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

by Tracy Whitwell

  Her eyes narrow. ‘Nice lad? He can’t take his eyes off you. Is there something you want to tell me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s cute, I suppose.’

  ‘Cute, my arse. He’s gorgeous. Isn’t it time you dipped your toe back in the water?’

  ‘Errm. No. I can’t be bothered with it all.’

  Elsa yawns like a lion. ‘Tanz, I’m sorry to be a pain, but I’m dying on my feet here, that wine’s gone straight to my head. Could we maybe…?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I wave Elsa’s tenner away when Marina brings the bill. I pay with my groaning credit card and as I’m slipping on my jacket, Pat approaches and hands me a square of paper.

  ‘Let’s go for that drink some time, if you fancy it?’

  Then the cheeky blighter kisses me on the cheek. I want him to kiss me on the mouth, but that’s not prudent. Elsa is looking at me smugly, not without a little envy. Like many pretty women she’s used to being the centre of attention with attractive blokes. My looks are interesting rather than beautiful and I’m not as skinny as Elsa, so I always feel like her ungainly chubby sister when we go out. This is a new situation.

  We use her tenner to get a cab. We should walk, it’s not that far, but both of us are tired. Once inside I rustle up crudités and houmous, which I quickly realise is not sufficiently mopping up the drink so I add a few rounds of toast.

  As I put the duvet on the pull-out sofa bed and she gratefully curls up under it, she peeks out and smiles. ‘You’ve got to call him, Tanz. Or I will.’

  ‘Stop it. Let’s just concentrate on sorting your flat. God knows what’s going to happen there.’

  She’s almost asleep before I finish my sentence. It’s probably the carbs. Usually Elsa treats bread the same way she treats tramps and beggars. Like their existence makes her sick. She doesn’t mean to be horrible to tramps and beggars incidentally, she is just mortified by uncleanliness and she assumes that they are filthy. I leave on my cherub lights and put a glass of water on the table next to her. I think of leaving the TV on, but I reckon she’ll be fine.

  I can’t believe it’s only ten thirty. It feels like I just lived a forty-hour day. It should be at least six a.m. I programme Pat’s number into my phone, not because I think I’ll call him, but because at least I won’t lose it if it’s in there. I’m always losing things. It amazes me that after a day of revelation like today I can still be thinking with my loins. I push thoughts of his lovely mouth out of my mind.

  As I clamber into bed my phone rings. I pick up.

  ‘Hello, is this Rentaghost?’

  ‘Hiya Milo.’

  ‘HIYA MILO? Mrs “I have no powers, I am not a witch!”. Spill the beans. I want details of the undead and I want them now…’

  I can’t help laughing.

  Looks like my day’s not quite over yet.

  Find the Love

  I don’t get to talk to Sheila much at work because she’s booked out the whole day. Talk about Mrs Popular. Today’s theme seems to be rude, toffee-nosed idiots who want to be told their lives have meaning when they don’t. Sheila slaps my hand when I tell her this.

  ‘We’re all looking for meaning, love. Some people are rude because they’re scared.’

  ‘So what. They’re still rude. Wankers.’

  Just then another leather-faced rich woman troupes in, in ill-advised, spike-heeled boots, white skinnies and obvious hair extensions. I’d usually think this rocked on a sixty-year-old if she didn’t look at me like I was dog poo. I always wonder where well-off people get the idea that they can be as horrible as they want from. It seems to be worse in people who used to be poor then acquired money; their taste is laughable and they stink of condescension. Anyway, this one has a huge stain on her aerobicised, sixty-year-old arse and I’m not telling her. She is also the colour of beef gravy. She doesn’t look tanned, she looks barbecued.

  As the door closes on her grubby bottom, I recall Elsa leaving my place via taxi at seven a.m. with a smile on her face. She’d slept like a baby and was feeling relieved that someone was going to (try to) help. Funnily enough, after my chat with Milo I’d not slept quite so well. I’d woken up near dawn convinced I’d heard a long, drawn out scream. But when I checked on Elsa she was out like a light. It was only when I heard a car horn outside (who beeps their horn at four in the bloody morning?) that I thought maybe that was what had got into my dreams. It took a while to shake off the creeps, though.

  At lunchtime Sheila manages quickly to explain about spirits who come back to visit as and when they please, as opposed to poor lost souls who don’t/won’t leave for whatever reason. The latter need guidance and help, whereas the former may have a lot to teach us. God, this stuff is interesting.

  Turns out she’s done a few ‘clearings’, or ‘ghost-busts’ as she prefers to call them. I’ve noticed that Sheila finds humour in spiritual stuff, which is probably why so many people come back to her for readings. She doesn’t take herself too seriously and she’s down-to-earth and truthful. When I ask how she got into this business, she just repeats that her childhood was shocking and if she hadn’t had her ‘other friends’ she may not have survived it with her sanity intact.

  When I ask about her mam she just spins her finger next to her temple and chirps, ‘Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!’

  And now we’re in my car, which is looking more sorry for itself than usual as some idiot knocked a dent in the door while I was parked outside my house, and drove off without leaving a note. This is the norm for London, but it still riles me. When you’re already skint you can do without it.

  ‘What if I can’t feel anything?’

  Sheila snorts. ‘How can you not feel anything? You only had to concentrate a tiny bit last night to discover it was an old woman and what her state of mind was. I think you’re more likely to need to protect yourself from feeling too much. You’re obviously very sensitive.’

  ‘If I’m so sensitive, how come I only found out about all of this now? Why haven’t I been doing this for years?’

  ‘You have.’

  I think back to all of the times in my life I’ve ‘known’ something and called it ‘instinct’. The most glaring one was the day I turned up for school when I was eight years old and my form teacher wasn’t in class. He was a funny, clever man, we all adored him, and I’d never known him not to be there before the students arrived. My instinct was that it was too cold in the room, unearthly cold. There was a stillness. An absence that I felt but couldn’t vocalise. Basically, as soon as I walked into that classroom I knew that our teacher was dead. Ten minutes later it was announced in assembly that he’d died of a heart attack the night before.

  Afterwards, I told myself it was a conclusion I’d come to because he wasn’t in the classroom when he should have been. But that’s quite a leap. Teacher late, therefore dead. Things like that have always happened to me and I’ve put it down to educated guesses. Now I’m not so sure. It seems to be the truth that if you’re not looking for something you don’t see it. Maybe I always ‘knew’ stuff. I just didn’t recognise what was happening.

  The traffic on the way to Elsa’s is shocking. The roads of London always jam up with cars around teatime. I ask Sheila to pick some music and she rifles through my little leather CD case. I am chuffed when she hands me Led Zeppelin II. The Brown Bomber. I chuck it on and go straight to ‘What Is And What Should Never Be’. It’s just perfect driving music, cranked up on a bright evening. Sheila knows the words.

  We pass the journey happily enough, singing at the tops of our voices and making inappropriately sexual comments about the members of various rock bands who were just gorgeous in the 1970s and that Sheila was old enough to have seen live in their heyday.

  It’s only as we get a couple of streets away from Elsa’s flat that the merriment suddenly dries up and the atmosphere in my Peugeot becomes a lot more sober. I switch off the music.
r />   ‘Why do I suddenly feel like shit? Do you feel queasy?’

  ‘You’re picking up on the energy in the flat. You’re picking up on the lady we’ve come to meet.’

  Fucking hell. Frightening. It’s all very well loving the concept of all of this, but now it’s real and I’m going to have to face something that has scared the bejesus out of me since I was little… a troublesome, possibly angry spectre.

  When we knock, nobody comes. We’re there a couple of minutes when Elsa comes haring around the corner scattering apologies like shot-gun pellets. She’s been in a coffee shop with her laptop as she didn’t want to be home on her own. She shakes Sheila’s hand as she’s unlocking the door and starts gabbling what she’d already told me last night. As we mount the stairs she throws a smile my way.

  ‘I’m not feeling so messed up today because Tanz took good care of me last night. After taking care of the barman at Minnie’s, of course.’

  Sheila raises an eyebrow and I roll my eyes and shake my head. Cow.

  Soon we’re on the top floor and the door is open. Elsa switches on the light then holds back. Wow, she really is scared. Eventually she enters cautiously behind us.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s a bit messy. I wasn’t around to clear up today.’

  I have been in this flat once before. I found it pretty, but quite oppressive. It was sunny and light enough, but I couldn’t wait to get out. Now I know why. As I walk through the front door it feels OK, but entering the living/dining area is like walking into an invisible wall. The air is so heavy, it’s almost viscous. Sheila nods at me and smiles.

  ‘Feel that?’

  ‘How could I miss it?’

  Elsa is standing in the kitchen doorway watching us, not quite sure what to do with herself. Sheila notices her discomfort.

  ‘Why don’t you boil the kettle love, while we feel about a bit? The good news is you’re not going mad. There’s someone here and they’re not too happy. We’ll have to see what we can do about it.’

  ‘Oh… OK.’

  Elsa does as she’s told. Which is a distinct novelty.

  ‘Tanz, just concentrate on what you feel. I usually walk about until they make themselves known.’

  Sheila goes to the wall with the shabby-chic sofa against it, rests one hand on the faux antique wallpaper and closes her eyes. I’m drawn to the window, overlooking the street, where Elsa keeps her big, old-fashioned school desk. As soon as I reach it, my temples throb and my breath is short. I feel completely dreadful. I close my eyes and I can hear a voice – a raspy, breathless lady. She has longish, wild grey hair. I can see her now in my mind’s eye, trying to pin it up in a bun. I recover from the initial shock, closing my mouth with a snap. I decide to speak to her with my mind, so as not to shock Elsa. Again, I feel a little self-conscious.

  ‘Hello there. What’s your name?’

  ‘What are you doing in here? Get out. Why are you sitting there? You can’t be here. Get out. Get out NOW.’

  She sounds very panicked as well as angry. In my mind it looks like she’s waving an umbrella. I know it sounds strange, but I can visualise her, rather than see her. Like I have new eyes that are turned inwards. I feel terrible for her. She’s angry, but so tiny and frail.

  ‘We’re leaving really soon, honest. Is this your place?’

  ‘Of course it is. Why won’t you all just leave me alone? Have you seen the walls? Have you seen the state of my bathroom? This is private property.’

  Her energy abates like she’s stormed off.

  I open my eyes. Sheila is watching me. Elsa is back in the doorway not saying anything.

  ‘What did she say, love? I could see her standing over you. She’s a spunky little thing, I’ll give her that!’

  ‘She says it’s private property. She was threatening me with her umbrella.’

  ‘I saw it. It was bigger than her!’

  ‘Elsa, you’ve messed up her bathroom, apparently?’

  Elsa moved in with me for a couple of months about five years ago and I can categorically confirm that she’s one of the most untidy women I’ve ever met. My bathroom looked like an explosion in John Lewis every time she took a shower. She only tidies up when there’s a possibility she’s bringing a man home, then she’s like the House Doctor on roller skates. It’s bizarre. Why sell yourself as a super housewife if they’re only going to find out imminently that you’re a total slob?

  At this moment Elsa looks mortified and scared. She doesn’t like being told she’s untidy in the first place, but it’s a hundred times worse when it’s a dead old lady saying it. I try to give her a reassuring glance. Sheila walks toward the door.

  ‘Let’s have a nose in the bedroom now, Tanz. I think that’s where we might get some answers.’

  Elsa looks at us. ‘Should I just stay in here? I’ve made a pot of coffee.’

  ‘Yes, love. You start without us. We’ll be as quick as we can.’

  Blue Petey

  The bedroom is an absolute tip, even by Elsa’s standards. There are clothes, belts, shoes, deodorants, a damp towel and half-empty water bottles all over the place. The bed is unmade and the blinds are half-shut. There’s also a feeling of confusion and sadness in this room. I look to Sheila, who blows out a puff of air.

  ‘Bingo.’

  ‘This is horrendous. It’s a miracle Elsa’s slept at all. I’d have nightmares sleeping in here.’

  ‘Me too. It makes me want a ciggie.’ For a second she looks longingly towards the door, beyond which is her packet of Regals. Instead she taps my arm and points to the unkempt double bed.

  We both go to it and sit down. I close my eyes. Within seconds I am feeling absolute panic and my breath is short again. I regulate my breathing like I did when I went diving off Koh Samui and saw a shark. There’s such a desperate feeling in here. Sheila stands. I pat the mattress.

  ‘I think this is where her bed was when she lived here. It may even be the same bed.’

  Sheila giggles. ‘Christ, I hope not, love.’

  Suddenly I can feel the lady beside me, standing to my right. She doesn’t like anyone being in this (her) room. But there’s something else. I seize on it and speak to her pale, shadow self. ‘Please tell me your name. We really want to talk to you. Then we’ll go. I promise.’

  She pauses a second, then can’t help herself.

  ‘Sarah.’

  She’s so lonely. It’s underneath the panic and the anger. Hollow, desperate, awful loneliness. I speak aloud now, so Sheila can be part of the conversation.

  ‘Sarah. Hello, I’m Tanz and this is Sheila. We just wanted to check on you, that’s all. Do you live on your own?’

  ‘Since Len died. Yes, since Len.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘My Len, yes.’

  ‘Do you know when he died?’

  She is indignant, the tone changes.

  ‘Of course I know. I’m not batty. First of April 1962. Ten years he’s been gone. Still miss him like it was yesterday.’

  My heart goes out to her. I look at Sheila.

  ‘She thinks it’s 1972.’

  ‘Of course it’s 1972, silly girl.’

  She must have been a pocket rocket in her time, this one. But her voice is wispy and I guess that she suffered from chest problems of some sort.

  ‘Can you feel the disturbance when she gets mad, Tanz? The air shakes.’

  I nod and listen. ‘Her breathing doesn’t sound so good.’

  Sarah thinks I’m talking to her. ‘Bad chest. I always have a bad chest. Asthma ’n all. No kids, no one to look after me. It’s murder.’

  As soon as she says asthma, I link in. Tiny old lady in a single bed by the window in the dark. She’s trying to breathe and she can’t. She’s coughing and wheezing and her face is changing colour. Now I know what happened. She caught a chill, got a chest infection then died from asphyxiation, fighting to get some oxygen in. Poor lady. As I’m thinking it, Sheila puts her hand to her chest. She’s obviously picked up
on it, too. Suddenly I feel tearful.

  ‘What a terrible way to go.’

  ‘It feels like she has emphysema or a really bad chest infection, love. She definitely couldn’t breathe.’

  ‘She says she had asthma.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Can’t imagine that’s much fun, Sarah.’

  Sarah’s reply is sad. ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘She says it isn’t, Sheila. Does that mean she still has a chest infection now, even though she’s…?’

  ‘Oh yes. If she was lonely for ten years and this place was her only reality, maybe she couldn’t let go of it. If she hasn’t let go then she’s stayed here in exactly the same state as she was when she passed. She only needs a nudge and she’ll suddenly realise she doesn’t have a bad chest at all.’

  The air begins to vibrate as Sheila speaks. Sarah’s not having any of this. ‘Of course I’ve got a bad chest, listen to it! It’s rattling like my Petey’s cage. How can she say I haven’t got a bad chest, the stupid woman?’

  I’m intrigued. ‘Who’s Petey, Sarah?’

  ‘My budgie. That blue budgie out there in the cage. My little baby. Who did you think? I’m all he’s got, the poor sweet lamb.’

  Oh my goodness. ‘Sheila. She stayed for her budgie. She’s been here forty years because of her bird!’

  Even Sheila looks surprised.

  Something else occurs to me. ‘And I’m going to bet she died at five to four on the dot. That’s why Elsa wakes up terrified. Oh, boy. Sarah, listen to me, we have to tell you something…’

  I’m not quite sure how to put it. I look to Sheila who looks back expectantly.

  ‘Do I just explain the situation?’

  She nods.

  ‘Sarah. You have to go into the living room and look. Look properly. Look around you. It’s not just the new wallpaper and furniture. Look where Petey’s cage was. It’s not there. Really, it’s not. Petey died many years ago… Petey’s gone… and you should be going, too. Going to see him.’

  I feel the vibration in the air again. She doesn’t like this one bit.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Petey’s through there. Petey’s fine… Petey’s my little lamb… he’s –’