‘That’s correct.’ Stella nodded.
‘Cliff said he’s watching over you every day as you sit at home and complete your crosswords. But he does worry about you cooped up in that little house alone and sad that he isn’t there anymore. He wants you to move on and enjoy your life. Go and travel, book that trip you’ve been thinking about.’
‘You’re right, I’ve been considering a world cruise but I didn’t know if I could go without him.’
‘Do it,’ said Jackie. ‘He wants you to go and enjoy yourself. Wherever you are, he’ll be right there with you.’ She placed a hand over her chest and rubbed her heart.
Stella smiled, nodded and returned to her seat. She rummaged around in her trolley and stroked the cover of a brochure which she’d picked up only days earlier at her local travel agents. To her right, her daughter placed an arm around her and handed over a tissue which she used to dab her wrinkled eyes.
The patter of claps slowly descended. The audience turned away from Stella towards Jackie, who bowed and returned to the centre of the stage as she prepared for her next message. She took in a deep breath, closed her eyes and exhaled.
‘I have a woman on stage tonight who is desperately looking for someone called Martin.’
On the front row, a young man shot up and made claim to the name. He was in his early twenties, sporting a Marilyn Manson t-shirt and black baggy jeans. A skull pendant dangled from his neck. A cupboard of pandas would have accepted him with his pot belly, black hair, pale skin and dark eyes.
Martin was one of the few males who attended Jackie’s shows. Her audience was typically made up of wives, daughters and mothers who came to find departed relatives and the lost unborn, desperate to know if they were comforted on the other side.
‘I have a woman here on stage tonight, Martin, who I believe might be your mother or maybe your grandmother. It’s hard to tell, she’s very faint.’
The lack of accuracy did little to bother her followers. Most of them struggled to get a decent internet connection at home, never mind a direct line to the afterlife.
‘It’ll be my mum.’ Martin nodded.
‘You were close to your mum, weren’t you, Martin?’
‘I was.’
‘She was quite young, wasn’t she… when she died? I’m sensing an illness.’ Jackie crouched over and placed her hands over her head. ‘Where’s my hair gone?’
‘She had leukaemia.’
The audience gasped; Jackie straightened up, composing herself, before turning to her subject to continue his reading.
‘She’s at peace now, no longer in any pain. She told me to tell you that she misses you and your father every day, Martin.’
The audience applauded and Jackie returned to the centre of the stage to prepare for her next message. However an unruly Martin remained standing like a protester at Tiananmen Square. His stance forced the medium to double-take.
‘Are you OK, Martin?’
‘No, not really. My mum hated my dad. They couldn’t stand to be near each other. My nanny had to drop me off at their houses. Why the hell would she miss him?’
The audience gasped. Chairs shuffled and lips hissed as they made a break for the exit. Others hung on, waiting for their heroine to ease their minds. Jackie’s followers mirrored those of Jesus Christ; having blind faith in her abilities whilst occasionally having it tested. Jackie might not be able to walk on water, but delivering a message from a passed loved one was as good to them as turning water into wine, a skill Jackie wished she had as she loved a bottle of Bordeaux.
‘Martin, when we die, all that hurt and anger that we felt in this life fades away. We look back with empathy for those who tortured us. In regards to your mother, she’s moved on from the pain your father caused her and focuses on the love she once held for him. She clings on to the good old days, of which she has many happy memories. After all, she had you, didn’t she? Without him, you would never have arrived and she will never, ever regret that.’
The audience turned to Martin. He smiled, thanked her and sat down. The spectators behind him applauded and a sigh of relief whistled past the perspiring psychic on stage.
The readings carried on for over an hour. Some messages grabbed the attention of their loved ones, others remained unclaimed.
‘Please remember, ladies and gentlemen, that while my readings may appear confusing at times, I have hundreds of people from the other side trying to get through. It can be quite daunting at times, I assure you. Sometimes their messages get mixed up as they fight for my attention. If any of you have children, I’m sure you’ll empathise, when they run home from school and are all desperate to tell you about their day at once. Sometimes the spirits come looking for loved ones who aren’t even here but it doesn’t stop them screaming for my attention. For others, they are nearby, but their relative in the audience is simply too scared to stand up. If that’s you, I encourage you to come forward as they are desperate to get in touch.’
‘For those of you who feel disappointed that the person you came to speak to tonight hasn’t made contact this evening…’ Jackie continued ‘…you can increase your chances of a connection by writing a letter and placing it in the bowl.’
To Jackie’s right, a large fish bowl filled with letters stood above a small round table with an aubergine cover. On the opposite side, teddy bears, photographs and keepsakes filled a matching bowl.
The bright lights of Deansgate and blaring music from the neighbouring bars
