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

by Tracy Whitwell

The Wrath of the Weasel

  Christ, it all kicked off in the shop today.

  I came in this morning and did a bit of dusting as usual. Sheila came with me, gloriously clad in a bottle-green velvet jacket and aventurine jewellery, but sauntered off for a coffee as it was still early. At ten o’clock Sheila reappeared, closely followed by Maggie who was looking mighty fucked off. Maggie works on the till several times a week to keep her hand in and she informed us that she had sacked Martin the weasel the day before. I asked why and she told me there had been a complaint.

  Turns out that midget Rose West’s husband was not happy. Martin had told her her husband was gay and that she needed to escape. Apparently Rose West was completely traumatised – no wonder she looked so weird when she left the shop. Next day, her husband had called to say he would press charges unless Martin was sacked. Which he has been. Now there’s a vacancy.

  Maggie is quite determined that I should fill the gap. She is so pushy, like a Yorkshire Terrier, except you can throw a Yorkshire Terrier in a bin and you can’t throw Maggie in the bin, worst luck. I wouldn’t be in this predicament if Juliette hadn’t called the shop within half an hour of the angry, non-gay husband’s call to request that I become a reader. She told Maggie that I was the best medium she had ever met. Bless her. She laid it on rather thick though, so now Maggie is determined. She says she doesn’t care if I’m a reader, a psychometrist or a hands-on medium, I’m taking Martin’s place. And now I’m quite scared Martin will kill me.

  I am given a couple of hours to think about it. What does that mean? I’m not sure what Maggie’s going to do if after those two hours I say no. Before I can ask Sheila about it, a very laid-back young Jamaican lad walks in off the street and asks for a reading.

  Sheila has just taken him to her room and closed the door when, horror of horrors, an irate Martin scoots into the shop, cardigan flapping, half-mast trousers billowing and all guns blazing. Despite which, if I’m brutally honest, he still manages to make fury look a little limp. He accuses me of getting the job on the till to depose him. Hustler that I am. I mean, really, I plotted his downfall, did I? Sometimes I forget, I suppose, that not everyone wants to be a show-off for a living, and his job was probably important to him. But now I’m mad so I inform him that I got the job in the shop because I was skint, and I’m now being kept on because I’m nice to customers and they like me. As for the tarot-reading post, I remind him that I hadn’t owned a deck of tarot cards until yesterday.

  He calls me a ‘total cowbag’, bursts into tears, and leaves.

  For all of my mouthiness I hate confrontation and I feel sad that he’s in such distress. I’m also relieved he didn’t murder me; though I’ll wait a few days before I truly believe he isn’t going to return with a Taser.

  As I sit pondering, thumbing through my Scapinis, I get the strangest feeling of dizziness, like I’m whizzing backwards on some godawful funfair ride. It’s accompanied by a sudden jab of nausea and it’s all I can do not to fall off my chair. Holding on to the counter for balance I take a sip of water from my half-finished bottle and attempt to steady myself, closing my eyes and breathing out for ten.

  As I open them again, I glance towards the coffee shop across the road and see a man at a table in the window directly opposite, looking like he’s watching me. But he can’t be, because he has no face.

  ‘Oh Christ he has no face, it’s just a blank oval. FRANKKKK it’s a man with no face!’

  But Frank doesn’t answer and I rub my hands over my eyes, reluctant to believe what they’ve just shown me. My heart is going like the clappers. When I eventually force myself to look back, I see that it’s actually a man with dark, droopy-looking eyes; he does have a face after all and he’s getting up out of his seat. The light’s bouncing off the café window so it’s hard to see much more. Then a lorry stops at the lights outside Mystery Pot and blocks my view. When it moves again the man has gone. I’m so shaken up I rush over to turn the door sign to ‘Closed’ and put the lock on. Then I go through to the kitchen at the back to make myself a camomile tea. As the kettle boils, I decide ten minutes is a fair amount of time to hide in case the scary man decides to try to pop in for some impromptu shape-shifting.

  When Sheila eventually emerges from the reading room she is looking very stern and the laid-back Jamaican lad is distinctly less laid-back. He’s as pale as a black man can be and, as he pays, his eyes keep darting to Sheila and away again. There is wonder mingled with fear in those pretty eyes. Before he leaves he almost genuflects.

  ‘Thank you for everything. I’ll… I’ll be thinking about what you said.’

  ‘You’ll do more than that. You know you will. Otherwise you are letting down your mother. Make things right, love, or you’ll regret it. I’m warning you.’

  I can’t believe it. I’ve not seen this side of Sheila before. He all but runs out of the place. Suddenly, the fact that I imagined a bloke had no face becomes yesterday’s news.

  ‘Sheila? What the –?’

  She sighs, takes a bottle of water out of her bag and sits in the seat next to me at the till.

  ‘He’s over from Kingston on a catering course. He’s twenty-two and talented and his mother worked very hard to make sure he had a bright future. She sent him here to study and escape the violence at home. Within minutes of him sitting down I saw a gun in his cards. A bloody gun.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘Exactly. Some distant cousin of his who lives in Tottenham offered him a different option to working hard at college. He came here because he’s going to court soon and he wanted me to tell him it would all be all right. He hid a gun for his cousin and it won’t be bloody all right at all. He’s an idiot. I told him that, plus things about his mum and his life that a stranger shouldn’t know and it’s put the fear of God in him. I hope it’s scared him enough to make this the last thing he does for this cousin. There’s every chance he’ll be going down. I told him he’s made a terrible choice and now he has to put it right. I hope he will. I don’t like seeing guns in the cards: it scares the hell out of me. I’m going out for a fag.’

  She exits through the kitchen to the back door. I feel unsafe suddenly, like I’m surrounded by faceless men and gun-toting criminals. I wonder if this is one of the ‘dark energy’ days that Sheila talked about? I take a can of cherry Diet Coke from my bag and opened it. I pull out a card. Death. I know about the Death card. It’s all about change and a new way of life coming in. I wonder if the card is about me, as everything in my life seems to be changing right now.

  I pull out another. The Falling Tower? Ooo-er. There’s no good way to look at that card, not when it’s next to Death. The Falling Tower looks like a catastrophe and it involves Death? No thank you. I shove them both back into the deck and try to think about something else as the shop door pings.

  Munch’s Scream and the Scary Creep

  As if I’m not freaked out enough, the faceless man has just come through the door with the hardest woman in England.

  My stomach hits the floor.

  There’s something weird about both of them; the atmosphere in the shop is immediately thick and treacly. But, in better news, the tiniest shaft of rationality begins to creep in for me. Closer up, the bloke is definitely made of solid flesh; he’s small enough to bash over the head with a lamp-stand if I have to and his eyes, nose and mouth are in roughly the right place. I’m now sure that the light on the café window caused an optical illusion. Without staring too hard I manage to ascertain that he’s around fifty, with thick, dark hair and round, slightly droopy, basset-hound eyes. I remember a cartoon with a character who looked like him. What was it now? Deputy Dawg. That’s it. He’s shortish, stocky and fit-looking in a well-cut suit.

  As for her, she’s taller than him and younger. She’s wearing a red jacket with a black pencil skirt and patent court shoes. She has long, wavy, auburn hair and extremely manicured eyebrows. She looks like she might be part Filipino, but obviously not a massive part, as
Filipino women are not generally known for their height. Also, the make-up and the expensive haircut cannot begin to hide the fact that she’s a granite-faced cow and her energy’s as cold as a witch’s nipple.

  I force a smile as she approaches me.

  ‘I have a reading here in two minutes.’

  Obviously better things to do than say hello, then? Her voice is a bit Essex, though she’s trying to hide it. Being an actress, I’m quite good with accents. I check in the book.

  ‘Mrs Beck?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The husband looks uncomfortable. Books about angel healing and little pottery fairies on branches don’t appeal to everyone. Sheila appears and I introduce them.

  ‘All right, Mrs Beck, if you’d like to come through.’

  She turns to her husband. ‘Dan, pay now. I don’t want to have to hang around after.’

  Charming.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Go and get a coffee or something till half past.’

  ‘Right.’

  She follows Sheila and I’m left with him. As soon as the door closes he looks at me and smiles like a fucking snake. Oh Christ. He pays in cash and I feel a wave of discomfort when his hand brushes mine. He absolutely reeks of aftershave; there’s a cloud of it around him that’s so thick I can almost chew it. When I’ve given him his receipt he goes over to the bookstand and pretends to study the titles. I sit sipping my drink, getting more and more uncomfortable. His ‘energy’ is all over the place, completely unreadable. The shop actually feels darker now; maybe the sun went behind a cloud or something, but I just wish another customer would come in.

  ‘Nice little shop.’

  His voice is quiet and light. He has a Somerset burr, I’m surprised to note. I’d assumed he was from London. I try to look him right in the eye so he doesn’t think I’m scared of him.

  ‘Thank you. It’s not mine, I just help out.’

  He breaks my gaze. Ha, one to me!

  ‘Not really my sort of thing, I have to admit. Would make a good little bar, though. Nice size. Carmen would do the interior, my boys would sort out the cracks in the ceiling.’

  I look up. It is a bit dusty and cracked up there. ‘Sorry? Carmen? Is that your wife?’

  He’s closed. That’s what it is. I get this horrible feeling he’s full of secrets that I’d never want to know. ‘Sort of.’

  I want him to go away; these attempts at small talk are weirding me out.

  ‘If you do fancy a coffee there’s a lovely little place over the road. They do a mean cappuccino.’

  ‘Thank you. I was in there earlier. I might just go for a wander.’

  Then, thank fuck, he takes the hint and exits. There is something wrong with that man. He scares me with his absolute wrongness. I want to talk to Frank, but before I have time to demand he speaks to me about Deputy Dawg, I hear a woman’s voice inside my skull.

  ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God… Help me, please help me… Oh God. Oh God, oh God…’

  There’s a sickening desperation to the voice. I have no idea who she is. I try to ask, but I can’t break through. I just hear the same lament over and over.

  ‘Please… Help me. Oh God, oh God, oh God…’

  It is an eerie and lonely cry. I try to ‘see’ her. All I can picture is dark, thick hair and terrified eyes. I want to talk to her, but I can’t smash through the train of horror careering through her brain. What the hell happened?

  My breath has started to quicken. This is not fun. She is now weeping copiously. I do the only thing that I can.

  ‘FRANK!’

  To an outside observer I’m sitting behind the till in a hippy shop staring into space. In reality, inside my brain, I am screaming for my friend’s help.

  ‘FRANNNNNNNKKKKK?’

  Finally, he speaks. Far more calmly than befits the situation.

  ‘Hey there, cheeky. What’s up?’

  ‘CAN’T YOU HEAR HER?’

  ‘Of course I can. The poor woman’s demented.’

  ‘Calm her down!’

  ‘I can’t. You and Sheila will have to sit down together. It’s very hard to talk to someone who’s as panic stricken as this one.’

  ‘She sounds alive. Is this a living person, trapped somewhere? Crying out for help?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘For God’s sake, who is she then?’

  ‘She’s been murdered. She needs someone to talk to about it. She’s a bit upset.’

  ‘WHAT THE FUCK?’ I always swear too much when I’m scared.

  ‘You and Sheila have to work together to calm her down and get it out of her. Go somewhere quiet, the two of you, and sort this out. She needs to be released.’

  It’s funny how I have spent the whole of my life interested in the psychology of murder and the minute I come across the spirit of someone who seems to have been killed horribly, I am absolutely crapping it.

  ‘Oh God, Frank. She sounds agonised.’

  Suddenly the door swings open and the weirdo’s ‘wife’ comes storming out, followed by a troubled Sheila.

  ‘I’m really sorry, it sometimes happens.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t good enough. I drove all the way from St Albans, for this? You can’t take people’s money then tell them you can’t read for them. What the hell happened?’

  ‘I’m really sorry, I don’t know. Please, of course, have your money back. Tanz?’

  I open the till and take out the cash her husband handed me not ten minutes ago. She grabs it from me.

  ‘Your husband has gone for a walk down the High Street.’

  ‘I think I know how to find my own husband, thank you.’

  Oh, so now she learns how to say thank you? What is her problem? Brick-faced harridan.

  As soon as she’s gone, pulling out her mobile phone as she slams the door behind her, I turn to Sheila who looks ghastly.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I need a bloody fag, right now. I’ve had enough.’

  I put the ‘Closed’ sign up at the door for the second time today, turn the latch and follow through the kitchen to the yard. There’s a parking space out here for Maggie’s car and then a back lane that leads out on to a side road. Sheila’s hands are shaking as she lights her Regal. Mine are also shaking as I reach into my bag and take out one of my emergency menthols and spark it up. What a pair.

  ‘What happened in there, Sheils?’

  ‘A bloody nightmare happened in there.’

  She takes a long drag on her cigarette, and clocks my panicked face. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘You first.’

  She takes another puff. ‘I need a bloody vodka. As soon as I saw that woman I knew I didn’t want to read for her.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. Aggressive cow.’

  ‘Exactly, love. Face like a slapped arse. Anyway, I started and I told her there had been some trouble in her past. Difficulties with her mother and all that. She stopped me, said she hadn’t come to hear about her mother, she wanted to know about her business. He isn’t her husband, by the way. She wants him to be, but it hasn’t happened. I couldn’t get any further than that because she told me she wasn’t here about her relationship, either. Basically, she wanted to know about money.

  Anyway, I then started to get feelings about her house, but as soon as I mentioned it I saw this face. It was a woman. She was in shadow and also in agony and she was screaming so much she looked like an Edvard Munch painting. It was really traumatic. I could hear her – not loud, but I could – and I could see her pain.’

  She takes another drag, closing her eyes for a second. I am gobsmacked.

  ‘I heard her.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘She was crying in my head, Sheils. It was horrible. My friend Frank says she was murdered.’

  ‘I thought as much. It’s tied in with her…’

  ‘She’s called Carmen, that’s what her fella said. And he’s Dan. Speaking of which, he is one terrifying creep. I didn’t like being on my own
with him. Frank said we should sit down together later and try to communicate with the murdered lady properly. She’s too panicked to speak to right now. He said if we combined forces we’d probably have more success.’

  ‘I like the sound of your Frank. Sensible.’

  I feel pride on his behalf. Ever since the dream on the aeroplane, I have been speaking to Frank a little more each day.

  We make our way back into the shop and I almost have a coronary when I look towards the window and Dan Beck is standing there with his nose pressed against the glass like a pint-sized Joe Bugner. Sheila jumps when I yelp. I quickly smooth down my fear as I don’t want him to see it. I take off the latch and smile.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Beck, cigarette break. Is everything OK?’

  ‘Filthy habit, that. You’ll ruin your looks.’

  I try to laugh. Bill Hicks he ain’t.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He steps forward so I have to move to let him into the shop. Immediately I am caught in the cloying death-grip of Issey Miyake (I can tell that aftershave from a mile off anyway, but in this case he must have bathed in it before he came out.) He wanders in with his hands in his pockets and looks at Sheila.

  ‘I just wanted to apologise for my… erm… wife. She gets a bit stressed sometimes and I think she was upset that you couldn’t do your cards for her.’

  Sheila nods.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t meet many people I can’t read for.’

  ‘Oh?’ he stares. ‘What usually causes it?’

  ‘There’s not really one cause, Mr Beck, it’s just that some people have defences up and I can’t get past them. Others… others don’t want to hear what I have to say, they just want to hear what they want to hear.’

  He lets out a high pitched laugh then swivels his dark tunnel eyes towards me. ‘That’s Carmen all over. Anyway, just to say, to both of you, I’m very sorry if she caused any offence. I don’t know why she wanted to come here at all… superstitious, I suppose. You women. Always needing someone to tell you you’ll get everything you want. But that’s not always possible, is it girls?’

  I don’t like his tone; I can’t help replying. ‘Some people get what they want. Others get what life gives them.’