Oh Great, Now I Can Hear Dead People: What Would You Do if You Could Suddenly Hear Real Dead People? Read online

  OH GREAT, NOW I CAN HEAR DEAD PEOPLE

  Deborah Durbin is a British journalist and author.

  Oh Great, Now I Can Hear Dead People, is her debut novel.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Deborah Durbin asserts the moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

  Copyright: Deborah Durbin 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission from the author.

  This book is dedicated to my three beautiful and talented daughters,

  Becky, Georgia and Holly.

  Visit Deborah’s website at

  www.deborahdurbin.com

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank (and in no particular order) my three beautiful daughters for their patience whist writing this book – we won’t be living off microwave meals for much longer, girls! To my wonderful husband who listens to me go on and on about publishing statistics. To my lovely mum who is a constant support and always there whenever I need her. To my sister and brothers who give me oodles of support. To all my friends for encouraging me and telling me I’m fabulous and finally to my dad: although you’re not here in person, I know you’re always around me and your catch phrase, ‘You don’t ask, you don’t get’ is my daily mantra.

  Thank you to everyone at Soul Rocks and JH Publishing for all your hard work and making this dream come true.

  CHAPTER ONE

  They say everyone has a sixth sense. Maybe they do. This is something I occasionally contemplate when I’m lying awake at night, contemplating things, as you do. They also say that if you work hard and get a good education you will go far in life. So naturally you would think, that when you had dedicated three years of your life to studying cognitive functioning and bipolar disorders, you would be able to walk straight into a fantastic job as a psychologist, wouldn’t you? Not so. Well not in my case anyway, which is why I am spending my days sitting in my pyjamas, watching day-time TV and contemplating the prospect that I might actually be unemployable. What do they know, anyway?

  Allow me to introduce myself: Samantha Ball, 26 years of age, psychology graduate, unemployed, currently £22,262 in debt, and if I’m not careful quite possibly soon to be homeless if I don’t scrape together this month’s rent.

  Having spent my first two years at university learning all about abnormal and, quite frankly, rather disturbing human behaviour, I decided for my third year to specialise in lachanophobia, (that’s the fear of vegetables to you and me). The reason for this was that, despite statistically fewer than 3% of the world’s population suffer from this bizarre phobia, I really did think it was an interesting subject – I had also developed a bit of a crush on Professor John Summers, the course tutor, and my head was bypassed by my heart, despite the fact that it turned out he had a Greek boyfriend called Darius.

  Anyway, result being I came out of college with a degree in psychology, specialising in lachanophobia and for a while I actually believed that the world was my Savoy cabbage. I soon realised, however, that there isn’t actually much of a market for terrified veggie phobics and that wherever they were they were well and truly staying in their closets. Still, it could be worse, I could have chosen to specialise in consecotaleophophobia, (that’s the fear of chop-sticks to you and me).

  Had I realised that a year on I would be unemployed and trying to explain to people that I was a qualified shrink for veg fearing folk, I would have done what my best friend Amy did and dropped out of college in the first year in favour of a job at a fast food restaurant. Amy did just this, and three years on she is now an area manager, earning £50,000 a year and as many French fries as a girl could possibly wish for.

  It seemed Amy got it right; she never attended lectures, and would think nothing of spending her entire student grant on a pair of pretty Jimmy Choos and hang the fact that she had nothing left over to last the rest of the year. I kept a study plan, for God’s sake, which I hasten to add, I followed religiously for three years. I gave up my weekends so that I could cram in another 16 hours of neuroanatomy and studied the peripheral nervous system like no other. And what did I come out with? A degree, a mountain of debt, and an apartment that comes complete with its own mushroom farm. Amy on the other hand is currently sunning it up on her third holiday this year in the Maldives!

  So, here I am, sitting in my dressing gown, with my cat Missy on my lap, watching repeats of the Big Brother eviction and wondering whether I am eccentric enough to apply for next year’s auditions. Or maybe I could apply to be one of their psychologists. I could be the one to make sure the housemates don’t have a problem with cabbages, or if they do, then who better to cure them than me?

  The phone rings: it’s my mother.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ I say, trying to sound cheerful.

  ‘No luck then, love?’ she says referring to my latest attempt to secure employment, pay my rent and maintain my dignity.

  My mother knows only too well what the answer is going to be. She rings me at least once a day in anticipation that I will suddenly say, ‘You’ll never guess what, Mum. I found this support group hidden away in the middle of the Forest of Dean for people with serious anxieties relating to organically grown produce, and they need a psychologist right away!’ But I don’t, because as she well knows there are no such groups, or if there are they are hidden deep, deep in the forest, afraid to come out and shout, loud and proud, “We hate veg!”

  ‘Nope, not yet,’ I reply, trying to sound jolly and as if I couldn’t care less that I really am unemployable.

  ‘Ah, love. You know you could always re-train…extend your skills?’ My mother ventures. She is a great believer in retraining, is my mother. In fact, you could call her an authority on re-training. Having originally trained as a nurse, my mother re-trained as an aromatherapist in a bid to demonstrate her disgust at the state of the NHS. She then re-trained as a yoga teacher when she realised that people thought she was running a dodgy massage parlour in her home, and finally re-trained (again) as a gardener/writer – Kim Wilde has nothing on my mum. Ironic, really while I am trying to find a job that helps people get over a relatively unknown phobia, my own mother is busy writing a book on how to grow juicer vegetables. I can imagine my clients (if I had any, that is) discovering this connection and saying, ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘Mum, I’ve just spent three years at university. I don’t particularly want to re-train,’ I hiss, trying not to sound as though I’m hissing.

  ‘Well, it has been over a year love,’ my mother kindly points out, ‘do you need any money?’ This is like asking a fish if it needs water. Yes, I do need some money. I am totally skint. Instead I say, ‘No, I do not,’ in my most indignant how-could-you-ask-that kind of voice. I know, I know, it’s a generation-thing. Unfortunately I was born during the 80’s when power-suited women, with big shoulder pads brainwashed us into believing that we should, and could, earn our own money and that to accept handouts – especially from your mother - was one of the deadlier sins. The generation of independent women, eh?

  No, I will not accept handouts from my mother or anyone else for that matter. I will get a job.
I will get a job. I repeat the mantra silently to myself.

  ‘Sammy? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, Mum. Look I’ll be fine. I’m sure something will turn up soon.’ I know she’s only trying to help, and for that I love her.

  ‘So…have you seen anything of Jack recently? Ooh and I hear that Amy is in the Maldives!’ She shrieks. Hmmm, rub it in a bit more why don’t you, Mum?

  ‘Yes, she is,’ I say, trying to sound as though I’m not the slightest bit jealous of the fact that my best friend is, at this very moment, lying on her back in the baking hot sun while I’m using a king-size 12 tog to keep me warm.

  ‘And Jack?’ my mum enquires.

  Aside from Amy, Jack is my oldest and dearest friend and I love him to bits. He is taller than me, he has stunning good looks, he is intelligent, funny, caring and… well, everything you could possibly wish for in a man really. So why, I hear you ask, am I not nicely settled down with him in cosy-coupledom? Jack is my best friend and has been for a very long time. If we became a couple, as in boyfriend and girlfriend, and consequently broke up – which, given my track record with men, would inevitably happen – we wouldn’t be friends ever again, and I don’t want that.

  My mum, on the other hand, cannot understand this theory. It’s all right for her. She got lucky. She’s from the school of ‘a husband is for life, not just for Christmas.’ She married her childhood sweetheart and they were together for 30 years, right up until my wonderful dad died two years ago.

  ‘Jack’s fine.’ I say tersely.

  ‘And?’ My mother digs.

  ‘And nothing, Mum! We are just good friends and that is all we will ever be,’ I say, despite being somewhat annoyed that Jack really does tick all the right boxes in the Cosmo quiz for the ideal man. For starters I know everything there is to know about him. I know what music he is into – indie rock. I know his favourite food – baked bean sandwiches. I know his biggest fear – that a moth will fly into his ear and not come out again. I know, I know, I keep telling him that it is highly unlikely that a moth would want to invade his ear, but he insists that he once saw a documentary about it and the man went deaf as a result of the ‘old moth in the ear’ business.

  I know what Jack would and wouldn’t wear – ripped jeans and slogan t-shirt, yes. Dinner jacket and bow-tie, no. And because he has no family to call his own – he was fostered at the tender age of three, and brought up in a time when anyone could become a foster parent and children’s social welfare checks were something the foster parents looked forward to cashing at the end of the month - he’s become attached to my family and treats my mum and brothers like his own. And to have a relationship with someone who thinks he’s your evil twin brother would be just plain weird in my book.

  ‘Gosh, Samantha, you are trying sometimes,’ my mother says despairingly.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, love, but you’ve got to live life to the full. You never know when it will be snatched away from you.’

  She tugs at my heartstrings every time she says this, which is almost every day, and I can’t bring myself to be cross with her. I know she misses Dad terribly and ever since his death, her way of coping is to do just that: live life to the full. I, on the other hand, feel confused by the whole situation and full of unanswered questions, mostly starting with ‘why?’

  ‘I love you, Mum.’ I say.

  ‘And I love you too, Sammy. Now if you need some money….’

  I smile and put down the receiver.

  My mum’s right, of course. I do have to sort myself out. If I don’t do something soon, I will end up with ten cats running riot in the flat, and we’ll all be eating nothing but cat food. Children will poke fun at me and call me the Mad Old Cat Lady.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The two presenters on the TV are debating whether mobile phones really frazzle your brain – hmmm, good question. I ponder this to myself, but pondering is not going to get me a job, is it?

  Don’t get me wrong, despite the fact that I am currently both unemployed, broke and relying on daytime TV for entertainment, I am proud of the fact that I went to university. As my mother keeps reminding me, I am the only member of our family who ever did. My brothers’ shared in my dad’s philosophy that higher education was for losers and there was no way that they were going to waste three years on some cruddy campus.

  My older brother Paul gave up school early on, claiming to be allergic to fluorescent lighting or something and instead bummed around the world, settling for being a surf bum in Australia instead and running some sort of part-time dodgy detective agency. I know, go figure.

  You can’t rely on Paul for anything and that’s just how he likes it. My darling brother doesn’t like anyone to be too dependent on him, which is probably why he has never had a long-term girlfriend and, at the age of 29, is happy to bum around and behave like a teenager for ever more. He’s even got a pony-tail, for God’s sake! I’m sure he’s going to end up like one of those weirdoes that you see at summer festivals pretending to be young and trendy, but in reality, look like your grandfather with a bandana tied round his head.

  On the other hand, Matt, my younger brother, is a completely different kettle of fish. He discovered at an early age how lucrative it was to create websites for small businesses, long before anyone and everyone had the ability to design a website for free and quickly cashed in on the opportunity.

  I look through the job section of the paper for the umpteenth time. Most of the vacancies consist of advertisements for call centres needing people to advise their customers that their windows are far superior to those of their competitors, or nursing homes in desperate need of people willing to wipe bottoms for £5.60 an hour. Hmm, I don’t think either is suitable, do you? If I were to apply for the call centre job, I think I would probably spend most of my time analysing the customers and talking their problems through with them. As for wiping wrinkled bottoms, I can’t even empty Missy’s cat-litter tray without retching.

  Something catches my eye as I flick through the remaining pages of the paper and I flick back again.

  Don’t know where you are heading? Want to know what your future holds? Call Mystic Answers for all your questions on 0871 123 45678 and speak to one of our psychic mediums.

  Well, it’s worth a try, I suppose. I’m not getting anywhere by doing nothing and maybe, just maybe, someone else might have the answer. Not that I’m into all this psychic stuff, you understand, just as I don’t believe a word of the horoscopes that I read on a daily basis, but desperate measures call for desperate measures.

  I pull the phone onto my lap and tap out the premium-rate number, trying to ignore the fact that this is about to cost me £1.50 per minute. Perhaps if I talk quickly I won’t add a huge phone bill to my growing list of bills outstanding. An automated machine answers.

  ‘Thank you for calling Mystic Answers. Whilst we try to connect you, please be aware that you must be 18 years of age or over to use our service, and that you ask permission of the person that pays the telephone bill. All calls are monitored for the protection of yourself and your reader. We are obliged to state that opinions differ in relation to clairvoyance and mediumship and all readings are for entertainment only. Thank you for your patience. Please hold the line while we try to connect you to one of our readers.’

  I do as I am told and listen to a mystical melody of pan-pipe/dolphin music (I’m not quite sure which – it could be a pan-pipe-playing dolphin for all I know) while I wait. A minute or so goes by before a low voice speaks to me – it’s cost me £1.50 just to get through.

  ‘Hello, I am Miracle. (Yeah, like that’s your real name) How may I help you?’ the husky-voiced lady enquires, and I wonder if her voice really is that low or whether it’s all part of the act.

  ‘Oh, um hello,’ I stutter, not sure what to say next. ‘I …um… well…’ ‘You would like a reading?’ she asks. Damn she’s good. ‘Um…yes, please. Thank you.’ I stutter.

&n
bsp; The phone goes quiet for a moment and I wonder if she thinks I’m a lunatic and has hung up on me.

  ‘Hello?’ I ask.

  ‘Please bear with me, dear. I am making a connection. Yes, OK, I will tell her,’ she whispers. I on the other hand look quizzically at Missy. ‘OK my love, I have someone here. An older man by the name of John.’

  My stomach does a flip as I think of my dad – no, it couldn’t be. Miracle continues.

  ‘He’s saying you’re not very happy at the moment and can’t seem to settle down to anything.’

  No shit, Sherlock. I mean how many Pollyannas phone a psychic phone line in the middle of the day? Still, I’m not going to give anything away.

  Miracle continues,

  ‘He says you have to stop worrying and take things one step at a time, my love. I’m being told that in the near future you are going to be doing something completely different. You will change so much in your outlook, which will, in turn, change the way you see other people.’

  Well, she got my dad’s name right, but it’s all a little bit vague, don’t you think? No one phones these lines unless they have a problem, do they? I let her continue.

  ‘You’re very psychic, my dear.’ she says, and I laugh out loud.

  ‘If I were that psychic, then I wouldn’t be phoning you, would I?’

  ‘Ah, but you are not yet aware of your potential.’ The husky voiced lady councils. ‘I’m being told that you are going to be a huge success in this area of work, you just don’t realise that you have the ability yet. John is telling me that you do, and that you should look into this because he knows you feel as though you might have chosen the wrong path.’ In fact, you’re not working at the moment, are you, dear?’

  I’m not giving this woman any clues so I simply say, ‘You’re the psychic; you tell me.’

  ‘Well, I am telling you, dear. I know that you’re not working and that you are desperate to find your vocation in life, but what you once thought was right for you is most definitely wrong, and you know this, don’t you?’