Ways to See a Ghost by Emily Diamand Page A

techniques of magicians and illusionists; essentially he has learned how to guess well. The really precise, accurate titbits are garnered from letters.” The woman lifted a plump, wedding-ringed finger to her nose. “Someone writes to him, telling him all about their dear departed, who they’re desperate to contact. And he writes back saying he’s too busy to do individual readings, ‘but here’s a free ticket to one of my forthcoming shows, do come along’.” Mandeville sighed from inside the woman. “The poor supplicant is so grateful, and once they’re here, they quite forget they’ve already told him everything he needs to know.”
    “Shut up will you?” said a man in the row behind, leaning forwards. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
    The ghost twisted the woman’s head, fixing the man with frightening eyes.
    “Oh but I do.” The possessed woman’s hand landed heavily on Isis’s shoulder. “And so does she.”

Philip put his fingers to his forehead. On a large video screen at the side of the stage, his fingernails gleamed in close-up. Next to him, a young woman was visibly shaking, her hands clutching a photograph.
    The screen showed Philip’s face. His eyes were tight shut. He was sweating, the collar of his shirt darkened and damp.
    “Your brother is far away.” Philip’s voice sounded strained. “He’s travelled a great distance into the realm beyond… He must have had a very troubled life, to go so far, and so quickly.”
    The young woman choked a sob, tears slipping from her eyes.
    Further down the rows, Isis could see Cally leaning forwards in her seat, hands over her mouth.
    Philip kept his fingers at his brow for a moment longer, then he dropped his hands, panting, and shook his head.
    “I’m sorry,” he said, the words trembling, “I couldn’t reach him.” He breathed deeply through his nose, and took a gentle hold of the young woman’s hands, looking directly into her eyes. The camera zoomed in on them. “He doesn’t want to turn, not yet,” Philip said quietly, “and I can’t force him.”
    “
Owowoo…
” The young woman’s grief wailed out of her. Philip held her as she cried on his shoulder until an usher appeared from the wings, holding a box of tissues, and Philip carefully extracted himself from the girl’s arms, passing her across. The audience applauded uncertainly, some calling out sympathetic comments to the girl as she was helped away. Philip Syndal left the spotlight, walking with sharp steps to the back of the stage, where someone rushed out with a glass of water and a towel. He took them with angry movements, scrubbing at his neck with the towel while the video screen showed empty blue.
    Worried murmurs threaded through the audience.
    “Is he all right?”
    “Well he can’t get them all, can he?”
    “He must be feeling terrible.”
    Isis was nudged, hard, by the woman in the next seat.
    “A very clever deception, don’t you think?” Mandeville whispered through the woman’s mouth. “He’s very practised at this.”
    Isis wanted to ignore him, but…
    “How is that lying?” she hissed back. “He said he couldn’t reach her brother.”
    The possessed woman made a gasping noise, which might have been laughter.
    “He’s using the truth as a lie. He does that a lot. Of course, the girl’s dead brother isn’t here, I expect it was a random strike on the name he called out. But a young girl, with a suicide sibling… all that pent-up feeling, just effervescing inside her. Phil must have been quaking in his boots. Think how it would have looked if he’d got
those
details wrong! Not good for his performance, I think you’d agree. Whereas now…” The ghost flapped the woman’s hand, gesturing at the conversations continuing around them.
    People were worrying about Philip, and whether the performance might end early. Isis couldn’t hear anyone doubting his ability.
    “But he failed. Shouldn’t that prove he’s not a real