The Fortune Teller

Gary had a gift. He could sense things about people.

Bella, his girlfriend, used to smirk at this. She had liked the guy, having doubts now . . . this new thing he had going on did nothing for her. 

She worked in a clothes shop and Gary would say things like “you are going to sell a red dress today” like it was a major pronouncement. And in the evening when she came home she could tell he was dying to ask, and she’d talk about other things until he couldn’t stand it anymore and blurt out “well . . . did you?” and she’d nod wearily. Of course she had . . . they had loads of dresses and it was a busy shop.

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The problem with Gary was that he was taking it way too far. It started as a bit of a joke . . . but he was becoming more and more delusional . . . really believing. And it was coming between them. Increasingly, he was saying things like “I knew the Russians were going to invade the Ukraine” and “I told you your mother was going to get all bitchy about the shopping we did for her.”

Bella told him he was being a dick . . . he wasn’t fortune telling . . . he was just stating the obvious. 

But Gary would have none of it.

He said “Ok, I’ll prove it to you. I’ll write down three things that will happen in the next week and put it in a sealed envelope. At the end of the week you can open it and see that I’m right.” 

She said “Ok, I’ll prove to you that I can do the same. Then we’ll compare notes and see who was more accurate.” 

He hadn’t seen that coming.

 

At the end of the week Gary opened both envelopes and placed the notes on the table alongside each other. An outside observer might have argued that with his skill he wouldn’t need to look at Bella’s . . . he would know in advance what she’d written . . . but he looked anyway. The notes were like this:

Gary

1. Will have sex

2. Chelsea will win

3. 

 

Bella

1. No sex

2. Will end up cooking every meal

3. Will leave Gary this week

 

Gary, being the arse that he was, was not going to be put off by this setback. He knew that Bella would come back to him. He wasn’t sure exactly when, but it would happen. 

For No.3 he now wrote “Bella will leave me, but she will come back”. That would impress her when she did come back. 

The next step was to do what he always knew he was going to do . . . create a website to promote himself and launch his new career. 

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Advertising was not his strong point - he called himself Psychic Gaz. He then lifted most of the blurb from the internet and pasted it on his home page

• Find out what the future holds for you

• Get an in-depth reading today

• Get clarity in your life now

• Money back guarantee

 

He hesitated over the last item, and then his self-confidence won through and he left it in. He created a Reviews page and made up a load of reviews. He didn’t feel in the least bad or dishonest about doing this, because he knew that these were the reviews that people were going to write in the future.

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“Psychic Gaz took me by the hand and led me out of the wilderness that was my life.”

“I new my family are robbing me blind  . . . I needed confamation . . . and I got it . . . and they’re fucked when I get my hand on them” . . . adding a few spelling mistakes to make it look more authentic.

“When Sharon died I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that she was watching me having a shit. I got so constipated, but I knew I had to get rid of Sharon before I got rid of the shit. All I can say is ‘thank you Gaz’ . . . I feel so much more comfortable.”

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Psychic Gaz launched his website, offering to meet people in pubs, in their homes . . . making it easy for them.

Within a few days he had his first request. Joan wanted to meet him at a pub down Greenwich way. It was far for him (he should’ve known it was going to be there), but he needed the exposure . . . needed to get started, so he made the arrangement and went.

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He got to the pub about 15 minutes late. It was early afternoon and there were three people inside – two men sitting at the bar and a woman on her own in the corner. He went up to her and said “Joan”. She got up awkwardly and sat down again “How . . . did you know?” she asked . . . with a catch in her throat. 

He noticed with relief she had a drink, so he went and got a beer for himself and sat down and looked at her. She was in her fifties . . . kind of mousy and timid. Thick glasses. He decided he didn’t really like her . . . had expected a good looking 30 year-old with good teeth. He should’ve known, being a psychic and all that.

She started speaking, but he held up his hand to stop her. 

“Give me your hand” he said. She was clutching a bag in one hand and the other had her glass. He could tell she didn’t know which hand to give him. He gestured to the hand holding the glass and she pushed the glass towards him. Fuck sake, he thought, getting a whiff of the gin. 

He touched her wrist and she let go of the glass and he turned her palm facing up. Her hand was cold and dry and felt horrible. He had to hide the shudder. Her nails were bitten . . . he’d never seen nails like that . . . bitten down to nothing.

“You’re a very nervous person” he said seriously, and looked at her. Joan nodded anxiously. “You’re very troubled” he said, looking down at her hand again, not wanting to touch it. She pushed her other hand eagerly towards him. He hesitated and then reluctantly picked it up. It was even drier and more nasty than the other one, he thought. 

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“You’re a hard worker” he said and she nodded fervently. “Things haven’t been going very well, though” he added. Shit, what else could he say? He looked at her face, at the thick NHS glasses and the plain dress. 

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“Do you want another gin?” he said. Her eyes widened with surprise. He quickly added “you’ll need to pay for it . . . it’s not part of the service.”

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While she was at the bar, he stared at her back. Shit. He was getting nothing about her future. To him, she was completely blank . . . like she was dead inside. There was nothing. No future. 

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He suddenly sat bolt upright. That’s it, he realised. She had no future! That’s why he couldn’t sense anything. She was going to die soon. Very soon. It was obvious.

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When she sat down, he said “Joan, I need to ask for my payment now . . . before we go any further.” Polite, but firm. 

She nodded and took out a small purse and put £50 on the table. He put it in his jeans pocket and got up. 

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“Just need to go to the toilet” he said. He could tell from the look she gave him that she thought he was going to walk out the door. He really wanted to, but he had work to do. He said “don’t worry, I won’t be long.”

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By the time he got back he had decided how he was going to break the news. He wasn’t. He was going to do something much more subtle. She had no future, so he would persuade her to enjoy the little time she had left.

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“You need to go out and spend some money on yourself” he said. She began to protest, but he stopped her. 

“You’re going to meet someone very soon . . . who is going to make you very happy” . . . probably St Peter, he thought. “Get yourself some nice clothes . . . a manicure (if they can find a nail, he wanted to add) . . . get your hair done . . . that sort of thing.”

“I don’t have much money” she said quietly.

He waived his hand as though pushing her concerns aside. “Don’t worry about money” he said. And then looked directly at her meaningfully “forget about money problems.”

 

She shifted nervously, but nodded – a small smile showing for the first time. 

“Am I going to win the lottery?” she asked . . . that weird tremor in the back of her throat.

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“Not exactly” he shook his head, looking at her magnified eyes “but I can see that you definitely don’t need to even think about what you’re spending.” He thought about telling her she was about to die . . . to go out and have a blast, but she might ask for her money back. 

To Psychic Gaz, Joan was the living dead and there was no point prolonging his prophecy a minute longer. He stood abruptly, saying that he had another appointment. 

Joan looked embarrassed and flushed. “But you haven’t told me anything about what’s going to happen to me . . .” and her voice trailed off, slightly disappointed.  

She got animated for a moment and said “I’ve got a son . . .” 

Gary sat down again irritably. “I know” he said.

“Oh!” she said surprised “you know . . .”

“Yes, of course” he said.
“He said he was going to take me away on holiday in the summer. But I think he’s just saying that to please me.” She paused and looked at Gary seriously. “Is he going to?”

Gary sighed “No” he said. “I’m afraid not.”

She looked crestfallen. “I had really hoped . . .”

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By now Gary felt she’d got her money’s worth . . . travel to and from Greenwich, cost of a beer, 35 minutes of his time and skill which was, he reminded himself, pretty emotionally draining. And he had successfully insinuated to her that she was on her last legs. He felt pretty satisfied. He mentally ticked off the items – what the future holds; in-depth reading; clarity about her life; money back guarantee (no need of that in this case).

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He stood up, looking at his watch. “I really need to get going” he said, and put out his hand reluctantly. She shook it limply and he could barely make out the “goodbye” she whispered. It really is ‘goodbye’ he thought as he walked away.

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He stepped out of the pub, momentarily blinded by the bright sunshine and got hit by a cement mixer he hadn’t seen coming. The driver hadn’t even had time to apply his brakes.

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Joan came out of the pub to see what the commotion was about and saw Psychic Gaz’s mangled body under the truck. She bent down and removed the £50 she’d paid him and went back into the pub. 

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She thought she might try some of that expensive gin as she’d come into a bit of money. 

 

copyright Colin Gallow