"I see dead people."

"Now then Mr..."

Lydia Barron took a quick look at the notebook in her lap.

"Wenlock. You think that you need to see a psychiatrist? Could you perhaps explain why you think that please?"

"I see dead people."

Lydia took several quick appraising glances at the man. He was middle aged, a solid built man, but not obese. Hair was cut short, and obviously thinning. His face was concerned and hopeful.

"That... is certainly unusual. How often do you see them?"

"Oh every day, well near enough."

"I see. And, roughly how long have you been seeing them?"

"It must be... at least 25 years, maybe a few more than that."

Lydia made a note. Mr. Wenlock watched her, wondering what she might be jotting down.

"Quite a long time then. Do they communicate with you, these dead people?"

Mr. Wenlock looked startled.

"No.o. That would be extremely worrying. I mean they occasionally belch, or... Um, you know break wind, but they never speak."

Another note.

"But they bother you? They upset you in some way?"

"Yes. I mean at first no, I took it all in my stride, a bit cocksure I suppose. But then it started to ... to upset me I suppose you'd say. It was the children particularly."

"Dead children?"

Lydia thought she was getting somewhere promising.

"Yes. It didn't seem right, you know? Didn't seem right them being so young and having all that life taken away."

Mr. Wenlock sniffed, and then began to cry.

Lydia, passed him the box of Kleenex tissues that sat on the coffee table between them. After a good blow and a few more sniffs, he seemed a little recovered.

"I understand. It does seem that if you have some psychotherapy with me, I might be able help you. Perhaps I could have a few more details.

Full name?"

"David Donald Wenlock. My mum couldn't choose between David or Donald, so I got saddled with both ."

Lydia smiled politely.

"Date of birth?"

"6th February 1981."

"And your current occupation Mr. Wenlock?"

"Undertaker."