by Adams, Guy
‘I can tell tonight is going to be a good night,’ she said, ‘we’ll banish this horrible weather with the sunshine of our love.’
Wasn’t that an old song? She thought. She really ought to concentrate, she must be on autopilot if she was falling back on song lyrics in her patter. What next? ‘Walking on Sunshine’? ‘I Will Always Love You’? ‘Since You’ve Been Gone’? She smiled at the thought, not caring to hide the reaction, just another witty piece of wisdom from my spirit guide.
‘I should explain that I am clairaudient: I hear the spirits, not see them. Often the sound is very faint, very muffled – not surprising, given how far they’ve come!’
A polite ripple of laughter.
‘But in order to establish the connection and keep it strong I need your voices, all right? I need to hear your positive energies. If you understand the message I’m passing on I need to hear you say “yes”. Otherwise I’ll lose the connection and will have to move on. I’d hate to not be able to connect you with your loved ones just because you missed it, or misunderstood.’
That was the audience pre-conditioned then. She took a slow breath as if encouraging a trance state, in reality she was just deciding what name to go for first. Let’s keep it simple, she decided, with no Anna to help bolster the responses she was going to have to play this safe until she had them in the palm of her hand.
‘I hear “John” or “Joan” … so hard to be clear, speak up love. “John” or “Joan” …’
‘My name’s Joan,’ announced someone about halfway back. Late sixties to judge from the voice, a frailty there which spoke of nerves as well as age. Though she had been quick enough to respond so, nervous she may be, but she was far from reluctant.
‘Give me your voice, Joan.’
‘I’m here.’ Aida took a glance, she’d been spot on with the age and she was sat with another couple who matched. A couple … and her on her own … that was suggestive. Two women may accompany each other and leave the husbands at home. But if one husband was in attendance then either Joan was unmarried or divorced (massively unlikely statistically given her age), her partner was sufficiently against the idea or – and this would be the perfect solution – he was dead. Was it too early to take the risk? Perhaps one further clue.
‘You’re not a stranger to mediumship, are you, Joan?’ she said in a slightly flat tone, so as to make the meaning ambiguous.
This could now go one of two ways … either:
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so, I could sense your nervousness. Joan, try to relax for me.’
Or, as actually happened:
‘No, I’ve been to lots of demonstrations.’
‘I thought so, you have a very open energy. It helps a great deal.’
Here on her own and a frequent visitor to mediums. The odds were now weighted enough for Golding to take the chance.
‘This is your husband,’ she announced, stating it flatly, brooking no argument.
‘My Terry?’
Bonus. Albeit a predictable one, they always coughed up the name eventually. People just didn’t think about it, using the name of a loved one in conversation was utterly natural, to withhold it would be fighting against a long-term habit. And who was fighting?
‘Yes dear, he’s right here.’ She gave a sharp look to her left as if being pestered by something. ‘I know, Terry, there’s no point in you shouting your name, love, we’ve gathered that.’
There was laughter. People liked this to play out in a gentle, affectionate manner.
‘That sounds like him,’ announced Joan, ‘always two steps behind was my Terry!’
‘He’s laughing,’ said Golding, ‘he knows it’s true.’
‘He couldn’t deny it, bless him.’
‘Mind you, he says you’re not always much better!’ More laughter at that, of course, Terry was fighting back! ‘He says he watched you when you were getting ready this evening. Says you were stood fussing for ages trying to decide what to wear!’
Lots of laughter.
‘I suppose I did,’ admitted Joan.
You and every other slightly nervous person in the building, thought Golding. ‘“Something blue!” he’s shouting, oh dear he’s so hard to hear, so faint …’ Golding screwed up her face in concentration. ‘Does that mean something, dear? “Something blue”?’
‘I have a blue dress,’ said Joan, ‘lovely little thing with white flowers. He used to like it.’
Thankful that Joan was happy to make her scant details fit a bigger picture, Golding smiled and held up her hands in a positively messianic pose. ‘He did,’ she agreed, ‘he’s smiling now, trying to tell me something …’ she gave a small laugh. ‘I think he’s saying “beautiful”.’
Joan gave a small gasp of happiness and began to cry. Got you, thought Golding, I could say anything now and you’d just nod happily. Still, this performance wasn’t just for Joan, it was for everyone in the room. She was setting out her stall. Joan had sounded relieved yet slightly surprised to be hearing from her husband, which suggested another easy ‘hit’.
‘You’ve always wanted to hear from Terry, haven’t you?’ she asked.
‘I have,’ Joan admitted.
‘You’d almost given up hope, hadn’t you?’ Joan nodded but Golding wasn’t letting her get away with that. ‘I need your voice, Joan, remember, let me hear you.’
‘I had almost given up, yes,’ Joan agreed, ‘I was beginning to feel stupid for even coming.’
‘There are so many charlatans out there, Joan,’ Golding said, not without an appreciation of her own gall, ‘they pretend to be able to communicate with our loved ones but all they want is our money.’
Joan nodded. ‘I’ve given them plenty of that over the years,’ she admitted.
‘And you shouldn’t feel bad about it,’ insisted Golding. ‘You just wanted to hear from Terry and these crooks are very clever, they can seem very believable. It’s they who should feel guilty. Never regret your actions, my darling, they were done through love.’
‘They were.’
‘And he’s here now, aren’t you, Terry, my love,’ she gave a small nod as if hearing his response, ‘that’s right, you never left her did you?’
The look of relief on Joan’s face was typical. It always amused Golding how much people who claimed to want the best for their dear departed took relief in their being tethered to an afterlife of floating around after them. We all just want to be adored, she thought. Looking in Joan’s eyes she saw all the adoration she would ever need,
There was a banging noise from the rear of the auditorium that broke the spell and Golding had to guard her face from snarling in anger. The doors had crashed open. No doubt Alasdair hadn’t closed them properly, now the mood was broken.
‘Could you see to that, Alasdair, my dear?’ she asked, as gently as she could manage. There was no need, he was already en route, dashing behind the last row of the audience. In a moment of inspired thinking, Golding laughed.
‘There’s no need to go letting the rain in, Terry my love,’ she said, ‘we know you’re with us.’
There was a small gasp from the more credulous in the room.
Alasdair was so tired it was an effort to stay awake in the comforting darkness. He was sat at the back, watching as Aida warmed up. Even after the four years they had been together he never lost his admiration for how she could work a room, massage emotions, manipulate information. He wasn’t blind to the fact that she manipulated him just as blatantly as she did the audience, but he was a man inclined to go with the flow in life. Every snide comment he had to endure was bought and paid for. His bank account was very healthy (including a slowly growing savings account Aida knew nothing about just in case he ever needed to leave in a hurry). To Alasdair, money beat pride every single time. Thinking of Aida’s hated perm and cardigan he supposed it was an opinion they shared.
When he had first met her he had been in awe of her. Then in love with her. Now … well, now they were more like busi
ness partners. Partners? Who was he kidding?
The entrance door suddenly came crashing open, jolting him in his chair so hard he nearly fell out of it. Who the bloody hell was that? He’d secured the doors tightly enough – or so he’d thought – perhaps it was this miserable old bastard that looked after the place, trying to sneak in for a free peek.
‘Could you see to that, Alasdair, my dear?’ asked Aida from the stage, as if he wasn’t already halfway there.
The wind was strong enough as he pushed one of the doors closed, that he began to wonder if it hadn’t blown them open. The rain was back in force, lashing at the trees that lined the avenue and bouncing off the tarmac of the hall forecourt. Then, in the darkness he saw something move, a body lying on the ground, rolling in the puddles. What the hell had happened? Were they in trouble? He was damned if he could think of another reason for lying in the wet. Annoyed at the soaking he was about to receive he stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him so that he would at least avoid another earful from Aida.
‘Hello?’ he called, not speaking too loudly in case his voice carried inside the hall. ‘Are you OK?’
The body seemed to spasm, arms and legs splaying out.
Shit.
He ran out into the rain. Probably it was that old bastard and now he was having a heart attack on the doorstep. As if they hadn’t had enough to deal with in the last twenty-four hours.
‘It’s OK,’ he shouted, ‘help’s coming.’
He reached down and turned the body face up, looking down into the snarling, rain-slicked face, an animal of plastered hair, dirt and brown leaves, stretched across its cheeks like henna tattoos.
‘Not for you, it isn’t,’ the killer said.
It took Alasdair far too long to realise he knew his attacker. He was aware of it only a fraction of a second before the rock hit him in the temple and he toppled over into the wet, head spinning. His face smacked against the wet tarmac and he felt a tooth pop loose. What was happening? Why were they doing this?
The rock smacked down one, final time.
What on earth was the bloody man playing at? Golding wondered as she lifted her head towards the light and pulled her best ‘At One With the Spirits’ face. The doors banged closed and she could hear the faint sound of Alasdair shouting on the other side. If he didn’t pipe down in a minute she’d have to take a break while they sorted out the problem. Barely five minutes in, it was not something she relished the idea of doing.
‘Terry’s leaving us now,’ she announced. ‘God bless you, Terry, thank you for the gift of your spirit.’
Alasdair was quiet now. She decided to take the risk and push on.
‘I have a lady’s spirit now,’ she announced, ‘a strong feminine energy, a mother.’
She sensed a portion of the audience shift forward in their seats, giving all their attention.
Doing this always made her think of the old board game, Guess Who? With every announcement you knocked out a percentage of your audience, whittling away at them until you had one left. This person is a woman, she has long hair, wore glasses, name sounds like … You have a winner.
‘She’s a big woman, too,’ she added, ‘she liked her home comforts!’
A polite ripple of laughter, cut short by further banging, and two loud knocks on the entrance doors.
‘Terry wants to come in!’ someone chuckled and Golding made a play of being amused by the interruption. She wasn’t, however, it was important that she controlled the mood of the room. How could she get anywhere if their attention weren’t firmly fixed on her?
‘He’ll have to wait his turn again,’ she said. ‘I have someone else here now. I’m trying to hear her name … Is it …?’
Again, a loud double tap from the doors.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what’s going on.’
‘I think it might be my grandmother,’ said a young woman on the front row.
‘Hush now, Patricia,’ whispered the woman sat next to her, ‘it’s no such thing.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Golding was confused, what would this girl’s grandmother be doing banging on the door.
‘The message,’ Patricia clarified, leaning forward with a hopeful look on her face, ‘it sounds like her.’
Steady on, thought Golding, I haven’t given you much to go on yet! Still, perhaps this was what she needed to win back the attention of the audience. Anyone this eager was sure to be inclined towards positive answers.
‘Oh, I hope so,’ she replied, ‘she so wants to make contact but with these interruptions the connection is weak. She’s shouting to me, desperate to say a name … It’s …’
Another bang, softer this time, little more than a tap.
‘Maureen,’ the young woman insisted, desperate not to lose this opportunity.
Golding couldn’t be seen to give in this easily, not and retain any credulity. ‘No, that’s not what she’s shouting. Wait …’
‘It must be …’ begged Patricia, ‘It must be her …’
‘Patricia!’ shouted Golding just as another tapping came from the door. ‘She’s shouting the name Patricia!’
‘That’s me!’ the young woman jumped to her feet. ‘I knew it was Granny!’
There was an audible murmur of appreciation at that, even from those sat close enough to the young woman that they should have heard what her name was at the same time Aida Golding had.
The medium smiled, sure that she could claw this back if she could just hold their attention.
It was not to be. The tapping at the door returned but this time it didn’t stop, as if someone were beating against the wood as if it were a drum, a fast, urgent rhythm.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Golding, ‘we simply must sort this out.’
‘But what about Gran?’ asked Patricia.
‘She’ll wait, my love,’ insisted Golding, stepping down from the stage and walking through the central aisle towards the door.
‘Want a hand?’ asked a man as she passed, getting to his feet. ‘It’s probably kids, up to no good.’
She looked at him, seventy if he was a day, held together by a cheap supermarket suit and the smell of damp. Much use you’d be if it was, she thought. Still, she could hardly refuse him.
‘Thank you, my love,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind.’
They walked up to the double doors and, as she reached out to open them, he placed his hand gently on hers. ‘Let me,’ he insisted, ‘just in case.’
The tapping stopped just as he tugged at the door handle. ‘It won’t budge,’ he said. ‘Is there a lock?’
Of course there was but Alasdair had had the key, surely he wouldn’t have used it though? What would have been the point in locking them all in?
‘Are you sure it’s not just stuck?’ she asked. ‘Maybe with the weather?’
‘Let’s have a look at this,’ announced another male voice from behind her. She turned to see a younger man, broad and thick-armed. Either he worked out, she decided, or his work needed strength, a builder, perhaps, or joiner.
Whoever he was, the door shook as he yanked at it.
‘It’s not locked,’ he said, ‘look, it’s opening a bit, it’s as if there’s something holding them together.’
He yanked again and the gap widened, two inches or so of air between the doors.
‘Can you see what it is?’ he asked.
‘It’s too dark,’ said the older man, ‘are there no lights?’
Golding looked around and, finding some switches, flicked them on to bathe the porch in light just as a tearing noise heralded the doors becoming free.
‘Shit it,’ said the muscular man, falling backwards as the left-hand door suddenly swung free. It was pushed by the weight of Alasdair who was still nailed to that side even though considerable effort had freed his hand from the nail pinning him to the other.
‘Oh my God,’ cried Aida, all pretence of gentility forgotten at the ruinous state of the young man. As the door swung
back into the lit entrance his torso shed its contents in a sparkling trail across the floor. Whoever had nailed him up hadn’t stopped there, they had slit him down the middle so that his innards could pour free. It was an empty carcass that hung lopsidedly on the door facing them, glistening tubes of intestine wriggling outside, like worms wanting to writhe in the rain.
Ten
The Tragedy of the Elizabeth
WHEN THE PHONE rang, Probert was relieved – though he wouldn’t be for long. He had been unsure quite how much shoddy musical theatre he could stand before smashing his wine glass and digging out his eardrums with the stem.
One of the very worst things about his marriage with Kathleen was her insistence on spending the majority of their time in the city. He would much prefer to be lounging around the estate. Getting lost in the woods, perhaps. Maybe shooting the odd animal and pretending it was his wife. But no; Kathleen loved culture. As much as he tried to convince her that the majority of it was as rancid and bacterial as the name suggested, she would not be swayed. They went to theatres, opera houses, concert halls, anywhere the review columns in the bloody Telegraph convinced her artistry might be found. Probert hated it all. Currently he was being bombarded by five faux transsexuals exploring the difficulties of post-op psychology through the medium of the rock ballad. The lead, an imported Yank apparently famous for being in some medical drama or another, was currently straddling a large chipboard scalpel that thrust into the audience. The imagery was so unsubtle Probert’s eyes were bruised almost as badly as his ears.
‘What about tomorrow?’ the Yank sang, ‘who shall I be then?’
‘An out-of-work actor if there’s any justice,’ mumbled the peer just as his mobile phone began to beep loudly.
‘You’re supposed to turn it off!’ reminded his wife, with a spray of spittle that might as well be venom. It’ll probably burn a hole in the upholstery, he thought and actually smiled. ‘I don’t know what you think’s so funny,’ she added, ‘turn it off! You’re disturbing the rest of the audience.’
‘I think the cast are doing that perfectly adequately,’ he replied, answering the phone and stepping out of their box into the corridor outside.