I Never Fancied Him Anyway (28 page)

‘I’m point-blank refusing to get out of the car,’ she
shouts
out of the window at me, covering the phone with her hand. ‘It’s starting to drizzle and I don’t want to end up looking like Bigfoot’s sister, Bighair.’

Suits me fine, I think to myself, trying to cool down a bit and focus on the job ahead. I take a few deep, soothing breaths, regroup and remind myself of why I’m here in the first place.

No one’s around, not Mrs Henderson and most importantly not the dreaded Oliver going ‘I’m seeing this and I’m seeing that’. Wonder if he sees the kick up the arse that’s on its way to him before this day is out?

Come on, Cassie, banish all negative thoughts
.

Now, I have done energy-clearings before, but it’s not like there’re aerobics classes you can do to brush up on your skills . . . Focus.

Concentrate.

I stand outside the hall door, go to a quiet place in my head, close my eyes and really try to
feel
.

Often, buildings with a ‘bad’ energy about them are built on ley lines, which is another word for the energy lines that cover the whole surface of the globe. Usually, where two ley lines cross over each other, you’ll find there’s a church, which is absolutely as it should be in the greater scheme of things. Intersecting ley lines bring huge energy, they impact on our feelings and emotions in the most colossal way and a place of worship is the perfect outlet for that.

In many cases, though, you can find yourself in a building that just has an ‘ick’ feel to it. An unlucky building. We’ve all been in one; you know, a place where things go wrong and keep going wrong and no one really knows why. People are constantly getting sick. Rows and arguments happen far more frequently than, by the law of averages, they should.

When we were in school, Charlene often blamed ley lines for not having her homework done or else used them as an excuse to get out of class early. ‘I have to go, miss, the ley lines are killing me.’ Lame as it sounds, it sure as hell beat my regular excuse: ‘Miss, can I please be excused gym class today? My third eye is in ribbons.’

Scientists would call places like this ‘geopathically stressed’; people like me know that it’s usually because of ley lines. But I’m not feeling anything from outside this house. Nothing. Which is good. It makes my job a helluva lot simpler.

I move inside very slowly and trust that I’ll be drawn to whatever room needs my help.

I get a strong feeling that this is not a happy home, not by a long shot, which unwittingly creates the perfect space for any negative psychic disturbances.

No one even notices me as I tiptoe upstairs. I don’t know why, but for some reason, I’m feeling the strongest need to go upstairs. It’s deathly silent as I reach the
upstairs
landing. Which is good too: above all, this job needs quiet.

The Hendersons’ is a large house, and there’re about six doors leading off the upstairs passageway, with one huge, diamond-paned window opposite me, bathing the whole area in light. On the windowsill there’s a gorgeous black and white cat, all snuggled up in his basket, enjoying a toasty warm ray of sunshine that’s beaming directly on to him. Instinctively, I go over to where he’s sleeping and stroke him gently. He purrs and looks at me, as if to say, ‘Who are you and what the hell are you doing on my territory?’ Suddenly, there’s a loud pounding noise from one of the bedrooms, shattering the quiet; the sound of a door banging heavily, a wardrobe maybe?

But there’s no one else upstairs.

Tentatively, I move towards the door where the sound came from and slowly turn the handle. There’s a quick rustling sound from the windowsill and I turn around to see that the cat’s done a runner.

Interesting. Animals are incredibly sensitive to any sort of paranormal activity, so this immediately makes me think that I’m on the right track. One of the first signs that any living space has, shall we say, an unwanted guest is if family pets refuse to go near it.

The room is cluttered and untidy, unlike the rest of the house, which is pristine. It’s almost as if the Hendersons realized there was something amiss here
and
just gave up on it. They might as well have put yellow and black stripy plastic tape across the door saying, ‘Ghostly occurrences within, do not cross line’, a bit like they do with crime scenes in police dramas. It must have been used as a bedroom at one point, because there’s a big double bed here, a wardrobe and a dresser, but there’re also piles of books scattered all over the floor and, bizarrely, some gym equipment over against the wall: a rowing machine and a cross trainer. (Not that I’d recognize one bit of gym gear from another, it’s just Charlene has a private gym in her house and used to let us play on the machines whenever we were all drunk enough and bored enough.)

Come on, concentrate, Cassie, really concentrate
. . .

There’s no doubt about it, I’m feeling a huge energy surge in the room. And it’s definitely got colder; there’s been a marked temperature drop; I’m shivering now and pull my cardigan closer to me for extra warmth.

Right then, to work.

I open my bag and fish about for some candles I brought with me. Only cheapie little tea lights, but they do the trick. I light four of them, place them carefully on the floor, one to the north, south, east and west and gently, slowly, sit down beside them.

Easy does it, Cassie, easy does it
.

I have to empty my mind and think only peaceful, loving thoughts . . .

There’s a loud tapping at the window pane and I look up. For a split second, I wonder if it’s just the wind blowing the branches of a tree against the window, but when I look outside, there’s nothing. No tree; not even a puff of wind. Thank God I don’t scare easily.

And then I get a flash. OK, stay very calm.

There’s a boy standing across the room from me, I can see him clear as you like over by the window, with a baseball bat in his little hand, hitting it against the glass, only he’s not strong enough to smash it. The poor kid can’t be any more than about six or seven, he’s blond and blue-eyed, wearing jeans with a Manchester United strip and a baseball cap. He looks angry and frustrated, and what’s more I’m pretty certain that he sees me too. He’s looking directly at me, unflinching, as if he’s trying to figure out whether I’m friend or foe. And I know, with absolute certainty, that he’s a little spirit that’s already passed on – only I don’t think he knows it yet. Oh God, I feel so sorry for him
.

Everything suddenly falls into place. I get the strongest feeling that this used to be
his
house, this was
his
room, except all his toys are gone and he doesn’t know why. He’s not being bold on purpose, he just doesn’t know what’s going on, who these new people are, where all his belongings are and, most importantly of all, where his mum is . . .

I know I have to try to make contact with him, but I’m nervous. I’m not frightened, it’s just that my gift has always been more channelled towards the living and I’m not quite sure what to do. He’s still looking at me.

Come on, Cassie, say something, anything
. . .

Now, it’s not that I’m completely useless at dealing with kids, it’s just that I don’t really know any. But I’ve no choice here, I’ll just have to give this a go without talking down to him or, even worse, being patronizing.

‘Hello,’ I say, smiling and deliberately keeping my voice low. ‘What’s your name?’

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even move. Just stares at me, as if he can’t believe that I can actually see him. I get the feeling no one has spoken to this little boy in a long, long time.

‘So you like Manchester United then?’ I say softly, gently.

A sullen nod.

‘Doesn’t David Beckham play for them?’ I know next to nothing about football either, apart from what I read in
Heat
magazine about the WAGs and all their fashion disasters. I just want to get him to trust me, that’s all.

He gives me a furious glare and kicks the dresser beside him, then wallops it with his baseball bat. A revolting china ornament perched precariously on top of it falls to the ground and smashes to smithereens.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I say, suddenly remembering. ‘He went to America, didn’t he?’

Another nod.

Thank God for the gossip magazines. I only knew that because I’d seen photos of Posh Spice coming out of the Vuitton shop on Rodeo Drive, the time she’d cut her hair and went bright blonde.

‘So, do you like . . . emm . . .’

Think, think, think, Cassie, come on, who do you remember reading about during the last World Cup?
Yes, got it. ‘Wayne Rooney?’

Bingo, jackpot. I’m rewarded with a huge grin. Oh, he’s adorable, this little boy; his two front teeth are missing and if you dressed him up in a cowboy outfit, he’d almost be a dead ringer for the Milky Bar Kid. He’s closer to me now, watching me intently and I feel I’m slowly gaining his confidence.

‘Were you in an accident?’ I ask. I’m not even sure where that came from; all I’m doing is following my gut.

He doesn’t say anything, just lifts up the Man U jersey and shows me a huge red scar on his little chest. An impact scar. Suddenly I think I know what happened to him. It was quick, it was sudden and it claimed more that one life – a woman, I’m seeing a young woman . . .

Oh my God, now it all fits.

‘Ooh, you poor pet, I’d say that hurt. Did you feel anything? When the other car hit you?’

He shakes his head and looks all brave, the way little boys do when they’re showing off a bit.

‘You know what I think?’ I ask as gently as I can.

He’s almost beside me now, looking directly at me, unflinching.

‘I think that your mummy misses you so much. There’s nothing she’d love more than to see you again.’

I don’t say anything for a bit, I just let that much sink in.

He’s staring straight ahead now, frowning, looking all serious.

Suddenly he turns back to me and I swear I can see his eyes welling up a bit. His little nose must be runny too because he wipes it against the back of his sleeve.

Then I go for it. ‘Would you like to see her? I could take you to her, but only if you want me to.’

I can see him thinking about it, but I’m pretty sure I know what the answer will be. He looks up at me and the hope in his eyes would almost break your heart. ‘You’ve been stuck here for ages, haven’t you?’ I ask and he nods. ‘And it must be getting kind of boring for you. Maybe it’s time to move on. Would you like that? I could help you, if you’d let me.’

He doesn’t react, but I take that as a good sign.

‘All you need to do is sit down here beside me and be
very
still and quiet for me. That’s all. I promise. Can you do that for me?’

He nods, and suddenly I feel an ice-cold sensation against my hand. I look down. Oh my God, he’s holding my hand. He’s actually holding my hand. He trusts me, he really trusts me and he wants my help.

OK, Cassie, you can’t let this poor little lost soul down now
.

‘Shh, shh.’ I half whisper to him. ‘It’s going to be fine.’ I close my eyes. I visualize a giant white staircase, with the spirits looking down, protecting this child from harm, willing and wanting him to come home.

‘In love and light,’ I murmur, ‘in love and light and without disturbing the eternal peace of those who have passed, I call on this child’s mother to help him into the light.’

The icy feeling on my hand gets colder and I look down to see that he’s gripping it tightly now.

‘Nothing scary.’ I smile back down at him, ‘Nothing to worry about. It’s just like when they go to sorcery class in
Harry Potter
, that’s all.’

He smiles that cute toothless grin. I think he knows he’s on his way home. And that’s when I start to get a sense of her. I can’t see her, but I feel that she’s beautiful, she’s young; she’s all dressed in white, with long fair hair and her arms outstretched, reaching out for her little boy who she hasn’t had a chance to cuddle in the
longest
time. ‘I think she’s there,’ I say to him. ‘Can you see her?’

He nods and stands up, ready to go, ready to move on, wanting his mum.

‘Go to her,’ I whisper, ‘pass through the light. That’s all you have to do. It won’t hurt, I promise you.’

Next thing, I feel that they’re together. I just feel it; she’s scooping him up in her arms and kissing the face off him and he’s beaming and crying at the same time. It’s as if neither of them can quite believe that this has happened, that they found each other again after all this time.

I wave and I feel that she’s smiling at me and, without even being aware that I’m crying, I feel tears start running down my cheeks.

Next thing, I almost jump out of my skin. I can feel an icy lump pressing against my chest like a hard cold rock.

I look down, not sure what’s happening. Oh my God. He’s hugging me. He came back to give me a hug.

OK, now I ask for a sign, some tiny sign just so I’m sure that poor troubled little soul has finally moved on and is now, finally, at peace. I need to know that this worked. I
have
to know.

I’m not quite sure how much time passes, but after a while, the same cat I’d seen earlier squeezes through the door and comes straight into the room, makes for
the
bed and curls up into a snug, tight little ball. I close my eyes, say a silent ‘thank you’ and blow out all the candles.

It’s just the weirdest thing. I pack up my bag, leave the room, and head back downstairs again. No, I’m definitely not imagining it, the whole atmosphere has changed. The place is warmer, mellower; where there was a cold, austere feel to this house, now it feels like a proper home again.

I hear voices laughing from the kitchen. Two women’s voices. Which is odd.

I tap gently on the door and Mrs Henderson says to come in. There’s another woman here, about the same age, sitting having a cup of tea at the kitchen table. I’m really happy to see it; I get a feeling that Mrs Henderson is a lady who hasn’t had female companionship in a very long time.

Oh, and ’Orrible Oliver’s here too, but then you can’t have everything, can you?