Oh Great, Now I Can Hear Dead People: What Would You Do if You Could Suddenly Hear Real Dead People?

by Deborah Durbin

  ‘Weekends we tend to get a lot of drunken people phoning up. They go out for the night, get drunk, get depressed because they didn’t get a date and phone us.’ Miracle laughs her throaty laugh. ‘It’s also the time when there are a lot of break-ups, so we get a lot of dumped callers phoning to see if they will get back with their boyfriend or girlfriend.’ Miracle adds.

  I like Miracle and in the little time that I’ve known her, we’ve become quite chatty with one another. I even look forward to ringing her up now.

  ‘Oh hang on; I’ve got your first caller. I’ll just tell her the rules and put her through to you.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Thank you.’ I was enjoying talking to Miracle and forgot why I was actually here. I wait patiently to hear the familiar bleep that tells me that my caller is connected.

  ‘Hello, I’m Sa... Mystic Crystal.’ I say, almost forgetting my stage name. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Well,’ the girl starts. She has a Welsh accent and sounds about 12 years old. ‘I’m not sure what I should do. I’ve got myself into trouble and I’m not sure how to get out of it.’

  I’m tempted to tell her to phone the Samaritans, but continue to listen to her hoping that she will give me a better clue as to what this trouble is. I mean is she pregnant? On the run? Or what?

  ‘This trouble you’re in, is it something to do with a guy?’ I guess.

  ‘Mmmm.’

  Good, I’m on the right track. She sounds young and doesn’t sound as upset as she should sound if she were pregnant and the common reason why young women ring up is usually something to do with a man. I don’t even bother to shuffle my cards and I know I’m taking a bit of a risk with my guess work, but I have a feeling that this man is a lot older than this girl is.

  ‘Is this man older than you?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. But you can’t say anything.’ She begs.

  ‘All calls are completely confidential.’ I assure her. I suddenly feel as though I’m dealing with an illicit affair, but I’m not sure whether to tell her this. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

  ‘This man in your life, is he someone you’re not supposed to be with? A teacher for example?’

  The girl doesn’t respond, but I have a feeling I’m right here.

  ‘You don’t sound very old.’ I add.

  ‘I’m over 16.’ The girl insists.

  ‘You do realise that you have to be 18 to call this line.’ I say. I could be in serious trouble here if I advise her of anything and discover that she’s under age. I pray that Miracle or someone from the company is listening in or recording this call.

  ‘I am 18 and you’re right; he’s my teacher. Well, college lecturer actually. I didn’t mean it to get so involved, but now someone’s found out and said they are going to tell the Principle of the college and then he’ll get the sack.’ She wails.

  ‘Calm down a minute. Now this person who knows about the two of you, do you really think he or she will tell your Principle?’

  ‘It’s a she, and yes I do.’ The girl says.

  ‘And what does this lecturer think about it all?’

  ‘He’s cool with it. He said it doesn’t matter if he loses his job and that all he wants is for me…for us, to be happy.’

  ‘He sounds nice.’ I say. I can’t help but think how romantic this all sounds. It’s like something out of a Jill Mansell novel.

  ‘But I don’t know whether to finish it with him, otherwise he will lose his job.’

  ‘No don’t finish it with him.’ I say suddenly. I know I’m taking a bit of a chance here, but in my experience, people who threaten to tell on other people rarely carry out their threats.

  ‘Oh, really?’ The girl sounds relieved. ‘Do you think we will get married eventually?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. If he is happy to put his job on the line for you then I think you have a good chance of staying together and being very happy together.’ Oh God, I do hope I’m right and she doesn’t turn up at college tomorrow and discover that this person has told the Principle and he loses his job because of it. It’s all very romantic in my mind, but what if I’m saying the wrong thing?

  ‘And will I pass my exams?’ The girl suddenly asks. Oh crikey, I’m really being put on the spot here! I think about this girl for a moment and feel nothing but happiness whenever I hear her speak. Maybe it’s the accent – I love the Welsh. Surely that counts for something?

  ‘Umm…’ I try not to sounds as though I haven’t got a clue what to say next, ‘I think you will pass your exams.’ I venture, ‘but you will have to work hard at them.’ I add as a disclaimer. I mean obviously you have to study if you are going to pass your exams – unless your name is Jack or Amy that is.

  ‘Brilliant!’ The girl says. ‘That is such good news and you have been brilliant! Thank you ever so much.’

  A smile spreads across my face. Well, even if I have just made it all up and it all turns out to be wrong and her boyfriend loses his job and she fails all her exams, it was worth it just to make her happy again.

  ‘You’re very welcome.’

  The rest of the evening consists of a few hoax callers, a mad woman who thinks I’m the Arch Angel Gabriel and insists that I fix her car by the morning because she has a very important meeting to go to; a pervert who gets off on telling me that he doesn’t have any clothes on and likes to smother himself in tomato ketchup - maybe he thinks he’s a chip? - and several women who are desperate to know when their prince charming is going to appear on a white horse.

  By three o’clock I’m shattered. Missy has decided to take herself off to bed again and I decide that after the next caller I am going to call it a night. I would have told Miracle earlier, but no sooner than I am about to call her, she calls me and tells me I have another caller who insists she wants to speak to me. Bugger!

  ‘It’s Valerie.’ The woman says before I have a chance to say anything. Oh no, it’s the woman who phoned late last night. What if she’s phoning to tell me that she knows I’m a fraud and that her name isn’t Valerie and her husband is quite well and alive, thank you very much and she’s going to report me to…well, whoever you report fraudulent psychic people to.

  ‘Oh, Valerie. Umm… hello.’ I say nervously.

  ‘I’m sorry I hung up on you last night.’ She whispers, ‘I… I’m not very good at this kind of thing.’

  You and me both love, I want to say.

  ‘That’s no problem. Are you okay now?’ I ask.

  Valerie sighs.

  ‘I don’t want to become one of those daft old women that make’s a habit of calling you, dear. I just didn’t want you to think that I was being rude by cutting you off last night.’

  ‘No, I don’t think that at all.’ I say. I wince and hold my hand to my head. The headache that I got the last time I was talking to Valerie comes back. It must be a sign that I am over tired.

  ‘I just don’t know where else to go … to find the answers I need.’ She says.

  ‘Like, why him?’ I ask.

  I know just how Valerie feels. I ask the same thing myself over and over again about my dad. Why did he have to go when he did? Why couldn’t he have stayed around to see me graduate? Or get married? Why wasn’t he allowed to be able to enjoy his grandchildren if I ever have any? Why? Why? Why?

  When I was growing up my dad used to tell me about angels, whenever I asked about where we went when we died. He would always say, when the big white feather comes down and touches us on the head, then it’s our time to go, Sammy Puddleduck. Despite being a bank-manager, my dad was quite a philosophical guy and would always have an answer to any question I threw at him, and no matter how mad it sounded, I always believed and trusted him.

  I remember when I was about six or seven; I was always fascinated by the way the streetlights would come on in our street one after the other. ‘Wow!’ I would say, staring at them in awe from my bedroom window. My dad told me that a little man called Fred used to run through a tunnel underneath the roa
d and would switch on all the lights. That’s why they came on one after the other. ‘There he goes.’ He would say, as we would watch each one, one after the other, flicker on. ‘He must be very fit to be able to switch on all those lights before it gets dark.’ I would say. ‘Oh yes, Fred is very fit, he used to be an Olympic athlete, you know.’ My dad would explain straight-faced.

  ‘Yes.’ Valerie eventually says. ‘Why him?’

  ‘Because when the white feather comes down and touches us on the head, it is then our time to go.’ I whisper back to her. ‘When it’s our time, it’s our time and we can’t do anything to prevent that. It’s like there is an invisible golden thread attached to each of us. For some of us the thread is long, for others it is shorter.’ I feel as though this is what my dad would be saying to me every time I question why.

  ‘But why aren’t we forewarned?’ Valerie asks angrily, and rightly so. ‘Why aren’t we given any clues as to when it is our time? I would have appreciated Frank more. We would have done more things together. I wouldn’t have kept on at him to unblock the sink or made him eat broccoli – he never liked broccoli.’

  ‘Because if we knew, we wouldn’t live our lives as we should.’ I hear myself telling her. ‘If we were told we are only going to live to such and such an age, then would we really enjoy the time we had?’

  ‘I guess we wouldn’t.’ She admits, ‘but it’s still so hard.’

  ‘I know it is Valerie. I know how hard it is.’ And I do.

  ‘But he says he’s fine and happy and his head doesn’t hurt anymore. He’s with you all the time and likes the colour of the bathroom now, and says he’s sorry he didn’t get round to painting it.’ I suddenly add. Why I said that I don’t know. God, I must be tired.

  ‘He does?’ Valerie says, her tone happy. ‘I painted it yellow. He always hated it when it was lilac,’ she chuckles, ‘said it looked too girly.’

  Well, blow me away! Now I am really freaked out. Don’t show that you are freaked out Samantha, don’t show that you’re freaked out, I tell myself.

  ‘Really.’ I confirm instead.

  ‘Oh thank you so much. Look I had better let you go. I’ve taken up too much of your time already.’ Valerie says, ‘…and thank you again. I’ll try not to keep calling you. I feel I can move on with my life just a little bit more now.’

  With my new-found confidence, I tell Valerie that she can call me anytime. I smile and hang up. Another successful night and another £323 to add to my income!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next few weeks pass by in a bit of a blur. I can’t quite believe how good I am at this fortune-telling lark. In fact, Miracle has said on a number of occasions, that people have actually requested me for a reading, so I must be doing something right. I’ve spoken to that many people over the past fortnight that I tend to forget who’s who. The only person who sticks in my mind is Valerie, who calls as regular as clockwork at three o’clock every morning. In fact it’s so regular now that when I work the night shift, I don’t log off until four, knowing that Valerie will be calling and will be disappointed if I don’t speak to her.

  I’ve discovered a lot about Valerie over the weeks, like she now lives on her own, she has one son who lives in America and doesn’t come to see her that often. I also discovered that Valerie was a seamstress before she retired and that she still sews when she gets the time. In fact, Valerie doesn’t bother to ask me to read her cards for her or to tell her fortune anymore. Valerie just wants to talk and I do feel guilty that it is costing her money to talk to me, but the headaches I get when talking to her compensate for my guilt a little bit. I do wish she would phone earlier in the evening. By three o’clock my head starts banging and all I want to do is go to sleep.

  In the space of a month, I’ve managed to pay off one of my credit cards and paid my rent with two weeks in advance to Ms Morris. Not that her ladyship was grateful for it mind you, telling me that I was lucky to have such an understanding landlady and that I would have been out on my ear if it wasn’t for her. She also berated me for allowing Missy to use the banister as a scratch pole. I’m sure is wasn’t Missy. Missy is too posh to do such a thing. Oh, and did I also realise that animals were actually prohibited in the building as a rule, and if Missy did it again she would also be out on her ear. At least she’s stopped wearing that bloody anorak and I’m sure she’s had something done to her hair.

  As Ms Morris rabbits on and on about tenancy agreements, I don’t seem to be able to shift the headache from the night before, and I’m tempted to shout, ‘Oh shut up, you old bag!’

  But at the end of the day my little Victorian flat, with its high ceilings and ornate fireplaces, is my home and I do need somewhere to live, so best not voice my opinions just yet. My mother did once suggest that I move back in with her now that she is on her own, but I think that this was more out of politeness than anything else. We both know that we would drive each other round the bend within a day.

  So, Ms Morris, bless her, was not in as good a mood as I was that day, but I didn’t care. My rent was paid up and in advance, meaning I didn’t owe her anything and didn’t have to deal with her for another two weeks either - yippee!

  I don’t know what Jack has that makes Ms Morris invite him in for coffee and not me, well I do, Jack has unashamed cheek and won’t take no for an answer. With his boyish good looks and overflowing charm, Jack could sell coffee to Starbucks if he really wanted to, and it annoys the hell out of me that he can sweet-talk my landlady into giving him a cup of tea whenever he pops round, and yet she’s a complete dragon to me.

  ‘Oh she’s all right, as old people go.’ Jack says.

  ‘Ha! Yeah, right.’ Is my usual response.

  ‘You’ve just got to play the cheek with her sometimes. She’s quite a sweet old gal.’ He says.

  Sod Ms Morris and her lack of gratitude. I’m in a very good mood, and as it’s my day off I intend to spoil myself rotten with my hefty pay cheque.

  Having showered and dressed I text Jack at work to see if he wants to meet me in town for lunch. With meeting places mulled over, I decide to head into town in search of some retail therapy.

  With half of Miss Selfridges under my arms, and a Cath Kidston lampshade balanced on the top of my head, I had no free hands to carry it and as lampshades go it did make quite a good hat, I tumble through the doors of Pizza Hut.

  The waitress looks at me as if I’m clinically insane and should be committed immediately. I blush, apologise for the noise and scan the room for Jack who is sitting in the corner, hiding behind a huge menu, pretending he doesn’t know me.

  ‘Hi.’ I breathe as I drop my bags to my feet.

  ‘Do I know you, you weirdo?’ Jack asks, for which he gets a thump in the arm.

  ‘Right, I’m starved. What are we having?’ I ask.

  We tuck into a huge Margarita pizza with salad and wedges and catch up on the past week’s events.

  ‘So, Bree told Orson that she didn’t want to marry him, and then Gabrielle went on a date with some new guy who turned out to be an alien! Oh and then, you’re not going to believe this Sam, Edie’s implants exploded on the Matterhorn Bobsled ride in Disneyworld…’ Jack says updating me on the latest goings on in Wisteria Lane that is Desperate Housewives. I had to work, and although I was trying to watch it, people just kept calling and interrupting me (the cheek of these people) and I have to admit, I did wonder why Edie was pulling such a funny face as she screamed down the tobogganing attraction. Now I know. Her boobs exploded - ouch, painful.

  ‘Well, I think Edie deserves everything she gets.’ I muse. ‘She’s a right tart anyway. So, do you want to do something at the weekend? Go to a club or something? I hear that new one in Bristol is opening on Saturday night. They’re doing half price cocktails all evening.’ I say between mouthfuls of rocket and shredded carrot.

  ‘Ummm…’ Jack replies.

  I look up with leaves hanging out of my mouth. Ummm? What does ummm mean? Jack never says
ummm to me. Jack never turns down the chance to go out for a boogie on a Saturday night.

  ‘What?’ Jack says, fidgeting in his chair.

  ‘You, that’s what. Since when have you had to consider going out on a Saturday night?’ I ask. ‘Have you got a gig?’

  ‘Ummm…’

  Of course Jack hasn’t got a gig. If Jack had a gig I would have known all about it. Whenever Jack has a gig he always, always, phones me in an excited manner to tell me when, where and what is going to be on the Set List.

  ‘Right, what’s going on?’ I ask, stabbing my fork menacingly into a cherry tomato.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing’s going on.’ Jack fidgets again in his seat and studies the pizza menu.

  ‘Ah, I get it. You don’t like me anymore and have found a new best friend to spend your Saturday nights with.’ I laugh a little too nervously in case it might be true.

  ‘No, not at all. Well, not a new best friend… a… a girlfriend actually.’ Jack says looking down at his own salad and blushing like the cherry tomato I’ve just pierced and eaten.

  ‘What? You? But you don’t have girlfriends.’ I say. It’s true. As long as I’ve known Jack, he has never had a girlfriend as such. I mean he’s not gay or anything like that and he has had girlfriends if you know what I mean, but they have always come second to the band and Jack’s friends. Jack’s previous girlfriends have always had to fit in around whatever plans the band or his mates were doing. Jack’s previous girlfriends have never been a priority over a Saturday night out. Never. Not ever.

  ‘I know, it’s just Jasmine, that’s her name, she’s well… she’s different and I promised that I would take her to see that new French film, Noir something or other.’ Jack says. I know he’s embarrassed.

  ‘French film? Since when did you like French films? You can’t even speak French, let alone understand it.’ I say and I do have a point. Jack’s idea of speaking French (or any other language come to that) is to talk very loudly and very slowly – in English.