Grabbing her belongings, she threw a note down on the table and ran out of the café. She paced up the road in the direction towards where she’d seen Karen shuffle to until she came to a crossroads. She looked up and down and took a hunch to turn right towards the shops. Turning her head from left to right, she scanned the locals for anyone who would resemble the woman who occupied her office hours earlier. It was a small village and only a handful of people were scattered across the hamlet. She approached a florist and spotted the familiar green coat which had passed the café, its owner eyeing up a bouquet of white lilies.
‘Ms Irvine!’ Rachel called.
She turned around and her eyes widened as she saw the sweaty lawyer running towards her, furiously exhaling and holding on to a pain in her diaphragm. She leaned on a stone wall while she grabbed a breath before turning to Karen.
‘Thank God I found you. I think we have a case.’
The Catfish by David Hatton
Available on Amazon
A preview of The Medium by David Hatton
‘Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome to the stage… the one, the only… Ms… Jackie… Wallace!’
Red velvet curtains parted. Fog filled the stage and a black silhouette hovered in the distance, its features growing clearer with every step towards the cheering audience. Within the mist, a short, stocky fifty-something figure hobbled out onto the stage and took a bow. Her eccentricity bellowed from her short spikey purple hair, and multi-coloured gems bulging out of every knuckle. Jackie’s suit was of metallic blue and a silver Celtic cross hovered over her large chest.
The roar of the crowd died. Jackie stared at her followers and patiently waited until it was deathly silent.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’ Jackie spoke with a Scottish brogue through a microphone strapped to the side of her head. ‘Thank you for coming to my show tonight. Let us transport ourselves to… the other side.’
Fifty filled seats spread across the sold-out show. Their occupants all had one common purpose in gathering together.
Death.
The theme spread across a timber stage before them. Black candles, polystyrene skulls and cotton spider webs mirrored the feelings of abandonment which the attendees endured. They huddled together dressed head to toe in black.
The Sleep Tight Hotel delivered a fitting ambiance for the event. It had opened its doors less than two decades before but the wallpaper had already begun to peel, the rich red carpet of the conference suite had grown ragged and the marble flooring in the lobby had scuffed following a thousand stomps of rubber soles.
The bellowing roar of thunder growled from the speakers. Vibrations ran across the foyer disturbing the diners next door. Manchester had faced few earthquakes in its two-thousand-year history and the trembling provided an express delivery of distress to the Sleep Tight Hotel’s residents.
A Guest Service Representative, dressed in a charcoal suit with the brand’s logo stamped on the breast pocket, left the reception desk and ran over to Conference Room B. He halted at the entrance. A large poster advertising the evening’s events brought a smile to the concierge’s face and he returned to the lobby, reassuring his guests.
In Conference Room B, a spotlight beamed down over the star of the show, who stood in wonder on stage at a vision which her guests were unable to witness. Her large chest expanded and she closed her eyes.
‘I have a lovely wee man on stage. He must be in his eighties. He has white hair… well, what’s left of it. He’s finely dressed in a suit and he’s fondly looking into the audience, searching for his family. I’m trying to capture his name, it begins with a C. It could be Carl, a Christopher? …No… Cliff?’
Jackie opened her eyes and gazed over her audience as they conferred.
“Where are my memories?’ he’s saying.’
On the back row a lady slowly rose up, gripping on to the seat in front of her, holding up a shaky hand to grab the attention of the host. Her hair was white, trapped beneath a hairnet and twisted in rollers. Her beige shirt held a gold brooch with a photograph of a gentleman matching Jackie’s description.
Jackie clicked her fingers towards her assistant who was dressed in the hotel’s brand uniform. She ran towards the back of the room with a microphone and handed the device to the lady who was old enough to be her grandmother. The lights drew in on the woman who laid claim to the man in Jackie’s vision.
‘What’s your name, love?”
‘I’m Stella. Cliff is my husband.’ the lady confirmed in a frail Liverpudlian voice. The audience applauded Jackie’s hit and the medium exhaled.
‘He says he was confused in his last year with us. He’s looking around and saying ‘Where am I?’’
‘That’s right, he had Alzheimer’s.’
‘He’s right here for you, my dear. You’ll be glad to know he’s got his memories back now. He has fond recollections of you during his last year beside you, including that last holiday you went on together. He absolutely treasures that time with you. Does that trip ring a bell?’
‘It sure does, we went to France.’ Stella grabbed her chest, absorbing the emotional blow which Jackie shot her way. The spectators continued to applaud every message which resonated with Stella.
‘It might have seemed that he wasn’t altogether on that trip but he assures me he was taking it all in. He’s looking at the Eiffel Tower and remembering the first time you went
