Beyond a Shadow of a Doubt

‘My word everybody, there’s a special energy in here tonight.'

Simon heard himself say the words. In reality, he was entirely focussed on channelling his wince-inducing boredom into a middle-distance stare that just happened to fall on the clock. He appeared to be tuning into eternity, rather than counting every second. Ten down. Five thousand, three hundred and ninety to go.

Once more, with feeling. Come on, Simon.

‘Those of you who know me will have heard this before,’ he began. ‘But, as ever, our ability to connect with the beyond depends on us all tonight.’

He extended his hands to the small group, seated in rows, then to the empty perimeter of the room - his studiously bland suit crackling with static.

‘We must welcome them, call them forth, make a haven in which they feel they can settle. They depend on our energy -’ on the word energy he moved his hands in quick circles, ‘- and our welcome. Envisage them now, please, I entreat you to put your hands on your heart, and as I begin the welcoming ceremony, speak to those you hope to hear from tonight. If you feel comfortable.’

Simon paced around his roughly twenty participants, lighting candles as he went. The ceremonial room could easily have seated ten times that, but Simon’s bank account preferred to accommodate a series of intimate sessions. To the Luminous Path high priests, he’d spoken softly of the need to tend individually to their flock, yes it would be necessary to book in a further three weekly sessions to meet demand, and yes he’d have to move his schedule around, but for Luminous Path, he could make it work…

The room was circular, with a domed, glass ceiling, and above an expanse of stars. Astrological symbols ran round its vaulted rim. On one side of the inner sanctum stood a stage with an altar, although Simon and his group were on a level, in the centre. Large archways ran round the diameter, bedecked with heavy purple curtains, surrounded by an ambulatory. The lights were dimmed.

As he paced, there were murmurings from the participants, mostly at the point in their lives where they looked on middle age with fondness. Simon prided himself on being in better shape than most of his attendees, though that assumption could be under review, what with the repeat blood test - fingers crossed - and those bloody floaters on the periphery of his vision, which the optician had the audacity to call ‘perfectly normal for your age’.

Some here tonight were regulars, some were new. A man worrying a pearl on a chain. A woman murmuring, Deirdre, welcome, Deirdre, welcome. Two in pastels, hands linked, calling softly for their mother.

Simon stood before them. He folded his hands, gaze lowered.

‘They are arriving,’ he said, with solemnity. ‘The first are among us. Welcome, spirits, to our gathering. We are honoured that you are amongst us. I invite any of you who wish to connect with those in the room to come forward.’

He again stared into the distance. Five thousand one hundred and counting.

‘I’m seeing a woman,’ he said, at last, giving each pause the shape of thought. ‘She’s… middle aged, with - are those braids?’

A stir from the second row: the woman who had been calling for Deirdre straightened.

‘I’m hearing, I think it’s… Deirdre? Is that correct?’

The woman nodded keenly, her eyes widening.

‘And you are…?’

‘Micha,’ she replied.

‘Micha - I’m seeing Deirdre with a smile on her face. She’s near to you now. She meant a great deal to you, is that correct?’

‘A close friend,’ said Micha.

‘And I fear Deirdre was lost too soon.’

She nodded.

‘An illness?’

Another nod.

‘Quite suddenly, I get the impression,’ said Simon.

‘It was,’ said Micha, her voice catching.

‘She says Micha, I am at peace now.’

Micha wiped away a tear. She was still looking at Simon expectantly.

‘She left something unfinished,’ he said.

Nothing.

‘Something left behind. Children?’

‘Yes,’ said Micha. ‘They live with me now.’

‘Of course,’ said Simon. ‘That’s it. That fits. She wants to say that she thinks you’re doing a wonderful job. Through all the ups and downs.’

Micha took out a tissue and dabbed at her eye. Simon turned slightly, scanning the room.

‘I’m getting someone stepping forward now - another parent…’

Too broad. Too much shuffling to hone in on.

‘Parent of more than one child. A woman. Name begins with… I think it’s a soft sound. S, F, V…’

The two women in pastels raised their hands.

‘That’s you?’ he asked. ‘I’m getting Ssss-’

No reaction.

‘- ffffffff,’ and at this their hands locked more tightly together. ‘Fffffrances?’

Nothing.

‘Fiona?’

Still nothing.

‘Faith?’

One of the women - presumably sisters - gasped. ‘That’s her! Oh!’

‘What a wonderful woman,’ said Simon. ‘She had some troubles at the end, didn’t she?’

He ran his hand from his head downwards, watching them closely.

‘Perhaps - was it dementia?’ he asked.

‘That’s it,’ one of the sisters said.

Almost always was.

‘You cared for her, didn’t you?’ said Simon. ‘All is clear now, for her, on the other side. She is restored to who she was before the dementia. She says you mustn’t worry about her. And she says thank you.’

At this one of the sisters broke down, and the other rubbed slow circles on her back.

Simon ushered the evening along. The man with the pearl gave him a stumble: Simon guessed the necklace was for a wife now gone, only to learn she was very much alive and, apparently, at home watching a quiz show. He turned it neatly - said a friend of hers was reaching out, something about gratitude, long friendship, yadda yadda.

By the time the five-thousandth second ticked past, Simon was happy to have reached his tear quota. Job done, spirits ritually dismissed, punters packed off to the car park. If only he really could have a chat with the beyond - god that would make for a bearable evening.

He was exiting through the gift shop, when he heard quick steps behind him, and the sharp, breathy call of his name.

‘Simon!’

‘Jared!’ he called. The man had such little decorum for a high priest.

‘Thought I’d missed you,’ he panted, then hesitant - ‘See any familiar faces tonight?’ he asked.

‘We had Rita,’ he said, ‘Clare, Anders, the usual -’

‘No no,’ Jared interrupted. ‘I mean in the spirits.’

‘I’m not expecting any special visitations,’ he said. ‘Should I be?’

Jared flapped his hands around, suddenly not sure where to put them.

‘I didn’t know if you’d heard,’ he said. ‘Darren Reid's died. One of my contacts at the shelter told me.’

Simon didn’t blink.

‘So,’ he said. ‘His struggles have ended. No, I didn’t sense him amongst the presences here tonight. After we parted ways, I never had much to do with him. I expect he’ll keep to that in death. Still, I’ll stay open to the possibility he may wish to make contact. Thank you for passing on the news, Jared.’

The priest’s shoulders loosened. Simon patted him on the arm and, until he had turned away, managed to contain his grin. The extra seconds on the premises had been worth it.

* * *

Simon’s mouth tasted like a bin, machinery from hell pounded behind his eyes, and the floaters in his periphery seemed to have multiplied at the rate of bacteria. After getting home the previous night, he’d gone straight to the cabinet - pulling out the twenty year-old Laphroaig. Usually savoured in precious sips, he poured himself a full tumbler, toasted in the mirror, and began to gulp the thing like he’d been a week in the desert.

Darren was dead.

He hadn’t known how much weight the man had been pressing against his chest until it lifted. He’d been thinking of getting out of the game, but now he was thinking about new horizons. Theatres. Paranormal Productions. @simon_soanes_medium could really take off. Before collapsing into bed, he’d fired off forty emails to producers, booking agents, anyone who might bite. Goodbye, crystal healers and tree huggers!

He was back at Luminous Path this evening. Tonight, they were going to get a session like the old days. He had the gift all right - he could tell them what their mum was up to on the nineteenth of April, nineteen-seventy-five, then hit them with the emotional gut punch. Maybe even lean a little into prophecy. Darren had always been wary of that side of things, but who was he to do anything now?

He’d been on the ropes for a long time, in any case. Simon didn’t know exactly what the problems were, he only ever heard occasional updates from Mandi, but it sounded like the same old story. Humans move in predictable ways. Depression, disconnect, drink, drugs. He’d lost everything a long time ago; Simon was amazed he’d made it this long.

Before the group came in, Simon lit a patchouli candle. Hadn’t bothered with these frills for years.

He said his spiel, lit the candles, didn’t even look at the clock when he told the group there was a special energy about that night. Bowed his head, summoned the spirits - god those hangover floaters were bloody persistent - as he looked up, he saw Jared crossing an archway to his right. Looked over - couldn’t see a soul.

‘Who’s there?’ he asked.

No reply - his unease had worked its way into the participants, who started rubbernecking. Easy enough to recover. Work it into the act.

‘The spirits are prompt, tonight,’ he said, opening his palms. ‘And now they join us.’

It steadied him. He convinced himself; he convinced them. And what a show he put on. Every blink, every cough, every tremor in the voice: data. He built each contact from fragments of assumptions, probabilities, manipulation. A husband. A child. A neighbour. One woman, Patricia, wept when he proclaimed that her husband forgave her for not being there when he died. A lucky guess, refined by her face. Then the detail - the cufflinks she was seeking, she could find near the wardrobe. ‘I’ve been looking for those for months,’ she said. The room breathed with her disbelief. He gave her the line he always used. ‘I’m only repeating what they tell me.’

The hangover was starting to outperform him by the time he was leaving. He snuffed out the candles and headed to the gift shop, waving goodbye to Jared.

‘Was that you, sneaking around in the corridor earlier?’

Jared looked nonplussed.

‘I’ve been out here,’ he said. ‘Just you lot in tonight.’

‘You missed a good one.’

‘Sorry to hear it,’ he said. ‘I’ll catch you next week.’

Simon left him among the crystals and pamphlets. He was too tired to drive carefully, too tired even to think about brushing his teeth. Shoes off, lights out, flop down on the sheets.

His sleep was whisky-soaked and restless. In his dreams, Darren kept appearing - not straight on, but in corners. A bundle of rags in a doorway. A face reflected in a bus window. Each time Simon turned, he was gone.

He woke up almost as tired as he went to sleep and with the pressing sense that rather than being dead, Darren was more alive than he had been in years. Instead of yesterday’s freedom, he felt like he’d just been sent down for life. Probably the stages of grief or something - to be fair to himself, he’d only just heard that the guy was dead.

He pressed a coffee pod into the machine, waited for the water to heat. Come to think of it, he’d only heard about the whole thing second-hand from Jared. He couldn’t know. No wonder he was having doubts. The whole thing’d probably be easier to process if he was one hundred per cent…

He picked up his phone. Mandi didn’t answer the first two calls. The third she answered with a sigh.

‘What is it, Simon? Latest squeeze bin you off?’

‘As ever, your usual gentleness of touch.’

‘I’ve given you enough of that to last the whole of this life and the next. How can I get you to piss off?’

‘It’s a serious one, Mand,’ said Simon. ‘It’s about Darren. You heard the news?’

There was a pause.

‘Dead?’ asked Mandi.

‘You hadn’t heard.’

‘Only a matter of time, though, poor bugger,’ she said.

‘No one from the shelter mentioned it? The hospital?’

Another pause - not like Mandi to be lost for words.

‘I’d cut him off,’ she said. ‘Look I’m not proud, but he only ever wanted handouts. I said to him - right, Darren, I feel bad about what me and Si did but I’ve long since paid my dues. Marriages end. I can’t keep propping you up. Haven’t heard nothing since.’

‘You did what you had to,’ said Simon. ‘He would’ve known -’

‘- oh, don’t work your shit with me,’ she said, and hung up the phone.

Charming. A far cry from the woman he’d had clandestine encounters with during the Simon Sloane and Darren Reid pub tour. He’d bargained on at least the dregs of some good will. No Mandi, no bookings, no messages. Simon felt surrounded by empty space.

Next logical step, then. Check with the shelter.

There he was, on the number eighty-seven bus, sitting between the guy taking his ferret for a walk, and a woman chatting to a corn on the cob, and maybe he was the maddest one of all. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. The dreams would fade. The guilt would fade.

But if he could just find out for sure.

Somewhere along the high street, he felt breath at the back of his neck. His hand went up; no one there. Empty seats. He needed to pull himself together.

The shelter was a converted apartment block downtown. The keypad on the secure entrance was smeared with something unidentifiable but unavoidable. He grimaced and pressed call.

Sitting in the reception was a pale-faced young woman who looked both malnourished and absolutely like she could punch his lights out.

‘Yeah?’ she said.

‘Afternoon,’ he said. ‘I wanted to ask about a fella who stayed here a lot. Darren Reid. Do you know him?’

‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Probation officer?’

‘No,’ said Simon. ‘I’m his brother.’

She narrowed her eyes.

‘No you’re not.’

Simon looked at her phone on the desk, where there was a word game still displayed on the screen.

‘All right, you’ve sussed me out,’ he said. ‘Brother-in-law. Estranged. And as family,’ he added, ‘I need to confirm something from someone in the know. Has he … passed away?’

She picked up her phone, and slapped a leaflet on the desk.

‘Can’t tell you, don’t know. You need the General Register Office.’ She jabbed the leaflet. ‘Give it a week from the death and they’ll have the info.’

Simon heard a laugh echoing down the staircase. He turned his head.

‘Did you hear that?’ he asked.

‘Door’s open,’ said the receptionist. ‘See ya.’

* * *

Bloody data protection. The man’s dead. What’s left to protect?

Hospital, crematorium, registry office - the whole bureaucratic priesthood of the unhelpful. Each one polite, firm, refusing the smallest scrap of confirmation.

The hangover had entered its second life. A little shaking in the fingertips. Only one cure. He ordered a pizza and delved back into the drinks cabinet. Jameson’s this time - a nerve settler, not a celebration.

He grabbed the TV remote, but something stopped him turning it on.

He glanced over his shoulder. He listened into the silence. Nothing. No one.

‘Darren?’ he found himself saying.

A curtain twitched - he swung around. Still nothing. He began moving through the flat, a space ragged and unceremonious in comparison with the controlled calm of the inner sanctum. He crouched under sofas, leaned over cabinets, shuffled through stacks of paper, silently cursing that he’d never bothered to organise anything. He ransacked every room, as if a pile of old CDs could be hiding a fully grown man. By the time he’d finished, the place looked like a raided archive.

He picked up a knife.

‘Listen,’ he said, slowly circling, checking every corner. ‘I can't believe I'm talking to the dead, if you are even dead. I know I did the dirty on you, all right? Why did you think I never wanted to talk about it?’

His voice seemed to rebound in the space, come back at him, stupefy him.

‘You didn't miss out on anything, anyway. Look at what's happened to Mand. And Soanes-Reid? Soanes solo never got more than three hundred at the Cleethorpes Art Centre -’

A flicker caught his eye - a small, elastic movement, there and gone.

‘Just come out, will you?’ he shouted, gripping the knife. ‘Don't be in the sidelines all your life and death. If you're going to haunt me, you bastard, do it properly!’

Outside, a pizza delivery man parked up in the driveway. He rang the doorbell once - no answer. Rang again - no answer. From within, a muffled noise - a thud, a shout, maybe just someone running to the door? He craned towards the window, peering through the gauze of the net curtains. The room beyond looked empty. Although perhaps - was it? Just for a second, and it was so fleeting, it could have been a trick of the light, it looked as though the shadow of a man slipped by the window pane, and out of view.