First and Only

  First and Only

  Peter Flannery

  Blackheart Books

  ~

  The Million Dollar Psychic Challenge

  The million dollar challenge is a genuine prize offered by the James Randi Educational Foundation to anyone who can demonstrate paranormal ability under properly controlled conditions. To date more than a thousand people have attempted the challenge but as yet no one has been able to demonstrate the powers they claimed to possess.

  I would like to thank Mr Randi and Mr Wagg for taking the time to read through the relevant chapters of First & Only and correcting me on several key points. Those wishing to learn more about the JREF and the million dollar challenge can visit their website at… http://www.randi.org/site/.

  To Julie

  For her love and support

  and for letting me know when I lost the plot!

  Prologue

  Fourteen years ago

  Newspaper cutting

  Torture

  Police have confirmed that the man’s body, found earlier this week in Didsbury, Manchester, showed signs of torture. They have refused to comment on the nature of the injuries and defended their lack of progress in finding the killer.

  The lighting in the church was pleasantly subdued. Flames flickered through sconces of red glass and the still air carried the familiar smells of furniture polish, burning candles, incense and stone.

  It was time for evening confession in the parish church of St Joseph’s. Two tradesmen worked quietly from a tower of scaffolding, fitting new lights above the statue of the Sacred Heart but apart from them the church was almost empty. Just two people waited silently in the pews. One was a woman in her sixties with her faded blue raincoat and dull grey hair; the other was an eight-year-old boy who sat in the pew with his head bowed and his hands twisting in his lap.

  His name was Psimon, and he was terrified.

  Every week he came to evening confession, not to confess his sins but just to speak to Father Kavanagh, the gentlest, most understanding man he had ever known. He enjoyed the game of pretending they did not know each other and the fact that the priest was bound by a sacred oath never to reveal a word of what was told to him. But tonight was different. Tonight something was going to happen; something from his dreams, from his nightmares. The church appeared serene and safe. There was nothing to portend the presence of evil but somehow Psimon knew.

  Somehow Psimon always knew.

  To the right of the pews were the two doors of the confessional each leading to a small rectangular room and joined by a pierced screen of polished brass. Psimon glanced up as the light above the penitent’s door went out and an elderly man emerged clutching a flat cap and a walking stick carved in the likeness of a Jack Russel terrier. He gave Psimon a smile and a conspiratorial wink before making his way to the doors at the back of the church. The light above the other door remained lit, indicating that the priest was still in residence. The grey haired woman turned to look at Psimon but he bowed his head and the woman gave a weary sigh before rising from her pew.

  As the woman disappeared into the confessional Psimon looked up at the workmen. Except for them the church was now empty. There was no one else waiting to see Father Kavanagh. He drew a breath. Maybe he was wrong... maybe the old priest would be all right after all. He glanced eagerly at the confessional light. The grey haired woman would not take long, she never did. He was edging towards the end of the pew when he froze. He felt a prickling sensation across the back of his neck and an unpleasant chill surged through his body. Someone had entered the church behind him and Psimon knew that his fears were true.

  His small hands gripped the pew as the stranger came closer until he could hear their heavy footfalls on the brown ceramic floor tiles. And there was something else… a noise; a confusion of whispers that sounded almost like a voice, or many voices. Psimon did not know if the whispers were coming from the stranger or just echoing within the confines of his own head. He tried not to listen. He did not like the voices. The stranger was almost level with him when the confessional door opened and the grey haired woman stepped out into the aisle. From the corner of his eye Psimon saw the woman check herself at the sight of the stranger. He noticed how she flattened herself against the wall to let the stranger pass.

  Psimon’s eyes flitted fearfully to the side. He saw a tall youth with long black hair falling unkempt about his face. His posture was hunched and brooding but his broad shoulders spoke of the powerful man he would soon become. Without hesitation the stranger opened the door to the penitent’s confessional and disappeared inside. Psimon glanced at the grey haired woman who gave him a brief look of concern before hurrying away, the harsh click of her heels receding until she left the church and the main door closed with a soft percussive boom.

  An ominous silence descended in which Psimon could hear his own shallow breathing. He could just hear the tradesmen atop the scaffolding talking in low respectful voices. And now he could hear the stranger’s voice… harsh, unpleasant and made all the more sinister by the incessant presence of the whispers; whispers that were almost words. He did not want to hear it but he could not shut it out.

  ‘Forgive me Father for I have sinned…’ the stranger said. ‘But then I told you I was going to, didn’t I?’

  The stranger snorted in response to some reaction from the priest.

  ‘Yes. Your lost sheep has returned to confess his sins.’

  There was a pause and Psimon could sense Father Kavanagh’s shock and fear.

  ‘So who needs a confessor now, priest? He who committed the sin or he who let it happen?’ The stranger spoke in a mocking tone, and in the background the voices whispered with dark malevolence.

  Father Kavanagh did not answer but somehow Psimon could sense his breathing, heavy and laboured, and his heart, thumping, thumping… He wrapped his arms around his chest as his own body began to mirror the old priest’s anxiety.

  ‘You knew I’d do it, didn’t you Father?’

  Still Father Kavanagh said nothing and Psimon winced, hunching forward and struggling to breathe through the pain that was crushing his chest.

  ‘What’s the matter priest… taken a vow of silence?’

  Fighting against the pain Psimon raised his head, looking up at the workmen oblivious to what was happening.

  ‘He wasn’t silent when I put him to the torment.’

  Psimon’s eyes grew wide. He did not know what the stranger was talking about but he knew that something terrible had happened, that the stranger had done something terrible. He was about to call to the workmen when he heard a heavy thudding sound coming from the priest’s confessional. Before he knew what he was doing he dashed across the aisle and pulled open the priest’s door. Father Kavanagh had slipped from his chair and was slumped in the corner of the small room; his hand knotted in his cassock, clutching at his chest.

  ‘Stop it!’ said Psimon. ‘Stop it, you’re hurting him.’

  ‘Who’s there?’ said the stranger and suddenly the voices ceased their whispering and coalesced into words…

  ‘A witness… a witness in the house of Jehovah…’

  ‘Father, are you all right?’ cried Psimon. ‘Father Kavanagh, please…’

  ‘Who the fuck is that?’ snarled the stranger.

  ‘No one must know…’ hissed the voices.

  Psimon crouched down beside the stricken priest. He jumped at the sound of the penitent’s door flying open and he knew the stranger was coming. Pressing his face against Father Kavanagh’s chest he began to cry but when the stranger grabbed the handle and tried to open the priest’s door Psimon held it shut.

  ‘Open this fucking door priest,’ growled the stranger, and the whispers made his intentions terrifyingl
y clear...

  ‘Silence the witness...’

  ‘Cut out his tongue...’

  ‘Fill his mouth with dirt...’

  Psimon knew that Father Kavanagh was dead. There was nothing he could do. He was just eight years old and he was utterly terrified. The stranger pulled at the door, tearing at the handle with all his animal strength but Psimon closed his eyes and held it shut. If that was all he could do then he would do it. He would hold the door shut. Keep the stranger out.

  ‘Silence the witness…’

  ‘Cut out his tongue…’

  ‘Fill his mouth with dirt…’

  Psimon sobbed against the priest’s chest. He was losing his battle with the fear and his grip on the door was failing.

  Hold the door shut…

  Keep the stranger out…

  ‘Hey!’

  The shout came from the workmen on top of the scaffolding and the assault on the door came to a sudden stop. The two men began to climb quickly down the ladder and the stranger stepped away from the door.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ they demanded as they reached the floor but the stranger was already heading towards the back of the church. ‘Stop... What’ve you done? Stop!’

  The stranger started to run, racing down one aisle while the workmen gave chase down the other. Oblivious to the presence of the traumatised boy they sprinted for the main doors and the stranger fled before them.

  Psimon heard the men charging through the church and, trembling with fear, he pushed himself away from the body of Father Kavanagh. He opened the confessional door and peered round the church now quiet and peaceful as if nothing had happened. With a last tearful look at his friend and confidant he left the confessional and crossed over to the sacristy where there was a side door that was always unlocked. Grasping the heavy iron ring he hauled the door open and gasped as the night air cooled the tears on his face. He was halfway through door when he heard footsteps coming back into the church. Having lost the stranger in the dark suburban streets the two workmen returned to discover the body of Father Kavanagh.

  ‘Christ!’ said one as they opened the door of the confessional. ‘Do you think that guy killed him?’

  ‘Either that or he had a heart attack trying to hold the door shut.’

  ‘Don’t know how he managed that... there’s no handle on this side.’

  The two men looked at the brass plate on the inside of the door. There was no lock, no handle, no way of holding it shut.

  Quiet as a ghost Psimon closed the sacristy door. He squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead against the cool thick oak. He tried to tell himself that it was over but he knew that it was not; he knew that one day he would meet the stranger again only then there would be no escape. Struggling against the fear that had engulfed his soul he tried to drive the stranger from his mind but all he could see was the vast shadow of a man and the name by which the stranger knew himself...

  Lucifer

  Psimon sank to his knees and sobbed in fearful silence.

  Lucifer

  The stranger’s name was Lucifer.

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday March 1st

  The Present Day

  Missing

  There is still no word on the whereabouts of the eminent psychologist Dr Marcus Bryant who went missing last week near his home in Sefton Park, Liverpool. Police are reluctant to link this latest incident with the murder of several other individuals over the last few years, all of whom worked in the field of mental health. Questions about the existence of a serial killer have been deemed unhelpful.

  Psimon watched as the gravediggers levelled the soil over his mother’s grave. They arranged the flowers around the headstone and placed a small posy in the centre of the low mound. The foreman turned to him and touched the peak of his cap in respectful salute. Psimon nodded and offered a small smile of thanks then waited as they loaded their tools into the barrow, put on their coats and sauntered away.

  The graveyard was quiet. The last of the mourners had long since taken their leave and Psimon was alone at last. It was raining slightly and the air was filled with the loamy scent of earth. Breathing in the smell he moved forward to stand at the foot of the grave. He let out a sigh as the expression on his face turned inwards, the grief softened by a smile of love and enduring fondness. His mother’s death had come as no surprise and yet, after twenty-two years of her constant presence, it was difficult to accept that she was gone. He felt the sadness welling up inside but he also felt relief that she had not lived to see him suffer. She was down there now with his dad; together again at last. They were at peace and he was free to do what he had to do. Wiping the tears from his eyes his mind drifted back to the last conversation he had had with his mum.

  ‘Will you tell anyone?’ she had asked.

  Psimon nodded.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  She smiled but her smile was tempered with a mother’s concern. ‘They will fear you.’

  ‘I will help them understand.’

  ‘They will try to control you.’

  ‘Yes...’ he replied. ‘They will try.’

  ‘And is there someone you trust; someone who can help you?’

  ‘Possibly… Yes.’

  ‘Good… That’s good.’

  She had closed her eyes a final time. ‘Take care of yourself, my love...’ she breathed. ‘Do what you have to do…’

  Psimon nodded at the memory of his mother’s final words. Crouching down beside the grave he kissed his fingers and pressed them into the soft mound of earth then he withdrew his hand and rose to his feet.

  ‘Now,’ he thought. ‘Now I can begin.’

  He had five days to decide his fate, five days before the end. But would it be slow or would it be quick...

  ‘Let it be quick,’ he thought. ‘Please God... Let it be quick.’

  He lifted his face to the sky and blinked away his tears then he made his way back to the path and turned in the direction of his flat. He paused. Heading that way would take him past the church; past the place where it had all begun. For a moment he wavered. He was not sure he could face it. But the church was just a building… a place of memories.

  Lucifer was not there; Lucifer was elsewhere.

  Psimon took a breath and began to walk. The light was fading when he reached St Joseph’s. He stopped and turned to peer over the black iron railings, his mind leaping back to that terrible night fourteen years ago... the lifeless body of Father Kavanagh, the unsettling sound of whispers and the fury in Lucifer’s voice when he realised that someone had overheard his confession. As the memories faded Psimon found that he was gripping the railings. Slowly the tension went out of his body. He let go of the railings and his eyes took on a more determined glint. He shook his head to clear his thoughts then with a final look at the church he continued on his way.

  Navigating the leafy suburbs of Manchester it took him another twenty minutes to reach his flat. He opened the front door of the converted Victorian house and climbed the stairs to a second door on the first floor. Opening it he placed his keys on a small unit in the hall. He took off his jacket, loosened his black tie and proceeded down the hall to his spare room. The room was almost empty but there was a chair and a white table beside the door. On it was a pot full of pens, a sprawl of paper and various rolls of adhesive tape. There was also a white padded envelope, a mobile phone and a small black notebook with a thin pencil pushed down into the spine. The notebook looked old and well used.

  Psimon picked it up and turned to the first entry... October 1997. The entry was made some fourteen years ago in the scrawly hand of an eight-year-old boy. Under the date was a name... Father Kavanagh. The old priest’s name was crossed out and beneath it Psimon had written... I’m sorry.

  He flicked through the pages, through the long list of crossed out names, to a page that was divided into six days. In the space for today’s date there were two names noted down. The first was, mum. G
ently Psimon crossed out the word and drew a single X beside it. The second name was, Dr Marcus Bryant. He put the tip of the pencil to the name and shook his head in a gesture of regret then slowly his eyes moved across the page to Thursday and another name... Dr Patrick Denning. Finally he reached the space marked for Sunday, just five days from now. Here was written a single word, the last word in his little book of death.

  Here, he had written, me.

  For several seconds he stared at the word as images of pain and death swam through his mind. He tried to make sense of them, he tried to see beyond them but as he did so he began to sweat. His hands shook, his jaw clenched and his breathing grew ragged until dark spots appeared in his vision and the images were swallowed up in the black shadows of his fear.

  Slowly the crippling anxiety faded as Psimon conceded to his fate. He could not stop it; he could not change it. The end was close but before it came there were things he had to do. He reached across the table for the mobile phone. The world needed to know that he existed, or at least that someone like him could exist. He had five days in which to tell them and it would start with a phone call.

  Chapter 2

  International Liaison for National Security

  The Blenheim Suite

  MI5

  London

  Richard Chatham spoke into the phone as he turned to the computer on his broad walnut desk. ‘Thank you Ambassador. I’m just retrieving the files now.’ He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and breathed a deep sigh of relief. He had just succeeded in averting an international crisis but it had taken the entire weekend and the first day of his long-awaited vacation, and his wife was not amused. The high security network flashed up on his monitor and he entered his password...

  T H E R M O P Y L A E 1 3 4 6

  Locating the necessary files he entered the ambassador’s details, verified the digital signature, and clicked send. ‘That’s it,’ he said, speaking once more into the phone. ‘The files should be with you now.’ There was a brief pause and Chatham smiled. ‘Not at all, ambassador. Thank you for being so understanding.’ He put down the handset and pressed the red button on the base of the phone to call his aide. A few seconds passed and a tall young man leaned in through the door of Chatham’s office.