Humour short story competition - Winner

Sarah watched the man storm out of the booth, the drama slightly undermined by his getting briefly but comprehensively entangled in the beaded curtain. Freeing himself, he called her something ungentlemanly and then disappeared into the misty rain that had been smothering the seafront for most of the day.
Sarah sat back in her chair and sighed, asking herself, not for the first time that week, why this was so hard. As the guttering candles cast greasy yellow smears across her reflection in the crystal ball on the table, she wondered whether, overdraft or no overdraft, the new job was worth it.
‘Knock knock!’
Rose came in through the curtain, bringing with her a blast of cold, salty air.  Sarah’s employer was a small woman of indeterminate age with a spray of dark hair and so elaborately festooned with charms, medallions and trinkets that she jingled like a pocketful of change. She was from Essex, and sounded like it, except when she was with a customer. With customers she affected a Hammer Horror, somewhere-east-of-the-Urals accent.
‘Hello Rose.’
‘Quick word, darling.’
‘Okay.’
‘Another one storm out, did they?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘Did he cross your palm?’
‘Did he…?’
Rose rolled her eyes.
‘Did he give you a tenner, darling?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘I see.’
Rose took the seat on the other side of the table.
‘How many’s that now, darling?’
‘Well, a few, but…’
‘It’s not a few, though, is it darling? It’s a lot.’
‘Right. Yes.’
‘A lot’s not a few, is it?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Because you can say “just a few” can’t you? Can’t say “just a lot”. No just about it.’
‘No.’
‘What was it this time, darling?’
‘We did a past life regression and I…’
‘Not this again! What did you tell him?’
‘Well… that he’d been a Chinese peasant, and before that a Burgundian Peasant and before that…’
‘Go on.’
‘…a Frankish peasant who rustled sheep with, er, improper intentions.’
‘More peasants! Again! Why didn’t you tell him he was a pharaoh or a Viking chieftain? Punters love that crap!’
‘Because…’
‘No-one wants to hear that they spent their past lives spreading muck or bothering livestock! They want spice, exoticism! No wonder he didn’t pay!’
‘Right, but…’
‘And what about her last week? Big girl in the duffle coat with the Iceland carrier bag. She asked you whether she was going to find love this year and you said…’
‘Right. I remember, but…’
‘…you said, what was it darling?’
‘I said no.’
‘And did she pay?’
‘No.’
‘No. Because she weren’t satisfied, darling. Not a satisfied customer. Now, obviously the answer was no, poor cow, but that’s not what she wanted to hear was it? She wanted to hear that she’d be swept off her feet by a tall dark stranger or that Tom Hardy was going to take time out from his busy filming schedule to come round and diddle her senseless just as soon as her mum went out to the old folks’ bingo.’
‘But that would…’
‘That would have been a good for business, darling. You need to be careful. How many other ads have you seen recently saying ‘Psychic Wanted?’’
‘Just yours.’ It had actually read ‘Physic Wanted’ but Sarah decided against bringing that up.
‘Exactly. Now, that fella on Tuesday who asked about his lost cat…’
‘I remember.’
‘…What he wanted to hear was that Tiddles was roaming the countryside, happy and free. What he didn’t want to hear was…’
‘That it had been run over by the bin lorry. I know, but…’
‘No. He didn’t want to hear that, did he? He made that clear by kicking that seagull over by the ice cream van, but also, crucially, by not paying.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s just…’
‘The thing is, Sarah, I need more from you.’ Rose leaned in and dropped her voice a little.
‘Right…’
‘I’m running a business here and I was looking to expand with this second booth, but I’m wondering now whether I filled it with the right person.’
‘Okay…’
‘Also, you’re not using any of the stuff I’ve provided.’
 ‘Like…’
‘Like the crystal ball, darling.’
‘It isn’t crystal, it’s plastic.’
‘They were on offer in Aldi. I’m not made of money.’
‘It doesn’t work.’
‘It does, darling. If you plug it in it glows purple.’
‘No, I mean…’
‘And the tarot cards: they’re still in the cellophane.’
‘I can’t do tarot.’
‘It’s easy! Deal three cards, pretend anything with a skellington on it’s good, say they’re going to go on a long journey and then tell them they owe you a tenner.’
‘No, I mean I don’t get anything from it.’
‘Yes, you do. You get ten percent as per our contract.’
‘That’s not what I... hang on, what contract?’
‘And what about the dreamcatchers? You haven’t shifted any.’
‘I’m not sure how they’re meant to work.’
‘They don’t! They were invented by the Indians to rip off the cowboys when they weren’t allowed to scalp them anymore.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true…’
‘What’s true is they’re seventeen ninety-nine plus VAT and they ought to be cluttering up some poor sod’s house and not my booth. Plus, and I don’t mean to get at you darling, there’s your appearance.’
‘My appearance?!’
‘Yeah. Not being awful, darling, but you’re too pale.’
‘Too pale?’
‘Yeah. We’re selling the Romany vibe here, darling.’
‘But I’m not…’
‘Neither am I, darling! But you need to make yourself look darker. Like me.’
Rose’s skin was a deep mahogany but her mousey roots suggested that the tan came from a bottle. Sarah suspected it was a bottle with a picture of the Houses of Parliament on it.
‘Isn’t that a bit…’
‘Rough on the skin? No, darling. Spray-tan!’
‘…I was going to say racist…’
‘Racist?! Don’t be silly.’
‘I just feel it might be straying into cultural appropriation.’
Rose tilted her head in the manner of a dog that has heard an unfamiliar command and Sarah realised that the concept might take some explaining. Mercifully, she was not given the opportunity.
‘It’s not cultural aproprebation! I’m no racist, my sister married a little Pakistani fella…’
‘I stand corrected.’
‘…Can’t remember his name. We call him Bombay Billy at home.’
‘Bombay’s in India, and it’s Mumbai now…’
‘Well, whatever. You need to look into the tan thing. Also, that dress…’
‘What’s wrong with my dress?’
‘Not enough tassels. Also, it’s the wrong size.’
‘It’s my size.’
‘Could be tighter. Bit of cleavage never hurt anyone. Draws their eye and distracts them from what you’re saying.’
Rose certainly practised what she preached. She was currently spilling over the top of a corset that was clearly two sizes too small which, it occurred to Sarah, made her a fraudulent medium in more than one sense. The thought made her smile. Rose noticed, and her face hardened.
‘Something funny, darling?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘You need to fix-up, girl! You need to start telling people what they want to hear and start looking like they expect you to look.’
‘But most people won’t have been pharaohs or chieftains or princesses, they’ll have been peasants and labourers or children who died in infancy. And some people, most people, aren’t swept off their feet by a tall dark stranger. I’m just telling people the truth. That’s my responsibility, isn’t it? What you’re suggesting is just gimmickry and...’
‘And what, darling? Spit it out.’
‘Lying.’
‘WELCOME TO CLAIRVOYANCY! What did you expect? Did you think we could actually see people’s past lives and predict the bloody future?!’
‘Well, yes. I can.’
‘What?’
‘I can do that. That’s why I applied.’
‘Rubbish!’
‘It’s not rubbish. I have The Gift. Don’t you?’
‘Only gift I’ve ever had came courtesy of my second husband and it cleared up after a course of antibiotics.’
‘So, this is all…’
‘A sham? Of course, darling! It’s cold-reading, making stuff up to part sad sacks from their money. “For Entertainment Purposes Only” is what it says over the door.’
‘Does it?!’
‘Small letters, but it’s there. Keeps us sweet with the Fraudulent Mediums Act.’
‘But you don’t tell people that in here. You tell them you’re really psychic. That is fraud.’
‘Yeah but they can’t prove it and if they leave satisfied why would they try?’
‘You’re a charlatan!’
‘Wash your mouth out! I’m Millwall, darling. Supported them since I was a girl. Shows what kind of psychic you are!’
‘No, not Charlton, charlatan.’
‘Really? Know what you are?’
‘What?’
‘Sacked, darling. That’s what you are.’
‘Let me get this straight: you, a charlatan, are sacking me, a genuine psychic, because I tell the truth?’
‘Yep.’
‘I’ll be off then.’
‘Good riddance, darling.’
Sarah stood up and made for the exit. Rose twisted in her chair.
‘You’ll never work in this town again, Sarah.’
‘Oh, so you can predict the future now, can you Rose?’
‘As much as you can, darling.’
‘Yeah, well I have a prediction for you Rose. You will receive an unexpected visit which will precipitate a great fall, requiring you to go on a long journey. Keep your tenner, you can have that one for free. And don’t call me “darling!”’
With that, Sarah strode out through the beaded curtain and into the rain.
The wind whipped along the promenade and nipped at Sarah’s cheeks, but she did not care. She felt liberated. From now on she would use her gift for good, not for profit. And sparingly.
The prediction she had made to Rose did not count because it had not required second sight. No, it had been based on the fact that she had recorded most of the conversation on her mobile phone.
Then, nodding to the seagull that eyed her warily from the top of the ice cream van, Sarah headed up into the town, past the amusement arcade and towards the police station.
Suddenly a vision, unbidden, came and then went as quickly as it had come. It was of the door to Rose’s booth. It was closed and bolted and there was a handwritten sign taped on the glass. It read:
“Closed due to unforeseen circumstances.”