by Gary McMahon
"Now, friends, I must warn you not to expect too much from me. The spirits – our friends on the other side – do not always come forward in the way we would like. Sometimes the wrong ones step forward into the light, and other times, even when we connect with someone we know, the messages they bring are confused and uncertain. They speak to me in code. A smell. A colour. A vision of some kind. They are never direct, and always go round the houses, as my old mam used to say, to get to the point. So I must ask all you friends to be patient, to be calm and polite in the hope that we get something of value coming through from the other friends – the ones we've all come to meet."
The music had finished now, and the applause was more of a ripple this time rather than the clamorous noise from before. The audience were settling; Dove had them eating out of his hand. The man was a pro.
"First I do have someone here, a friend who has passed over, who seems to be telling me about some washing, or a washing line. Does that mean anything to anybody here?"
Several hands shot up. I shook my head and fought the urge to leave.
"This is pathetic," said Ellen. Her former light humour had disappeared and in its place there was a quiet, simmering anger. She clearly didn't enjoy the thought of this showman conning her cousin and feeding off the family's pain.
"No… no, it isn't washing, not really. It's a peg. That's it, isn't it, friend?" Dove glanced to the side of the stage, as if he were speaking with someone who stood there. "Come on, friend, can you be more specific?" A peg… peg… Peg! That's it, it's a name, isn't it, friend?" He turned back to face the hall, his eyes wide and filled with a sort of fervour that I could not be sure was entirely faked. "Is there a Peg or a Peggy in the room? Have you lost someone?"
Most of the hands that had been raised dropped; only one remained in the air.
"Stand up, please, won't you, friend?" Dove had now adopted the warm persona of a caring family member. "Don't be frightened."
An old woman slowly stood, clutching her handbag to her chest. She was wearing her hat indoors, as if she was afraid to put it down in case someone stole it. Her smile was weak, uncertain, and even standing she hunched her shoulders as if she were still sitting down.
"Are you Peg, friend? Is that your name, dear?" Dove kneeled down at the front of the stage, opening his arms in a broad, showy gesture of inclusion.
The old woman coughed lightly. "No… no, it isn't me. My sister, she was called Peggy. We lost her, oh, six weeks back now. To the cancer."
Applause rippled gently around the room; someone gasped; the students giggled into their hands.
"Well, friend, Peggy is here. She doesn't seem to have much to say – her presence is weak – but I think she just wants you to know that she's always watching over you. Is that all right, friend? Does it make sense to you?"
The woman was weeping openly. She nodded her head and dabbed at her eyes with a paper tissue she had produced from the sleeve of her dress. "Thank you, Trevor. You're a very kind young man." Adoration poured from her eyes along with the tears, and I began to feel nauseous. The old man sitting next to her reached up and touched her arm; she sat, smiling and dabbing with the tissue. The applause intensified, and when Dove raised his hand it slowly died down.
"Thank you, friend. You enjoy the rest of the show, and I'll leave your Peggy's love with you." He stood and walked back to his mark, his strides long and confident.
It went on like this for some time: Dove making vague allusions to people who may or may not be dead and hoping that one would stick; performing like a high wire artist, constantly and minutely readjusting his position to prevent a fall. He was very good, of his kind, and possibly did possess some minor mediumistic intuition, but the rest of it was pure bluff and bullshit. He hid his secrets well, too. Behind the glitter and the sham he was virtually unreadable.
Then, almost an hour into the show, he called for Shawna Royale.
"I can see… I can see a coin. A penny. It's Penny, and she has a message for her mother. Now, I've been contacted by this one before, and she knows that her mummy is afraid. Could Penny's mum please stand up and make herself known to us? That's right, friend, you come forward. I have a message from someone who says that she's your little girl."
Shawna Royale stood and took a hesitant step forward, towards the base of the stage. She held her hands out at her sides, as if balancing on a ledge, and licked her lips. Her yellow hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail that showed its dark roots, her face was red and blotchy from all the crying she'd done, but she had managed to make an effort and put on a nice dress. My heart went out to her in that moment, and to all the other mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and grandparents who are taken in by low men like Trevor Dove. All those weeping people reaching out in the darkness and grasping for something – a lifeline, a name, a face, a vague message couched in general terms that could, really, be from anyone and to anyone. But they believe it every time; they need to; they have to. It's all they have.
Then, as Dove turned a certain way and one of the stage lights caught his pale blue suit, I saw it: his own feeble ghost. It was very fragile, like a silver spider web spun in the shape of a tiny figure, but it was there, sitting on his shoulders and clinging on to the sides of his head. He turned again and it was gone; he turned again and it returned.
I stared at the image, peering inside it to reach its secrets. It looked like a small boy, possibly a sibling judging by the proximity – the ghosts of friends keep a respectable distance but family usually cling like limpets. It was small and monkey-like; very young and showing obvious signs of distress.
"She says she loves you, Shawna. Friend. She says she loves you very much, and that she misses you." His face was awful, a puerile mask of empathy that I wanted to smash. Shawna Royale was shaking; great silent sobs wracked her entire body.
"She says that someone took her and killed her. A man… a big man with dark features… he was wearing strong aftershave and he hurt her… hurt her all over." His eyes were closed; his face went pale beneath the orange tan. Oh, he was good. He knew how to earn his money, this paranormal whore.
The ghost on his shoulders dropped off and stood beside him, becoming slightly clearer. It was definitely a small boy, and there was blood on the front of his pants, dripping down his legs. Suddenly I knew everything I needed to know about Trevor Dove, and the nausea I'd felt earlier transformed into pure rage.
"Stop this!" I stood and glared at the stage, aware that I must look like a madman but unwilling to let this carry on for much longer. "Stop this offensive rubbish! Penny Royale is not dead."
Trevor Dove shuffled round to face me, his eyes filled with tears. "What is it, friend? Are you hurt? Are you in pain? Did you come here hoping that someone might pass on a message from the other side? Have patience, friend. We all get a turn."
I am not proud of what I did, but I had no choice in the matter. It had to be done; the ghost needed someone to usher him from his brother's side. And that, after all, is my job in this life.
"There's a small boy standing next to you. He has blood on his crotch and running down his legs. His name is…" There was a large M on the boy's shirt, so I took an intuitive guess, my voice turning cold and sharp. "His name is Michael. He was your brother, but now he's dead. You raped him, probably on a regular basis, and he cut himself down there to make you stop." I remembered reading somewhere, perhaps in some magazine in a dentist's waiting room, that the psychic's younger brother had taken his own life when Dove was thirteen. He claimed, in that interview, that the suicide was pivotal in his choice to use his gift to "offer aid to all the grieving friends, wherever they are."
Dove looked like he was dancing. He was shuffling on the spot, unable to respond in any meaningful way, other than through this unconscious motion. His feet did a little soft-shoe shimmy across the stage; his face went pale beneath the tangerine tan.
"Michael has been with you since it happened, and he just wants to go. He has
somewhere else he needs to be, but the lies you tell to these poor people are keeping him trapped here. You have to stop this. It's hurting people. The brother whose life you helped to end insists upon it."
Shawna Royale crumpled to the floor, sobbing. Trevor Dove began to scream, and leaped from the stage to run in my direction. The students had finally stopped giggling.
I didn't even feel the punch when it landed. I was too busy watching the boy on the stage. I wished him well as he turned and walked away into darkness, at last starting out on the road to another version of reality, where he might finally find some kind of peace and his wounds would at last begin to heal.
TWENTY-THREE
We were all in the foyer.
Baz Singh was standing beside the chair, shaking his head in what I could only assume was a demonstration of utter confusion. Ellen was holding a handkerchief to my cheek and inspecting the damage with narrowed eyes. "Doesn't look too bad," she said. "I don't think you need stitches."
Dove's roadies had eventually dragged the raging medium off me, but not before he had cut my face with one of his ostentatious gold rings. I almost felt put out that he had not called me "friend" even once during the fracas – the closest he had come to it was to yell the word "fucker" over and over again.
I leaned back in the chair, pressing the base of my skull into the wall against which it was positioned. I was beginning to think that I might have acted in haste. All things considered, I could have handled the situation better. My jaw ached; my pride was bruised. The blood still felt hot on my face.
"What the hell was all that about, Usher?" Baz Singh was riled; his eyes were popping out of his sweaty face and he was grinding his teeth. "I mean, what are you even doing here?" A couple of his employees hung around in the background, chatting quietly. Big men with big muscles: the brothers or cousins of those I'd met at the Blue Viper during my last visit to the club.
"Friend of the family," I said. "And I could ask you the same question."
"Bastard!" The voice came from the other end of the foyer, near the doors. I looked up to see Trevor Dove being shepherded out of the building by his cronies. There was still a crowd out there, and I knew that he could easily have sneaked out the back way – but it seemed that he was trying to save some face, to show the fans that he was not harmed by my accusations. But I knew otherwise. The very fact that his brother's ghost had now moved on was proof enough that things had changed, and I hoped that Dove would be answering a lot of questions from interested parties over the next few weeks. So would I, of course, but hopefully Tebbit could keep attention away from me at least until I was finished with everything else. He had done it before, and there was a good chance he would be doing it again.
I knew how to become invisible when it was required. Like a shy ghost.
It occurred to me that I was beginning to rely on Tebbit's influence a lot. Much more than I liked.
"I am here," said Baz Singh, drawing my attention, "in the capacity as head of the 'Pennies for Penny' fund. We have been raising money in the local community to help the Royales in the search for their daughter, and if Trevor Dove could prove that the poor little girl was dead, he was due a reward." He stalked in little circles, shining the floor with the leather soles of his expensive shoes.
"Well you wasted your time. That man is a fraud. I've saved your fund some money." I opened my mouth, working my jaw. For an effete showman, Trevor Dove packed a mean right hook.
Baz Singh stalked away from me, crossing the foyer to stand with his men. They talked in whispers, glancing occasionally in my direction. I wondered what Singh was telling them, and when one of them laughed I decided that I was better off not knowing after all.
"Shall we go?" Ellen was standing now, the paper tissue still clutched in her hand. There were spots of blood on it, but nothing that looked too horrendous.
"Yes. Good idea. Where's your cousin?" I stood, peering around the emptying foyer. Shawna Royale was loitering by the door, perched on the threshold, and she was locked in an animated conversation with someone I couldn't quite make out because of the angle of the open door. I took a step to the side… and saw Mr Shiloh with his hand on her arm, his hairless plastic face shining pale in the harsh light from the ceiling-mounted fittings.
I started to go over there, in the mood for a confrontation, but Mr Shiloh looked up, locked eyes with me, smiled, and stepped out into the street. By the time I was standing next to Shawna Royale, the Pilgrim was gone. I couldn't see him on the street, nor could I make him out in the back of any of the cars pulling away from the kerb or moving slowly along the road.
But I knew he was there; he was still there, hiding in the shadows, and watching me. Always watching me.
"Will you take me home?" Shawna's voice was small, weak and bruised. She had gone through a rough experience this afternoon, and it was the least I could do to accompany her home.
"Yes. Of course. Ellen has a car. We're parked round the corner." I took her arm and guided her outside. I glanced once over my shoulder to make sure that Ellen was following. We reached the car and climbed inside, the three of us packed like maudlin circus clowns into the silly little vehicle – me in the back and the two women in front. On another day it might have been funny; right now, it was simply uncomfortable and even slightly degrading.
We passed Baz Singh on the kerb outside the Alhambra, and it seemed for a moment that he exchanged an unreadable glance with Shawna Royale. But by the time I had registered what was happening, the moment had passed me by.
I studied the side of Shawna Royale's face as we moved smoothly through the late afternoon traffic. Rain clouds were gathering, massing their forces for an onslaught, and pedestrians hurried through the early gloom. Her cheeks were streaked with red lines, brought about by the constant tears, and her skin was greasy and mottled. She wore the appearance of someone suffering greatly, but not for the first time I had a sense that there was something else going on beneath the surface. There was something about the way she acted – or perhaps the way she looked – that didn't ring entirely true. Sly glances exchanged with Baz Singh aside, I felt unsure regarding her true motives for being there, and I felt guilty for thinking that way.
"How do you know Baz Singh?" There was silence in the car for a moment, and then Ellen cleared her throat, as if trying to break the tension.
"I've known him for years," said Shawna. "Back when he used to manage his dad's restaurant, we'd go in there for curries and chat with him after closing. Nice man."
Baz Singh could be described as many things – among them a borderline gangster, an unrepentant pornographer, a possible abuser of his own dead daughter – but nice was not a word I'd put near the top of the list.
We soon left Bradford and headed towards Leeds, joining the ring road as the clouds darkened and the inside of the car became humid. Silent sheet lightning flashed for a moment directly above the Bestwick Estate, and I fought against an almost overwhelming feeling of impending doom, knowing that I was merely responding to the worsening weather.
The estate was quiet; the changing conditions seemed to have kept everyone sensible indoors. Curtains were closed at most of the windows, and as usual the occasional group of teenagers huddled inside shadowy shop entrances and the doorways of boarded up ground floor flats. Ellen parked the car outside Shawna's place and we got out without waiting for an invitation. Shawna led the way along the cracked concrete path and Ellen and I followed in silence.
Inside, Shawna put on the kettle. "Terry's at the club, drowning his sorrows in brown ale." It was the first time I'd heard her mention her husband's name. "It works for him, anyway." Bitterness tainted her words and I imagined the gulf that must have widened between the couple since their daughter's disappearance. If they had been struggling to get along before, then surely by now they must be almost completely estranged.
Ellen and I sat at opposite ends of a long, sagging sofa. We looked at each other, and then away, inspecting the ornaments
and bric-a-brac that littered the room. Photographs of Penny stood on every shelf, hung on every wall, and I stared at the face of that poor child, hoping that I was right about her being still alive. Whether or not she was safe was another matter entirely, and one I was not yet ready to consider at any great length.
Shawna brought through a tray containing cups, a plate stacked with biscuits, and a tea pot. Ellen poured and we drank our lukewarm tea, not one of us quite willing to be the first to speak.
"I'm sorry if I embarrassed you," I said, at last, to the room in general. "But that man was after money, and nothing else. He was lying to you. Believe me when I tell you that your daughter is not dead. Penny's alive… somewhere. I just don't understand why so many people want to believe she's dead." I stopped there, before I said too much; before I said too little.
A flash of what looked like anger coloured Shawna's face and I wondered what I had said to upset her. Then, abruptly, her mood changed and she put down her cup on the table by her chair. "No, I'm sorry. I'm taking this out on you. I was so desperate for some news – for any kind of news – that I was even willing to hear that my daughter had been murdered. Can you even begin to understand that? What it feels to know nothing, to be so much in the fucking dark that you'll clutch at any promise of news?" Her eyes were lowered; she was staring at her feet.