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

by Deborah Durbin

  ‘This Clive, he’s your typical weird bloke,’ Paul says with a slight Australian twang to his previously Bristolian accent which echoes out of Jack’s speaker phone.

  ‘As opposed to what? Un-typically weird?’ I ask as I leaf though today’s tabloids.

  ‘Very funny,’ Paul says. ‘He’s typical in the fact that he’s a loner, dresses like Mr Bean – in other words like a complete wally - and he collects train time tables from all over the country…’

  ‘And you know this because,’

  ‘Because he’s also an E-bay freak – he’s got listings on there of timetables for sale,’ Paul says smugly. ‘See, I told you, I’m a good detective.’

  ‘So, you think we should eliminate him from our enquiries then, Miss Marple?’ Jack says.

  ‘I reckon. This is not his style. Stalking, yes, phoning up the tabloids, no. People like this Clive don’t want to advertise the fact that they are odd. They don’t like the attention,’ Paul says. ‘And enough already with the Miss Marple gags, smart arse.’

  ‘OK, well keep up the good work, Tony Soprano.’ Jack adds with a laugh. I bite my lip. Jack may be joking but it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if Paul actually had a contact who was related to Mr Soprano. Paul’s life is endlessly complicated.

  No sooner than I finish speaking to Paul than the phone rings again – it’s Matt.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I ask with slight trepidation in my voice. Since my phone call Matt and his colleagues have been working all night on the website and making sure that word gets round that I am in fact genuine.

  ‘Very well indeed. Thanks to the time you invested in the web readings we’ve had nothing but support and praise from people all over the world. Have you seen the site recently?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, I don’t know whether you’ve noticed my lovely little brother, but I’ve been a little preoccupied lately.’

  ‘Very funny. Well tell Jack to get that crappy laptop out and have a look.’

  ‘Oi, I heard that and it’s not crappy, it’s just a little old, that’s all. We can’t all afford top of the range computers, you know,’ Jack laughs.

  ‘Old? I think Noah used the model you’ve got Jack!’ Matt says.

  Jack starts up his laptop, which seeing as it is so ancient takes an age to get going.

  ‘Have you got it yet?’ Matt says impatiently.

  ‘Hang on, will you… yep… hang on…what’s the web address again?’

  ‘It’s in your favourites under Crystal Ball,’ Matt mocks a yawn.

  ‘WWW dot Cr…’

  ‘Jesus is he this slow at everything, Sammy?’ Matt laughs.

  ‘Give me a fucking chance. You’ll be sorry when I’m rich and famous, I’ll have the biggest and best laptop in the world,’ Jack says. ‘Right got it. Blimey, look at this, Sam!’

  As Jack scrolls down the page – I wish he would just let me do it, I hate it when people insist on taking control of the scrolling business – there are pages upon pages of support messages

  “Mystic Crystal gave me a reading a few months ago and she was spot on about my whole life, she even knew the name of my grandfather and he’s been dead like forever! Anyone who says she’s a fraud needs a good kicking!”

  OK, well, thanks for the support but let’s not get too carried away here with encouraging violence of non believers shall we?

  Another message says; “I can’t thank Crystal enough for all the work she put into my reading. Mystic Crystal told me that I would soon meet someone who would love me for who I am and I would soon be able to stop pretending and within two weeks I met the most perfect partner. We are getting married next year and it’s all thanks to Crystal.”

  “Crystal is one well cool dude! Don’t take no notice of those who say she isn’t. She’s ace. Crystal rocks!”

  Ooh, not only am I a ‘well cool dude’, I also rock now! As Jack scrolls down there are even more messages. In fact there are hundreds, and not one says that I am a fraud or that I said the wrong thing, or that I made things up. For the first time in a week a smile spreads across my face.

  ‘Click on the shop tab,’ Matt instructs.

  ‘Hang on. Click on the shop tab, Jack…Oh my God!’ I say, laughing at what is before my eyes.

  ‘I’ve ordered one for both of you, should be delivered tomorrow, along with a box in case there’s anyone out there who wants to buy from you direct. We’re having them imported from China so they’re dirt-cheap. I figure we don’t want to be seen to be making a profit out of this, so I’m putting a notice on the site to say that all profits from sales will go to the Macmillan charity.’ Matt says.

  I can’t believe that Matt has designed t-shirts with ‘Save Mystic Sam’ emblazoned across them in our virtual shop and the fact that the money from them is all going to the Macmillan cancer charity is brilliant. I think of my dad for a moment. I’d like to think he’d be proud of us all right now.

  ‘Who’s the girl?’ I ask, looking at the photo of a beautiful young woman, with very long legs and wearing nothing but a red Save Mystic Sam t-shirt, which just skims her bum.

  ‘That’s Stacey. She’s Martin’s girlfriend. Thought it might attract more buyers. Told you sex sells!’ Matt says. I’m sure it will.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve done all of this, Matt and look at all the support I’ve got!’

  ‘Well, just make sure you take as many opportunities to prove yourself. Like anything Sam, you have got to prove to people that you are genuine and you’ve got a lot of support not only on here but on lots of other sites too.’

  ‘I have? Oh, thanks Matt, for everything.’

  I’ve been putting off this moment for days now and I know that I have to do it – phone my mother. Having binned my mobile because it seemed that the whole world and his wife had my number, my mum has been bombarding Jack with phone calls to a) find out where I am and b) well, find out where I am. Jack, bless him, has made up every excuse under the sun from I’m at the dentist having my mouth wired shut to I’m in a police holding cell being held for questioning. Mind you either of the above could easily happen right now.

  ‘It’s me, Mum,’ I say cautiously when my mum answers.

  ‘Samantha, what ever is going on?’ My mother gasps, ‘I’ve had journalists camped out on my doorstep for a week asking to speak to you. Jack told me to tell them that you were on holiday - mind you, I did take the opportunity to tell them that I had a book coming out and I told them about mine and Colin’s book. I don’t think they believed me when I told them you were away. Sammy, is anything wrong?’ My mother asks.

  Is anything wrong? What planet has my mother been living on the past week?

  ‘Have you not read the newspapers or watched the news recently, Mum?’ sometimes I really wonder about my mother. I continue to torture myself by flicking through the previous week’s newspapers.

  ‘Oh no, love, I don’t read newspapers anymore, much too miserable nowadays. It’s all bad news anyway and I’ve been over at Colin’s most of the time working on our book and he doesn’t have a TV.’

  ‘Right, well to cut a long story short, someone went to the newspapers with a story saying that I wasn’t a proper psychic and that I just made it all up. Town FM have temporarily suspended me, as have Morning Latte and … ’

  ‘What do you mean someone went to the papers? Who?’ My mum says.

  ‘Well, if I knew that I wouldn’t be in hiding at Jack’s place, would I?’

  ‘Well, why are you in hiding? Why don’t you just tell the papers it isn’t true?’ my mum obviously can’t understand the enormity of all of this.

  ‘Because Mum, the papers want to twist everything…hang on a cotton picking minute…’ I flick back to page four of The Sun, which shows the glamorous photo of me at the awards ceremony. ‘…you little shit!’

  ‘Samantha!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I have to go, I’ll call you later,’ I stutter and put the phone down.

  ‘Jack! Jack! Look!’
I shout.

  Jack comes rushing out of the kitchen with a knife in his hand.

  ‘Look at this,’ I point to the photograph of me taken at the awards ceremony.

  ‘Yeah, cute photo,’ Jack says, ‘and?’

  ‘And this one,’ I pass a copy of The Mirror to him, ‘and this one,’ I pass a copy of The News of the World. ‘Look at the bottom of the photograph.’

  ‘Nope, I don’t get it. Give me another clue,’ Jack says looking puzzled and slightly weird wielding a kitchen knife around in the air.

  ‘Look, who took that photograph?’ I point to the name McIntyre. ‘Now, look at that one, and that one. They were all taken by the same photographer Jack. Someone called McIntyre.’

  Jack shakes his head, looking still bemused – for a law graduate he can sure be thick sometimes.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, Jack, it’s the same picture in every paper, taken by the same photographer. Look, they’re all the same picture.’

  ‘So, whoever sold the photograph could be the person who also sold the story on you, or else knows the person who did,’ Jack summarises.

  ‘Correct, Sherlock! I’ll phone Paul and see if he can track down who took that photo.’

  If anyone can track another person down it will be my brother. Being a surf-bum qualifies him to that fine quality of mixing with all sorts of people, including mobsters, fraudsters, sleazy paps and the like. If anyone can find out who took the photographs, Paul will.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  ‘I have never been so scared in my life,’ I whisper to Jack as we stand waiting in the wings of a conference room at the Mariott Hotel.

  ‘You’ll be just fine. Just be yourself, take a deep breath, then tell them what you want to say.’ he says, squeezing my arm.

  ‘Have you heard anything from Amy? I can’t get hold of her. Her mobile is switched off all the time.’ Since all this kicked off I haven’t had time to speak to her. She must know what’s been going on since it’s been in every national newspaper and the topic of discussion of almost every daytime television programme on air.

  ‘Nah, Dillon said he thinks she’s gone to Spain to see her mother,’ ‘I think all this business with her job has got her down.’

  Her and me both.

  ‘Mind you, maybe Amy’s not the best one to turn to. You know what she can be like. She can’t keep a secret to save her life.’ I say recalling the last time I asked Amy to keep a secret. Before I knew it, she had told one person, who told another and the next thing I know, everyone on campus knew that I had a crush on a gay teacher!

  ‘I think she’s more cut up about losing her job than she likes to make out,’ Jack says ‘but she’ll bounce back. Amy always does,’ Jack adds. ‘Have you seen the number of people out there?’ Jack pokes his head round the stage screen. I peep my head around the corner to see four dozen or so plastic chairs rapidly filling up with reporters and photographers.

  Larry finally managed to organise a press conference with all the journalists and photographers who’d decided it made interesting reading to plaster my name across their papers. Thankfully after four days of being headline news, I have been relegated to page four in the tabloids to make way for the new Big Brother housemates, but it doesn’t really make me feel any better to know that because of this I might never work again – anywhere. I’ll have to change my name by deed poll and go to America and apply to have one of those complete plastic surgery makeovers.

  I sigh as we wait for Larry to come back from wherever he’s snuck off to. I decided to dress in a sensible, if somewhat sombre, trouser suit for the occasion and have pulled my naturally misbehaving hair back into a sensible ponytail. I’m sure I don’t know what I do in my sleep. Whatever it is I always wake up with hair that resembles a badly fitted wig. I know it shouldn’t make any difference what I look like, but if they were determined to vilify me in their papers then I would prefer I look business-like rather than someone from Prisoner Cell Block H.

  ‘Right, are you ready, lass?’ Larry asks in his Yorkshire accent.

  ‘No,’ I say and I’m not. The notes in my hand are all crumpled and soggy from where my hands have sweated so much.

  Larry puts his chubby arm around me.

  ‘Look, it’s all going to be OK. Just read out the statement out that I’ve given you and stick to that. The press will glorify it anyway,’ Larry laughs.

  ‘Yeah, just like they did when they ran the story about me!’ I snap. ‘Larry, I am here to clear my name. I have to clear my name,’ I say desperately.

  Jack squeezes me on the other side.

  ‘Come on. You’ll be fine,’ He says.

  God, I hope they have water on the table. Or vodka would be good right now. I feel quite faint. I daren’t look out to the audience until I finally reach one of the three chairs that have been put out for us on a mock stage.

  When I do look ahead of me, I feel even more like fainting. The room is packed to bursting with photographers, reporters and some other people I don’t recognise – probably the same people who attend court cases for the sheer hell of it and drive slowly past car crashes as a hobby. Already flashes are going off in my face and shouts of ‘Samantha! Over here!’ can be heard from the back of the room. I can’t see a bloody thing for flash eye and look down at my wrinkled notes on the desk in front of me.

  Jack, Larry and I sit in a row, with me plonked right in the middle. Oh Christ, this certainly wasn’t in my grand scheme of things. All that keeps going round in my head is the injustice that someone has deliberately gone out of their way to try and ruin me and that is the only reason I am able to sit here facing the nation’s media.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Larry begins, ‘first of all, can I thank you for coming here today…’ Thank them? Thank them? For what? For taking the word of some parasite, making headline columns about it and ruining my life, not to mention my career? Yeah, thanks a bunch, guys.

  Larry places his hands flat on the desk in front of us. ‘As you are already aware, as many of your newspapers have printed reports about Samantha, we feel it is only fair for Samantha to have her say.’

  ‘So you reckon she’s for real then?’ a voice shouts from the back.

  ‘So sue us!’ another one shouts louder and the room erupts into laughter.

  Larry looks at the throng of journalists and photographers from over his half-moon glasses.

  ‘Maybe we will end up doing just that.’ He smiles at the press pack. ‘Now, I will hand this question and answer session over to Samantha. Please keep your questions short and to the point…oh, and just one thing, ladies and gentlemen, no funny business eh? Samantha.’ Larry hands over to me and I stand up nervously.

  ‘Thank you, Larry,’ I croak. ‘Before you all start firing questions at me, may I just say one thing…’ I pause for effect. ‘What has been reported in your newspapers is completely untrue. I don’t know who informed you, but I can assure you that whoever it was – and I know that one of you lot knows – he is in for the shock of his life because I will find out, and God help him when I do.’ Phew! I feel quite faint after that little speech. Hands shoot up with shouts of ‘Samantha!’

  ‘Yes.’ I point to a youngish-looking man wearing a trendy pink tank-top who looks as though he might be at least a bit sympathetic towards me. I know they have a job to do and have to earn an income, but nevertheless shouldn’t they have an ounce of truth before they report things to the whole world?

  ‘Miss Ball, Martin Fry, Bath News. You are claiming that these reports are totally untrue, but we have information from a reliable source, so who’s lying?’ Fry asks. Hmm, and I thought he was going to be one of the nice ones – see, I told you I was a bad judge of character – and he looks ridiculous in that pink tank-top!

  ‘So who is this reliable source then, Mr Fry? Would you like to share that with me?’ I challenge.

  ‘Can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. Confidentiality and all that.’ Fry smiles at me smugly.
r />   ‘And what about my confidentiality? What about my reputation?’ I say. Fry just shrugs and sits down again. Bastard!

  ‘Miss Ball! Joanna Hammond from the Evening Gazette. How can you prove that you are a genuine psychic? Wasn’t it true that you took a job with Mystic Answers only because you had a huge student debt to pay off and couldn’t earn a living as a psychologist?’ The petite woman journalist asks.

  ‘You only have to ask the thousands of people I have given readings to for proof. Ask any of the people who have phoned into my radio show with Town FM. Ask anyone who called into Morning Latte, ask any number of callers on Mystic Answers or the people who log on to my website, ask anyone I’ve ever given a reading to. Ask Verity Star what I told her about Rita Malone, or anyone from the TV awards for that matter, Miss Hammond and that will give you your answer,’ I snap.

  ‘Yes, but isn’t it true that you don’t actually have any training in the paranormal and until recently you didn’t have any experience whatsoever of the paranormal? Some would say that the training that you do have in psychology could easily help you fake it when you claim to be contacting the dead?’

  ‘Tell Pogo that she is being unreasonable and she should know better,’ a voice comes into my head. Who are you? I ask silently. ‘Oh, she will know,’ the voice says with a little chuckle.

  ‘Miss Hammond, please may I ask you a question? Who used to call you Pogo?’

  The reporter looks stunned for a moment and then shakes her head, violently.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ she says and avoids my gaze by looking down at her notebook and then sitting down in her chair again.

  ‘Oh right, no further questions from you then, Miss Hammond, I take it? Next please?’

  Another hand shoots up.

  ‘Martha James, Channel Five. Samantha, if you are so sure that you are genuine, would you be willing to take a live test for us?’

  I look at Larry who looks like a nodding dog as his head nods up and down eagerly.

  ‘Yes, certainly she will,’ my agent says before I’ve even had a chance to consider this challenge.