There’s no hiding from them. ‘That’s my daughter over there you know. She’s a lovely girl.’ The American accented voice faded and I saw something resembling an old shed, with hens scratching around in the dust. The scene vanished as the long line in the bank moved slowly forward. ‘You have to tell her I’m okay. She wasn’t there when I passed over.’ Another few steps forward and I could see a tall, slender woman with long blonde hair standing behind the glass partition. This was in the days before key card accounts, if you wanted your money you had to stand in line. Of course with nothing better to do, my mind wandered and the woman in spirit ambushed me. The voice became a touch strident and demanding and I said, ‘Look, I don’t walk up to people and say your dead Mum’s here you know.’ The hens became clearer, ‘What’s with the chickens?’ – ‘You’ll see, now please tell her, she’ll understand.’ My turn came and I leant on the counter, looked from the teller’s, very pleasant, smiling face to her nametag, Mary Chicken. The penny dropped, hens, chicken pens. I looked around at the three other lines and the people behind me, shrugged my shoulders and said, ‘Look, I don’t usually do this but while I was waiting a woman who said she’s your mother wanted me to tell you something.’ Her face brightened up and she said, ‘Well go on, what did she say?’ – ‘Well, that she’s okay and you weren’t there when she passed over.’ She struggled a little as she counted out my money, then pushed a pen and paper over to me, ”Give me your phone number, I’d love to see you and talk to my Mom.’ Maree came for her reading and to be honest I can’t recall what came through, only that I saw an awful lot of bank tellers over the following weeks.
I must have been a bad lad, because it’s said there’s no rest for the wicked. There’s no sense of time in the spirit world, Yes they know when to turn up but it’s before hand when there’s something important to say and they can’t wait. For example, in the shower. Shampooing away, yes I had enough hair to wash, and then a voice pops up, ‘She has to get her car checked. The front left brake is dodgy, you have to tell her.’ – ‘Tell who?’ – ‘My daughter Ally. She’s driving that heap of shit her boyfriend calls a car.’ I’m shown a green Holden sedan and say, ‘So how am I supposed to tell her? If you haven’t noticed I’m having a shower. Besides I don’t have an Ally in my book?’ – ‘You will.’ He disappears and an hour later the phone rings, ‘Hi, my name’s Ally and I’d like to make an appointment.’ – ‘Well don’t drive the Holden.’ – ‘Who said that?’ – ‘Your Dad I believe.’ At least she didn’t whinge when she turned up.
Fast asleep in bed and a hand rests on my foot. I move it and two Chihuahuas and a grey cat whinge and snort as I disturb them. Hmm, it’s not them. ‘Can you help me?’ For a moment I forget that I’m a psychic and let out a girly squee. A faintly luminous form shimmers at the end of the bed, ‘I’m lost, can you help me?’ – ‘Can you hang on, I need to pee?’ I didn’t before but I do now. I returned to bed and climbed under the covers, ‘Okay, what’s happened?’ A vivid image forms in my mind, I recognise London. There’s a red double decker bus, a 1950’s vintage, a crunch and my nocturnal visitor is sprawled dead on a wet street, ‘It’s been awhile, why are you here now?’ More imagery and a woman briefly appears then fades away, ‘I’m really lost, I saw your light and came here.’ Sitting up quietly not wanting to wake the wife, I sat on the edge of the bed. A brighter light begins to form up in the corner of the ceiling, it grows bigger as I watch. She’s still facing me, ‘Turn around and head for the light that’s in the corner.’ She turns and begins to fade away. I close my eyes and watch as the light brightens, there are others there, waiting. She vanishes, I felt a rush of warmth and love and the light is gone in an instant.
If you don’t want to know, don’t ask. This one works until you get THE question, ‘Does my bum look big in these jeans?’ I leave that one to the likes of Socrates and Plato to answer. I had to work with such questions as, ‘Is my husband cheating?’ A quick delve into the cards, then focus on hubby. A vision of him appears, giving some healthy chested lass a good seeing to in the back of his van. The client is a slender woman, ‘Err, well yes he his actually.’ She sits quietly fuming for a moment then gets stuck into me, “Why did you tell me that. My husband wouldn’t cheat on me. You’re lying, blah, blah, blah.’ Or this one. A woman of Middle Eastern appearance came for a reading. She’d been referred by Carly’s Mum and seemed quite eager to hear what I had to say. I’ll call her Sarah. We went through the usual routine and I said, ‘I can do a general reading or you can ask pertinent questions, it’s up to you.’ – ‘I want to know about my son, he’s five.’ I always felt uncomfortable looking into the lives of small children. If I saw something dubious or dangerous the parent often became upset and abusive.’ – I want to know.’ – ‘Look, I can go ahead about seven years. After that there are too many variables, free will comes into play.’ – ‘I don’t care, I want to know.’ I spent the reading going through the minutiae of her lad’s life. This took place in 1995 and I reached his 25th birthday in 2020.
A shimmering heatwave flowed upwards from the desert sand in the deep valley. A stripped down, brown Land Rover rattled along the flint strewn road that wound down from the mountains. Two men sat in the front and one, Sarah’s son stood in the back hanging onto a swivel mounted .50 calibre Browning machine gun. A feeling of great conflict came to me, the valley clouded over and the shimmer turned black. Nothing. I felt quite sick, the thought of another war in the Middle East depressed me. Gathering my thoughts I told her what I saw, emphasising that I didn’t see anything happening to him, that 20 years was a long time. She stood up and screamed, ‘How dare you tell me my son is going to die, he’s my son and you tell me this. What are you, why do you do this?’ I couldn’t reason with her. The thought that he might die became too much for her. She refused to pay and stormed out. I didn’t tell her that he wasn’t fighting for Australia. If you don’t want to know, please don’t ask.
The unexpected death. Michael came to see me the day after he flew down from Cairns, in North Queensland. He’d been referred by a satisfied customer, not that it ever seemed to make much difference, and seemed eager to get started. Sitting back in his chair he soaked up everything I had to say. There wasn’t anything outstanding about his reading, all seemed well in his life and near future. I sat back and a man appeared next to him. A large, robust, round faced happy man. ‘I’m really dead you know.’ – ‘I think you are. So, I take it Michael is your grandson?’ – ‘Yes, he saw me a couple of days ago in Cairns.’ Sitting up straight I said to Michael, ‘I have a large man in spirit for you, he says he’s your grandad.’ – ‘What? Bullshit I saw him the other day. No Mate you’re wrong, he’s alive.’ Grandad gave me some information only Michael would know and I passed it on. ‘Nope you’re reading my mind.’ – ‘Go out to the kitchen and ring home, they’ll tell you.’ He returned five minutes later, ‘Shit, he’s dead. They found him a couple of hours ago. Mum just found out.’ I gave myself a mental high five.
The Missing Professor. I’d never done a reading for a university professor before, didn’t really expect to neither. He rang me after being recommended by Rory, the first thing he assured me of was, ‘I’m not gay.’ It didn’t matter to me. The man was a pleasure to read for. he listened, wrote notes and asked pertinent questions. His main one being, ‘Will my book be published?’ After some in depth looking around in his aura it came to me that writing was one of his main reasons for being. I gave him some information on his upcoming holidays overseas and voiced my concern about his health, especially his stress levels, ‘I’m fine, fit as a bull.’ Well he certainly looked it but there seemed to be something amiss with his mental state, ‘It’s only stress,’ he assured me, ‘I told you, I’m fit.’
A few weeks later he popped back with a copy of his book for me and he brought a new client. I looked at him and said, ‘You’re the bloke on that TV current affairs show.’ He nodded and sat down, looking a little uncomfortable he said, ‘You won’t tell anyone else I’m here, will you?’ – “No Steve, you’re fine here.’ He wasn’t hard to miss, with his chiselled good looks, tanned skin and thick black hair. The professor left us to it and waited in the lounge. I dealt the cards and away we went. What a happy, well balanced individual. After reading his family I went straight into his career. I began getting quite lucid visions of events to come around the Brisbane area, At first they appeared to be about him, then I realised I was seeing news stories to come. He took copious notes in shorthand and I managed to read him for the following 10 years. We had afternoon tea, a good talk about world affairs and away they went.
A few months later Steve rang and made another appointment, ‘Look Laurie, it’s about the Professor. He’s still overseas and nobody has heard from him since he left.’ I had that afternoon free and Steve turned up right on time. No cuppa this time, straight down to the room. We settled in and I sat back and began taking deep breaths, slowed them down and went into a meditative state. Keeping an image of the Professor in my mind’s eye I began.
Voices echoed down long corridors. Cold, harshly lit corridors that seemed to stretch forever. I wandered along looking from side to side. Heavy wooden doors with thick glass windows in them appeared and faded away. The voices were high pitched, vibrant with terror and frustration. My arms were folded in front of me, they felt restricted and I pulled to get them in front of me. Nothing. A room materialised around me, three large men stood around the Professor. My bonds fell away and I could see him strapped into a straight jacket. Head back, mouth wide open he screamed long and loud. Spittle hung from his scraggly beard and the muscles in his neck strained, ready to split. He looked in my direction and his eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets. I opened my eyes and slowly rubbed my face, Steve sat forward and asked, ‘Well, did you find him?’ – ‘I think so, he’s still overseas and alive.’ Steve sat back and hung his head for a moment, ‘So where is he?’ – ‘Hang on.’ Closing my eyes I returned to the corridor, thankfully the screaming had stopped. Letting the mind roam I picked up a tune, it was an ABBA song, Dancing Queen. ‘He’s in Sweden.’
I heard from Steve the following week. They’d found the Prof, alive and not so well in a Swedish mental hospital. He’d suffered a total mental breakdown, apparently he’d been plagued by nervous breakdowns from when he was a young university student. The professor never fully recovered and I lost track of Steve after he switched to another TV channel.
Next week: Let’s take a look at healing.