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reputation.
    Aside from the bookshelves, there was a selection of theatrical posters, all featuring an air-brushed, bottle-tanned version of the man sat in front of ‘Mr Fisher’, and an enviable host of framed photographs of celebrity clients. Belgrade communed with more stars than your average tabloid astrologer (a role he had also performed in his time until more lucrative gigs came his way).
    ‘I just hope you can establish a connection with my darling Elisabeth,’ said ‘Mr Fisher’. ‘She always promised that if there was any way of getting in touch with me from the other side she would make the effort. I’ve been to several mediums, though not on a one-to-one basis, and have yet to receive a message.’
    ‘Ah.’ Belgrade’s face crumpled as if he had just been informed of the death of a favourite pet. ‘There are so many charlatans working today. Plus, of course, in a theatre it is hard to pass on a message for everyone. I see my live shows as a valuable way of spreading the positive belief that there is life after death. Sometimes that is just as important as delivering a specific message. Reassuring those who are left behind that their loved ones are somewhere beautiful, that they are happy, that they have found peace. I find them tiring but I think spreading the word is a duty, a responsibility that one such as myself needs to live up to.’
    ‘Mr Fisher’ imagined the sizeable chunk of box-office revenue didn’t hurt either.
    ‘If you will give me your hand?’
    ‘Mr Fisher’ did so, noting the perfectly manicured nails of the psychic. This was a man who took to luxury with an admirable fastidiousness.
    ‘The physical contact is not always necessary but I find it can be a valuable extra focus.’
    ‘It’s no problem.’
    ‘Mr Fisher’ noted Belgrade looking at his ring finger. There was, unsurprisingly, no recent sign of him having worn a wedding band.
    ‘Poor Elisabeth left you some time ago didn’t she?’ asked Belgrade in that manner of presenting a question as fact. ‘Mr Fisher’ was quite aware that there could be no truly incorrect response to Belgrade’s query, ‘some time ago’ being a rather subjective phrase.
    ‘It’s been four years,’ he replied, having plucked the number out of thin air.
    ‘Four long years,’ repeated Belgrade, as if the information had come from him in the first place. ‘Four difficult years.’ The more he said it, ‘Mr Fisher’ knew, the more a susceptible client might be inclined to misremember the order of events. Later, when telling a friend about the consultation, many would have ended up giving Belgrade credit for the number.
    ‘You can never truly be prepared for such a loss,’ said Belgrade, hedging his bets as to whether the fictional Elisabeth died suddenly or from a long-term illness.
    ‘Indeed not,’ agreed ‘Mr Fisher’, aware that the psychic would have hoped for more information than that but willing to play dirty.
    ‘We all know that there will come a time when we are to be separated from the ones we love,’ Belgrade continued, happy to take another stab at the technique, ‘especially if our partners are struck by a serious illness.’ A statement that could later be claimed as psychic awareness or simply a general comment. ‘Mr Fisher’ decided to help Belgrade out a little.
    ‘It was cancer,’ he said. ‘She suffered for such a long time.’
    ‘I know,’ Belgrade replied, rather cheekily. ‘I can sense the relief, the end of suffering endured.’
    ‘Mr Fisher’ had already made his decision as to Belgrade’s abilities but he had little else to do that morning so decided to play along further. Then his mobile phone rang in his jacket, a digital reproduction of James Bernard’s theme from
Dracula.
    ‘Do forgive me,’ he said, ‘I was sure I had turned it off.’ He kept hold of Belgrade’s hand, pulling the mobile from his pocket, noted the number with interest and then sent the call to voicemail. The call