Sex, Spooks and Sauvignon (Adventures of an Accidental Medium Book 1)

by Tracy Whitwell

  ‘Really?’

  ‘They’re not revealing themselves to me right now apart from an older lady. She’s smiling. She’s called Lily. Lots of jewellery. Do you know her?’

  I feel a coldness down my spine when she says that. ‘That sounds like my Great-Nanna. She was a medium up north.’

  ‘Well she’s just stepped forward and given me a nod. She’s letting me know that she indeed passed her gift to you. She’s widening her hands. I think she’s telling me your gift is stronger than hers. She wants you to learn.’

  ‘Tell her thank you. But I don’t really think…’

  ‘Tell her yourself!’

  ‘Oh.’

  I fix my eyes on the carpet. I’m not sure I want to do this.

  ‘Out loud?’

  ‘Out loud, in your head, it doesn’t matter. She’s just passing through, anyway. Busy busy.’

  I say ‘Thank you’ in my head to Nanna Lily. I could swear I hear, ‘You’re welcome.’ It’s very faint. Then it’s gone. I jump a little in my seat. Sheila smiles encouragingly at me. I get a teensy rush of excitement. All those times I heard people talking to me, in the past, and I thought I was making it up. Conjuring them up in my head. Could it be? ‘How come this is suddenly happening?’

  I stop because I’ve just seen a shadow. It was coming towards me and now it’s halted about three feet away. There is no reason for a shadow to be moving about in this room, or the sudden pressure on my head and chest. My throat has tightened. I just stare. Sheila looks from the place I see the shadow to me and back again.

  ‘You can see him, can’t you?’

  I swallow. This is mental. ‘Him?’

  ‘Yes. Do you see him or feel him?’

  ‘Both. Mostly feel. He’s a shadow.’ Now I’m panicking.

  ‘Why don’t you speak to him?’

  Because he’s a ghost and I’m scared, you idiot. ‘Really?’

  ‘Like I said, out loud, in your head, either works…’

  I test it out, speaking with my mind.

  ‘Hello!’

  The shadow steps forward. It’s like I’m being pushed back in my seat…

  ‘Woah, WOAH! What’s happening…?’

  ‘Ask him to step back so it’s more comfortable.’

  I breathe in and out slowly, then think, ‘Can you step back a bit, please? I’m new to this.’

  And he does. I feel him backing off and I’m sure I can ‘feel’ him laugh. He seems to be excited. I can ‘see’ him with my mind. Like a character from a film rather than a solid man in front of me. He’s around fifty-five, has greying hair and he’s wearing a blue cardigan and brown slippers. I take the plunge.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Edward.’

  I hear it in my head clearly. He has a gentle voice and is very posh.

  ‘He says he’s called Edward! I heard him. He stepped back! Thank you, Edward. I’m Tanz, nice to meet you!’

  I can’t help speaking out loud to him, I’m so delighted. I’m positive he’s clapping his hands. Sheila is suddenly very bright-eyed.

  ‘Well done, Tanz.’

  ‘I can tell what he’s wearing. He’s got a cardie on; he’s got grey hair…’

  ‘And he’s wearing his favourite brown slippers?’ She finishes with a flourish. The fact Sheila is ‘seeing’ the same thing is mind-blowing to me. I try speaking with my mind again.

  ‘How come I can see your shadow, Edward?’

  ‘Call me Teddy.’

  I feel a thrill when he speaks to me. ‘He’s told me to call him –’

  ‘Teddy?’

  ‘Yes! Do you know him, Sheila?’

  ‘Of course! He came with the house. It was a grand place before it was split into flats and studios.’

  ‘When did you… pass away… Teddy?’

  ‘Nineteen twenty-seven. I wasn’t old, but I had a nice life!’

  I can see him in my mind’s eye raising one of those old-fashioned champagne glasses. He is wearing a black tuxedo. Then the image is gone again.

  ‘You were very dapper.’

  He steps forward. He obviously likes compliments.

  ‘How come I can “see” him as well as feel him, Sheila? I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘I think it’s because I see rather than hear. You’re picking up on my way of communicating. You’ll recognise it from now on if you’re on your own.’

  That puts me in a flap. ‘I’ll have a heart attack if this happens when I’m on my own.’

  I hear Teddy laugh. His voice is clear but small, like he’s speaking down a telephone line. Sheila chuckles, too.

  ‘You can close down, Tanz, I’ll show you how. You don’t have to “see” anything if you don’t want to. But I do think you’re a natural. And I think you are going to attract help in your development. If you don’t want to develop you’ll have to block it and hope you can push it away. It may not be easy.’

  There’s a disturbance in the air where Teddy has been standing. Sheila notices and raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh. Our Teddy’s not too happy with that thought. He likes you.’

  Why am I so utterly thrilled by this? I hear his voice again.

  ‘I can help you. There are lots of us that can help you. Just open up and have a chat. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Don’t block.’

  As if I would, now he’s put it like that.

  Peter Sutcliffe and Pat the Cat

  I’ve got a lot to think about. The air is so warm I could be abroad. The streets are still quite busy even though it’s seven in the evening and all I can think about is talking to a dead fella at Sheila’s place. What a lovely man he was. Sheila says he’s still around because he likes visiting and not because he’s ‘stuck’. She says she’ll tell me some stories about the ‘stuck’ ones next time. Amazing.

  I can see people looking at me because I’ve got a stupid grin on my face that I can’t wipe off. I’m shaking a bit. I sit on a bench next to Barclays Bank and call Milo. I get his voicemail. He may be visiting his mum. There’s no reception at her house and he usually stays late to watch loads of recorded episodes of Judge Judy and drink her good gin. I leave a message.

  ‘Milo. I’ve just been talking to a ghost. I shit ye not. I can’t believe it. My hands are sweating. I don’t know what’s going on. Either I’ve finally lost it or I’m like that bloke off the telly, with the white hair, who keeps channelling evil people with Scouse accents.’

  I laugh at my own joke. I sound really manic. I’ve got to calm down. I’ll do myself a mischief if I don’t get a grip.

  ‘Anyway. Hope the writing’s going well. Let’s speak soon. Don’t worry if you get this late. We’ll talk tomorrow. Big kiss.’

  As I stop the call I see there’s a voicemail from Elsa. Elsa’s a bit crazy so she’ll text and call a lot, then not speak to me for six weeks. This must be one of her friendly months. I look through the window of an over-expensive boutique clothes-shop as I listen to the message. There’s not a single damn thing in that window that I could wear or that would suit me. Supposedly beige is in fashion. I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a spatula than attempt to wear beige. What’s wrong with these people? I’ll bet Elsa has a whole bunch of clothes in a shade of beige that looks absolutely fabulous against her tan. Elsa understands trends and would even come out best in a tussle with a pair of stupidly expensive culottes.

  She sounds fraught. Says she hasn’t slept properly in days and needs to talk to me. Minnie’s is about fifty steps away. After everything that has happened I need a glass of wine. I call Elsa. It goes to answer phone. She might be on the Tube with no signal; she might be in some cellar bar off Soho getting smashed with stupidly hip people or she might still be at work, beavering towards a deadline. Who knows? I leave a message and step inside.

  The warmth in Minnie’s is overpowering this evening, but there’s a small empty table with a fan next to it and I grab it. I don’t know the smiling girl who comes to take my order, anoth
er new one, but she seems sweet enough and I bagsy myself my usual pint of vino and some olives to pick at. I actually fancy cake, but that’s not happening. Certainly not at this time of day: it’s against the rules.

  It strikes me, as I wait for my drink, that I didn’t know whose voice it was – the one in Waitrose – that told me to go to Sheila’s in the first place. Maybe it was Lily? It sounded male, though. I’m working tomorrow so maybe I can ask Sheila, though I don’t want to get on her nerves by talking about this all of the time.

  A glass, satisfyingly misted with cold, is placed in front of me. And a plate of olives in chilli oil with warm peasant bread. I’d like to give the bread back, but I’ve suddenly realised how hungry I am. I bloody love bread anyway, it’s my Achilles heel. As I take my first bite a familiar face passes, bearing a tray. It’s the barman who put The Smiths on the other day.

  He’s carrying food to someone; he has his hair tied back and I notice his eyes really are the most extraordinary china blue colour. My eyes are hazel and I have always coveted blue eyes. My dad has blue eyes. As I sneak another glance I’m just in time to see him slide and trip. He manages to save himself the indignity of landing on his backside, but at the expense of the tray. Two bowls of fries and a pot of ketchup go flying and shatter on the wooden floor. Without even thinking my mouth opens.

  ‘Sack the juggler!’

  He looks at me. I redden. I have no idea why I just said that. A couple of people giggle and to my eternal relief he breaks into a grin. I get off my chair, grab his tray and begin to pile chips and bits of crockery on there.

  ‘No, no! Let me get that.’

  He has a nice accent. Soft Irish. Dublin, I’m guessing.

  ‘I’m the eejit that dropped it.’

  He actually said ‘eejit’. I look at the floor, point out an incriminating skid of potato.

  ‘You slipped on a chip. There are a few on the floor. Not your fault at all.’

  A woman whose toddler is sucking on fried potatoes at the next table has the good grace to look embarrassed.

  I grab the handful of napkins he’d been carrying on the tray and wipe up a gobbit of ketchup.

  ‘Will you stop that, really, it’s not your job.’

  He takes them from me; he has nice strong hands and well-shaped nails. Just then the waitress shows up with a dustpan, brush and damp cloth. Not wanting to get in the way I retake my seat as he explains to two estate agenty blokes that new fries are already on their way. He smiles at me as he passes. I grab my magazine, Serial Killer Monthly, out of my bag and idly glance at it while guzzling my wine and thinking of those hands.

  I am such a sucker for accents, especially Celtic ones, especially Irish. This, added to the fact that I have been dying for a shag for about two months accelerates my drinking speed alarmingly. I have to be careful with my stereotyping. Just because someone is smiley and Irish with twinkling eyes doesn’t mean he is naughty and up for anything. Especially with an older woman. There is no guarantee he finds crow’s feet attractive/he’s single/he’s any good at satisfying ravenous Geordies.

  Shit. I’ve finished the glass. How did that happen? The waitress comes back. I now have a choice. Go home and watch the telly or stay here, on my own and drink more, while not-so-surreptitiously sharking after some Irish lad with nice hair.

  ‘Could I have a glass of champagne this time, please? Actually, make it a Kir Royal.’

  The waitress smiles again.

  ‘Celebrating tonight?’

  ‘Actually yes, kind of.’

  ‘Is it your birthday?’

  Even I’m not sad enough to sit drinking in a bar-café on my own at dinner time on my birthday. (Actually, I did exactly that a month after Blake and I split up, but that was a choice, a statement of liberation – until three of my mates showed up at nine o’clock and we got so pissed I was lucky not to be stretchered out.)

  ‘No. I’ve just had a good day.’

  ‘Oh, that’s really nice.’

  I’m not sure what’s really nice, but I’m glad she looks so pleased. She goes off to get my drink and I attempt to immerse myself in the story of a man who killed many, many women because he couldn’t maintain an erection and hated them for it. All of his sexual fantasies were about tying women up and pleasuring himself as he strangled them to death. I usually find this stuff compulsive reading, but you know what, this has been a fantastic, life-changing day and the magazine is in serious danger of bringing down the mood. I close it as the next drink arrives, just in time for Irish boy to pass after delivering fresh chips. He stops, glances down and stoops closer to my ear.

  ‘My uncle hitched a lift from Peter Sutcliffe’s best mate once. After he’d been caught. His mate said Peter was a really nice bloke, no one could believe he did it.’

  He walks off. I am so impressed. If I had the choice between having a drink with Johnny Depp’s best mate or Peter Sutcliffe’s, there’d be no contest and that is saying something. Come to think of it, given the choice of spending a couple of hours with Johnny Depp or visiting Peter Sutcliffe, I would be hard pushed to choose. What the hell does that say about me?

  I hope it says I’m not as shallow as other actresses. But it could also mean I’m a potential killer. You read about it a lot, murderers who were obsessed by other murderers, with the technicalities and psychology of killers. I’ve been reading about this stuff since my nanna introduced me to her collection of Crime and Punishment magazines. She was a total one-off, my nanna – still is. Because of her I’m obsessed with murder and expensive perfumes. It doesn’t matter how full my credit card is, how much I need to find my rent, if the Coco Chanel runs out I have to replace it or I’m all over the shop.

  I’m painfully aware that if I stay in Minnie’s much longer I’m going to look like a lonely old cow with no home to go to. Especially now that I’m not reading, just sitting here, drinking champagne like my mam drinks builders’ tea. I wish I was more ladylike sometimes.

  My head is a bit spinny. I’ve only had two drinks, but I’ve also only had two small pieces of bread and some olives to eat in the last six hours. I am tempted to have fries and more drink, but I am too self-conscious to do it. As I’m dithering a text arrives. It’s Elsa saying she’s getting the Tube and will call me in twenty-five minutes if she’s dropping in at Minnie’s. A second later another Kir Royal arrives at the table. I’m about to protest when the waitress motions towards the bar.

  ‘It’s from Pat. He says you deserve it.’

  She leans forward conspiratorially.

  ‘I think he likes you.’

  She leaves again. I am rooted. What are you supposed to do when someone sends a drink over and you need some food to soak it up? Will I look like a wanker if I order something? Like I’m expecting that for free, too? As if he’s a mind reader he stops at the table and places down more olives and bread.

  ‘I have never had a customer jump out of their seat and try to help me clear up a mess before. Thank you for that.’

  This is the second time I’ve blushed today. I never blush. I’ve blushed at most five times since I was twenty.

  ‘Thought you might appreciate a little nibble with it.’

  Seems that my stereotyping was bang on. This lad is trouble. He winks and wanders off. I don’t always like winks. Granddads wink. But this wink doesn’t annoy me. This wink is a cheeky chappy wink and I can’t help but forgive cheeky chappies.

  ‘Erm?’

  He looks back. I motion to him. He returns to the table.

  ‘Yes, madam?’

  The drink has loosened me up.

  ‘I can’t sit here and drink another drink on my own. I’ll look like a prostitute.’

  He stifles a snigger.

  ‘We don’t get a lot of prostitutes in here as far as I know, madam, and they usually show a bit more cleavage than you are right now.’

  I am wearing a little sparkly purple jumper with a denim mini skirt, leggings and my trusty flip flops. I see his point. />
  ‘I have come here in my day wear. Casual is all the rage.’

  ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘I wasn’t fishing… I… Can’t you come and sit here for a bit so I don’t look pathetic? The murder magazine isn’t cutting it tonight and my mate might be on her way so I can’t leave yet.’

  ‘Much as I’d like to, I’d get the sack if I sat down. But they can’t sack me for chatting at the bar.’

  He motions to a high stool at the little bar. He picks up the olives and my drink. I follow him with my jacket and bag. Usually I would be self-conscious, but I’ve had a giant glass of white and I’m on my second Kir Royal. Sod it. I feel a little less stupid now. People drinking on their own should prop up the bar.

  ‘I’m Pat, by the way.’

  I don’t bother telling him I already know this and I hold out my hand. ‘I’m Tanz. Nice to meet you, Pat. Thank you for… this.’ I dip some bread in the spicy oil and take a bite. I’m famished. ‘I can’t believe your uncle met Peter Sutcliffe’s best mate!’

  ‘Yeah. He was a lorry driver, same as Sutcliffe. Said he was really shocked, like. Said you wouldn’t meet a more mild-mannered man.’

  ‘You find that a lot. These blokes who are the most disturbed are the best at seeming unassuming and nice. Funnily enough though, where men see another bloke being agreeable, women know better. Female neighbours and colleagues and such like, often say that they were a bit disconcerted by a killer. They say he made them feel uncomfortable, but they couldn’t tell why. Something about the way he’d look at them.’

  ‘Jeez. You know a worrying amount about murderers. My mum’s like that about blood and guts. She watches everything she can about accidents and the ambulance service on TV. I prefer a nice film myself!’

  He pronounces it as ‘fillum’. Where I come from the pronunciation is very similar, but not half as sexy. He’s tall and he has a strong, regal nose. He’s quick to smile and I doubt bar work is his final calling.