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

by Tracy Whitwell

  He kisses me again then begins to push off his sweater.

  ‘Music to my ears.’

  Soon my pjs and his shirt, trousers and everything else have followed his sweater onto the floor, and beneath the duvet I have squeezed as close as I can to him, skin on skin, just breathing in his scent as we kiss. This time he doesn’t have to locate his wallet as I found two condoms while I was cleaning out my drawers. They are now in my nightstand and with a deft little grab I can have one ready. For someone who didn’t want any shenanigans tonight I’m doing a pretty good impression of a wildcat on heat. I suddenly want him inside me as quickly as possible. I drag my nails down his neck, his back and then his buttocks. His bum is a thing of glory, muscular and taut. I can’t believe this sexy young thing fancies me.

  His fingers dig into my flesh as his mouth explores my neck and he doesn’t protest as I slip on the sheath and greedily pull him inside me. Out of nowhere he stops all movement by gripping my backside and clamping me against him. It’s bloody torturous. Then he rolls me on my back, pins my arms to the bed and makes the tiniest of thrusts into me, one… two… three…

  I find myself biting his shoulder as I sweat and squirm and try not to scream the house down. When it seems I can’t take any more, he suddenly sits up against the headboard and drags me up to straddle him, so my eyes are level with his. It’s intense with him inside me and his open eyes glinting into mine, but I keep staring straight at him as I move up and down, up and down, and I see his irises darken and feel his ragged breaths on my cheek. In this moment he doesn’t seem like a young lad, he’s a grown man. A real man who knows what he’s about. And right now that man, with that voice and that body and that kind soul, wants me more than any other woman on the planet. And just as I think this, the aforementioned planet explodes.

  This time we both collapse into sweaty sleep afterwards, which suits me down to the ground. In fact, I get almost as much sleep as I would have if Pat hadn’t shown up here. I wake up before he does and lie snuggled against his back, marvelling at the fact I slept at all. In the old, old days, before Blake, I was no good at having sex with new people, especially one-night stands because I couldn’t sleep beside someone I hardly knew. Once finished I’d always make excuses and run off. You’d think men would like this, but they’re not as pleased as you’d think when the shoe is on the other foot.

  I think it’s much more trusting to be asleep next to someone than to have sex with them. This may be linked to me constantly reading about murders. I mean, you could wake up in some garage suspended from the ceiling by winches with an apple shoved up your vagina, and who would know? It just doesn’t bear thinking about.

  Anyway, after Blake, I promised myself that when my sex drive came back I was going to sample the joys of casual sex. I haven’t got very far. Months and months avoiding it then several goes on the same bloke? That’s not very casual, is it? But it doesn’t mean I have to fall in love, does it? No, it does not.

  Suddenly, the young Irish one is stirring. I keep absolutely still. He reaches for his chai, which I suppose isn’t quite so horrible as cold coffee, and swills and swallows. Then he turns and pulls me close.

  ‘I know you’re awake you bloody actress; I could feel you moving.’

  Uh-oh. I can feel him ‘moving’, too. I glance at the clock over his shoulder. An hour before I have to get up.

  Goody.

  House of the CD Terrorist

  When we reach the cottage it is just before noon. It is one of a bunch of run-down little council bungalows that protrude strangely into a field, the last one being surrounded on three sides by scrubby grass. This is the one we’re aiming for. It’s not horrible or anything, it’s just strangely situated.

  We set out from London an hour and fifteen minutes ago, armed with takeaway cappuccinos and a raspberry and white chocolate muffin each. Sheila says the sugar is good to have before a ghost-bust, and afterwards as well, so we also bought Skittles and bottles of water for the journey home.

  The woman who answers the door looks haggard. She is rotund with straggly hair, straggly slippers and a straggly tent-dress that envelops her breasts and belly and hangs to her knees. Her eyes are tired and her breathing is thick and laboured. She looks so wiped out, I feel like giving her a cuddle. She is called Ann.

  When we get inside the hallway, it is dimly lit and the air is heavy. Also, the carpets are aggressively patterned and the walls are a dusty yellow. We follow her to the living room where another, younger, slightly less rotund woman sits at a rickety dining table looking rather nervous. We are directed to a small, patterned green sofa and offered a cup of tea, which both of us decline.

  ‘This is me daughter by the way, Sue.’

  Sue smiles and nods and continues to look uncomfortable.

  ‘She doesn’t like coming here, do you, Sue? The whole family hate it here, don’t they?’

  ‘I wouldn’t stay here overnight, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

  Sheila grimaces. ‘Now that’s no good, is it? We’ll have to see if we can change that. Ann, love, can you take us through why you brought us here, just so we can get a feel for what’s been going on?’

  I’m not saying much at this point because I’m putting the feelers out as I listen to them talk. I can tell there’s someone else in the bungalow, some heavy presence, but I can’t properly pinpoint ‘him’. I’m pretty sure I can feel a ‘he’ though.

  ‘Well. It all started just after my Raymond – Sue’s dad – died.’

  As she wheezes into an inhaler she points up at a picture on the wall of her hugging a man with dark hair and a widow’s peak. He looks sweet. She looks much, much younger.

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘That was five years ago. My health’s gone up the Swanee through all of this… I’m telling you, that nasty man is killing me.’

  ‘MUM!’

  Sue is evidently horrified by such talk, but Ann certainly doesn’t look too healthy.

  ‘Two weeks after the funeral, I was sitting in front of the telly and it was my bedtime, but I couldn’t face it because I still wasn’t used to sleeping without Raymond. So I put a film on and tried to get some rest in the chair. Anyway, this banging started over my head and kept going all the way around the room, like someone hitting the walls with a toffee hammer. I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do because I was on my own, so I started shouting at it to stop. Eventually it did, but from that moment I felt like I was being watched. And every night, if I didn’t go to bed at my normal time, the banging would start.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Ann, I’d have made a run for it.’

  And I would have done, too. She’s braver than me. She shakes her head.

  ‘Where would I have run to? My next door neighbour is older than me, she’s eighty and she’s almost deaf. I didn’t want to go bothering her. Two of the other houses are empty and I don’t have a car.’

  As she speaks I begin to feel a pressure on my left-hand side.

  ‘Thing is, I stopped wanting to go to bed because you don’t want to get undressed if you’re being watched – and I definitely was. If that wasn’t bad enough, when I did get into bed, the noises would start. They’re still going on most nights. I don’t know how to describe it, but the closest thing I could compare it to is bottles being rolled in a concrete yard. I’ll be falling asleep and suddenly there’ll be this noise. It can go on for more than an hour.’

  I’m getting a headache on the left-hand side of my head. I look at Sheila who glances back at me and indicates my left-hand side with a quick bob of the head and sideways glance. Boy, he’s a strong one.

  ‘Mum. Tell them about the music.’

  Ann sighs. ‘Yes, that’s his latest trick. I can’t play my Shania Twain any more, or my Celine Dion. As soon as I put them in, the thing jams. I was beginning to wonder if the stereo was broken, until the first time the CD drawer opened itself back up and Celine Dion flew across the room. He’s done that three times.’
r />   ‘Sorry Ann, but in this case I think he has a point.’

  We all laugh at my joke, but it’s becoming more and more uncomfortable in the room. Ann is first to acknowledge it out loud.

  ‘The bugger’s in here now, isn’t he?’

  I look around me, feel him coming in even closer. ‘Yep. Can you feel that, Sheila?’

  ‘He’s not pleased we’re here, is he?’

  Sue shivers. ‘He pushed me over once, that’s why I don’t come here unless I have to. I’ve asked Mum if she wants to stay with us for a few weeks, but you don’t want to go, do you Mum?’

  ‘No. This was where me and Ray were going to live out our retirement. I’M NOT BEING PUSHED OUT BY YOU, YOU BUGGER!’

  The air is palpably shaking, then he’s gone. There’s a crash from the kitchen. I jump out of my flippin’ skin. Ann emits a little rasp and tuts.

  ‘It’s my sweeping brush. He pushes it over when he’s angry. He sometimes knocks plates off the bench ’n all. I wish I knew what he bloody wanted. He wasn’t here when we moved in and now he rules this place. He doesn’t like visitors, he won’t let me sleep, he knocks on the wall when I’m trying to read. He’s a bleedin’ nuisance and I’m going to end up in hospital if he doesn’t leave me alone. I just want him to go away.’

  I’m excited by all of this (and, of course, scared) because he can mess with physical things. I thought that kind of thing was just fairy stories, but obviously not. I look to Sheila again, who gives me the proper nod. Time to go in.

  ‘Right, Ann love, what we need to do is have a look round, just Tanz and me and we can hopefully find out a bit about him. Maybe work out what he wants? If you two just stay there we’ll report back to you soon.’

  Seeing as a lot of the disturbance is going on in her bedroom, it’s the obvious place to go first. We look in on the kitchen en route and see the broom lying on the floor. His energy doesn’t seem to be concentrated in there right now, so we pile into her bedroom and perch on her double duvet. The room is dingy, but not messy. This just adds to my impression that he’s a strong energy and so is Ann. She is battling to keep her life ordered; he is battling to break her down.

  We sit quietly and centre ourselves, waiting for the surge of energy that will signal his presence. Sure enough, it comes. And, to my amazement, I feel him trying to push me back on the bed. I’m so surprised I almost laugh, not because it’s funny, but because he is so brazenly sexual.

  ‘He’s here love, do you feel it?’

  ‘Feel it, he just tried to push me backwards on the bed, the cheeky sod.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Get out.’

  It’s unmistakable. The voice of an angry man. It immediately strikes me that being scared is pointless and will give him power. I imagine my protection around me.

  ‘He’s telling us to get out, Sheils.’

  ‘I thought he might be. Tell me anything else you hear. I can see him pointing to the door. He’s a big bloke.’

  ‘I’m glad I can’t see his face properly. He sounds very mean.’

  ‘Get out. And get away from my wife.’

  ‘Oh God, Sheils, he’s saying she’s his wife.’

  ‘Ohhh. He’s claimed her, has he? Explains why he turned up after her Raymond died. Still… where did he come from?’

  ‘Who are you? Do you know this isn’t your house? And Ann isn’t your wife?’

  We’re both speaking out loud as it makes it easier for both of us to synchronise.

  ‘This is my field, this is where I do my horses. I saw this house and decided to get married and live here. It’s on my field! YOU SHOULDN’T BE HERE, I DIDN’T INVITE YOU.’

  ‘He’s saying this is his field. He’s saying something about horses.’

  ‘Aww, yes. I’m getting horseshoes and hot metal. He’s a farrier. I wonder when he worked here?’

  ‘This is MY field.’

  His name comes to me suddenly. Thomas. The picture of him in my head puts him straight into a Catherine Cookson drama.

  ‘I think he’s from a long time ago, Sheils. He’s called Thomas.’

  Sheila speaks up authoritatively.

  ‘What year is this, Thomas?’

  He snickers unpleasantly. ‘Is she stupid? It’s 1904. Stupid bitch. Are you both stupid?’

  ‘God, he’s a charmer. He reckons it’s 1904. It’s not, Thomas, you know. It’s not 1904. I think you died then, in 1904. It’s 2012 now and this field doesn’t belong to you any more.’

  ‘It’s 1904 and this is my field and that’s my wife and you two better go before I wring your necks!’

  He is one furious bloke. Sheila gets the gist without me having to tell her. His energy suddenly sucks out of the room. He’s sensing danger, probably. I don’t suppose nasty, stuck spooks like him want to be faced with the truth. I suddenly feel sure that he did something terribly wrong in his life and he’s afraid.

  Sheila has gone very serious. She whispers, ‘I’m getting that he mistreated his wife. She died after years of misery. It was natural causes, but she had a horrible time of it. That’s why he’s still here. Guilt and fear of going to hell. He must have been stuck in this field, then they built the houses and when Ray died and Ann was at her most psychologically weak, he jumped in and claimed her for his own. Ruling her life like he ruled his other wife. If we don’t get rid of him he will finish her off, I’m sure of it. She won’t have a lot of time left. He’s a bloodsucker.’

  If anyone knows about abusive men, it’s Sheila. No wonder she’s picked up on it.

  I stand. ‘Right, we know his weakness now. Let’s get him.’

  We straighten the duvet like good, polite girls and go out to the hallway. He is not letting us feel his energy. I go to the kitchen and the bathroom, I look back into the living room where Sue and Ann look back at me, curiously. I wave a jaunty hand then return to the hallway. Sheila shrugs. Then all at once I know. I open the tiny airing cupboard. I get closer, I empty my mind. Then I laugh. I make myself laugh more. Bully the bully, isn’t that the way to defeat them?

  ‘Sheila, Thomas – the great big coward – is hiding in a cupboard. Hiding in a little cupboard from two women like a girl.’

  ‘I WAS NOT HIDING, YOU STUPID FOOL.’

  Do ghosts have a habit of calling people stupid? That’s the second time that’s happened. A furious whoosh through the air and he has vacated the cupboard and is back in the bedroom. I feel him go.

  Sheila winks at me. ‘Brilliant.’

  We head back into the bedroom and stop in our tracks. We straightened that bed a few minutes ago. Now there’s an indentation like someone is sitting there. I feel a mixture of fear and admiration. This is one powerful spook. On instinct I take Sheila’s hand. We step forward. It’s time to change tone.

  ‘Thomas?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Thomas. We haven’t come to cause you trouble. We’ve come to tell you something.’

  ‘You have nothing I want to hear.’

  Sheila introduces a deep calm to her voice. ‘Thomas, your wife didn’t die because of you. You didn’t give her the best time, but she died naturally. You will not go to hell, you will go to her and apologise and she will forgive you because she is peaceful and happy now.’

  ‘My wife is in that room next door!’ He doesn’t sound so convinced himself, now.

  ‘Sheils, he’s saying Ann’s his wife.’

  Sheila takes a deep breath. ‘No, she isn’t. She is someone else’s wife and she will die as surely as yours did if you don’t leave her alone. This isn’t your home and you have an apology to make. You have got to make your peace or you will be miserable for ever.’

  All at once I get a picture in my head of this big man with a mean face falling to the ground in a muddy field, clutching at his chest. I keep my voice calm and low.

  ‘You died in this field, Thomas. Do you remember? A heart attack in this field, in 1904. You have to go and talk to your wife… You have to find pea
ce.’

  As I hold Sheila’s hand, I see something in my mind’s eye. It looks like a treasure chest… the top opens and it has a toy drum in it… and I see this big mean-faced man, and all at once he’s shrinking. He shrinks and shrinks and the nasty, lined, mean face gets softer and more innocent until he is a sweet little boy with big eyes and a perfectly pointed chin. He turns to look into the chest and spots the drum. Out of nowhere he climbs into the chest and closes the lid on himself. As it closes the vision fades. And suddenly the room feels empty.

  Sheila lets go of my hand.

  I am shell-shocked and very moved.

  ‘He was a beautiful child.’

  ‘Probably the last time he felt happy.’

  ‘Jesus, Sheila. Was that it? Has he gone?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  I put out the ‘feelers’. I don’t ‘reach’ exactly – I don’t want to pull any energy back – I just tentatively touch around with my senses. I can’t find him.

  We migrate to the hallway and it’s the strangest thing. The sunlight is now illuminating the windowed door panel. There is much more light in here, I’m sure of it. As we walk towards the living room, Ann emerges. She looks at us, one then the other, then nods.

  ‘He’s gone, hasn’t he? I feel it.’

  If anyone would know, it’s Ann. She’s been tuned in to this bloke for a long time. When she smiles I suddenly see the attractive woman she was before. I just hope she can get her health back and be that again.

  As we go to the living room to explain what just happened, I already know that we won’t be charging. Sheila is just as soft as me, really. And I can’t imagine Ann has a penny. I just hope Thomas finds his peace and that everything gets better for this poor woman.

  I know one thing, though, she should paint this place white and change the hallway carpet. It’s horrible! I don’t want to say that exactly, so I tell her that if she changes the décor it will help her move on. She is grateful for my advice. Sometimes I’m the gift that just keeps on giving.