The salad squashed between the chunky-cut slices of farmhouse bread smelt green and fresh. Brigitte picked it up and took a bite. A slice of tomato slipped out and plopped straight into her coffee.
“Good shot, Brig, that’ll improve the flavour!” Paul laughed. “But about him being a medium, I’m not joking. Honest. Ask Stan if you don’t believe me. He told me he was here for some sort of spiritualists’ convention and was giving a speech.” He mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich. “Or a séance or I can’t remember what.” He stopped to chew and swallow before he continued. “He spooked Stan anyway. Told him the pub’s got a ghost and it walks through the bedrooms, knew the name of it and everything.”
Almost sure Paul was having her on, Brigitte couldn’t resist calling over and asking, “Is that right Stan, have you got a phantom upstairs?”
Stan stopped polishing the glasses, leant his elbows on the bar and looked over to where they were sitting. “So it seems. Me? I just thought all the funny noises in the night were the wife farting.”
You might need it soon, Brigitte. The words echoed in her head like a whisper.“How did he know my name?”
“What?” Paul stuttered, his mouth still full of sandwich. He was laughing so hard at Stan’s comment he couldn't speak.
“That Jack chap. He called me by my name when he gave me the card. Remember? He said you might need it soon, Brigitte. How did he know my name?”
“Well, he is a medium... perhaps he divined it. Be sensible Brig, he must have overheard us talking or something. He probably asked Stan or maybe...” he wiggled his fingers in her face, “he called on the spirits for guidance.”
“Oh stop it. Do you know we’re sitting here carrying on as if I haven’t got a shop to open? Let’s hurry up and get back to watch the film. I really must go soon.”
“You’re right. I’ve got a client coming in at three for a session. I’ll settle the bill and we’ll get off.”
“No chance. You paid on Sunday, today’s my shout.” She left him to finish the last crusts of his sandwich and went to the bar. While Stan rattled in the till for her change, out of cheek, she asked him, “So what’s your ghost called then?”
“Friar, bloody, Tuck or something similar. Supposed to be a monk from some dark, medieval, sect. Apparently he floats around chanting prayers and the like. Pretty much the same as I do at the end of the month when I have to pay the rent. Just my luck it couldn’t have been a busty, blonde wench. Mind you, if it had have been, the wife would soon have had her exorcised.”
Brigitte, giggling to herself as Stan waddled off, went to the door to wait for Paul while he downed the last dregs of his coffee.
Back in Paul’s office she tried to be patient as he connected the camera to his lap-top.
“Nearly done Brig.” He beckoned her. “Come over here behind my desk, you’ll see it better.”
Brigitte did as he said and went to sit in his super-deluxe office chair. “Wish I had one of these. I love the way they make you feel all important. Is that why you bought it?”
“Stop spinning around like an infant and watch this.” He pressed play and an image of her came on the screen.
“Always wondered why I never made it into the movies, now I know.” She squinted at the screen. “My hair looks a funny colour. Either you didn’t make a very good job of the lighting or I need to go to the hairdressers again.” Paul’s voice sounded distant and tinny on the laptop’s small speakers. Brigitte watched fascinated as she fell asleep under his hypnotic voice. “That’s really weird.”
“It’s not as weird as what’s coming next. Shut up and listen.”
“Welcome. Welcome. I’ve been waiting for you. Welcome to my world.”
“What the fu...”
“Shut up, will you, Brig. It’s only just started. Listen.”
“Within my world there is no time. There are only dimensions. What is today will be tomorrow for each day has yet existed, but is still yet to exist. In this world there is anything new. There is but time’s relentless repetition.”
“I don’t like this, Paul.” He waved his hand to silence her as the voice continued.
The voice persisted in its monologue. Brigitte felt like throwing up.
“You must know first of who I am, and then of where I am, or there will be no understanding. So listen well.”
“That’s enough. Switch it off.” Brigitte jumped out of the chair and walked across the room to the window. Anywhere where she wouldn’t have to see her face, eyes closed, talking on the screen in someone else’s voice. He's played a prank on me. He must have. It's the only rational explanation. “Did you do that for a joke? If you did, it’s not very funny.”
“Brigitte. Come and sit down. I told you it was strange, but don’t get all huffy. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing to be afraid of. I really want to watch the whole recording as I can’t remember all of it word for word. If we listen to it right the way through it might give us a clue as to what it’s all about.”
“You mean to tell me it's not a special effect you've done with the computer? That is... real?” Brigitte couldn't even bring herself to look at the paused image of herself, there, frozen in a coloured still-life on the monitor, looking like a corpse. Paul just nodded.
“Do you want to see the rest?”
“No, I don't. It's too scary and I don't like it. I'm going. Watch it if you want and call me later if you think there's something worth telling me.” She slipped her jacket on and made for the door. “The best thing you can do with that is erase it. I'll see you later.”
“Brig!”
“No, Paul, I'm going to work. I don't want to talk about it any-more.” The office door slammed shut as she left
It'd been a long afternoon on her own in the shop. No customers, no phone calls, no nothing to break the boredom. With her mind working overtime, she shut early and went home.
The house phone was ringing when Brigitte unlocked the door. It stopped when she reached to pick it up. She glared at the beige plastic receiver, pressed one of the grubby buttons and added cleaning the phone to her mental list of things to do. The missed call register listed Paul’s number. He rang back before she could escape down the hall. “I don’t feel like talking about it, Paul.” She said, answering without even her customary hello.
“Is that why you didn’t pick the phone up?”
“No, I’ve just walked in the door and I’m tired. I don’t think I can take any more today.”
“I just called to see if you were okay, that’s all. Though there is something else I think you should know.”
“What’s that? You've booked an appointment with the local shrink for me.”
“Just stop it. You are perfectly sane, as both we know. I watched the rest of the video this afternoon after the clinic finished.”
“And?” She hated the note of dread which had crept into her voice. Brigitte wondered if she really wanted to know what else he’d discovered.
“There’s a name you…”
“A name, what do you mean a name?”
“You mentioned a name when you were under.”
“What name?” Though she couldn’t imagine it’d make any difference knowing.
“Miridian or Meridan Wilf, or something like that. It didn’t sound very English to me. Does it ring a bell with you?”
“No, absolutely nothing.”
“I thought it might have done. Could it be a family connection you've forgotten about?”
“No, Paul, the name means nothing to me.”
“I was going to check it out on the internet to see if I could find a clue, but I haven’t had a chance yet. I’ll try and get round to it tomorrow. Do you want to meet for lunch at The Roses again?”
“No, I don’t. You seem to be very fond of The Roses at the moment. Something tells me you’re trying to conquer the heart of Stan’s fair waitress. Are you after trying to put a smile on her face?”
“The impossible is always with
in reach, but a miracle…”
“Maybe we could go for lunch at the weekend. I’m supposed to be seeing the accountant and the lawyers tomorrow. After both of those in one day, I can’t imagine I’ll be very good company.”
“Are you still having problems with the business?”
“Yes, and they’re getting worse. Not only are sales down, but the ex has decided he wants to sell out his half of the business. He wants to buy a new house. You must have heard he was getting married again.”
“Yes, but just hadn’t mentioned it. You’re not bothered are you?”
“Don’t be silly. I’m glad for him. Sorry for her, but glad for him. With a bit of luck it’ll keep him occupied and he’ll leave me in peace for once. It's just bad timing and I don’t think I’ll be able to raise the finances on my own, not so soon after buying him out of the house, anyway.”
“Wish I was in a position to help you, Brig, but well… you know how things are with me.”
“Don’t worry about it. Maybe a change will be good for me and it’ll all work out for the best all round. What if I give you a call tomorrow evening and we’ll fix a get-together for over the weekend?”
“Sounds good to me, and if there’s anything else you need, well you know where I am.”
Will he ever stop trying or does he just enjoy banging his head up against a brick wall? “Talk to you tomorrow. Bye, Paul.”
“Bye, Brigitte. Don’t forget me now.”
“That would be difficult.” She hung up quick, before he could say anything else. After that conversation I know just what I need. The bottle of wine in the fridge hasn't got much left in it. Time to raid my secret supply. She went to the garage and fished a bottle of red, unopened since Christmas, out of the store cupboard. Cheap Spanish plonk. She uncorked it in the kitchen and hoped it didn't taste as rough as it looked. The first sip was bitter and she grimaced. After half a glass it slid down her throat quicker than it should have done. She stuck it in the fridge.
Maybe chilling it will develop the flavour. Amazing what you can get used to. She toasted the kitchen clock then, after topping her glass up again, she wandered through to the study and powered up the computer with the intention of checking her emails. I wonder who Meridan Wilt is.
The Google search page popped up first and without even realising what she was doing she set the wine glass down and typed in the name Paul had mentioned. The first two searches turned up nothing. Doesn’t sound very English to me, he'd said. Brigitte started to say the name out loud, checking different pronunciations. A few more sips of wine helped loosen her tongue and with the new variations of slurred syllables, she tried again. Google asked her, do you mean Myrddin Wyllt?
“Don’t know if that’s what I mean.” She told the screen, but clicked on Myrddin Wyllt anyway, and drank some more wine as the search page loaded. Two glassfuls were more enough to have her answering the computer back.
“Oh!” Brigitte pie-eyed, stared curiously at the results. “There’s lots of Myrddins on Google. Let’s see what Wikipedia has got to say on the subject?” Her glass was empty again. She went to refill it and took the bottle back to the study with her. It didn't taste any better cold. “Haven’t you got a lot to say about Mr Myrddin, Wiki.” She mumbled out loud as she started to read through the text. He was a Welsh bard of the fifth century who had predicted his own death. Scrolling down, she read further. He was found on the shores of a river. Face down in the water. With a stake through his head. That was enough for Brigitte. To many coincidences with my dream. My brain can't cope with any more. She saved the page to favourites and switched the computer off. There was still another glassful left, and for once, glad the girls were staying with their father for a few days, she tipped the bottle and poured the last dregs.
Glass in hand and a fluffy blanket under her arm, she went outside to the terrace and sat in her rocking chair. It was a cold night, but with blanket wrapped around her shoulders and warmed by the red wine she didn't notice and just sat there, see-sawing back and forth, thinking. I wish I could work out what was going on. There's no logic in anything. This wines wrecked my head. I can't think straight. Shame, but the bottle's empty. I'll have to go to bed.
Chapter 7
If you need to, call me.
His voice was a permanent whisper in her ear. It penetrated deep into her fogged brain until it forced Brigitte to wake up. Her head was pounding. She burrowed back under the covers where he light couldn't reach her and tried to think of a reason to leave the warmth of the bed. Unable to find one urgent enough to entice her out, she lay there, half-asleep and hung over, listening to the silence. In the womb-like confines of the bed she slipped back into a semi-sleep and dreamt of Jack’s intense blue eyes. Through clouds of cotton wool his soft, warm voice spoke to her. The same words repeated over and over again.
If there’s anything you need, just call. I’ll be waiting.
She smiled in her sleep.
The shrill ringing of the alarm broke the spell, boring into her unconscious and bleating in time with the thump of the headache which threatened to rupture her skull. The clock showed nine o’clock. Brigitte groaned. The appointment at the lawyers was scheduled for ten thirty and the accountant straight after.
In the shower, she turned the taps to cold and tried to freeze away the after-effects of the night before. The icy jets stabbed through her hair, burning her scalp. She let the water wash down into her open eyes, hoping to get rid of some of the blood-shot. It didn’t work. Her face, reflected in the cabinet mirror, remained haggard enough to scare anyone. Disgusted with herself, she headed for the kitchen and the second stage of a much needed recovery plan.
While the coffee brewed, she dropped a heavy-duty paracetamol into a glass of water and watched transfixed as it fizzed and dissolved. The coffee machine plopped and gurgled as the glass jug filled with dark brown liquid. The soft noise sounded loud to her aching head. She downed the painkiller in one. Its salty, medicinal taste made her baulk. Her stomach turned over in a new protest when the hot, strong coffee followed it.
It was time to make a move, though her body was not in full agreement. Her lawyers didn’t like to be kept waiting, even though she paid them a fortune, they called the shots. Brigitte's bag was still in the chair where she’d dumped it the night before and picking it up, she rummaged in it for the car keys. Her fumbling fingers brushed against a thin, hard edge and the sharp sting made her withdraw her hand in shock. Shit! What was that? She swore again and sucked her index finger as blood started to flow from the fine cut. Angry, she tipped the contents of the bag out onto the table to find the blameable object. The stiff, glossy card with Jack Jamieson’s number scribbled on it lay face up next to the keys. A faint red smudge spoilt its pristine whiteness. That’s not the way to get a lady to call you or then again maybe it is. She carried the card through to the phone, picked up the receiver and dialled his number.
The phone hardly rang before he answered it. “Hello?” His voice flowed like liquid chocolate down the line, leaving her lost for words. Why have I called him?
“Hello? Is there anybody there?” It took her a few seconds of serious lip biting to suppress the hysteria and gain enough self-control to be able to risk answering.
“Yes, this is…” He'll never remember who I am.
“It’s Brigitte, isn’t it? I’ve been expecting your call.”
Unable to form her words properly, she stammered, “I really don’t know why I’ve called. Only I found your card in my bag this morning and…”
“How’s your finger?” he asked.
“What?”
“Your finger, you did cut it, didn’t you? Well that’s what Bob told me a few moments ago.”
Feeling as if she were teetering on the verge of a nervous breakdown, Brigitte took a deep breath, closed her eyes and asked, “Who is Bob?”
“Bob? He’s my spirit guide. I sent him over to give you a… well… a sort of little push in the right directi
on should we say.”
“You're having me on, aren’t you?”
“No, Brigitte, quite frankly, I’m not. It’s just first-timers need a bit of a shove. They often take a while to catch on.”
“Catch on? Catch on to what?” she asked. Have I dialled the right planet?
“To being accompanied. It can be unsettling at first, but you soon get used to it.”
Do I really want to ask? Brigitte thought twice, but couldn’t resist. Her voice seemed to come from far-away. It floated down the line and disappeared into the ether. “Accompanied by what?” She held her breath and waited for his reply.
“By a spirit, of course, why do you think I gave you my card?”
What a shame, I thought he had something else in mind. My one remaining sane and functioning brain cell is telling me I could well be talking to a mad man. Maybe I should hang up before things go any further. Then again, I've always had a penchant for handsome eccentrics. “To be honest I wasn’t sure.”Brigitte replied, clinging to the receiver like a lifeline.
“Well, I did get Bob to have a quick chat with your man to try and find out what was going on…”
“With who, with Paul?”
“Paul? Don’t know any Paul. Your chaps called Myrddin. He’s very powerful, you know, very, very powerful.”
The world suddenly tilted to a strange angle on its axis and she needed to lean her back against the wall for support. There were no words willing to leave the confines of her mouth and she clutched the phone, mute. How could he possibly know about that?
“Brigitte? Are you there?”
The bubble of laughter finally escaped her. It was touched with a serious note of barely restrained madness.
“I quite understand.” He carried on as though nothing unusual had happened. “This is all a bit too much to take in at once, especially over the phone. Look I’m still down your way. I’m doing a presentation at a Holistic fair in Peterborough on Saturday. Maybe you’d like to come and see how I work and then we’ll get together after. I’ll be in touch with the details when the times been confirmed. I’ll even come and pick you up, does that sound, okay?”
She was sure he never heard her nod. Brigitte hung up the phone feeling strangely elated and promised herself to lay off the wine from now on. She wondered if Jack Jamieson had an inclination for nervously-wrecked blondes. She just might well be able to develop one for mediums.