Written for the “Kev’s Odyssey” series.
The worst part about being a medium was that, once you’d truly pierced the Veil and become a psychic conduit, there was no way to keep office hours.
Beatrice had been pointedly soldiering on with her book, but the presence scratching at her mind persisted. The dead had no concept of time, nor permanence. If you were lucky that meant they lost what they were doing and drifted away.
While Beatrice was sure she didn’t always get unlucky when she was in the middle of something, FFS people!
Fine.
She stuffed a random piece of paper (kebab receipt, thankfully not greasy) into her book and slammed it shut. “Yes, what do you want?”
Long gone were the days where she started each channelling with formal, flowery welcomes and careful verbal boundaries. It didn’t seem to help. If anything it encouraged the spirit to waste your time. Better to deploy the pointedly polite brusqueness you’d use if approached uninvited by a stranger, which was in many ways what’s happening.
Now that she’d opened the Way, the amorphous pressure resolved into a voice. “I’m very sorry, dearie. I know you’re busy.”
“Mm-hm?”
Something about the elderly, wavering voice drew Beatrice’s brows together. There was a… a brave note, a hint of suppressed pain or fear at the spirit’s core.
“It’s my husband. He’s gotten out of the home again to come visit me. And he doesn’t remember where he is or where to go - his dementia is severe.”
Beatrice grabbed her phone to check the weather, and winced - 14 degrees, light but continuous rain. “Shit. Where are you?”
“The new south side cemetery. I’m afraid I don’t know the plot number-”
“Doesn’t matter. Is he with you?”
“He keeps wandering off and coming back.” The spirit’s concern was clear now, her psychic stiff upper lip cracking. “He’s calling for our daughter.”
“Your daughter? Can she-”
“She moved to Singapore twenty years before I died.”
“Ah.” Never mind then. “Do you know if there’s anyone else at the cemetery? Er, living people, I mean.”
“I don’t think so. It’s very dark. He’s got his safety torch though, so hopefully not hard to find.”
Beatrice was checking the map entry for the cemetery. It said the place would have locked up nearly three hours ago, and the phone line was only monitored during opening hours.
Jammy plonkers.
“Do you remember what home he’s at?”
“Oh, yes, it’s Hollytree Corner. Lovely place. I chose it very carefully.”
Thank goodness, it came up early in the search results and tucked away at the bottom of the “contact us” page was an “urgent enquiries” number which was marked 24/7.
“And your husband’s name?”
“Oh! I’m SO sorry, where are my manners?” While psychic stammering wasn’t a thing, the sensation of embarrassed fluster flooding the connection was intimately similar. “He’s Graham Greene. And I’m Barbra Greene.”
“Alright. Don’t worry, Barbra, I’ll get this sorted for you. Just, um, stay on the line.”
“Thank you SO much, dearie. And I am sorry about interrupting your book.”
“Oh, no, no, it’s fine! I’m glad you did.”
A little white lie kinda thing to say, but she would honestly much rather her reading be interrupted than be in any way responsible for a vulnerable old man freezing to death.
The call was picked up quickly, and a brisk ‘I’m here to help but this had better be actually urgent’ voice intoned “Yes, hello, this is Hollytree Corner Care Home emergency line?”
“Hi. I’m accredited medium Beatrice Collins, contacting you on behalf of the deceased Barbra Greene.” The trick was to say this sort of thing calmly and without pause, as if it was perfectly normal. If you let their ‘wait, WHAT’ impulse kick in the conversation would only get long and tedious. “Her husband, whom I’m informed is supposed to be in your care, is currently wandering the South Bows Cemetery in a disoriented state.”
“In their defence, he WAS a professional escape artist. I’m sure they do their best.”
“He’s - what? How did he get over there?”
Beatrice hit ‘mute’ on the call. “Do you have any idea?”
“Sorry, no.”
Unmute. “I’m afraid Mrs Greene doesn’t know. But she says that he’s calling for their daughter and has a light. I checked the cemetery and they don’t have anyone to contact at this hour, so I thought it best to call you-”
“Yes, you did the right thing.” While they still sounded confused their words were focused. “Does he have a coat?”
“His light grey windbreaker.”
“Apparently he has his light grey windbreaker.”
“Ah.”
Yeah, that didn’t sound like it’d be anything like warm enough for a rainy night like this, especially for an old guy.
“If there’s anything I can do…” Beatrice said hesitantly, not at all wanting to brave the cold wet darkness but unwilling to refuse a call for help.
To her great relief they firmly said “No, no, I’ll take it from here. Though, um, if Mrs Greene has any updates please do call this line?”
“Will do.” Beatrice relaxed. “And don’t hesitate to call back if you need to ask anything.”
“Right. Thank you, ma’am.”
They hung up, and Beatrice checked her phone was off silent and pocketed it. “Guess I’ll put tea on. Want me to drink something for you? Tea, coffee, whatever?”
“Oh, I - can you do that?”
“Sure! I can channel all sorts.”
A fact which required her to set some firm professional boundaries, because there were a lot of weirdos out there and they didn’t get less weird from dying. But she was fine being a conduit for a drink.
“If you’ve got any green tea that would be LOVELY.”
“Let me check the cupboard.” Might as well get a snack while she was there - no telling how long they’d be on hold. “Do you like bakewells?”
“Ooh, YES!”
Beatrice smiled. Well, now she was obligated to eat some, to distract and comfort the worried old lady. Shame.
Prompt was “Voice”.
For my related microfics see here.
This was lovely. Funny, grounded, and just the right amount of heartwarming. I love that Beatrice is equal parts no-nonsense and deeply kind; her voice carried the whole story so naturally. Also: “do you like bakewells?” is now the standard question for any supernatural emergency in my house!
Very neat I enjoyed this one