Anybody Out There - Marian Keyes (33 page)

her little sister was in the booking office, and although her ex-husband didn't work for her, he
was suing her for millions, so that was nearly as good.
"People tell me that they'd love to be psychic," Neris said. "But, you know what, it's a tough
road. I call it a blessed curse."
Then the screen cut to coverage of one of her live shows. Neris was standing on a huge stage,
just her, looking very little. "I have a...I'm getting something for...do we have someone here
tonight called Vanessa?"
A camera panned over rows and rows of audience, and somewhere near the back, a heavyset lady
put her hand up and got to her feet. She mouthed something and Neris said, "Wait a minute,
honey, until the mike gets to you."
A runner was pushing her way between the seats. When the heavyset woman was holding the
mike, Neris said, "Can you tell us your name? You're Vanessa?"
"I'm Vanessa."
"Vanessa, Scottie just wants to say hi to you. Does that mean anything?"
Tears started to pour down Vanessa's face and she mumbled something.
"Say again, honey."
"He was my son."
"That's right, honey, and he wants you to know he didn't suffer." Neris put her hand to her ear
and said, "He's telling me to tell you you were right about the bike. Mean anything?"
"Yeah." Vanessa's head was bowed. "I told him he drove that thing too fast."
"Well, he knows that now. He's telling me to say, `Mom, you were right.' So, Mom, you get the
last word here."
Somehow Vanessa was smiling through her tears.
"Okay, honey?" Neris asked.
"Yes, thank you, thank you." Vanessa sat back down.
"No, thank you for sharing your story. If you could just give the mike back to the--"
Vanessa was still holding on to the microphone with a clawlike grip. She relinquished it with
reluctance.

Back to Neris on the armchair, who was saying, "The people who come to my shows, nearly all
of them are looking to hear from their loved ones who have passed over. These folks are in bad
pyschic pain and I have a responsibility to them. But sometimes," and she gave a little laugh
here, "if lots of spirit voices are all trying to get through at the same time, I have to say, `Calm
down, guys, take a ticket, get in line!'"
I was mesmerized. She made it all sound so ordinary, so possible. And I was touched by her
humility. If anyone could put me in contact with Aidan, it was this woman.
The camera cut back to another of Neris's live shows. She was wearing a different dress, so it
must have been a different event. From the stage she asked, "I've got a message here for a man
called Ray."
She scanned the theater. "We got a Ray? Come on, Ray, we know you're here."
A large man got to his feet. He was wearing an enormous plaid shirt and had a big redneck quiff
held in place with shiny pomade; he looked mortified.
"You're Ray?"
He nodded, and gingerly accepted the mike from the runner.
"Ray," and Neris was laughing. "I'm being told here that you don't believe in any of this psychic
BS. Is that so?"
Ray said something that we didn't hear.
"Speak into the mike, honey."
Ray leaned over and enunciated into the microphone, like he was under oath at a murder trial,
"No, ma'am, I do not."
"You didn't want to come here tonight, did you?"
"No, ma'am, I did not."
"But you came along because someone else asked you to, right?"
"Yes, ma'am. Leeanne, my wife."
The camera moved to the woman beside him, a shrunken little thing with a mushroom of teased
blond hair, like cotton candy. Leeanne, presumably.
"You know who's telling me all this?" Neris asked.
"No, ma'am."

"It's your mama."
Ray said nothing, but his face kind of shut down--the sign of a hardman redneck trying to fight
back emotion.
"She didn't die easy, did she?" Neris said gently.
"No, ma'am. She had the cancer. The pain was real bad."
"But she's not in pain now. Where she is is `better than any morphine,' she's telling me. She
wants me to tell you that she loves you, that you're a good boy, Ray."
Tears were pouring down Ray's ruddy cheeks and we were shown shots of several other people
who were also crying.
"Thank you, ma'am," Ray said hoarsely, and sat back down, receiving claps on the back and
handclasps from the people around him.
The next scene was of people streaming out of the theater into the lobby, saying stuff like "I
don't mind telling you I had no faith in this woman. I'm not too proud to tell you that I was
wrong."
A brisk, loud, New York type cut in. "Unbelievable. I mean, unbelievable."
Someone else said "Awesome," and someone else said, "I got a message from my husband. I'm
so happy he's okay. Thank you, Neris Hemming."
This cranked up my excitement to fever pitch. I'd have her all to myself for an entire half hour.
Half an hour to talk to Aidan.
59
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Week from hell
God, Anna. Disastrous week. Mum went to the shrine at Knock last Saturday and brought back
holy water in Evian bottle and left it in kitchen. Sunday morning when I'd bit of a thirst on me
'cos of amount drank night before, guzzled it down before realizing it tasted disgusting and there
were funny things floating in it.
Two hours later, thrun down, roaring for a bucket. Puking rings around myself. Dying. Dry
heaves, bile, the whole lot. Worse than any hangover. Lying on bathroom floor, holding stomach,
begging to be put out of misery.
Monday morning, still puking at full throttle. No way could sit in Detta's hedge for ten hours.
Doc came, said I was badly poisoned and I'd be out of action for four/five days. Rang Colin, told
him sorry story. He laughed and said, I'll tell Harry, but he's not going to like it.

Two seconds later, Harry rang, shouting his head off, going on about "more than generous
retainer" (it is) he has me on, and what if today is the day that Detta checks into hotel room with
Racey O'Grady and I'm not there to record it and that would really annoy him and I know what
happens to people who annoy him. (Get nailed to pool table, just in case you forgot.) So I said,
Hold on minute. Went and puked, then came back and said, I'll sort something out.
What could I do? Had to send Mum. She'd been dying to see Detta's clothes and house
anyway. Off she goes with binoculars and sandwiches and cardboard cup in case she was caught
short and as luck would shagging well have it, on Thursday Detta publicly met Racey O'Grady.
(Maybe was wrong to think that Harry Big is delusional paranoid.) They met in restaurant in
Ballsbridge--can't get more high-profile than that. Even had decency to sit in window.
Mum shot off load of photos on phone and came home and we got them on computer, which
was when discovered that Mum doesn't know how to work phone camera. She'd taken the
pictures using wrong side of phone and we had load of lovely close-ups of her skirt, up her
sleeve, and half of her face.
Low moment. Really thought it was crucifixion time. Thought about skipping country, then
thought, Ah, what the hell, how bad can crucifixion be? So rang Colin, who took me to Harry,
who took it surprisingly well. Just sort of sighed and looked into his glass of milk for a long
time, then said, These things happen even in the best run of organizations. Carry on with the
surveillance.
But, to be honest, Anna, I've had enough. Job too boring, apart from times when afraid am
going to be nailed to pool table. Only thing that's interesting about it is Colin.
So said to Harry: From Mum's description, Detta was definitely with Racey. Can't you just
confront Detta?
Him: Are ya mad? Have you a clue? No one goes into any situation making half-baked
allegations. Nothing happens until I've proof.
Later Colin told me that Harry is in denial. No amount of proof will ever be enough. In other
words, will be doing this fucking job until end of time.
Mum demanded cash for the week's work. Also had to promise to lie in wait for woman with
dog and take photos.
An e-mail from Mum arrived, too.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Crucifixion
Dear Anna,
I hope you are keeping well. I had a terrible week. Helen drank my Knock holy water, and I had
it promised to Nuala Freeman, who seemed quite annoyed when I told her what happened. Can
you blame her, she has been very good to me, bringing me back a "bootleg" DVD of The Passion
of the Christ that time she went to Medjagory (or however it's spelled). (Just out of curiosity, do
you know why are there so many thes in THE Passion of THE Christ?)

Anyway, Helen was as "sick" as a "dog." I offered to ring in sick for her, but she went mad
and said that when you work for a crime lord, you can't ring in sick. She said I'd have to "cover"
for her. Oh, when she's stuck, she comes to me all right. I had her "over" a "barrel," and I said
I'd surveil Detta Big if she promised to take photos of the old woman and her dog when she was
better. Mind you, she is not above going back on her word, that one.
I had thought Detta Big would be a brassy "moll" and her house would be a "kip." But her
home was very tasteful and her clothes cost a fortune, you could tell just by looking at them. I
don't like admitting it, but the "green-eyed monster" was at me. Then I took the photographs of
Racey O'Grady with the wrong side of the phone camera and Helen went mad again, saying that
Mr. Big would crucify her and that she'd have to "skip" the country. Then she calmed down and
said that eff it (and she didn't say "eff," she said the full word), she'd take her medicine. Her
father said she was very brave and he was proud of her. I said I thought she should be locked up
in the mental hospital, that crucifixion is no joke, our Lord himself dreaded it, and I rang Claire
to see if she could provide a "safe house" in London. But Claire said no, that Helen would keep
trying to "get off" with Adam.
Anyway, Helen went to see Mr. Big and he didn't crucify her and I suppose all is well that
ends well. But between that fiasco and the old woman and the Knock holy water, I am not
myself. Even though I made a hames of the photos, Helen gave me some "blood money" and I
am trying some "retail therapy" to see if I could get a bit of a lift.
Your loving mother,
Mum
P.S. Any more on Joey and Jacqui? I would not have thought they'd make a likely couple, but
the strangest people "hook up" together.
60
M      itch and I stood patiently in line while I eyed the girl on the gate taking the money. She
was wearing a ballerina outfit, motorcycle boots, and pointy fifties-style glasses with diamante
on the wings. I shuddered at her getup; it made me think of work.
Mitch and I seemed to be taking turns to suggest some kind of an outing every Sunday. This
week was my go and I'd come up with something a little special: a quiz in Washington Square,
my local park. It was for charity, to raise money for a ventilator or a wheelchair or something (I
found it so hard to focus on specifics) for some poor guy whose insurance wouldn't pay for any
more.
Today's session had been particularly low-key. Mitch hadn't heard from Trish, I hadn't heard
from anyone, not even Granny Maguire, and Mackenzie hadn't shown up at all. Maybe she'd
decided to call it a day and gone out to the Hamptons where she belonged, to find that rich
husband whom her great-uncle Frazer had recommended she get herself.
"Next!" Diamante Glasses Girl said.

Mitch and I stepped forward.
"Okay." She slapped stickers on our fronts and handed me a form. "You're team eighteen. Where
are your partners?"
Our partners? Mitch and I turned to each other. What should we say?
"The other two?" she pressed. "The two who should be with you?"
"I...um--" I tilted my head at Mitch and he looked openmouthed at me.
The girl, confused by our reaction, said impatiently, "Four in a team. I'm only seeing two of
you."
"Oh. Oh! Christ! Right, of course! It's just us two."
"It's still twenty dollars. It's for charity."
"Sure." I gave her the note.
"You have a better chance of winning if there's four of you."
"Ain't that the truth," Mitch said.
We picked our way through the happy, chatting groups of people sitting on the grass in the
sunshine until we found a place to sit. Then I looked at Mitch. "I nearly said they were dead."
"Me, too."
"Could you imagine? `Where are your partners?' `They're dead!'"
"They're dead!" I repeated, and a great ball of mirth rolled up from my stomach. "`Where are
your partners?' `They're dead!'"
I laughed so much I had to lie down. I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed until I
heard some concerned stranger say, "Is she, like, okay?"
Then I tried very hard to get ahold of myself. "Mitch, I'm so sorry," I said, finally righting
myself and mopping tears of laughter off my temples. "I'm really sorry. I know it's not a bit
funny, it's just..."
"It's okay." He patted my back and my face settled into its usual expression, but periodically I'd
think, They're dead, and my shoulders would start shaking again.
Mitch looked at his watch. "Should be starting soon." Just like me, I noticed: he couldn't handle
any stretch of time that wasn't structured and filled with stuff.

Right on cue, a man appeared, wearing a sparkly lounge suit and carrying a microphone and a
sheet of what looked like questions; everyone perked up.
"Looks like we're ready to get going," Mitch said.
I was just about to say "good" when a yell was carried to me on the warm air. "Hey, it's Anna!"
Jesus H. Christ! I looked around. It was Ornesto, with two other Jolly Boys whom I recognized
from going up and down the stairs to his apartment, and nice Eugene who had moved my air
conditioner.
Eugene, in a massive, unironed shirt, looked meaningfully at Mitch, and gave me a thumbs-up
and several encouraging nods. Oh no! He thought Mitch and I...
Ornesto had clambered to his feet. He was on his way over. Aghast, I watched him. How stupid
was I? I should have considered that I might know some of the people here. Not that there was
anything to hide. There was nothing between Mitch and me, but people might not understand...
"Ladies and gentlemen," Sparkly Suit's voice boomed through a microphone. "Are you ready to
raaaaah-ck?" He twirled his microphone stand.
"Ornesto, come back," the Jolly Boys called. "We're starting. You can talk to her later."
Go back, I thought. Go back.
Momentarily, he froze, suspended by invisible strings of indecision, then to my enormous relief,
he returned to his pals.
"Who's he?" Mitch asked.
"Upstairs neighbor."
"First question!" Sparkly Suit said. "Who said, `Whenever I hear the word culture, I reach for
my revolver'?"
"Do you know?" I asked Mitch.
"No. Do you?"
"No."
We sat, looking helplessly at each other, while all around us, groups of four consulted
energetically.
"G�ring," I muttered to Mitch. "Hermann G�ring."