Oh. My. God. I’ve been sleeping with a frickin’ superstar.
“Good evening,” he said, his deep voice echoing around the hall. More approving shouts from the women in the audience, including—to her shock—Mia and Freya.
“What?” Mia shrugged as Grace glared at her. “I’m only joining in.”
“Thanks, everyone.” He waited for the hoots and yells to die down. “Wow. What an entrance. It’s wonderful to be doing a show here in my home town—thank you all for coming.”
“We love you, Ash!” someone yelled from the audience, and he laughed.
“I love you too.” He smiled as there were more cheers and waited again for the voices to die down. “Okay, those of you who’ve seen me before know I like to get on with things, and I know you’re all waiting to see me in action…” His voice tailed off as wolf whistles echoed around the hall, and he laughed again and shook his head. “Oh, I see, you’re going to be
that
sort of audience. You sure you didn’t book to see the Chippendales by mistake?” The crowd erupted, and he smiled and poured himself a glass of water as he waited for the cheers to die down.
Freya nudged Grace in the ribs. “I can’t believe you’ve slept with him!”
“Neither can I,” she whispered back. It made her brain hurt. This guy, this gorgeous dude who every single woman in the audience was currently lusting after, had made her come with his tongue and then screwed her into next Tuesday. The thought made her cheeks go lava hot.
He took a sip from the water, put the glass down and tucked his fingers in the pockets of his jeans. “Okay, so very briefly, you know what I do—I’m a medium, which means I can contact people who’ve crossed over to the other side. I’m clairaudient, which means sometimes they talk to me, and I’m a clairvoyant, which means sometimes I get images of people or events that have either happened, or are going to happen.” He sipped the water again. Grace couldn’t believe how relaxed he was. He looked as casual as if he were standing in front of twenty people. “I’d like to stress at this point that I have no control over what messages I’m given, or who brings them across. All I do is deliver those messages. I’m just a glorified postman really.” He grinned.
Grace was clutching her hands together so tightly it hurt. Mia reached over and took her hand again, and she made herself relax. She couldn’t believe he was standing there in front of these people. There was no sign of an assistant or any props. Just a hundred per cent Ash.
He cleared his throat. “Okay, so this is what’s going to happen. As the messages start coming through, I’ll try to locate who they’re meant for—I usually get an idea roughly of where you’re sitting. If you think it might be for you, put up your hand. I’ll know soon enough whether I’ve got the right person, and we’ll get a microphone over to you. And then I need you to be honest with me. If you don’t understand a message, say ‘I don’t understand’, okay? Don’t say yes just because you think you should. Don’t make things fit. Don’t try to make it easy for me. If we can’t work something out, we’ll try to move on, and you can go home and ask your friends and family if they understand what the message was, because sometimes it refers to something you don’t know about. Is that clear?”
There was a murmur of assent. Ash put his hand up to his ear. “Sorry? I said, is that clear?”
A chorus of “Yes!” went up and everyone laughed. He smiled, and Grace realised he was trying to get his audience to relax.
“Okay,” he said. “There are a lot of people here waiting to pass messages on. Let’s get started.”
Grace’s heart thumped, and her mouth went dry as she realised he was talking about dead people. Dead people with messages for live people in the audience. “Ouch,” whispered Mia, and she realised she’d tightened her grip and was squishing Mia’s fingers.
“Sorry,” she whispered back, loosening her hold.
He ran his gaze over the crowd, looking off to his left. He pointed about a third of the way up the tier of seating. “I’m coming over here. I’ve had a man talking to me for the past ten minutes or so, very eager. He’s a father figure to someone—so that’s a father, or a father-in-law. A tall guy with thick grey hair. He’s showing me the number sixty, and the letter C. Charles? Or Charlie? No, shorter than that. Sorry, it’s Carl. He’s also showing me a uniform—I think he was a cop, or a security guard. No, definitely a cop—he’s showing me his badge.” Ash said all this while looking at a point about three feet in front of him. He spoke quickly, gesturing as he did so. He paused for a moment, putting a hand over his chest. “I think he had lung cancer.” He looked up at the crowd, over to his left. “Is this ringing any bells for anyone?”
Along with the rest of the audience, Grace craned her neck to her right to see if anyone was admitting to the information. There was a flurry of movement about a third of the way up the seating, and a woman stood up. A man dressed in a black suit walked down the aisle to her, and the people in her line of seating handed the microphone he gave to them along to her.
“Is this for you, sweetheart?” said Ash. “Is it your dad?”
“I think so,” said the woman, emotion making her voice husky.
“Was your dad’s name Carl?”
“Yes.”
“Was he a cop?”
“Yes.”
“Did he die of lung cancer?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’m with you,” said Ash. The crowd murmured, and Grace felt a cold chill slice through her. Was this an elaborate setup? Was it all staged?
“What does sixty mean?” said Ash.
“That was how old he was when he died.”
Ash nodded. He looked at the spot three feet in front of him again. Grace realised he did that when he was listening.
“He’s showing me a key,” Ash said. “Was it someone’s twenty-first birthday recently?”
“My son’s,” said the woman.
Ash nodded. “He’s showing me the film
Casablanca
. Any idea what that means?”
The woman laughed. “He adored Bogart. He loved the film. He used to say that line about my mum, you know ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine’…” Her voice trailed off and someone pushed a tissue into her hand.
Ash smiled. “He’s putting hearts all around you. He’s holding out a bunch of roses. Was it your birthday recently?”
“Last week,” squeaked the woman.
“Well, he’s saying happy birthday,” said Ash. “Why’s he singing ‘Fever’ to me? You know, the Elvis song?” He sang the chorus briefly and there were a few whistles in the crowd. Grace went hot.
“I don’t know,” said the woman. “I suppose he liked Elvis a bit…”
“No, that’s not it,” said Ash. “Don’t let me lead you.” He paused. “It’s not Elvis singing, it’s Peggy Lee.”
The woman started laughing again. “Oh Christ, I forgot she’d sung it. Peggy’s my mum’s name.”
The crowd cheered and Ash smiled. “Good.” He looked down again. The crowd gradually fell quiet.
Grace studied him. All the nerves she’d felt for him had fled, because he seemed so relaxed and at ease on the stage. Her mind was whirling. He was confident, friendly and he obviously knew exactly how to deal with the crowd. As she glanced from side to side, she saw all the men and women spellbound. It was too early yet for her to decide what to make of it all. But he’d already impressed her with his professionalism, and his lack of glitz and glamour. He was trying to tell the world it wasn’t a show—he was merely trying to communicate the messages he had, and for them, that was amazing enough without the need for bells and whistles.
He cleared his throat again. “Your dad’s bringing through a girl. She’s quite tall, slim, blonde, a teenager, maybe fourteen or fifteen. Pretty.” He went quiet for a moment. Then he looked across at the woman, his face apologetic. “Sweetheart, is this your daughter?”
The woman’s hand crept up to her mouth. She nodded.
Ash looked back at the floor. “She’s showing me Jennifer Aniston. Is her name Jennifer?”
“No.”
He thought again. “Ah, no, she’s showing me Aniston in
Friends
. Sorry, love. Is her name Rachel?”
“Yes,” sobbed the woman. The crowd inhaled as one.
“Sit down, love,” said Ash, obviously spotting the woman’s distress. “You don’t need to stand up.” He gestured to her left. “You can answer for her, if you like. You’re her sister, aren’t you?”
Another woman took the microphone and stood, her voice coming through stronger, although still with a waver. “Yes. Rachel was my niece.”
Ash nodded. “She drowned, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“I think it was at night.”
“Yes.”
He listened for a moment. “I’m seeing a long beach, a long line of sand. I think it’s Ninety Mile Beach in the Northland.”
“Yes. They used to live up there.”
“That’s where she died.”
“Yes.”
He studied the floor, frowning. “She’s showing me something, I’m not sure what it is… It looks like a stick of butter or something.”
The woman laughed then. “Butter’s the name of her dog.”
There was a light flurry of nervous laughter around the auditorium, and Ash smiled. “She’s putting hearts all around him.”
“She loved that dog to bits.”
He nodded. “Who’s Michael?”
“Her brother.”
“He’s the one who turned twenty-one recently, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s Anne?”
“That’s me,” said the woman huskily.
He thought again. “She’s showing me the actress Laura Linney, any idea why?”
“This is Laura,” said Anne, “her mum.” Laura squeaked beside her.
He nodded. “She’s put hearts around you both. She loves you both very much.”
By now, tears were pouring down Anne’s face.
Ash didn’t stop, though. “She’s talking about a pair of black boots she got for Christmas. She’s showing me these boots.”
Anne laughed and shook her head. “She adored those boots. She never took them off.”
Ash smiled wryly. “Well she’s still wearing them.” He smiled. “She’s walking up and down like she’s on a catwalk.”
“She used to do that in the living room.”
He nodded and studied the floor again. He cleared his throat. “She wants to talk about how she died.”
Grace’s hand crept up to cover her mouth. This was awful, just awful. How could he expose himself to these unhappy stories?
He went quiet for a moment, as if he was listening to the young girl talking. Then he looked across at the two women and said gently, “You’re not sure whether she took her own life or not.”
“That’s right,” said Anne. “We never knew. The police did an investigation but it was inconclusive.”
He studied the floor again. Then looked back up. “Do you want to know?”
Grace saw the aunt’s hand reach down and take hold of the mother’s.
“Yes,” said Anne. “Please.”
He listened for a moment, then nodded and said, “She took her own life.”
The crowd murmured.
Anne covered her mouth with her hand but she stayed standing.
“She’s sorry,” said Ash. “She keeps saying, ‘I’m sorry’. She was very depressed, and she didn’t feel at the time she had anywhere to go. She knows now she was wrong, and she should have come to you, but at the time she couldn’t see her way out.”
“That’s okay.” Anne cleared her throat and repeated, “That’s okay. That’s a big relief to us, in a way. I mean, it’s terrible and sad, but it’s also good to know.”
Ash nodded. He looked at the ground. “I know, love. They know. They understand.” He smiled. “She’s holding out flowers for you.”
A tear ran down Grace’s cheek. Mia squeezed her hand.
“She wants you to know she’s all right now,” said Ash. “She’s with her grandfather, and she’s healing. She’s happy where she is—all the pain’s gone. It was a physical thing, what she had. She understands that now. At the time, she thought it was her—like, a flaw in her soul, but now she understands it was to do with chemicals and an imbalance in her brain. She’s relieved, you know? Relieved it wasn’t
her
.”
“We understand,” said her aunt.
Ash nodded. “She wants you to know it wasn’t your fault. You’ve got to stop punishing yourself for not doing enough. She was ill, and it happened—it was nobody’s fault—not yours, not hers. She keeps repeating that.”
“Okay,” said Anne.
“She’s pulling back now,” said Ash. “But she’s leaving hearts all around you. Thank you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Anne handed the microphone along the row and sat, and everyone started clapping. Grace brushed the tears from her cheeks and sat back. Already she felt exhausted, and they were only ten minutes into the evening. She glanced at Freya, who winked at her, and at Mia, who gave her a gentle smile. Her heart thumped, and her brain was in a spin trying to analyse everything she’d witnessed. Instinctively, she knew this wasn’t staged. The pain on the women’s faces was too raw, their shock too natural to be acted. And, in Mia’s words, if you followed Occam’s Razor, that could only mean one thing. He really could speak to people who no longer inhabited their earthly bodies. He really could talk to the dead.