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

by Tracy Whitwell

  ‘Maggie.’

  ‘Yes, her. She’s another big bully. I don’t like bullies.’

  I’m warming to Nada.

  ‘The thing is, my husband is a very difficult man to live with. He is bossy and controls everything in my life. What I wear, how I have my hair, who I talk to.’

  I look at her dowdy clothes and nondescript hair. She dresses like a fifty-year-old nun. I’d stab any man repeatedly who even suggested I walk the streets in sensible brown shoes like that. She begins to chew at her thumbnail and sighs.

  ‘He works from home twice a week, but three days a week he has to go into his office building for four hours. He gives me lists of chores to do so I don’t go out, but once a month I come and see Martin. My mother pays because my husband doesn’t let me have money and she thinks it does me good. We moved here when I was a teenager and she thought I had met a good, hardworking man. Now she wants me to leave him. The problem has always been, I don’t have a job. I’m not qualified to do anything.’

  And I’ll bet her husband likes her to think she’s useless. My blood boils for her. She’s probably an A1 quality cleaner, the poor cow, with his lists of bloody chores. Half of North London employs cleaners. Even the women who don’t work still employ cleaners; she could make a bomb.

  ‘He only lets me have a front door key if he needs me to get some groceries, so I have to see Martin on a grocery day.’ She smiles at me conspiratorially. ‘Though sometimes I climb out of the kitchen window to visit my mother and climb back in before he gets home. He doesn’t know that.’

  Her tinkling laugh is such a pretty surprise. Oh my God, I want to go round there in a mask with a baseball bat! This bloke sounds terrible.

  ‘Anyway, when I came here last grocery day I was only meant to be here a half hour, but I had a problem. My husband goes out on a Wednesday and Saturday night and leaves me without a key. Says it is business. I was tired of it, so I did something I am not supposed to do and switched on his computer. He thinks I don’t know how, but knowledge is power! I learned how to go on the internet and use the PC at the library; he allows me to go once every two weeks for new books. I checked his emails. He has a woman. She has a wonderful life. They go to restaurants and the cinema. They are planning to go on holiday soon. He is a bastard.’

  That word out of nowhere almost has me honking coffee on the table.

  ‘When I first saw this I was devastated. He had all of my youth and now this? So I came to Martin. Martin told me I should leave and I said I couldn’t; I have no life away from him. But then he made me stay and talk to him more. Said I didn’t have to pay extra, but I said that wouldn’t be fair! So I listened to him and he told me about the future I could have. He told me money was coming shortly and I could change my life. He said I would find out in the next week.

  When I left I was anxious because I knew I was late. When I got home, my husband was waiting for me. He shouted and screamed until eventually I told him where I had been and he was very, very angry. He accused me of having an affair. He didn’t hit me because he tried that before and I bashed him with a frying pan on the head. Instead he said I was a slut. I told him this wouldn’t be possible as Martin is gay and he got even more angry. He locked me in my room. I heard him on the phone and I know he lied to this Maggie. Everything he said was a lie. He is a coward, and now I really want to talk to Martin. Do you have his number?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t. But Maggie will. Do you want me to go and get it?’

  She looks at her watch. Takes out some paper.

  ‘Please. I have to go now, could you write your number and I will call you to get Martin’s? He was right, you see! My uncle died and he has left me money.’

  I write down my number as she talks. It’s phenomenal what goes on in the real world. Much madder than telly.

  ‘I found out yesterday. Enough to rent a small place for a whole year! My husband doesn’t know about the money or that I can use his computer. And now I have a plan! I will call you from a telephone box; I have no mobile. I want to thank Martin. I must go. Thank you for this.’

  I grab her hand as she’s about to run.

  ‘You are amazing.’

  ‘Thank you. I like your clothes. Soon I will stop dressing like my grandmother!’

  And she’s off.

  It never ceases to amaze me how ridiculously judgemental I am of people I don’t even know. Midget Rose West just turned into the mighty Boadicea in front of my eyes. And she has a plan! That glint behind her specs was dangerous. She could take over the world. She is completely right. Knowledge is power.

  The smell of mozzarella and tomato paninis is starting to get to me. I order a cheesy treat and sit back at the table. There are magazines to read and I idly pick one up and look at the cover. It shows three ‘celebrities’ who are a little heavier than usual: ‘Girls Celebrate their Curves’. All of them are unflattering angles and all of them are supposed to make us think ‘Jesus, look how big her arse has got’. We are a world obsessed with the superficial. Not only that, it is women who are pillorying other women like this. I’ll bet if we all had proper problems like my new mate Boadicea has, then we wouldn’t be flapping around calling other people fat bitches and complaining about things that are basically fuck all in the grand scheme of things.

  I’ve eaten precisely half of my panini, and overheard the whole gynaecological history of a blonde woman with endometriosis in a ‘private’ phone call that is delivered as if through a loud hailer, when I glance across at the door and do a double take. There’s a man looking through the window over there. He’s in an expensive sweater and slacks, not a suit, but I know his build and his hair, I know those Deputy Dawg eyes and, most importantly, I know he brutally murdered the woman he was supposed to love.

  Dan Beck is entering the café.

  Never has my appetite abandoned me so suddenly before the end of a meal. Not since I was five and was given tripe and onions. I jump up and my seat scrapes loudly. I grab my bag and jacket. I turn desperately to the waitress and hand her a tenner even though I only owe her five.

  ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  My breath is now speeding up. I look at her name tag. Peta. ‘Erm, listen, Peta, I know this sounds weird, but do you have a back exit to this place?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but it’s not supposed to be for the public.’

  I groan inwardly, panic mounting. ‘Look, I… I just saw my ex-boyfriend hanging around outside and I wondered, could you help me escape? Just this once? He can be a bit unpredictable.’

  She looks at the tenner in her hand, then lowers her voice. ‘Just go through to the loo and take the door on the left that says “emergency exit”.’

  ‘Thank you soooo much.’

  I am off like a rocket. Once outside, I take every back way I can, cutting through side paths and snickets that cars can’t use. My phone has rung twice by the time I get to my flat, slam the door behind me and lean against it. I have two messages, both from Maggie, the second one sounding pretty furious. There is a man, it seems, waiting in the shop for a reading. Arrggghhh! I can’t believe he came back. Not only that, but Mona’s back. I can hear her crying and begging for help again in my head. Fucking hell.

  I try calling Sheila, but I know she has some home-readings today and might be working. She doesn’t pick up. With no other choice I call Maggie back.

  ‘Maggie, it’s me.’

  ‘Where are you? A man has asked for you specifically, for a reading. He’s having a cup of tea across the road, then coming back.’

  The hairs on my arms prickle. He’d have walked in on me if I’d stayed a second longer at the coffee shop.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I was sick twice after my coffee; I’ve had to come home. I think I might have caught that bug from Sheila.’

  Her voice noticeably rises in pitch. ‘You were fine this morning!’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. I was out of sorts this morning.’

  ‘Well you coul
d have rung me instead of just sloping off.’

  ‘I’m so sorry Maggie, but I think I’m going to be sick again…’

  ‘Well just so you know, he’s asked for your number, but he’s not getting it. If he met you here, you do the reading here. You’re not poaching customers from my shop.’

  ‘Oh my God, don’t give him my number. Don’t give anyone my number. I don’t do readings from home.’

  ‘Well, good. And I shall hope you’re over this silly business ASAP, you’re back in the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘I know, I know. And I’m really sorry. Please don’t hand my personal details to anyone.’

  ‘I won’t!’

  God, she’s stroppy. The receiver goes down. Now I think I actually am going to be sick. This is too much.

  I’m tempted to drive round to Sheila’s and bang on her door, I’m so shaken up. I try Pat’s number. Male protection is always nice when you’re feeling threatened by a bloke, but he’s not picking up either. So I call Milo.

  ‘You’re making a habit of this.’

  ‘Sorry Milo, have I called too early again?’

  ‘Why are you hyperventilating?’

  ‘I’m not… I’m… well actually I am. I just ran back from the shop. That bloke, Dan, turned up there, wanted me to do him a reading…’

  ‘Dan who’s Deputy Dawg? The murderer?’

  His voice just climbed through several octaves and stopped at mezzo-soprano.

  ‘Yes, well, suspected murderer. It’s not proven yet, is it? Anyway, don’t worry, he didn’t see me and he doesn’t know where I live.’

  ‘How do you know? He might be torturing your boss as we speak.’

  ‘No. He’s having a cup of tea at Dino’s.’

  ‘Oh. Well I’d lock your doors, anyway. Do you have lots of tins of beans and plenty of vodka? Just stay in for the next four weeks. Resign from work and don’t go out. Or come home. That’s it, come back here right now. I just got the boxset of Horrible Histories. We can stay in together and sing folk songs to keep our spirits up!’

  ‘Stop it, will you? This is serious.’

  ‘I bloody know it is, I am serious. Why don’t you call the police?’

  ‘And say what? Any way you look at it, he showed up at the shop to buy a reading, which is what we sell there. He didn’t do anything bad and screaming ghosts calling him a murderer probably don’t wash with policemen. By the way, I can hear her again. Mona. She defo follows him wherever he goes.’

  ‘Tanz, this is so scary. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to have to try to find her, Milo. If her body’s found, Dan will have bigger things on his mind than getting tarot readings from me.’

  ‘God! Please be careful. Will you call me later? Take a weapon with you.’

  ‘Eh? What weapon? Do you think I have an arsenal in my spare room?’

  ‘A penknife will do. Come on, all northerners have penknives.’

  ‘Actually, I do have a tiny Swiss army knife. It’s really pretty, with flowers on the handle. It has a nail file and a bottle opener. It was one of my mam’s bizarre stocking fillers a few Christmases ago.’

  ‘Your mam is nuts.’

  ‘Leave her alone. She was just trying to be original. Oh, wait, Milo. Sheila’s ringing, I need to cut you off… I’ll speak to you later.’

  ‘Tanz, please be careful. You’re like Jessica Fletcher and that kid out of The Sixth Sense all rolled into one. You’re my little Dan Aykroyd.’

  ‘Thank you, Milo. Bye, bye byeeeee… Sheila?’

  ‘Hiya, love. You OK? Mona’s shouting in my ear again. I was just cleaning the bathroom.’

  ‘You can hear her too?’

  ‘Yes. Started up half an hour ago. Are you OK?’

  ‘Dan Beck just showed up looking for me at the shop. I took off like Usain Bolt. I think I broke three world records getting here.’

  She whistles. ‘I hoped he wouldn’t show his face again.’

  ‘Have you got phone readings today?’

  ‘I’ve done ’em. One at nine, one at nine forty-five.’

  ‘You fancy a drive?’

  ‘You mean to look for her?’ Sheila is uncharacteristically quiet for a bit. ‘I’m not sure, Tanz. I just wish we could read for ourselves as well as other people. I’ve got a bad feeling.’

  That’s not good.

  ‘OK. I’m going to take a drive and I’ll let you know what I find. I probably won’t even get out of the car, I’m too much of a scaredy-cat, but I do feel like I’m being pushed to hurry up and sort this.’

  There is another pause. ‘Oh, sod it then. I’m in. Come and get me.’

  I’m not going to lie. I’m pleased she’s coming. We’re a good team. Truth is, I want this all over with. And if this is one big flippin’ delusion, then I can stamp it out and get on with my life.

  Well, That Was a Clever Idea, Wasn’t It?

  I pick up an apprehensive, bleached blonde medium in a purple, crushed-velvet jacket that I covet enormously, just after one p.m. She clambers into the front seat and her eyes are so wide I almost change my mind. If she’s nervous then we definitely have something to be worried about. But she also now seems determined to see this through.

  ‘She said St Albans, didn’t she, love?’

  ‘She did indeed. Let’s hit the M1.’

  I slip on some calm music. Heavy rock is not right today.

  When we eventually reach the motorway after a typical blip on the A406, we both fall silent. We need to tune into Mona. As we pass junction 5A Sheila turns to me.

  ‘We’re coming off at the next one, aren’t we, love?’

  My heart is beating faster. ‘Yup.’

  We do just that and drive towards St Albans. The countryside is very lovely and the skies are a warm blue with soft cloud. In the distance there’s a bank of grey coming, though, and I wonder how long it will be before it rains. This lovely weather is not making me feel any less odd. Something is going to happen. Really. I know it. I don’t know whether to ask for help from Jemimah or Frank. Frank pops into my head immediately.

  ‘There’s going to be a sign soon. You’ll see it and know. So will Sheila. Follow it until you find the next right turn.’

  I don’t say anything to Sheila. Then we come to a sign for Mersham and Bancroft.

  Her head whips round. ‘Mersham? What do you think? Mersham?’

  ‘Yup. Definitely. The M hit me in the face like a shovel. Oops, sorry, no pun intended.’

  She chortles, uncomfortably. ‘You are terrible.’

  We take the turn. The road is narrow and rendered a tunnel by trees. Quite fitting, really. A scary tunnel leading to somewhere unknown. We drive for about two miles then come a sign for Mersham and we turn right.

  What now?

  As we reach Mersham village, I slow down. We pass cottages, then a school; all very picturesque. We’re about to leave the village completely when a large pub looms into view. The Bluebell. Its brickwork has been painted white, the name is in bold black lettering and there’s a large pub sign with bluebells on it. My heart does that fluttery thing it always does when I’m excited or nervous, the one that makes me think I’m having a heart attack.

  ‘Fuck a duck!’

  ‘What, love?’

  ‘The Bluebell! We have to stop.’

  We pull into the pub car park. The lovely day contrasts completely with the pressure in my temples, the kind of tension I feel when a storm is brewing.

  ‘Bluebells bloody everywhere. I’ve been dreaming about them, my mam’s been dreaming about them. It can’t be a coincidence, surely? Anyway, I can feel it, can’t you?’

  ‘I feel dreadful, Tanz. I’m scared.’

  She puts her hand on top of mine. It’s cold and clammy, which freaks me out because the car is warm. Sheila is not given to histrionics, as far as I know, so this winds me up more than the distant screaming that has flared up like tiny tinnitus.

  ‘Mate, we need a drink.’


  She concurs simply by grabbing her bag and reaching for the door handle.

  The pub is enormous. It has swirly brown carpets, original beams and three different areas: a snug with an open fire (unlit), a large bar area with a little stage, and a great big restaurant area. We go to the bit of the snug overlooking the pub gardens. There’s a huge expanse of lawn and at the end is a tall wooden fence with trees behind it. That is where my eyes are constantly drawn as the bar girl places down two glasses of wine and a menu.

  ‘Just in case you fancy a spot of lunch, ladies.’

  She’s in her late thirties with a bossy air of confidence. Her hair and make-up are perfect and she has a perm with red highlights. I could as much eat as juggle Fiat Puntos at the moment, but the drink is extremely welcome. I point down the garden.

  ‘I love the greenery.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. We host events if you’re ever interested? Weddings, birthdays…’

  ‘I’ll bet they’re great. It’s so tranquil here. What about the end of the garden, what’s down there?’

  ‘Oh, that’s our famous bluebell wood. That’s why we’re called The Bluebell. This place was called The Woodsman until we took over, but I think The Bluebell is prettier, don’t you?’

  ‘Much prettier.’

  Satisfied with this, she wanders off to another table where two wiry old ladies are just finishing up their lasagne and salad, which, to be fair, looks like a nice portion.

  Sheila is staring out of the window. ‘She’s down there, isn’t she?’

  That fluttering in my heart again. Distant sobs in my head. Dread and adrenaline combined. Does it make me a pervert that I’m vaguely excited as well as terrified by all of this? We could actually help solve a murder. One that, so far, nobody seems even to know about. It’s very cold wine. I approve, wine is never chilled enough in pubs.

  ‘Yup. But now that we’re here, I’m wondering about going in. I mean, chasing a moody spook around a bungalow is one thing, but looking for a burial site? Plus, we haven’t brought a spade and we can’t go around digging up the woods willy nilly. On top of which, are you prepared to see a decomposed body? Worse, are you prepared to find out this is all bullshit and we’re a pair of fantasists?’