by Lauren Lees
Somewhere in the depths of Salford there is a car park, and within that car park — a tiny, grey brick shed. Within the shed is a man, and within the man? A supernatural, yet humble, psychic force.
It’s my favourite kind of weather today. The crisp air/cool sunshine combo that seems to shrug off the wine-lipped, spirit-breathed hyperactivity from the night before with ease. Fallen leaves crush beneath my tyres as I turn into the car park.
I’ve not been here before, didn’t even know it was here. How does it go so unnoticed — peeking out from around the corner of a large main road? It’s almost cheeky how a massive grey expanse, with such cheap rates, is so secret and so EMPTY. Even on a Tuesday morning! Congratulations traveller, you found me it seems to whisper, wizard-like, from beneath the tarmac as I lock the car door.
I grab the nightmare brick from my pocket, scan the qr code to pay my way, when five pixelated letters appear on the corner of a black screen: ERROR. I refresh, but again — ERROR. Looking around to see if I can find anyone to help, I spot a tiny, grey-bricked, green-shuttered outbuilding and head towards it.
Hovering at the doorless entry, I spot him. A broad, middle-aged man in a yellow high vis and black cargo trousers, sat in the tiny room’s only chair. He is squinting at his phone and typing with a singular finger.
Without looking up entirely, seemingly aware of my presence before I can announce it, he ushers me to “Come in, come in.”
“Thanks. Hello. I seem to be having trouble with the payment portal”
“Ahh — Have you been here before?”
“I haven’t, no.”
“Okay, my name’s Mike, I’m just here to look after the welfare of everyone. I don’t do the ticketing, me. It’s a different company. But you’ve gotta be careful ‘cuz they’ll ‘av you for it. We’re having problems with it at the moment, the payment, so don’t worry about paying for it for today. Text that number there your reg so they don’t ticket you.”
Mike points to a phone number, written large in blue biro on a piece of A4, sellotaped to an old, scratched up school table. It is the only other piece of furniture in the room, bar his chair and a brown filing cabinet.
“Now can I just say, I’m a bit psychic, I am.”
My mouth cracks into a smile. There’s nothing I love more than meeting an eccentric character. Especially so early on in the day.
“Oh really? That’s so cool!”
“Yeah, and you’ve got this aura around you, you see. Are you a student?”
“I am yeah.”
“What course?”
“Journalism.”
“Yeah, I can see it. You’ve got this air of Journalism around you. You’re gonna do really well, I can feel it. And if you ever feel insecure, like you won’t do well, I want you to look in the mirror and say ‘I can do it’ to yourself.”
I pause the typing of the mysterious phone number digits into my phone and look up. “Thanks Mike, that’s really nice. I definitely will.”
His expression darkens, furrowed brow, dead serious now. “But I must warn you of something dangerous in your future.”
“Oh no!”
“Now, don’t worry, you can change it, but you need to be aware” He shuffles in his seat, uncrosses a leg, gaze unwavering.
I nod, What the fuck is he gonna say.
“There’s a fall, in your future. You can prevent it — but you need to be careful with carrying too much in your hands.”
His eyes move down to everything I’m carrying — my water bottle, coat, keys, phone, carrier bag. “And the shoes you’re wearing,” which is my £7 Primark fake Uggs, a proper hazard to be fair — I often slip in them.
“And on stairs, you need to take your time on stairs.”
I pause, taking it all in.
“Wow, I definitely will. Thanks so much Mike, I really appreciate the warning.”
We shake hands, and I walk away from the car park. Not before emptying everything I’m carrying into the shopping bag.
A week later, back to my careless ways of juggling a lot of possessions and wearing silly shoes, I did trip on the stairs. A little bit. Nothing serious. But Mike was right. He is clearly a gifted psychic. Or you know, it could just be common sense, but where’s the magic in that?
