Skip to content

The Turbulent Psyche

July 8, 2012

What’s the difference between a work abandoned and a work in progress?  Encouragement, maybe?

At the end of the day, it’s all about confidence and commitment, isn’t it?

Since posting ‘Intel’ on 03/06/12, the tug of my novel, The Petrie Consignment, has been even stronger.  I miss my slinky, sexy Yvette with her snooty French accent and craving for vengeance.  Scorp too, the subject of her hatred, Scorp the international terrorist, because he wasn’t always bad.  I miss all my characters because they were almost living people to me.  Take Bob and Betty Gracious, for instance…

Bob and Betty live in a leafy cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Rhyl.  They’ve published a book, Goodness Gracious, We’re Mediums!  And now they’re working on a second with Yvette unwittingly a case study.

Yes, Bob and Betty are “psychic mediums”!  Yvette is renting their former granny-flat.  When she arrived in Rhyl some months ago, she’d spun them a yarn about fleeing a violent “ex”.  Bob and Betty were so sweet and solicitous you’d have thought they believed every word.  “Don’t worry about security,” they’d told her.  “We have the best security system in the world – our psychic senses.”

Bob and Betty are fun characters…up to a point.  I leave it to the reader to decide whether their psychic sensitivity is pure bunkum, rarefied kinesics, supersensory or supernatural…

I’m having a very busy time of it at the moment with one thing or another but the day will come, I hope, when I’m able to get back to The Petrie Consignment and finish it.  In the meantime, here’s another little taster…




Bob and Betty Gracious had noted a disturbing change in the aura of their tenant at 17A.

They were fond of Yvette, if not quite as the daughter they’d never had – she was too insular for that – at least as a suitable case study for their next book, When The Third Eye Blinks.

Yvette was a busy young woman, always dashing off somewhere, and these last couple of months had spent as many nights away each week as at her flat.  She was involved in a major operation at work, she’d said, without elaborating.  She’d never told them what line of work she was in but the plain-clothes police officers who turned up occasionally seemed to treat her as a colleague.

Bob and Betty had felt from the beginning that Yvette’s story of coming to Rhyl to escape a violent ex was a cover for something else, a secret quest or mission of some sort, probably dangerous.  And soon they’d sussed that Yvette was being watched…

With her being away so much, contact with Yvette had become fleeting of late but was sufficient for their purposes, just about.  Bob, with his auric sight and unique system of notation, had worked hard to chart the changing colours and form of Yvette’s spiritual energy. Betty, with her finely tuned psychic sensibility, had assisted in the interpretation.

A general muddying of Yvette’s aura had occurred, especially in the central zone above her head, where the compression of colours had produced an almost solid band of sulphur, denoting anger, anxiety, fear and guilt.  The deepening red cloud on her right side reflected a quickening of her physical and sexual responses due to danger.  Of course Bob and Betty had noted the correlation with those major local news stories of the summer that had brought the national press down en masse, baying like hounds on the scent.  Each incident had coincided with a disturbing change in Yvette’s turbulent psyche, proof positive of her involvement.

On this Sunday morning, had she not run out of custard powder, Betty would not have had to walk down to the Co-op for more.   And returning would not have been nearly run down on the zebra crossing by the shaven-headed black guy in the blue Mazda sports car.  Jumping back onto the kerb she saw he had a passenger this time, a middle-eastern looking gent, balding with a heavy moustache.

“Dramatic news,” said Bob.  “You’ve just missed it on TV.  Martin Webb was abducted from Natterjack Cottage last night.  And his teenage daughter Kate is missing.  The police are mounting a search.”

Ten minutes later she and Bob were admitted to the flat by a slightly bemused Yvette wearing a cheesecloth halter-top and blue jeans.  She was holding a copy of Martin Webb’s booklet The White Monks of Gwynafon Abbey.  Why were they not surprised…?

Bob related the news about Martin and Kate.  Betty told her about the blue Mazda and the black guy’s passenger.  Then something made her open her arms.  “We know, dear.  We just know…”

Released from Betty’s embrace, Yvette looked from one to the other – from the lean cowboy with a stetson on his head to the grey maned mystic in a tie-dye kaftan.  Clairvoyants – soothsayers of any sort, with their creepy manner – had always filled her with contempt.  But there was something different about Bob and Betty, something she couldn’t disregard. 

She saw it in their eyes.  It would happen tonight.

Betty took her by the shoulders.  “Be alert in every nerve and fibre.  Go with your instincts.”

Bob added, “And beware betrayal too.  Do not depend on your friends.”

Yvette gave them each a kiss on the cheek.  “Thank you… Thank you.”

Tears sprang to Betty’s eyes.  “He’s so dangerous.”

Yvette nodded.  “I’ll put my keys through your door when I go.”


Copyright © Paul Beech 2012

From → Novel

Leave a Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: