Jacquie Parton - Tap Once for Yes: Messages from Beyond Death

Title Page

TAP ONCE FOR YES

Messages from beyond death

Jacquie Parton

Publisher Information

Digital edition converted and Distributed in 2012 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

Jacquie Parton 2013

All rights reserved

No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without the prior permission of the publisher.

A record of this publication is available from the British Library.

Typesetting by Wordzworth Ltd

www.wordzworth.com

Cover design by Titanium Design Ltd

www.titaniumdesign.co.uk

Printed by Lightning Source UK

www.lightningsource.com

Cover images by Jacquie Parton and Nigel Peace

Published by Local Legend

www.local-legend.co.uk

Acknowledgements

With deep gratitude to my partner Clive for his unwavering support and love, and to my brothers Tim and Chris, and their families, for being there.

Special thanks to my counsellor Simone Brookes for her sensitive approach to a most unusual case, and to Mary Collinson for her time and effort, inspiring my confidence as a writer from the very beginning.

Thank you Karan Palfreyman, and Jean and Jack Williams, for never judging me. Thank you Penny for listening, and Will and Carly for being Andrews friends.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Andrew, for giving me the courage to go on by his constant reassurance that life continues.

That Day

Love knows not depth until the hour of separation.

~ Kahlil Gibran

Andrew, can you give me a quick call? Ok if youre busy. This was the fourteenth time I had tried to reach him with no response. I was now more than a little anxious because Andrew always either answered or returned my call soonest, however briefly, to allay my concern.

As I tended to my client, I pondered all the occasions in common with many mothers when there had been a delay in contact. The inability to rest or concentrate until the familiar voice of your precious offspring resounded over the `phone, followed closely by the swift abatement of stomach-churning anxiety and frazzled nerve endings settling comfortably back into place.

Andrew lived in a beautifully furnished flat located in one of the more salubrious areas of Buxton. He lived alone, which always amplified my concern because no-one other than him could answer, but to date my fears had been unfounded. This morning was different. Abruptly, I decided against visiting my next client, feeling compelled to set out for Buxton immediately. As I started out on the familiar route from Stoke, driven by something intangible I could not quite fathom, I reflected on the night before.

In the early hours of the morning I had been awoken by a vivid image of Andrews face seemingly lying flat against something white with his eyes closed. This was then superimposed by the melodic tones of my `phone jolting me awake. Scrambling to answer it, I was extremely relieved to find that there was no missed call. Thankfully, I wrote it off as a nightmare, as I had thought it to be Andrew calling about some crisis that might have occurred. I went to replace the mobile back on my bedside cabinet, missing the side, delivering it unceremoniously onto the floor.

The next morning, my partner Clive came in to bring me an enlivening cup of coffee (we have snoring issues, so sleep separately). He asked why my mobile was on the floor. I told him of my disturbing nightmare and the relief Id felt when I realised that there had been no call.

The morning continued as any other: hair, clothes, breakfast, more coffee followed by a brisk walk with the dog around the block and setting off for work at my usual time of 9.30 a.m. ready for my first appointment at 10. I enjoyed my work as a mobile hairdresser, a refreshing change from the dysfunctional world of social work I had left behind some years before. Greeting people with a smile, sharing a chat and a coffee and leaving them with a fresh look and a further booking.

The time that Andrew started work determined the timing of my first daily call. I first called him at 11.50 a.m. At 12.40 p.m. I left him a message, and the time now was 12.55 as I left the outskirts of Stoke. I rang Andrews father, happily settled with his new wife Sheila of seventeen years in Buxton.

I cant reach Andrew, have you heard from him? I asked anxiously.

Sheila, rather surprised at my call, responded that she hadnt but whilst I was driving over she would continue to try and contact him. Clive then `phoned enquiring after my day following my disturbed night. He sounded a little perplexed as I informed him of my abrupt change of plan for the day; I would speak to him later.

Driving over the somewhat barren moorland hills, its bleakness to me that morning was temporarily made beautified by the warmth of bright sunshine. As I entered the familiar outskirts of Buxton, still not having had a relieving call from Sheila, I tried mentally to articulate why I didnt feel the infant churnings of rising panic. I did not feel I was reacting in the familiar way I felt accustomed to, but neither did I feel normal.

As I drew up to the yawning gateway of Andrews four storey Victorian building of newly refurbished flats, my eyes fell upon his neatly parked motorbike. Fleetingly relieved at the fact that there had been no accident, my gaze then focussed on his second floor flat as I parked. His spare room light was on, his lounge curtains still drawn. Now, the haunting recollection of last nights possible foreboding premonition played through my mind.

I had no key; I rang all of the six intercoms to gain entrance, with no response. I raced round to an adjoining property, remembering a kind of caretaker, a man Andrew shared his bike interests with - again, no reply. The time was now 1.10 p.m. and Andrew was due to be on duty at the hotel immediately behind where he lived at 2 oclock. He could just be out, stayed at a friends house, lost his `phone; but no, prompted by my dark thoughts I rang 999.

The operator answered in perfunctory fashion. Still a bit perplexed and a little embarrassed at my requesting assistance to locate my twenty-eight year old son, not as yet missing his arrival at work, the word police presented itself.

A young male police officer, his vehicle parked at the bottom of the awkward driveway, meandered towards me. His face was a little quizzical as to why Id called the emergency services out as I somewhat awkwardly but nevertheless with conviction expressed my concern that something was very wrong. It was difficult conveying the enormity of my fears as there was no apparent precursor as to why anything would have happened. I did, however, continue to consider that just maybe he had had a brain haemorrhage or stroke, or that maybe his recurrent serious migraine had transposed into something more sinister.

The time taken to decide on breaching the door turned into a good tormenting, teasing forty minutes. I spent most of it tailing the officer as he exchanged radio communications. A female officer joined us, exchanging glances with her colleague, indicating almost indifference to my plight as I implored them to breach the door immediately. It was very apparent to me that my growing distress was quite frankly falling on deaf ears.

It started to rain, a passing cloud compounding the misery of my impotence. The freshly painted green hardwood door was unremittingly impervious to my feeble attempts to slip the lock with my bank card - damn it!

Eventually the control centre had located the caretaker who furnished them with the access code adjacent to the door, releasing master keys. This was it, as with much trepidation I ascended the carpeted stairwell to Andrews flat between the two officers. The sunshine through the window illuminating our three shadows step by step to the fire door heralded our arrival at my sons flat. Hopefully he would be aware of the commotion that had been caused and remonstrate with me for having caused such nuisance; after all, he had just slept in! On the other hand, the flat could be empty because he had stayed somewhere else.