The Shut Eye (6 page)

Although the thought of finding him here made her want to cry.

She bit her lip and tried to focus on the man on the stage.

Knowing would be better than not knowing.

‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I’m Richard Latham. Some of you may have seen me on TV.’

Two plump women in the front row nodded vigorously and Latham winked and said, ‘The camera adds ten pounds, you know. I used to be a large. Now I’m just a medium.’

There were a couple of minor chuckles and the blonde woman leaned in to Anna and hissed, ‘He said that last week too. And he was only on TV a few times. Then they took him off.’

This wasn’t how Anna had thought it was going to be, and that was good. She’d thought it might be frightening, or stupidly mystical – or like the school-fair fortune-teller she’d been to once as a child: Mrs Smart the Geography teacher wrapped in a tablecloth and foretelling that she’d get an A if she worked very, very hard.

Richard Latham suddenly pointed at her and said, ‘I’ve someone here for you, sir.’

Anna flinched – then she looked to her right, and realized that Latham must be cross-eyed to add to his other shortcomings. He meant the skinny young man sitting beside her in a bulky silver puffa jacket that was several sizes too large for him. His head protruded from its huge padded collar like a nodding dog’s.

To add to the illusion, he nodded.

‘Someone called Beryl. Can you take that for me, sir?’

‘Yes,’ said the young man.

‘Is it definitely Beryl?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Beryl.’

‘And is she your grandmother?’

‘No, she was my grandmother’s neighbour, but I knew her really well.’

‘OK,’ said Latham, and cocked his head at the ceiling. Anna followed his gaze nervously, but there was just a long cobweb there, and a damp patch in the shape of Australia.

‘OK,’ he said again. ‘Beryl says to tell your gran it’s all wine and roses up here. Wine and blooming roses, Mary. What’s your gran’s name?’

‘Marie.’

‘Oh, Marie. Wine and blooming roses. That’s
her
words, you see. Not mine. Nobody says blooming nowadays, do they?’

He looked at the ceiling again and this time Anna noticed she wasn’t the only person observing Australia along with him.

‘Anything else?’ said Latham, and waited. Then he said, ‘No. That’s all there is from Beryl.’

‘Thank you,’ said the young man. He didn’t look a bit surprised to have had a message from a dead woman. Didn’t rush off to phone his grandmother. Didn’t whip out a notebook to write down the message while it was fresh in his memory.

He also didn’t burst into flames for dabbling in the spirit world. Anna didn’t believe in God any more, but she felt a little relieved by that anyway.

Richard Latham looked thoughtful again, and Anna felt herself tensing so hard that she began to shake. But he pointed to a very frail old man on the end of the front row, who sat with both hands clamped over the knob of a gnarled walking stick. He had huge ears – each containing a large pink plastic hearing aid.

‘I’ve got someone here for you, sir, and she’s very angry.’

‘Must be the wife,’ the old man quavered, and everybody laughed heartily.

‘She says the doctor gave you a prescription, sir, is that right?’

The old man hesitated. Then he said, ‘Maybe.’

‘Don’t you maybe me,’ said Latham sharply, then he softened his tone and added, ‘That’s what she’s saying, sir – I’m not being rude to you, honestly. She’s saying,
Don’t you maybe me, young man!
’ Here Latham stopped and looked puzzled. ‘No offence, sir, but I wouldn’t describe you as a young man. Are you sure this message is for you?’

The old man nodded. ‘I was younger than her, see?’

‘Ahh,’ said Latham. ‘A toyboy.’

The old man cackled and nodded and Latham cocked his head again, this time putting one hand momentarily alongside his ear – not quite cupping it, but close to it, as if the old man’s dead wife was shouting from the back of the hall.

‘Well,’ he continued, ‘I don’t want to be rude, young man, but your wife – is her name Ellen? Ella?’

‘Ella,’ said the old man.

‘Well, Ella tells me you need to take that medicine because they’re not ready for you yet, you see, sir? She says you’ve still got a little way to go, and you might as well be healthy and happy while you’re waiting. Will you do that for her, sir? Will you do that for Ella?’

The old man ruminated, and Anna could hear his dentures clicking from the back row.

‘I’m not ordering you, sir,’ said Latham gently. ‘I’m only passing on a message.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said the old man.

‘Good,’ said Latham. ‘But she’s still a bit cross.’

Everyone laughed again and the old man flapped a hand and said, ‘Oh all right then, just to shut her up.’

This was
nothing
like Anna had expected it to be.

‘Now,’ said Latham, ‘I’ll let someone else have a go.’

To Anna’s surprise, the young man in the puffa jacket got up and walked to the front of the room and took the microphone from Latham.

‘What’s happening now?’ Anna couldn’t resist asking the blonde woman.

‘It’s open circle,’ she said. ‘We’re all here to learn.’

‘Learn what?’

‘Psychic powers.’

‘Oh!’ said Anna. The idea that you could learn to be psychic was both stupid and intriguing.

The young man was frowning hard at the wall, waggling the microphone absent-mindedly.

‘Right,’ he said finally. ‘I’ve got a Nnnnn … eville here. Neville or Nigel.’

There was an undercurrent of non-interest and then a young woman just in front of Anna raised her hand. ‘I can take a Nigel.’

‘Good,’ said the man, and thought a bit more. ‘This Nigel, was he very fat?’

‘No,’ said the woman. ‘Very thin.’

Richard Latham got up and stood beside the young man, offering advice. ‘Now be a bit more confident. Don’t be rushed. Wait until you’re sure and then don’t ask the person,
tell
them what you see. That way you’ll get better results and not waste time with the wrong people.

The young man nodded like a plastic Pug on a parcel-shelf, and took some more time staring at the wall.

Before he could say anything else, a man with a port-wine birthmark on his cheek put up his hand and said, ‘I can take a fat Neville. I only just remembered my father-in-law. He was a right porker.’

And so it went on. Ghosts leaving messages on spiritual answering machines, as if they’d popped out to the shops, rather than died. One by one, random people stood under the damp patch and channelled the dead. It was all so normal. If Anna had expected anything, it would have been:
The will is under the bathroom carpet, and Margery did it and hid the knife in the shed!
Instead there was Carol remembering her blue felt slippers, John telling his brother to repair the chimney before winter, and Granny Mitchell confirming that Gramps had arrived safely and was as ‘happy as a sandboy’.

As every would-be psychic got up, Anna’s stomach fluttered with nerves, but the longer Daniel failed to put in an appearance, the less frightened and more relieved she got.

He wasn’t dead! He couldn’t be dead. If he was dead, he’d have come here and let her know, surely?

The tension drained from her and she felt exhausted. If it hadn’t been a sort of church, she might have left to go home to bed. As it was, she felt obliged to sit and listen as the dead droned on. Her astonishment at their messages left her fast, and was replaced by a vague suspicion.

Finally she was just bored.

Dead people were every bit as dull as the living.

She felt her eyelids droop, and hid a yawn. She put a foot on a strut of the buggy and moved it gently back and forth – to keep herself awake as much as to keep the baby asleep.

By the time they got to the free tea and biscuits, Anna only stayed because she hadn’t eaten all day and was determined to get her two quid’s worth.

She helped herself to a cup of weak tea and two bourbon biscuits, because that was all there was.

The blonde woman who’d been beside her on the plastic chairs sat down next to her again. She had nice clothes and perfect makeup and a bag that matched her shoes. It stood out among the anoraks and jeans.

‘I’m Sandra.’ She smiled and, before Anna could stop her, she had her head back under the hood of the buggy and was breathing all over the baby.

She sat up again and smiled. ‘He’s very good, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ said Anna, ‘he’s very good.’ But he wasn’t Daniel and she didn’t love him the same way she had loved Daniel. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t do all she could to keep him safe from harm.

And that included germs.

She leaned into the buggy herself so that Sandra could not, and rearranged the blankets. The baby’s hand had fallen out and was cold, and she tucked it back in. Then she put her foot back on the axle and resumed the gentle back-and-forth rocking that kept babies so quiet.

‘He your only one?’ said Sandra.

‘No,’ said Anna. ‘Daniel’s four. Nearly five now.’

‘I don’t have children. Couldn’t. Blocked tubes, you know?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Anna, and she was.

‘Oh well,’ said Sandra. ‘We all have our crosses to bear.’ She smiled, then said, ‘Is this your first time here?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you think?’

Anna looked around to give herself time. Australia caught her eye. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said.

‘Don’t be put off by the grotty hall and the carpet,’ said Sandra in a low voice. ‘Richard’s a proper shut eye.

‘What’s a shut eye?’ said Anna.

‘A shut eye is for real. An open eye just pretends.’

‘Pretends what?’

‘Pretends to have the gift. Talking to the dead and all that.’

‘Why would someone pretend?’

‘To rip people off, of course!’ said Sandra. ‘But Richard’s not like that,’ she added quickly. ‘He’s a proper shut eye. Especially with dogs.’

‘Dogs?’

‘Mmm,’ said Sandra and rummaged in her bag. ‘He has a marvellous record, communicating with dogs. People swear by him.’ She took out a thick pile of photographs. ‘This is Mitzi,’ she said, handing one to Anna. ‘She won Top Puppy.’

Anna said ‘Wow,’ although she had no idea whether that was something to be admired or not.

Sandra went on: ‘Richard likes to work from a photograph.’

‘
A photograph?
’

‘Oh yes – he looks at the photo and he just knows things! Things only the dog would know. It’s like magic.’

Magic indeed. Anna had seen magicians on the telly. You couldn’t see how they performed their illusions, but she knew that that was all they were – sleight of hand and smoke and mirrors. Not
real
.

Sandra seemed sad and a little bit crazy.

Anna looked doubtfully at the picture. It had been taken outdoors, somewhere on grass, and Sandra was wearing a beige belted safari jacket that made her look like a chubby Swedish commando. She was holding a small apricot poodle almost hidden by a big red rosette. Behind them, Anna could see a blue line that she assumed was the rope edge of some kind of show-ring, and a short row of blurred people in the act of clapping – which was a strange thing, caught in suspended animation.

Anna shivered, even though the hall was not cold.

Sandra leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Most people come here to get messages from their relatives, but dead people are so
dreary
.’

Anna laughed, then quickly stopped. She hadn’t laughed for a long, long time, and it felt sharp and guilty in her mouth.

‘Have you ever had a message from your dog?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Sandra. ‘Almost every time I come.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘All sorts. Richard tells me things that only I would know. Like exactly how she used to give a little bark when she wanted a treat. And how she’d put her head on one side, like this, when I talked to her. And she
did
those things, you see? He’s ever so good. And he gives me messages from her too.
I love you, I miss you
.’ Sandra’s eyes brimmed with sudden tears and she held her forefingers under her eyes to stop them spilling over and ruining her perfectly applied mascara.

Anna felt the burn of empathy behind her own eyes, even though she had lost her son and Sandra was only missing a dead dog.

Sandra found a well-used tissue in her bag and blew her nose discreetly.

‘Do you have to pay him?’

‘Who?

‘Richard.’

‘I don’t
have
to. I make donations to the church-roof fund. That’s only fair, isn’t it? I have a private reading after the service. What Richard does takes time and saps his spiritual energy. But he’s not in it for the money. No real shut eye is.’

Anna nodded, but she glanced up at Australia. It had always been her experience that everybody was in everything for the money. Apart from James – which was why they never had any, of course.

She offered the photo back to Sandra but she said, ‘You keep that. I have loads of them. My phone number’s on the back.’

While Sandra tucked the rest of the photos back into her bag and hooked it over her chair, Anna watched Richard Latham. He was sitting a few yards away with the two ladies who’d seen him on TV, while a half-dozen other people stood around him, listening intently, teacups in hand.

Anna tuned in to what he was saying:

‘… so I went to the hotel in Beverly Hills and there she was, lying in the bath,’ Latham told them. ‘So I said, “
Come on Whitney! You’re dead!
” And I grabbed her by the hand, and I
pushed
her through the door to the other side.’

There were murmurs of approval as Latham took a long slurp of tea. Anna noticed he had biscuit crumbs down the front of his jumper.

‘Some people don’t know they’re dead, you see? So you have to tell them …’

Everyone nodded and there were murmurs of
true
and
that’s right
, and Anna shied away from a new mental image of the soul lost between life and death, alone and afraid and never seeing a friendly face – in this world
or
the next. She couldn’t think about it; it was worse than mere death. It made her hope that Richard Latham was a liar and a fake, and she comforted herself with the thought that if he really
was
psychic, he’d be in Hollywood by now, making millions off celebrities – dead or alive – not inventing outlandish stories about them in a grubby hall on Bickley Bridge.