackie has time to slam the phone down, I add, ‘It’s about your daughter, Ange.’

  ‘Ange? Are you taking the piss?’ Jackie says angrily.

  ‘Quick, tell her you’re a psychic!’ Ange says.

  I just did that, Ange!

  ‘No, Jackie. I’m not taking the piss, really I’m not. I have a message from Ange for you – well several messages actually,’ I add.

  ‘You sick bastard!’ Jackie shouts. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? Do you get some kind of kick out of phoning up bereaved people?’

  ‘Quick! Tell her she used to call me Angry Andy when I was little and threw a strop,’ Ange says.

  ‘Jackie, I’m not playing a joke on you. Honestly. Listen, you used to call Ange Angry Andy when she was little.’

  ‘And tell her you know about the time I got a tampon stuck up my nose and she had to take me to A&E.’

  I quickly relay the message before Ange’s mum can cut me off.

  ‘Holy crap! I for
got all about that! Silly bugger thought it was one of those Vic inhalers,’ Jackie laughs. ‘How did you know about that? She was only three at the time.’

  ‘I’m a psychic, Jackie. It’s my job. Ange is my spirit guide. I have her here with me and she wanted me to contact you.’

  ‘What? Ange? A spirit guide?’ Jackie shrieks with laughter, ‘Pip, Ali, you’ll never believe this, our Ange is one of those spirit guides!’

  ‘A what?’ I hear someone say in the background.

  ‘A spirit guide. I told you she would amount to something in the end. It’s that Crystal whatsit on the phone. You know the psychic whatsit. Does that radio show for Town FM. Says our Ange is her spirit guide.’ Jackie laughs again.

  ‘Gee, thanks Mum,’ Ange says.

  ‘So, you’re telling me that my baby is now your spirit guide?’ Jackie says, not quite believing it.

  ‘That’s right, Jackie. Ange is now my spirit guide and a very good one at that,’ I lie – well, no one wants to be told that their dead daughter is about as useful as a chocolate teapot, do they?

  ‘Look, I know this is all a bit of a shock, but Ange desperately wants me to pass on some messages to you. She misses you, Pip, Ali and Auntie Sue very much.’

  Once I manage to convince Jackie that I am for real and not someone trying to sell her something, I begin to relay everything Ange wants to say to her; from how she still craves her mum’s home-made toad in the hole to how she’s going to haunt all her exes and how she would like Pip to have all her frocks and to let Ali have her room now and to stop keeping it like a bloody shrine.

  Jackie laughs and cries, and shouts out the occasional bit of information to her other daughter and to Pip, who are in the background asking questions.

  It’s a very emotional hour and I am exhausted, but Ange is one happy spirit as I retire to my bed – alone again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I’m awake, much too early I hasten to add, but I’ve been woken by the sound of Ange impersonating Beyonce – badly.