Eloise Read online

  ‘I’ll call tonight,’ I assured Michelle. ‘And today I’ll do some research. In the library, at lunchtime. I’ll find out what I can about séances.’

  Which was quite a lot, in the end. While Michelle struggled with a very slow internet server, trying to connect with various paranormal web pages, I looked up ‘séance’ in everything that I could find. The most useful source was a two-volume set called The Encyclopaedia of the Paranormal.

  I got five pages of notes out of that book.

  ‘Okay,’ I declared, upon rejoining Michelle (who was still waiting on a download). ‘First of all, Peter was right. The definition of a séance is “a sitting organised for the purpose of receiving spirit communications or paranormal manifestations via the services of a medium”.’

  ‘Via what?’ said Michelle.

  ‘Via the services of a medium.’ I checked my notes. ‘A medium is someone who can see and talk with the dead, and even allow his or her body to be taken over by disembodied spirits.’

  ‘Eugh.’ Michelle made a face. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

  I shrugged as Bettina drifted over to us. She had been shelving books for me. ‘It mightn’t be so bad,’ I said. ‘Delora Starburn let Eglantine take over her body when she wrote down the end of Eglantine’s book. I didn’t actually see it happen, but it can’t have been as bad as it sounds.’

  ‘So Delora is a medium?’ Michelle asked.

  ‘I guess so.’ On reflection, she probably was. ‘None of us are, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And we can’t hold a séance without a medium?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably not.’

  ‘Bum,’ said Michelle.

  Bettina, frowning, inquired what the matter was.

  ‘Oh, we need someone special if we want to hold a séance,’ I explained. ‘Someone like my friend Delora. A psychic.’

  ‘Can you talk to her?’ Bettina entreated. ‘See if she can help us?’

  ‘Yeah. I guess so.’

  ‘What else did you find out?’ Michelle demanded.

  I gave her a quick rundown. With any ‘sitting’, I had discovered, there should be no more than eight ‘sitters’. Younger sitters seemed to exude a ‘more favourable psychic attraction’ than older ones …

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Michelle.

  ‘… but places steeped in colourful history make better locations for any séance,’ I finished in a glum voice. ‘I don’t know anywhere around here with a “colourful history”, do you? Except the Hyde Park Barracks. Convicts used to sleep in there.’ We had visited the barracks on a school excursion. ‘Trouble is, I don’t think they’d let us hold a séance in a museum.’

  ‘No, no,’ Bettina interrupted. ‘We want to talk to Michael, not a convict. Michael never went to the Hyde Park Barracks.’

  She had a point. Michelle began to gnaw at her thumbnail. I cleared my throat, and said: ‘Where did your cousin die, Bettina? In a hospital?’

  It was awful to see Bettina’s eyes fill with tears again. I hated myself for asking such a stupid question, and was about to withdraw it when Bettina replied: ‘On the Pacific Highway. Near Gosford.’

  ‘Oh.’ So that was no good. I couldn’t see us sitting around by the side of a road, trying to summon up a spirit as semi-trailers roared by. I even felt a bit queasy at the thought of visiting the actual spot.

  Suddenly, for the first time, it occurred to me that someone had really died. All mangled up, probably, and trapped in a car wreck.

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t do this …’ I began.

  ‘Wait.’ Michelle grabbed my arm. ‘What about his house? Michael’s house? Where he used to live? That might work.’

  I hesitated. Yes, I thought, but do we really want it to work?

  ‘We can’t go to Michael’s house,’ said Bettina, wiping her eyes. ‘He used to live with my auntie in a flat, but she lives with us now. And he died before we moved.’

  ‘Oh.’ Another brick wall. ‘Never mind. I’ll see what Delora says. She might have a suggestion.’ At that moment, the bell rang. ‘I’ll call her tonight,’ I promised, heading for the door. ‘She’s bound to know what we should do.’

  Delora, in fact, was most sympathetic. When I called her, she accepted my desire to hold a séance as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She and her sisters, she informed me, had held them all the time.

  ‘When we were kids,’ she squawked. ‘At the dining-room table.’

  ‘Did they work?’

  ‘Oh, sometimes.’ A couple of hacking coughs. (Delora smokes.) ‘Yeah, we got through once or twice.’

  ‘Talked to dead people, you mean?’

  ‘Oh, well, sweetie, you know me,’ said Delora. ‘I can’t get away from dead people. No, we were more interested in the physical side. Raising tables, that kind of stuff.’

  ‘And did you? Raise a table, I mean.’

  ‘We cracked a wall,’ Delora chuckled. ‘I remember that. Bloody great crack went running down the wall. Mum was furious.’

  ‘But what about the spirits?’ I pressed. ‘If my friends and I sat around a table, holding hands, would we be able to talk to Bettina’s cousin?’

  Another barrage of coughs. ‘Aah,’ Delora moaned. ‘Oh. ’Scuse me, love, bit of a chest at the moment. What was that?’

  ‘I said, if my friends and I hold a séance, would we be able to talk to Bettina’s dead cousin? By ourselves?’

  ‘Well, maybe.’ Delora didn’t sound too encouraging. ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘So we wouldn’t need a medium?’

  Delora sighed – and coughed. ‘Darl, you’ve got to understand, sittings aren’t always successful. You have to have the right combination of elements.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, a receptive group, a decent venue – not too much ornament – a lot of patience. And the right kind of channeller. Someone with an open mind.’

  ‘Like you?’

  Delora chuckled. ‘Like me. Sure,’ she said.

  ‘Could you do it for us? Contact Bettina’s cousin? Could you be our medium?’

  ‘Ah.’ I heard a click-click-click and a long hiss. I wondered if Delora had just lit another cigarette. ‘The thing is, sweetie – I mean, you have to understand – that’s my livelihood.’ For once, she seemed a little embarrassed. ‘That’s what I do for a living, contact spirits. I can’t just … if it gets around that I’ve been doing it for free, well, how could I go on charging people? Do you see what I’m saying?’

  ‘Oh.’ Of course. Delora was a professional psychic. I had forgotten. ‘So how much do you charge?’

  ‘Sixty an hour.’

  Sixty dollars! An hour! I nearly fell off my chair.

  ‘For you, though, forty,’ she continued. ‘Friend’s discount.’

  ‘Oh – well – er, thanks.’ I was still gasping for breath. ‘I’m, um, I’ll think about it. Maybe we’ll try it ourselves, first.’

  ‘That’s right. You do that,’ Delora said cheerfully. ‘You might get a result, why not? I remember reading about some kids in America, back in the 1930s; they used to get all kinds of results without a medium: raps, spirit writing, psychic photos, levitations. I’ve always said you’ve got a dark aura, Allie. There’s something about your energy patterns – channelling should be simple for you. Just sit down, empty your mind and focus.’

  ‘Er, okay.’

  ‘And don’t forget the personal possession. Remember Eglantine’s book? If you’re trying to contact someone specific, always track down one of their personal possessions first. Otherwise,’ another wheezy laugh, ‘otherwise you could end up connecting with Teddy Roosevelt!’

  I didn’t ask who Teddy Roosevelt was. Instead, very quickly (because I could hear Mum calling me to dinner), I sought reassurance.

  ‘It won’t be dangerous?’ I gabbled. ‘There won’t be any risks?’

  ‘Risks? Of course! You take a risk every time you cross the road.’ I could almost see her shrug. ‘What you have to
do is decide whether the risks are worth the result.’

  Great. So it was my decision. I went to dinner and chewed over Delora’s advice while I munched on Ray’s vegetarian stir-fry. I didn’t know what to do. Try the séance without Delora? Raise forty dollars, somehow? Call the whole thing off? I was unsure of what to expect if we did go ahead, and we were successful. Would Michael’s ghost suddenly appear? Would one of us start to talk in Michael’s voice? Or would we simply get tables flying around, and cracks appearing on the wall?

  ‘This is good, Ray,’ said Mum. ‘Delicious.’

  ‘I used fresh herbs, this time.’

  ‘Lovely. You’re such a great cook.’

  Ray grunted. He was looking better, but not a lot better. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his expression was glum.

  I wondered: would I be the one who ended up talking in Michael’s voice? Delora had referred to my ‘energy patterns’. Would Michael’s ghost find them attractive? If a ghost ever entered my body, I would die. I would lie down and die of terror.

  On the other hand, as Delora had said, sittings weren’t always successful. The chances that we would actually call up Michael’s spirit were pretty remote. Especially without Delora to help us.

  I decided that, if something bad started to happen, I would signal Peter to jump up and turn on the light.

  ‘Mum?’ I said.

  ‘Mmmm?’

  Can I go to a friend’s house, tomorrow afternoon? It’s not far away. I’ll be home for dinner.’

  ‘What friend?’ asked Mum. ‘Michelle, you mean?’

  ‘No. You don’t know her. She catches my bus.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ said Mum, adding: ‘Don’t mess around with your food, Bethan – just eat it.’

  ‘I’m full,’ Bethan complained, as if being full was some kind of painful disease, and Mum had infected him with it. ‘I can’t eat any more.’

  ‘Well, you’re not getting any dessert. Not unless you eat more.’

  Bethan mumbled something. I said loudly: ‘Her name is Bettina. Bettina Berich. She only came to our school this year.’

  ‘Bettina Berich?’ Mum seemed slightly distracted. I think she was still worrying about Bethan’s stomach. ‘Have I met her?’

  ‘No,’ I replied patiently. ‘That’s what I said. You haven’t.’

  ‘She’s the big fat one,’ said Bethan.

  ‘Bethan!’ We all rounded on him, Mum more quickly than the rest of us. ‘Don’t talk about people like that, please,’ she frowned. ‘You know what I’ve told you.’

  ‘She’s a nice person,’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t judge people by what they look like.’

  ‘Our modern standards of appearance are very unrealistic,’ Ray pointed out, in a croaky voice. ‘They’re shaped by air-brushed photos and digitalised images. Especially in the case of young girls.’

  Bethan stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Fat people eat too much,’ he growled. ‘I don’t want to eat any more. I don’t want to get fat.’

  ‘You won’t get fat, Bethan,’ Mum smiled. I smiled, too, because if Bethan was any thinner, he’d be able to slip under the door. ‘You certainly won’t get fat eating Ray’s stir-fry. Tofu’s one of the healthiest foods there is.’

  ‘I hate tofu,’ said Bethan. Clearly, he was in one of his moods. (He loathes being jumped on.) Mum, however, just raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I’m sensing thunder energy at this table,’ she said in a sing-song voice, withdrawing her attention from my brother and assuming the kind of serene expression she always puts on, when she starts to use Feng Shui terms. ‘Can you feel it, Ray? I think someone needs their chi aligned, don’t you?’

  ‘Why can’t we have more meat?’ Bethan went on, stubbornly.

  ‘I think someone might need to meditate in his room for a little while.’

  ‘Dad lets us eat meat.’

  Bethan’s words seemed to hit the table with a thud. Mum’s serene expression disappeared; she was left looking cross and impatient. Ray focused his eyes on the tablecloth. I squirmed in my seat, because I knew exactly what Bethan was doing, and I didn’t want Mum getting all fired up. Not when I was seeking permission to go to Bettina’s house.

  ‘You know quite well,’ Mum snapped at Bethan, ‘that your father is a vegetarian.’

  ‘Yeah, but he lets us eat meat.’

  ‘So do I, Bethan!’

  ‘Then why can’t we have chicken with this, sometimes? Instead of tofu?’

  ‘I can always add chicken,’ Ray began quietly. ‘It wouldn’t be –’

  ‘You’re the cook, Ray!’ Mum interrupted. ‘If you want to make a vegetarian stir-fry, then you can make a vegetarian stir-fry! Since you’re doing us a favour, we’ll eat whatever you want us to eat!’ Mum began to stab at the food with her fork. ‘When the day comes that you cook us all a lamb roast, Bethan, we’ll gladly abide by your decision. Until then, you’ll have to put up with what you get. Okay?’

  Inwardly, I groaned. My brother had really touched a nerve, for some reason – even Bethan, I could see, was slightly surprised – and I still hadn’t got an answer out of Mum.

  ‘So can I go, Mum?’ I asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘To Bettina’s place. Can I go?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She sounded fed up. ‘I suppose so. How will you get there?’

  ‘By bus. We catch the same bus,’ I reminded her. ‘It’s in that street with the pre-school on the corner. You know? Number 27.’

  ‘All right, but how will you get home?’

  ‘I’ll pick her up,’ Ray interjected. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll pick her up after work.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mum’s forehead puckered. ‘It seems like a lot of trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I want to. Really.’ Ray looked at Mum over the top of his glasses. ‘Unless you have some objection?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  Silence. Ray very carefully rolled noodles around his fork.

  ‘Ray?’ said Mum. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘There’s no reason to worry,’ Mum insisted. ‘You mustn’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You’re as much a part of our lives as you ever were.’

  Ray snorted. I tuned out. It was all a bit over my head, and I had other things to think about.

  Delora, for instance. She had advised that the right sort of venue for a séance shouldn’t have much ‘ornament’. But what would she classify as ‘ornament’, I wondered. Frilly lampshades? Printed quilt covers? Fancy door handles?

  There were still many things that I had to settle, one way or another.

  CHAPTER # four

  Bettina’s house was made of bright red brick, with iron bars on the windows and red tiles on the roof. The garden was mostly paved over with cement. Inside, it was a bit grimy, but not because Bettina’s mum didn’t clean. According to Bettina, her mum hadn’t been able to get all the mould out of the bathroom, or the brownish smoke stains off the ceiling, or even some of the marks off the carpet, but she had tried her best. The kitchen was tidier than ours. The living room was also extremely neat – perhaps because there wasn’t much furniture in it. The room contained one vinyl couch, an armchair, and an entertainment unit. Behind the glass doors of the entertainment unit were a television and video player; on its top was a collection of photographs in silvery frames, a couple of trophies, a wooden cheeseboard, a baseball cap and a hand-drawn birthday card.

  ‘That’s Michael,’ said Bettina, pointing at the photographs. ‘Those are the two swimming trophies he won at school, and that’s the cheeseboard he made in woodwork, and that’s the birthday card he drew for Auntie Astra –’

  ‘And that’s his baseball cap,’ Michelle fini
shed, before Bettina could. ‘Did he wear that?’

  ‘Yes. All the time.’

  ‘Can we use it for the séance?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe.’ Bettina glanced over her shoulder. ‘We’d better not touch anything unless my auntie says we can.’

  ‘But she’s not here,’ Michelle protested. ‘You said she’s not here.’

  ‘She’s not,’ Bettina agreed. In fact, her mum and aunt were both at work; Bettina always let herself into the house, after school, with her very own front-door key. I hadn’t known this, before arriving. If I had, Mum probably wouldn’t have let me come.

  Bettina’s sister, Josie (who went to high school), was supposed to rush straight home every afternoon, and take care of Bettina. She almost never did, though. According to Bettina, Josie had a very busy social life.

  ‘No one’s going to know that we’ve touched anything,’ I remarked. ‘We’ll put it back before your aunt comes home. When does she come home?’

  ‘In about two hours,’ Bettina replied. ‘After my mum gets here.’

  ‘Is that your mum?’ asked Peter, gesturing at a large, framed photograph that was hanging on the wall. There were other photographs, too, but this was the largest; it showed two women and three children, against a blue backdrop. One woman was dressed in black. The other was dressed in red. They looked alike.

  ‘No, that’s my auntie,’ said Bettina. ‘That’s Michael standing behind her.’

  ‘Is that you?’ Peter sounded faintly surprised.

  ‘Yes. It was taken three years ago.’

  In the photograph, Bettina looked quite thin. There were dimples on each side of her smile. Her sister, on the other hand, was pouting.

  ‘Is this your dad?’ Michelle suddenly inquired. She had found a little picture hanging on the wall by itself, near the door.

  ‘That’s Michael’s dad,’ Bettina responded shortly. ‘He died.’

  ‘In the same accident?’

  ‘No. A long time ago.’

  ‘What about your dad?’

  There was a brief silence. Realising that Bettina probably didn’t want to talk about her dad, I opened my mouth to interrupt. But Michelle beat me to it.