Is Anybody There? Read online

  For Emily Crye

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Also by the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Last Christmas when I was in Year 8, I did this really dumb thing. The dumbest thing I have ever done in all my life. I got into a car with someone I didn’t know.

  OK, so I was only just turned thirteen, which in my experience is an age when you tend to act a bit stupid, thinking to yourself that you are now practically grown up and don’t need to obey your mum’s silly little niggly rules any more. Also, I have to say, it wasn’t like I’d never met the guy. I mean, I knew his name, I knew who he was. I even knew where he lived. But I’d only met him just the one time, just to say hello to, and even that was enough to tell me that he was a bit – well, different. Definitely not the same as other people. In any case, thirteen is way old enough to know better. We’re all taught back in Reception that you don’t go off with strangers.

  “And that,” as Mum was always drumming into me, “means the man next door, the man over the road, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker … you don’t go with anyone. Got it?” And out loud I would say, “Yes, Mum!” while inside I would be thinking, “This is just so too much.”

  Mind you, Dad is every bit as bad, in fact I’m not sure he’s not even worse. Whenever I go up to Birmingham, to stay with him and his new wife Irene, it’s, “Where do you want to go? We’ll take you! You can’t go on your own. Not in Birmingham.” Like Birmingham is one big bad place full of child molesters. Dad says it’s not that, it’s just that Birmingham is a city, and I am not used to being in a city.

  “I’m sure at home your mother lets you go wherever you want.”

  I wish! Though actually, to be honest, after last Christmas, I didn’t want to go anywhere on my own. It took me ages to get my confidence back.

  How it all started, really, was one wet Saturday afternoon towards the end of term; the Christmas term. Chloe and Dee had come round, and we were up in my bedroom. We were huge best mates in those days, the three of us. We’d all gone to St Mary Day from different schools, but we’d palled up immediately. We spent most Saturdays either round at my house, or Dee’s; just occasionally we’d go to Chloe’s, but Chloe had to share a bedroom with her little sister, who was one big pain and totally hyperactive, if you ask me. So we didn’t go there often as it led to scenes, with Jade and Chloe threatening to punch each other’s teeth down their throats or pull their hair out by the roots. Come to think of it, Chloe herself is a bit hyperactive. She’s always on the move, can’t sit still, can’t keep quiet. Can’t stop giggling (when she’s not fighting with her sister). It gets her into terrible trouble at school.

  Dee, on the other hand, is quite cool and laid back. She is a very serious sort of person. I suppose I would have to say that I am midway between the two. Sometimes I have fits of the giggles, other times I contemplate life and what it all means, and try to think deeply about God and religion and stuff. But I can see, now, looking back on it, that we were a fairly odd sort of threesome. However, we did have a lot of fun, before I went and ruined it all.

  That particular Saturday afternoon, that Saturday at the end of term, it was pouring with rain drip drip dripping off the trees, plink plonk into the water butt. We were upstairs in my room, all cosily huddled under my duvet with Dee and Chloe doing their best to push me into playing The Game – which makes me think that really, I suppose, before going any further, I should stop and explain what the Game is all about.

  OK. Basically it’s about me being a bit psychic. Well, more than a bit, actually. According to Mum, I have “the gift”. Mum is also psychic; I get it from her. Only she says that with me it is even stronger than it is with her, or will be, when I am grown up. Mum makes her living as a professional clairvoyant.

  People come to visit her, and she does readings for them. It is all quite honest and above board. Mum is not a charlatan! She explained to me, once, how clairvoyant simply means “seeing clearly”. She doesn’t pretend to be able to tell what is going to happen in the future. She can tell what might happen, if people keep on doing the things that they are doing, but it is up to them whether they act on what she says. She is not here to change people’s lives for them; only they can do that. She doesn’t use tarot cards or a ouija board, she doesn’t use a crystal ball, or call up spirits from the other side.

  What Mum does, she asks people to give her some object that they have handled, like it might be a watch, or a bracelet, just something small and personal, and by holding it, and concentrating, she can, like, see inside a person’s mind.

  She can tell them things about themselves that they hadn’t realised they knew; things that are hidden deep within them. Things, sometimes, that they have deliberately suppressed. Or maybe she’ll dredge up something from their past that they’d forgotten, and suddenly everything will fall into place and make sense and they’ll say, “Ah! Yes. Now I understand.”

  Some people just come to her out of curiosity; others come because they are unhappy or in trouble. It is very satisfying, Mum says, when you can help someone, but it is also very draining. It takes ever such a lot out of her, which is why she tries not to do more than three sessions in a day. Unfortunately, these sessions quite often take place in the evening or at weekends, which is a bit of a drag, but I have grown used to it. I don’t think Dad ever did, only with him it wasn’t just people coming round and spoiling his evenings, it was the whole thing about Mum being psychic. He just couldn’t handle it, is what Mum says.

  “He found it a bit creepy; it really used to upset him, poor man! But if you’ve got it, you’ve got it. It’s not something you can just ignore.”

  It was quite by chance that we discovered I had it. I mean, Mum didn’t give me tests, or anything like that. It happened unexpectedly, without any warning, when I was nine years old. My nan had just died, and Mum was very sad about it, and so was I, although Nan had been ill for a long time and I had never really known her any other way. I’d gone over to the nursing home with Mum, to collect Nan’s stuff, and when we brought it back Mum said that I could have Nan’s gold propelling pencil to keep, in memory of her.

  “Nan loved that pencil! Grandad gave it to her, when they were first married. She’d have liked you to have it.”

  I don’t think I’d ever handled a propelling pencil before. While Mum was in the kitchen making tea, I sat playing with it, twiddling the top and making the lead go up and down, and all of a sudden this great surge of joy came over me; I laughed and jumped up, and started dancing all around the room. Mum came in in the middle of it.

  “Well, I’m glad to see one of us is happy,” she said. There was just this tiny note of reproach in her voice, and it made me feel guilty because how could I be laughing and dancing when Nan had just died? I said to Mum, “I don’t really feel happy. It was Nan! She’s the one that was happy.”

  “How do you mean?” said Mum.

  “She was with someone – a man – and they were laughing. And then she kissed him, and they started dancing. And she was just so happy!”

  “Jo,” said Mum, “what are you talking about?”

  “Nan!” I held out the pencil. “I saw her! When she was young.” And then I stopped, because obviously I hadn’t even been born when Nan was young, so how could I possibly have known that it was her? But I had!

  Mum questioned me closely. She made me look at pictures, and I found the man that Nan had been d
ancing with. It was my grandad, who I’d never met. Doubtfully, Mum said, “Of course, you’ve seen photographs of him. But all the same …”

  Mum was really upset, and I couldn’t understand it. “Mum, she was happy!” I cried. “Nan was happy!”

  I thought it would make Mum happy, knowing that, but it didn’t seem to. She said, “Oh, this cursed legacy!” I said, “Who’s Kirsty Leggaty?” Well, I mean, I was only nine; what did I know? Mum then told me that I had the gift. She said she’d been hoping and praying that I wouldn’t have, because although it could be a power for good it didn’t make for an easy life.

  I said, “But it was nice, seeing Nan!”

  I think my face must have crumpled, because Mum hugged me and said, “Oh, darling, I’m sure it was. May all your visions be as happy!”

  We didn’t talk any more about it for a while after that. I didn’t have any more visions, either; not that I can remember. Just one or two when I was in Year 6, but nothing to worry about. Nothing upsetting. It got a bit annoying when I changed schools and it started happening more regularly, but I very soon learnt how to recognise the signs and take avoiding action. Nowadays, I can almost always blot it out. You have to blot things out, or life would become intolerable. Mum is lucky that way, she doesn’t have to. This is why she says my gift is more powerful than hers. Mum actually needs someone to be there, in person, before anything can get through. On the other hand she has to concentrate far harder than I do, which is why it tends to wear her out.

  On my eleventh birthday, Mum told me that I was old enough, now, to take responsibility for the gift I had been given.

  “I nearly said, ‘saddled with’, but that wouldn’t be fair. You can do so much good with it, Jo! But you must treat it with respect. It’s not something to just play around with. It’s not a toy.”

  She told me that just as I could do good with it, I could also do harm.

  “Do you understand me? I hope you do, because this is serious.”

  I said that I understood, but I don’t really think I did. It was hard to see what harm it could do, just amusing my friends now and again. Anyway I didn’t ever boast about being clairvoyant, but when Chloe and Dee asked me one day what my mum did, and I told them, and they wanted to know whether I could do it, too – well, naturally, I said yes. So then they wanted me to show them, which I knew Mum would have said I shouldn’t; I knew she would have said it was treating my gift like a toy. But I just didn’t see what was so wrong about it!

  “It’s only a bit of fun.”

  That was Chloe. Everything is a bit of fun with Chloe. If things aren’t fun, she can’t see any point in doing them. An attitude which does not go down too well with some of our teachers! Dee, being more serious, said that she could “sort of understand” why Mum was concerned.

  “After all, being clairvoyant isn’t exactly the same as being musical, or being able to dance, or … do gymnastics, or something.”

  “Whoever said it was?” wondered Chloe.

  “What I mean,” said Dee, “is you’re not going to hurt anyone, just playing the piano. But you might hurt someone getting into their mind. Specially if they didn’t want you to, or you discovered something scary.”

  “Like what?” said Chloe.

  “Like if someone was going to die.” said Dee. At which Chloe gave a delighted screech and clutched herself round the middle. Honestly! She is just so ghoulish. She is totally mad about horror films, or anything with blood. Not me! Urgh.

  “That would be so gross!” squealed Chloe.

  I said, “Yes, it would. How would you like it if I saw that you were going to die?”

  That shut her up. Well, for a little bit. But there and then, we laid down rules. If we were going to play the Game, we were only going to do it using objects that belonged to people who’d given their permission.

  “Otherwise,” I said, “it’d be like … well, like prying into someone’s private affairs.”

  Dee agreed immediately, and after a bit so did Chloe. She said she thought it was a pity, as she would have liked me to do some of the teachers, she thought that would be fun, but Dee and I made her promise – “On your honour!” – that she wouldn’t ever cheat. That way, we thought it would be safe.

  Even so, we didn’t play The Game too often. For one thing, I had to be in the mood, and for another I always had this slight guilt feeling, like maybe I was doing what Mum had warned me not to: using my gift “irresponsibly”. It did niggle at me every now and again, but I told myself that it was just Mum, fussing. Mums do fuss! All the time, over just about everything. You have to decide for yourself whether it’s a justified fuss, or just a Mum fuss. If it’s just a Mum fuss, then it’s OK to ignore it. Well, anyway, that’s what I told myself.

  That particular Saturday, what with it being nearly the end of term and Christmas only a couple of weeks away, I guess it was a bit like, “So what? Just a Mum fuss!” We messed about for a while, and I did Chloe’s cousin Dulcie, and had Chloe in fits of the giggles when I saw “Seven little people … I am definitely seeing seven little people! I can’t work out what it means.”

  Dee said, “Maybe she’s going to get married and have seven babies.” and Chloe squealed and rolled herself up in the duvet.

  “Is she happy about it?” said Dee.

  “Mm … yes. I think so. But she’s kind of a bit … anxious.”

  “You would be,” said Dee, “if you were going to have seven babies!”

  Chloe squealed again and shot out of the duvet. “She’s not going to have seven babies! She’s playing Snow White in her end-of-term play … Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs!”

  “That is so politically incorrect,” said Dee.

  “It’s better than having seven babies,” said Chloe. “Let’s do another one! Do my Auntie Podge. Look! This is her hanky. I did ask her.”

  But I didn’t want to do Chloe’s Auntie Podge. “I’m tired,” I said. “I’ve had enough.”

  “But I promised!” wailed Chloe. “I said you’d do her!”

  “I’ll do her another day.”

  For a minute it looked like Chloe was going to go off into one of her sulks, but then she suddenly snatched my nightie from under the pillow and cried, “OK, I’ll do you! I’ll tell you what you’re thinking …” She scrunched the nightie into a ball and made this big production of screwing her eyes tight shut and swaying to and fro (which I do not do, though I do close my eyes). After almost swaying herself dizzy, she began to chant in this silly, spooky voice.

  “Is anybody the-e-e-re? Is anybody the-e-e-re? I see something! I see … a shape! I see … a boy! I see … DANNY HARVEY!”

  I immediately turned bright pillar-box red.

  “Told you so, told you so!” Triumphantly, Chloe hurled my scrunched up nightie at Dee. “Told you she was mad about him!”

  “I am not,” I snapped; but by now my face was practically in flames, so fat chance of anyone believing me. The truth was, I’d had a thing about Danny Harvey ever since half term, when he’d come to our Fête Day with his mum and dad. (His sister Claire’s in Year 7.) He’d visited the cuddly toy stall that I was helping look after. He’d bought a pink bunny rabbit! From me. I thought it was so cool, a Year 10 boy buying a bunny rabbit. I may not know as much as I would like to about boys, but even I know that they would mostly be too embarrassed to buy a cuddly toy!

  Mary Day, unfortunately, is an all-girls’ school, so we don’t get much of a chance to mix with boys; and if, like me, you are an only child, and specially if your mum and dad have split up, you practically live the life of a nun. Like, the opposite sex is utterly mysterious and you might just as well hope to meet aliens from outer space as an actual boy. But I knew where Danny went to school, it was Cromwell House, just down the road from Mary’s, so by using a different bus stop, and doing a bit of carefully timed lingering and lurking, I did occasionally manage to catch a glimpse of him. For weeks and weeks a glimpse was all, but just a few days ago, joy and b
liss! He’d smiled at me and said “Hi”. He’d remembered! He’d recognised me! He knew I was the one that had sold him the bunny! Which, needless to say, had set me off all over again. Just as I thought I might be getting over it …

  “Poor you,” said Dee; and I sighed, and she hugged me. And although she didn’t say it, I knew what she was thinking: Poor old Jo! She doesn’t stand a chance.

  It was then that Chloe had her bright idea. We knew that Danny worked weekends and Thursday evenings at the Pizza Palace in the High Street (I had my spies!), so why didn’t we organise an end-of-term celebration for the day we broke up, which just happened to be a Thursday?

  “We could say it’s for everyone in our class, ’cos they won’t all come, but if it’s just the three of us it might look kind of obvious, or parents might even want to be there …”

  Dee and I groaned.

  “Whereas if it’s for the whole class,” said Chloe, “they’re more likely to let us go by ourselves. And then” – she beamed at me – “you can get all dressed up and flirt as much as you like!”

  Naturally I denied that I would do any such thing; but already I was mentally whizzing through my wardrobe wondering what to wear …

  Fifteen of us signed up for our end-of-term celebration. We arranged to meet at the Pizza Place at six o’clock so that we could be home by nine, which was what most people’s parents laid down as the deadline, it being December, and dark, and the High Street being full of pubs and clubs and wine bars, not to mention Unsavoury Types that hung about in shop doorways. It was Mum who said they were unsavoury.

  “Why do you have to go into town? Why can’t you find somewhere local?”

  I said, “Because not everybody lives somewhere local.” Plus anywhere local is totally naff. “Anyway,” I said, “you don’t have to worry … Dee’s dad will come and pick us up.”