SPIRITUS SANKTUS
“I wish you were dead!”
“Well, I wish you were dead!”
Eric said it first and his wife copied him. It was so irritating when she mimicked him. She always did it. It was as if they were children.
“You don’t half get on my nerves.”
“And you get on mine!”
See?
It was dangerous to row while driving, but they rowed everywhere else so it didn’t seem to matter. Their neighbours winced, but they knew what she was like. Her temper. That love affair. Oh, why did he take her back? Because they were a good partnership, that’s why.
Yet here they were on their way to a seance, wishing each other dead. You have to laugh. Well, you might if you weren’t so flaming bloody-well stinking angry, so angry you’re full of it and if you didn’t scream you might explode and drive straight off the road.
“Aaaarrggghhh,” he screamed.
“Aaaarrggghhh,” screamed his wife and Eric thought, bloody hell she even copies my screams.
That was when he saw the oncoming lorry, lights ablaze, narrow road, tight bend and instinct told him instantly it was too big for his Vauxhall Corsa to argue with.
He swung the wheel to his left and the car tore through a hedge and bumped crazily down hill.
“Aaaaarrggghhh,” said his wife. She doesn’t half go on thought Eric.
He could see moonlight glistening on water below. A lake? A river? Hardly mattered because it might simply be wet, cold and deep when the car hit it any second. He had to bail out. “Jump,” he shouted, opening the door and tumbling out.
But Doris, his wife, didn’t hear or was concussed because she made not a move. She didn’t copy me, thought Eric. He saw the car bounce and bobble into a lake with enough momentum and slope under its wheels to seemingly drive itself further out into the water, before sinking with bubbles and a hiss of steam that disappeared into the cold night air.
“Bloody hell,” he said.
It had all happened so quickly, the argument, the screams, the lorry, the crash. Seconds, that’s all.
He sat up and knew he should rush into the water, smash a window to let the water in, wrest open the car door and drag his wife to safety.
Quickly.
But hang on, he thought, I’ll just see if she gets out herself first. No point in dashing about in a panic. Might do the wrong thing entirely. Best give her time to make her own way out.
Eric glanced behind him. At the top of the embankment the road was quiet and dark. No halted lorry, no lorry driver searching madly. Mustn’t have even seen us, he thought. Or scarpered.
By now the water showed no signs of ever having been invaded. Best give her another minute, Eric thought. He patted his pocket and found his mobile. Should call an ambulance. But there’s nothing wrong with me, he said to himself. He’d better check. He confirmed he was indeed, miraculously, all right. No obvious bumps or scratches. Hardly a mark on his clothes. Phew, he thought, that could have been nasty.
Not me, he scolded himself, check for Doris. Oh yes, Doris. Better get a fire engine too, something would have to drag the car out and he didn’t fancy paying for a tow truck. That would mean searchlights and the police, divers and onlookers.
Give her another few moments, eh?
He was generous with his timing, but eventually he knew he had to move.
“You left me Doris,” he said aloud laying the blame squarely where it belonged and listened for her riposte. Nope, nothing. Time to get going.
They’d been on their way to seance. That’s what they did, conduct seances and talk with the dead who wanted to talk to the living. Except you can’t, of course, but as long as people thought they could that was all that mattered.
“Is there anyone here called Mark?”
“Does the name Pauline mean anything to anyone.”
“I’m getting the name Valerie.”
Hocus-bloody-pocus
It never ceased to amaze Eric how people accepted he and Doris were able to talk to the dead in the first place and even if that was believable how they could accept that as soon as you died you forgot what your second name was.
No medium ever speculated on surnames. You daren’t. You had to work with John or Jennifer and eventually everyone would be convinced the hereafter was in the room with them.
It was the best job Eric had ever had. True, it was mostly evening work, but you weren’t outside in all weathers. Apart from tonight obviously. Usually you had plenty of free time during the day.
They were a partnership Mr and Mrs Medium: We’ll Bring Out Your Dead. Hell of a slogan, Eric thought, but Doris didn’t like it.
They were good but if he didn’t get a move on soon, phone a taxi or thumb a lift, he’d be late and Eric was a stickler for punctuality. Obviously Doris hadn’t made it and he’d just have to soldier on alone.
After five minutes there didn’t seem much point in wading in but he waited ten, just in case of air pockets or something and then he scrambled up the bank, taking a last look back. Nothing. Ahh, well.
“You’ve left me for good this time, Doris,” he reiterated. No one listened, no one replied.
A taxi picked him up at a pub just around the bend. He’d even had time for a quick one, just to restore his equilibrium. Good God, he needed it after he what he’d just been through. But wait. His neighbours. Tomorrow they’d want to know where she was.
He’d look distraught as he told them. “Another man. Again. Looks like she’s left me for good this time.”
It wasn’t the perfect crime because it wasn’t really a crime at all.
Now he was on his way to a solo career and at the hall there was a good crowd, which cheered him up greatly.
He explained his wife had been taken ill and tried to look preoccupied as if something else might be troubling him, which, fair enough, it was. That was a nice car and he’d only just filled the bloody tank.
His solo debut went well. With no-one to play off with nudges and codes, secret coughs and signs, he still managed to reunite a woman with her husband, ‘dead these two years’ and a younger woman with her mother who had conked out from a heart attack. She had cried she was so grateful. He was able to pass on a message from a granddad to his granddaughter and even reassured a tearful old man his Border Collie was waiting patiently for him, ball at his feet.
To round the evening off out came a ouija board and Eric felt so pleased with himself he agreed to lead a seance. A table was cleared, an upturned glass found and six of them, including Eric, each put a forefinger on its bottom. The room fell silent out of respect for the dead.
This was the easy bit for Eric, guiding the glass without appearing to do so. It worked every time and off it set, almost, he thought casually, as if it was possessed.
It made a dash for the first letter H, it glided swiftly to the E, then forwards to the L and then the P, and Eric realised its movement had nothing to do with him. His finger was just a passenger. H-E-L-P. There was a murmur around the table, the participants looked at each other. There was drama in the room. The glass was off again, this time to the I, then A and M.
I AM, but it was already gliding across the board to the next world. Eric couldn’t tell who was steering the glass, but it was such a subtle thing how would he know. T, then R back to the A and two Ps, a reverse to the E and the D. A short pause between words – almost as if it needed to catch its breath – and it was off once more at terrific speed and Eric felt an irrational rising fear in his chest as the glass spelled out HELP. I AM TRAPPED IN THE CAR IN THE LAKE. Utter silence, but no-one could take their tear eyes away or drag their finger off the glass. Not even Eric, who could feel sweat on his forehead and around his neck; fear rose and tightened in his chest. He tried to push the glass away from the letters he knew were coming next . But the glass had made up its mind,
Y-O-U L-E-F-T M-E E-R-I-C.
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