Lorna slumped next to the phone and turned the business card around in her fingers. ‘Mrs Emily Campbell’, it announced in gold lettering, ‘Psychic, Medium & Spiritual Interpreter’
It hadn’t occurred to her that some spirits may need a translator. A pained smile appeared. She always assumed, like most, that the dead or missing would instinctively speak in English. At least they did on the telly. Not that it mattered, Franco’s English was better than most of the chavvy neighbourhood anyway.
She searched her neck. The silver locket opened with a click and she read the inscription once more, ‘To my beautiful lady, ti amo’, the words scripted alongside the miniature photo, the happy couple, Italy, holiday, engagement, sun, wine and memories seeped back.
It hadn’t occurred to her that some spirits may need a translator. A pained smile appeared. She always assumed, like most, that the dead or missing would instinctively speak in English. At least they did on the telly. Not that it mattered, Franco’s English was better than most of the chavvy neighbourhood anyway.
She searched her neck. The silver locket opened with a click and she read the inscription once more, ‘To my beautiful lady, ti amo’, the words scripted alongside the miniature photo, the happy couple, Italy, holiday, engagement, sun, wine and memories seeped back.
Another tear gently leaked down the side of her cheek and she sponged it with a woolly sleeve, and cursed.
‘Damn it,’ Where was Franco? The flowers next to the phone no longer had any scent; the bouquet in the vase had dried up, along with her ideas of where to look next. She was alone, cursing to an echoing room, and losing hope fast.
It was a stupid idea, she thought, but what else was there? The police made their excuses, no more search parties. No one knew anything. It was like trying to escape from a bad dream where the sticky, bubble gum floor, wouldn’t allow it, it was all hopeless.
She rang Mrs Campbell.
‘Hello, Emily Campbell speaking.’ the brogue, soft as a spirits whisper calmed the fear. It was a kind voice, thought Lorna, like the ‘Mrs Doubtfire’ of the psychic world.
‘Mrs Campbell… I need your help,’ was all she managed before the sobs squeezed her eyes shut and knotted her stomach.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, whatever is the matter petal? Is it a loved one? Let me help you, my dear. Mrs Campbell always finds them you know, deid or alive…’
‘Damn it,’ Where was Franco? The flowers next to the phone no longer had any scent; the bouquet in the vase had dried up, along with her ideas of where to look next. She was alone, cursing to an echoing room, and losing hope fast.
It was a stupid idea, she thought, but what else was there? The police made their excuses, no more search parties. No one knew anything. It was like trying to escape from a bad dream where the sticky, bubble gum floor, wouldn’t allow it, it was all hopeless.
She rang Mrs Campbell.
‘Hello, Emily Campbell speaking.’ the brogue, soft as a spirits whisper calmed the fear. It was a kind voice, thought Lorna, like the ‘Mrs Doubtfire’ of the psychic world.
‘Mrs Campbell… I need your help,’ was all she managed before the sobs squeezed her eyes shut and knotted her stomach.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, whatever is the matter petal? Is it a loved one? Let me help you, my dear. Mrs Campbell always finds them you know, deid or alive…’
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