A Night Out With Clair

This was the first time Cliff had attended an evening of clairvoyance. He was nervous. He didn’t know whether to believe they were real or a load of rubbish.

Many of his friends thought they were rubbish. A complete con for some. An evening when a self-appointed so-called ‘medium’ would ask a bunch of random, general questions to a gullible, susceptible audience, illicit a few noncommittal answers and wring them out until they made a realistic story. Handled the right way a skilled spirit-talker could go from “is the colour green significant?” to “Uncle Arthur says he’s happy where he is and loves his new grandchild” in ten minutes flat.

Cliff wondered if Madame Challac was one of those, or if she really had ‘the gift’. How did you find out you had the gift, he wondered? Did you suddenly start seeing ghosts or have spirits harassing you until, for some reason, you thought the best thing to do would be to stand up in front of a random audience and see if you could match anyone up?

As he and the rest of the audience filed in, a quiet, hushed atmosphere was already pervading the community hall. Cliff took a moment to look over the audience to see if there was anyone he knew. If there was, and depending who it was, he might have to reconsider his presence. There were certain people he’d really rather not know that he was here.

“You alright?” asked Marc, taking the wooden chair next to Cliff.

“Think so,” said Cliff.

“Relax,” said Marc. “If something’s going to happen it’s going to happen.”

Marc was non-judgemental. He believed in these ‘meet-ups’ but wasn’t evangelical about them. He’d been looking after Cliff since the accident. Cliff wouldn’t call him a close friend, but he was reliable and reassuring. He seemed to know exactly what Cliff needed and when he needed it, guiding him through the initial period of shock and loss through to acceptance and finding the reason to go on. 

“She probably won’t turn up,” said Cliff. “She didn’t believe in life after death or anything so…”

“Well, you never know,” said Marc, with a smirk. “She might think differently now.”

There were footsteps from the back of the hall and what was left of the audience hubbub dwindled to silence as Madame Challac walked with as much presence as she could, down the central aisle.

She was exactly what Cliff was expecting. Dressed in flowing thin, multi-layered material, sheer scarves tied around her waist and one wrist, she inhabited a swaying, constant almost cloud-like motion. A paisley scarf wound around her head, allowed for long unruly curls of red hair to emerge and cascade over her shoulders. Perhaps she was wearing a little too much make-up, but it did not conceal her advanced years.

“She’s very good,” whispered Marc. “Really successful. You know how much she’s worth?”

Madame Challac reached the front of the hall and turned.

“I am so pleased to see each and every one of you tonight,” she said. “The spirits are already with us, and some of them are ready to speak.”

She closed her eyes briefly, opened them and said “I’m sensing a pair of black patent leather shoes…”

Cliff couldn’t contain himself: “Oh for God’s sake!” he blurted out.

Madame Challac alone looked over at him. 

“Some spirits are more ready to talk than others,” she said with a wry smile.

Marc reached out and held Cliff’s hand reassuringly. This was Cliff’s first seance. And Cliff was dead.

As the evening progressed Cliff’s skepticism began to soften. The leather shoes didn’t materialise - of course - and no one came to see Marc, but he didn’t mind. He was too old for that sort of thing, he said, and he was only here for the stories. It was fantastic entertainment, he thought, and a great way to get up to date with what people were up to and cared about.

Among those who did turn up were two sets of grandparents imparting wisdom, a lost hiker explaining where he’d lost his footing and three dogs, who Madame Challac seemed able to understand through a one bark for yes, two for no system.

She was a rather caring old thing. Always in control, fielding questions from the living, telling the dead when to slow down with the information they were desperate to impart. Cliff appreciated the skill she used in conducting the proceedings, preventing everyone from talking at once, especially as some of them couldn’t see or hear the others.

But interesting as this was, Cliff resigned himself to the idea that the evening would not bring the reunion for which he was hoping. As he’d said to Marc earlier, neither he nor his girlfriend believed in spiritually, they’d never discussed it, and so the assumption was there was no life after death. So why would she try and find him again?

“You gotta wait til the end,” said Marc. “That’s when the really interesting ones happen - the people who have been afraid to speak out. Then you really find out what’s really been going on.”

Cliff wasn’t convinced and was about to get up and leave when he saw her. Just a glimpse at first - between the shoulders of two others, back turned, but that body language was familiar. The way she always held herself.

He got up to get a better view and Madame Challac noted his movement. On his feet he could see her. And it was her. She had changed - radical new haircut, different clothes - all an acceptable sign of moving on, thought Cliff. 

“Is there anybody there?” asked Madame Challac, and it was only when she repeated the phrase that Cliff realised she was speaking to him. “Is there anybody there you want to talk to?”

“Yes,” said Cliff. “Yes, there is.”

“You know the drill,” said Marc. “Nothing direct - it’ll freak them out. Be general and then get specific. Find out if they want to talk to you too.”

“I’m getting a middle aged man,” began Madame Challac, and then off Cliff’s frown: “Maybe late twenties early thirties. Brown hair, clean shaven. I think he was involved in an accident.”

Cliff looked down. Yes, the accident. A large wound in his side, blood soaking through his jumper. Had he realised the rules about dying he would have been more careful. He didn’t like going round looking like this for all eternity.

“Tell her the first letter of your name,” nudged Marc.

“C,” said Cliff. 

“I’m getting a ‘C’,” repeated Madame Challac. “‘C’ and an accident, anybody?”

Cliff looked expectantly over at the woman he’d spotted. She was shifting nervously in her seat. 

“Her name’s Anne,” he said.

“And now I’m getting an ‘A’,” said Madame Challac. “‘C’,’A’ and an accident.”

Cautiously the woman raised her hand. It was her. He was right. He sighed and Marc placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t move,” he said. “Stay focussed. Enjoy the moment.”

Madame Challac crossed to be next to Anne. It was a tactic intended to give reassurance. Whatever was about to happen would be OK. She was still on the side of the living. Either that or it meant Madame Challac could read her body language more easily.

The medium and Anne exchange pleasantries - nothing too revealing, just that she’d come here today alone, she didn’t know why because she didn’t believe in this kind of thing. Yes she knew someone who had had an accident and yes his name started with the letter ‘C’. 

“Cliff,” she said, “His name is Cliff.”

Cliff nodded at the medium and they carried on.

“I’m imagining you miss Cliff very much,” said Madame Challac, “and he wants you to know he’s safe and well.”

“Apart from being dead,” muttered Cliff.

“And he wants you to be happy,” she added.

“Did I say that?” asked Cliff.

“She’s not going to say you’re in pain and annoyed is she?” said Marc.

Cliff took the point. 

Madame Challac and Anne were discussing the relationship she’d had with Cliff. The ups and downs they’d had - like a lot of couples - but how, ultimately, she loved him. Had always loved him and still loved him.

“Yeah, but she did kill me,” said Cliff, dully. “I know it looked like an accident and everything, but it was her.”

Madame Challac glanced up at Cliff, a look of concern on her face. Cliff saw this.

“It’s OK,” he said. “I deserved it.”

Marc removed his hand from Cliff’s shoulder. “Deserved it?”

“I made some bad decisions OK? It happens. We all make mistakes.”

“What kind of mistakes?” asked Marc, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I was unfaithful,” admitted Cliff. “Couple of times. I was bored, uncertain, thought she was having an affair - she was certainly having more fun than I was.”

“Is he saying anything?” asked Anne.

Madame Challac paused. “I’m just seeing,” she said.

“I’m not afraid of her knowing,” said Cliff. “I mean, she probably knew about the unfaithfulness and everything. Did she know?”

Madame Challac still paused. 

“What’s he saying?” asked Anne.

“He wants to know if you’re happy now,” said Madame Challac. “Are you happy? He likes your new hair style!”

Madame Challac smiled warmly and received a glow from Anne in response.

“Easy to tell that’s new,” commented Marc. “Dyed and she’s clearly not used to the length. You see how she’s fiddling with it?”

“Did she know I was having an affair?” persisted Cliff. “Is that why she killed me? Or was it - was it just me?”

“I do have a question for him,” ventured Anne suddenly, and Madame Challac welcomed the intervention a little too enthusiastically.

“Yes, yes!” she exclaimed, “What would you like to ask?”

“Where is our… special thing?”

Marc looked at Cliff and raised his eyebrows. Madame Challac looked at Cliff and raised her eyebrows. For a moment it felt like the whole room was looking at Cliff - although most of them couldn’t see him. Cliff looked confused.

“I… I.. what?”

“He’s not certain,” said Madam Challac. “Perhaps a little more detail? A letter..?”

“‘M’”, said Anne firmly. “The M.”

Cliff wracked his brain but still couldn’t work it out.

“We did a thing,” said Anne, carefully, “And we got the M. And he put it somewhere. Somewhere safe. He didn’t tell me where, so I’m wondering…”

Cliff sighed. After all this. After everything he’d been through. The planning, the panic, the pain. It still came down to this.

“She’s after the money,” he said. “Is that why she’s here?”

“Is this special thing the reason you came here?” asked Madame Challac.

Anne nodded. A gasp and sigh echoed around the hall. Cliff realised their audience thought this was the conclusion to a fairytale love story. Two people came together, they were in love, they endured everything life could throw at them, one died in an accident and yet still there existed a bond between them - encapsulated in this thing that began with the letter M. Probably a mirror, they thought. Something like that. Mirrors could be valuable and you could both look into it at once which was romantic. A heart shaped mirror. Or perhaps some music that they shared. 

What, he wondered, would they think if they knew it was plain old money? Not just plain old money either but money they’d swindled out of their elderly next-door neighbour. Five grand kept under his mattress. A simple and dreadful con, initiated purely because they wanted to go on holiday somewhere. But then they couldn’t decide where. And then the argument escalated because he accused her of wanting to go away without him - with her friends or maybe with her lover. And then they forgot entirely that the money had come from the now penniless OAP next door and instead laid into each other with full physical force in the kitchen.

And he’d grabbed the knife first but her foot was behind his, tilting him off balance at speed and landing him between the high stools and on the knife. 

“It’s an accident,” he said, “don’t worry I’ll tell them it was an accident.”

“No,” she said. “I will.”

And she twisted the knife deeper into his body.

“Where did you put it?” asked Madame Challac, calmly.

“Grange Parkway Railway station,” said Cliff. “Locker 549.”

”Is that it?” asked Madame Challac, sensing it wasn't.

“She needs the code,” said Cliff. “The code’s her birthday."

Madame Challac nodded sagely and pursed her lips.

She turned to Anne. “He says he doesn’t know where it is.”

Cliff was dumfounded. 

“He knows it is in a very special place,” continued Madame Challac.“But that place has… slipped from his mind.”

“No it hasn’t!” exclaimed Cliff.

“He says you have to keep all the special things inside your heart.”

There was another rewarding round-the-hall sigh.

“And he says there’ll be a surprise for you on a special day - perhaps your birthday - is that long to wait?”

“Exactly a month,” said Anne, a little bemused.

“He said it was a special one..?”

“Is 27 special?”

“It seems to be for him,” Madame Challac turned on her heel and started to make her way back to the front of the hall.

“That’s all we have time for now…”

“I told you she was good,” said Marc. Cliff was about to reply when there came an unearthly scream from Anne.

“No!” she screamed. “No! He must know where it is!”

She started looking around the room madly, staring into space, willing Cliff to materialise before her.

“He can’t just do that! He can’t drag me through this and leave me with nothing!”

Madame Challac turned gently, raising both hands as if to bless and bring calm. “My child, the spirits bring what they can. We cannot insist…“

She got no further as Anne flew at the only target she had left. She barrelled into Madame Challac, sending the two of them spinning across the wooden parquet floor, smashing into and expertly folding several chairs as they did.

“Get her off me!” screamed Madame Challac, but her audience were so stunned by this sudden change in events, so shaken from their stupor of romantic conclusions that they were rooted.

Cliff watched. Then grinned. Then laughed. 

“She’s, um, spirited,” observed Marc.

“Atta girl,” said Cliff. “We were made for each other.”

“Reckon she’d fare well against a couple of lions at the Colosseum,” Marc added.

Cliff looked at his friend. Marc was a Roman Gladiator who’d died around 200AD. Being with him had its moments.

Two bouncers appeared having trawled their way calmly from the back of the hall. Cliff hadn’t noticed them before, they were used to blending in - and perhaps also to intervening when spirits got high.

They each took an arm and dragged Anne from her quarry. She spat and screamed and railed at Madame Challac, calling her a fake, a liar, a charlatan. As she left, the remaining crowd gravitated towards the medium, projecting warmth, thanks, and sympathy for coping with people who just didn’t get it. Madame Challac thanked them all for their support and reset her scarves.

“Come on,” said Marc to Cliff. “Time to go.”

The duo made their way toward the door, moving against the tide. 

Cliff noticed a man coming into the hall as they were leaving. “Am I too late?” he asked.

Looking down, Cliff saw he was wearing black patent leather shoes.

It was the last thing he did see as he and Marc dematerialised.