No one even notices me as I tiptoe upstairs. I don’t know why, but for some reason, I’m feeling the strongest need to go upstairs. It’s deathly silent as I reach the upstairs landing. Which is good too: above all, this job needs quiet.
The Hendersons’ is a large house, and there’re about six doors leading off the upstairs passageway, with one huge, diamond-paned window opposite me, bathing the whole area in light. On the windowsill there’s a gorgeous black and white cat, all snuggled up in his basket, enjoying a toasty warm ray of sunshine that’s beaming directly on to him. Instinctively, I go over to where he’s sleeping and stroke him gently. He purrs and looks at me, as if to say, ‘Who are you and what the hell are you doing on my territory?’ Suddenly, there’s a loud pounding noise from one of the bedrooms, shattering the quiet; the sound of a door banging heavily, a wardrobe maybe?
But there’s no one else upstairs.
Tentatively, I move towards the door where the sound came from and slowly turn the handle. There’s a quick rustling sound from the windowsill and I turn around to see that the cat’s done a runner.
Interesting. Animals are incredibly sensitive to any sort of paranormal activity, so this immediately makes me think that I’m on the right track. One of the first signs that any living space has, shall we say, an unwanted guest is if family pets refuse to go near it.
The room is cluttered and untidy, unlike the rest of the house, which is pristine. It’s almost as if the Hendersons realized there was something amiss here and just gave up on it. They might as well have put yellow and black stripy plastic tape across the door saying, ‘Ghostly occurrences within, do not cross line’, a bit like they do with crime scenes in police dramas. It must have been used as a bedroom at one point, because there’s a big double bed here, a wardrobe and a dresser, but there’re also piles of books scattered all over the floor and, bizarrely, some gym equipment over against the wall: a rowing machine and a cross trainer. (Not that I’d recognize one bit of gym gear from another, it’s just Charlene has a private gym in her house and used to let us play on the machines whenever we were all drunk enough and bored enough.)
Come on, concentrate, Cassie, really concentrate . . .
There’s no doubt about it, I’m feeling a huge energy surge in the room. And it’s definitely got colder; there’s been a marked temperature drop; I’m shivering now and pull my cardigan closer to me for extra warmth.
Right then, to work.
I open my bag and fish about for some candles I brought with me. Only cheapie little tea lights, but they do the trick. I light four of them, place them carefully on the floor, one to the north, south, east and west and gently, slowly, sit down beside them.
Easy does it, Cassie, easy does it.
I have to empty my mind and think only peaceful, loving thoughts . . .
There’s a loud tapping at the window pane and I look up. For a split second, I wonder if it’s just the wind blowing the branches of a tree against the window, but when I look outside, there’s nothing. No tree; not even a puff of wind. Thank God I don’t scare easily.
And then I get a flash. OK, stay very calm.
There’s a boy standing across the room from me, I can see him clear as you like over by the window, with a baseball bat in his little hand, hitting it against the glass, only he’s not strong enough to smash it. The poor kid can’t be any more than about six or seven, he’s blond and blue-eyed, wearing jeans with a Manchester United strip and a baseball cap. He looks angry and frustrated, and what’s more I’m pretty certain that he sees me too. He’s looking directly at me, unflinching, as if he’s trying to figure out whether I’m friend or foe. And I know, with absolute certainty, that he’s a little spirit that’s already passed on – only I don’t think he knows it yet. Oh God, I feel so sorry for him.
Everything suddenly falls into place. I get the strongest feeling that this used to be his house, this was his room, except all his toys are gone and he doesn’t know why. He’s not being bold on purpose, he just doesn’t know what’s going on, who these new people are, where all his belongings are and, most importantly of all, where his mum is . . .
I know I have to try to make contact with him, but I’m nervous. I’m not frightened, it’s just that my gift has always been more channelled towards the living and I’m not quite sure what to do. He’s still looking at me.
Come on, Cassie, say something, anything . . .
Now, it’s not that I’m completely useless at dealing with kids, it’s just that I don’t really know any. But I’ve no choice here, I’ll just have to give this a go without talking down to him or, even worse, being patronizing.
‘Hello,’ I say, smiling and deliberately keeping my voice low. ‘What’s your name?’
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even move. Just stares at me, as if he can’t believe that I can actually see him. I get the feeling no one has spoken to this little boy in a long, long time.
‘So you like Manchester United then?’ I say softly, gently.
A sullen nod.
‘Doesn’t David Beckham play for them?’ I know next to nothing about football either, apart from what I read in Heat magazine about the WAGs and all their fashion disasters. I just want to get him to trust me, that’s all.
He gives me a furious glare and kicks the dresser beside him, then wallops it with his baseball bat. A revolting china ornament perched precariously on top of it falls to the ground and smashes to smithereens.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I say, suddenly remembering. ‘He went to America, didn’t he?’
Another nod.
Thank God for the gossip magazines. I only knew that because I’d seen photos of Posh Spice coming out of the Vuitton shop on Rodeo Drive, the time she’d cut her hair and went bright blonde.
‘So, do you like . . . emm . . .’
Think, think, think, Cassie, come on, who do you remember reading about during the last World Cup? Yes, got it. ‘Wayne Rooney?’
Bingo, jackpot. I’m rewarded with a huge grin. Oh, he’s adorable, this little boy; his two front teeth are missing and if you dressed him up in a cowboy outfit, he’d almost be a dead ringer for the Milky Bar Kid. He’s closer to me now, watching me intently and I feel I’m slowly gaining his confidence.
‘Were you in an accident?’ I ask. I’m not even sure where that came from; all I’m doing is following my gut.
He doesn’t say anything, just lifts up the Man U jersey and shows me a huge red scar on his little chest. An impact scar. Suddenly I think I know what happened to him. It was quick, it was sudden and it claimed more that one life – a woman, I’m seeing a young woman . . .
Oh my God, now it all fits.
‘Ooh, you poor pet, I’d say that hurt. Did you feel anything? When the other car hit you?’
He shakes his head and looks all brave, the way little boys do when they’re showing off a bit.
‘You know what I think?’ I ask as gently as I can.
He’s almost beside me now, looking directly at me, unflinching.
‘I think that your mummy misses you so much. There’s nothing she’d love more than to see you again.’
I don’t say anything for a bit, I just let that much sink in.
He’s staring straight ahead now, frowning, looking all serious.
Suddenly he turns back to me and I swear I can see his eyes welling up a bit. His little nose must be runny too because he wipes it against the back of his sleeve.
Then I go for it. ‘Would you like to see her? I could take you to her, but only if you want me to.’
I can see him thinking about it, but I’m pretty sure I know what the answer will be. He looks up at me and the hope in his eyes would almost break your heart. ‘You’ve been stuck here for ages, haven’t you?’ I ask and he nods. ‘And it must be getting kind of boring for you. Maybe it’s time to move on. Would you like that? I could help you, if you’d let me.’
He doesn’t react, but I take that as a good sign.
‘All you need to do is sit down here beside me and be very still and quiet for me. That’s all. I promise. Can you do that for me?’
He nods, and suddenly I feel an ice-cold sensation against my hand. I look down. Oh my God, he’s holding my hand. He’s actually holding my hand. He trusts me, he really trusts me and he wants my help.
OK, Cassie, you can’t let this poor little lost soul down now.
‘Shh, shh.’ I half whisper to him. ‘It’s going to be fine.’ I close my eyes. I visualize a giant white staircase, with the spirits looking down, protecting this child from harm, willing and wanting him to come home.
‘In love and light,’ I murmur, ‘in love and light and without disturbing the eternal peace of those who have passed, I call on this child’s mother to help him into the light.’
The icy feeling on my hand gets colder and I look down to see that he’s gripping it tightly now.
‘Nothing scary.’ I smile back down at him, ‘Nothing to worry about. It’s just like when they go to sorcery class in Harry Potter, that’s all.’
He smiles that cute toothless grin. I think he knows he’s on his way home. And that’s when I start to get a sense of her. I can’t see her, but I feel that she’s beautiful, she’s young; she’s all dressed in white, with long fair hair and her arms outstretched, reaching out for her little boy who she hasn’t had a chance to cuddle in the longest time. ‘I think she’s there,’ I say to him. ‘Can you see her?’
He nods and stands up, ready to go, ready to move on, wanting his mum.
‘Go to her,’ I whisper, ‘pass through the light. That’s all you have to do. It won’t hurt, I promise you.’
Next thing, I feel that they’re together. I just feel it; she’s scooping him up in her arms and kissing the face off him and he’s beaming and crying at the same time. It’s as if neither of them can quite believe that this has happened, that they found each other again after all this time.
I wave and I feel that she’s smiling at me and, without even being aware that I’m crying, I feel tears start running down my cheeks.
Next thing, I almost jump out of my skin. I can feel an icy lump pressing against my chest like a hard cold rock.
I look down, not sure what’s happening. Oh my God. He’s hugging me. He came back to give me a hug.
OK, now I ask for a sign, some tiny sign just so I’m sure that poor troubled little soul has finally moved on and is now, finally, at peace. I need to know that this worked. I have to know.
I’m not quite sure how much time passes, but after a while, the same cat I’d seen earlier squeezes through the door and comes straight into the room, makes for the bed and curls up into a snug, tight little ball. I close my eyes, say a silent ‘thank you’ and blow out all the candles.
It’s just the weirdest thing. I pack up my bag, leave the room, and head back downstairs again. No, I’m definitely not imagining it, the whole atmosphere has changed. The place is warmer, mellower; where there was a cold, austere feel to this house, now it feels like a proper home again.
I hear voices laughing from the kitchen. Two women’s voices. Which is odd.
I tap gently on the door and Mrs Henderson says to come in. There’s another woman here, about the same age, sitting having a cup of tea at the kitchen table. I’m really happy to see it; I get a feeling that Mrs Henderson is a lady who hasn’t had female companionship in a very long time.
Oh, and ’Orrible Oliver’s here too, but then you can’t have everything, can you?
‘Cassandra, dear, sit down and let me get you some tea,’ says Mrs Henderson, kindly pulling out a chair for me. ‘You were up there for ages, wasn’t she, Louise? At least an hour. Everything all right now, do you think?’
‘Yes, Mrs Henderson, I think so,’ I say simply, not wanting to go into too much detail, not when she has company.
Was I really there for that long? Bloody hell.
‘Oh, let me introduce my new neighbour, who I’ve only just met myself. Louise, this is Cassandra. You know, Tattle magazine Cassandra.’
‘Oh, it’s so lovely to meet you,’ says Louise, warmly shaking my hand. ‘I’m a big fan, you know. In fact, you’re the only reason I buy that awful magazine at all these days as quite frankly it’s really gone down the tubes lately, all that malarkey about how celebrities stay rake thin and those “What’s hot and what’s not” lists. Honestly, as if your average reader cared about whether or not it’s now uncool to be seen drinking double tall iced mocha frappucinos or whatever it is they’re calling an old-fashioned cup of coffee now. Would you agree, Mrs Henderson?’
‘Oh absolutely.’
‘Tattle magazine used to have lovely knitting patterns and very easy-to-follow recipes in my day, but now Cassandra’s column is the only thing worth reading at all. Am I right or am I right?’
‘Completely. And please, call me Liz.’
‘Liz.’ The two of them beam at each other and it’s lovely to see.
‘So you live near by, Louise?’ I ask, gratefully taking a mouthful of tea.
She nods. ‘Right next door. I was just saying, it’s very remiss of me not to have paid a visit earlier, but, it’s a terrible thing to admit, I didn’t really feel comfortable calling here after the awful tragedy that happened.’
‘I’m sorry, what was that? What did you say?’ says Oliver, suddenly all ears.
‘They were a lovely family, you know,’ Louise goes on. ‘I remember them so well. The Jordans. She was absolutely delightful. Arty type – Oh, you know the sort, Liz, she used to go around without a bra. She was a painter and her little boy can’t have been more than about six when that terrible car accident happened. Ethan was his name, a right little scamp, always in trouble, but you could never be angry with him because he was just so adorable.’
‘What happened?’ asks Oliver, being his usual persistent self. I say nothing, though I’m actually dying to know myself.
‘Car accident. It happened on Christmas Eve; I’ll never forget it. It was the lead item on the six o’clock news. Hit by a drunken driver, God love them; sure they never stood a chance. The poor husband was only heartbroken, you never saw grief like it. I think he had this house on the market first thing that January. Must be coming up to two years ago now.’
I say a silent prayer, just to say thank you that the poor woman and her lovely little boy, Ethan, are now, finally, at rest.
‘And then it was just the strangest thing,’ Louise goes on. ‘There I was, passing by your house this morning and, after all this time, I just got the strongest urge to pop in and introduce myself. I really hope you don’t mind, Liz.’
‘Of course not. I’m absolutely delighted to meet you. Call in any time.’
I’m not joking, Mrs Henderson actually looks as if a physical weight has been lifted from her shoulders and I’m just thinking how pleased I am to have been able to help her, when suddenly I get a flash. Ooh, it’s a nice one.
I see Liz and Louise, bosom buddies now, at the airport on their way to New York for some Christmas shopping. The pair of them are happy as sandboys, especially Liz, who is just looking so delighted to have finally made one good, true pal. An ally, someone she can have a bit of fun with. And after everything she’s put up with over the years, no one deserves it more. The pair of them are chatting and laughing away, planning all the discount stores they’re going to hit and the Broadway shows they’re going to see, all delighted with life, when suddenly Liz’s mobile rings.
It’s Gerry, her husband. I can see her looking at the number coming up, smiling quietly to herself and switching her phone off.
Hours and hours later, when I’m tucked up in bed, absolutely wrecked tired for some reason, my mobile gives a beep-beep noise to let me know there’s a text coming through. ‘Shit,’ I say sleepily, hauling myself up and staggering over to wherever I dumped the phone. Forgot to recharge it, as usual.
I don’t believe it: it’s from Jack. Why is he texting me?
HEY. SORR
Y TO DISTURB U SO LATE. HOPE TODAY WENT OK. OLIVER WANTS TO USE SOME BREAKFAST CLUB FOOTAGE FOR HIS DOC, BUT I WON’T GIVE HIM THE GO AHEAD UNLESS U R HAPPY.
OK. Fine.
Right then.
He’s just being professional, I know, I know, I know. It’s my own stupid bloody eejit fault that this very businesslike message is making my heart race.
I hop back into bed, remembering that Charlene is only in the bedroom right next door. Nothing else to do, really, is there? I delete the text, switch off my phone and fall straight back into a deep, deep sleep.
Chapter Twelve
THE TAROT DECK
THE DEATH CARD
Ok, First Of all, don’t panic. Technically, yes, this card symbolizes an ending, but on the plus side it’s also the card of renewal and transformation. A major event may unfold either in your life or in that of a close friend. It may feel traumatic, but in the long run the old lifestyle just wasn’t valid any more. It wasn’t working and a change was long overdue.
A time to let go of who- or whatever is holding you back and to embrace the new, looking forward confidently to the future. Even though things may be rough in the short term, remember that life can only get better. Think positive and don’t give the past a backward glance.
In other words, sometimes what seems like the worst thing that could possibly happen often turns out to be the best. Honest.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: From Hero to Zero
Dear Cassandra,
I’ve been a fan of your column for so long now that there was a certain sort of fated inevitability that I would one day contact you looking for advice.
OK, here goes. I’m old enough to wonder why I’m not married, young enough still to have kids (I hope) and am now in the throes of what feels like a mid-life crisis. I’ve even given myself a nickname: the One before the One.
At this point, it’s almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy, Cassandra; every time I get seriously involved with a guy, he will inevitably end up marrying the one who comes along next. Every, every time. This has now happened so often that my friends are starting to ask me if I’ve been going after some kind of Olympic recognition all this time. Take my most recent ex, and you can publish the bastard’s name for all I care and I only hope he reads this and is suitably mortified, it’s Tom Kirwan of 28 Avondale Terrace, Bray, Co. Wicklow. There, I said it. Good enough for him. When I first met this guy, his idea of long-term faithfulness was to bed only one woman at a time and his contribution to a cleaner, greener environment was to make the same pair of underpants last four days. So, what did I do? What all the women’s magazines, yours included, are constantly telling us never, ever works. I nabbed him, dragged him home and spent the best part of two years sanding down all his rough edges, scrubbing and polishing him until I had successfully moulded him into the image of my perfect life-partner. If this were a production of My Fair Lady, I’d be Henry Higgins and he’d be the Eliza Doolittle character. And then, the curse of the One before the One strikes yet again. He breaks up with me and before I even have time to go through our CD/DVD collection to figure out what belongs to who, he’s moved on to someone else. Who, subsequently, after a disgracefully short length of time, he marries. Of course the next woman who came along grabbed him for herself while the going was good; I had already done all the hard work for her. I had broken him in, housetrained him, if you will, and now all she has to do is sit back and enjoy the foot rubs and back massages which I taught him how to do. From pig to Pygmalion. I should go into business.
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