First and Only Page 12

  Psimon gave a small affirmative nod. ‘Seventy-four, Freshfield Road, Altrincham,’ he said. ‘Flat number two.’

  Despite his misgivings and his feelings of inadequacy Steve approached the motorway but instead of taking the exit for Wythenshaw Hospital he veered left, heading away from Manchester and towards the suburb of Altrincham.

  Chapter 17

  Steve pulled up outside Psimon’s flat. The street was wide and lined with mature trees. It was after ten now and raining; the bare branches of the trees forming spidery halos round the widely spaced street lamps. Except for a single car, parked some way back on the other side of the street, the road was quiet; there was no one about. Steve turned to Psimon who had been dozing in his seat.

  ‘Nice area,’ he said, the idle small talk helping to diffuse the tension that persisted from the incident in the airport car park.

  Psimon straightened up in his seat, wincing at the sudden pain in his hands and in his side. ‘Yes,’ he replied, waving Steve’s hands away when he tried to help.

  Steve watched Psimon’s face anxiously as he unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for his bag. He was clearly still in pain but the crisis had passed. ‘I had you in a bedsit,’ he said looking up at the handsome Victorian villa.

  Psimon managed a weak laugh and reached to open the door but a sharp intake of breath spoke of the pain in his ribs.

  ‘Let me get that,’ said Steve jumping out of the car and moving quickly round to open the door for Psimon.

  With an effort Psimon managed to get out on his own but his legs felt numb and unsteady and he was grateful for Steve’s help when he tried to stand.

  ‘Where are we heading?’ asked Steve, supporting Psimon as they made their way towards the driveway.

  ‘Main door,’ said Psimon. ‘Then up the stairs.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Steve, pointing his key ring behind them to lock the car. And as he glanced back something caught his eye; a tiny glint of light from the car across the street. Light reflecting from a pair of spectacles…

  There was someone in the car.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Psimon, his voice heavy with fatigue.

  ‘Just a minute,’ replied Steve, trying to pierce the shadowed interior of the car with his gaze. He turned to look directly at the car but just at that moment it started its engine and pulled off down the road. Steve’s gaze followed the car as it passed them but the light was not sufficient for him to see inside. He caught a quick glimpse of the driver, a woman in a dark suit, nothing more.

  ‘Steve?’ queried Psimon.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Steve. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you inside.’

  Steve did not know what he had been expecting but he felt surprised that Psimon’s flat was so normal. It was a nice flat with large rooms and high corniced ceilings, a good conversion of the original house. Whatever Psimon did for a living he was doing well to be able to afford this. But all that aside it was the home of a normal young man; untidy, with clothes lying about the floor, music CDs, empty glasses, stacks of DVDs piled on the floor, rather than back on the shelves where they belonged.

  Steve helped Psimon through to the living room and lowered him into a big comfy armchair. There was a large ‘home cinema’ unit in the corner, several sweaters and a thick fleecy blanket strewn across the sofa opposite. There were two games consoles set up beside the TV and beside them the obligatory pizza delivery box and an empty bottle of wine.

  ‘Normal,’ thought Steve incongruously as he glanced down at Psimon.

  Psimon relaxed into the chair with a bone-weary sigh and Steve crossed to the deep bay window. He moved from one side to the other pushing the curtains back so that he could see as much of the road below as possible.

  Nothing... the road was clear. There was no sign of the car that had tweaked his suspicions.

  With an unconvinced grunt Steve drew the curtains and switched on a couple of table lamps before turning out the main light, which was altogether too bright.

  ‘Coffee?’ suggested Steve. ‘Brandy?’

  ‘A cup of tea would be great,’ replied Psimon without opening his eyes.

  Steve looked down at this remarkable young man; his face, which had been almost back to normal, was once again swollen and bruised and now dotted with painful looking blisters; and his hands, trembling slightly as they rested on the arms of the chair, each centred with a blood-black sore.

  ‘Fourteen times…’ thought Steve. ‘Fourteen times this has happened before. And who was there to help you back to your flat then?’

  Psimon seemed almost asleep and Steve went through to the kitchen to get them some drinks. When he returned a few minutes later with two mugs of tea Psimon was not asleep but staring wistfully across the room, his eyes glistening with tears.

  They drank their tea in silence. When Steve saw that Psimon had finished he went over to take the empty mug from him.

  ‘Let’s have a look at you then,’ he said, putting the mugs aside and drawing a reluctant Psimon gently forward in his chair.

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Psimon. ‘It’ll pass… All this will fade… It always does.’

  Steve was having none of it. ‘Let me see,’ he said taking one of Psimon’s hands carefully and holding it closer to the light.

  The skin remained unbroken but the trauma to the underlying tissue looked painfully real.

  ‘So how does this happen,’ asked Steve as he turned Psimon’s hand over, gently testing his fingers to make sure he still had movement and sensation.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Psimon, looking at his hand as if he too were puzzled by it. ‘I tend to think of it as a kind of stigmata.’

  ‘You mean the wounds of Christ,’ said Steve, ‘magically appearing on the bodies of devout followers.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Psimon.

  ‘Stigmata’s for real then?’ asked Steve, glancing up at Psimon.

  ‘No,’ said Psimon. ‘But that’s the way I think of it.’

  Steve nodded as he laid Psimon’s hand down and leaned forward to inspect his bruised face.

  ‘Besides,’ Psimon went on. ‘These aren’t the wounds of Christ and I’m not a devout follower.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Steve. ‘Sorry,’ he added when Psimon winced as he checked that his nose was not actually broken.

  ‘But it is true,’ Psimon continued as if he were pleased at having someone to discuss it with, ‘…that the mind can effect physical changes in the body. I just think that with me it’s more pronounced.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Steve, directing Psimon to raise his top so that he could take a look at the injury in his side.

  ‘When these attacks occur,’ explained Psimon. ‘It’s as if they’re happening to me. They feel so real… I think my body believes it and makes it so.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound very scientific,’ said Steve bending forward to look more closely at the livid red weal in Psimon’s side.

  ‘That’s cos I’m not a scientist,’ said Psimon.

  ‘Well it sure as hell looks like someone gave you a good whack here,’ said Steve.

  ‘He didn’t hit me, he stabbed me.’

  ‘Yes,’ thought Steve, ‘That’s what it sounded like.’

  ‘Or at least,’ Psimon corrected himself. ‘He stabbed whoever it was he’d taken.’

  Steve glanced up at Psimon. He still found it difficult to believe that someone, somewhere had been murdered tonight and that Psimon was displaying the marks of the killing.

  ‘And has it always been like this?’ asked Steve. ‘With all the others?’

  ‘No,’ said Psimon reflectively. ‘At first they were more like nightmares. Terrible nightmares that a young boy couldn’t know enough of the world to have.’

  Steve paused as he unravelled this awkward sentence, then he shuddered as the meaning of it struck home.

  ‘But they’ve been growing more powerful over the last few years,’ said Psimon. ‘More real… the
distance between us is closing.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Steve, moving back to sit on the arm of the nearby sofa.

  ‘That the time when we meet is getting nearer.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Steve.

  ‘I just do,’ said Psimon somewhat defensively.

  ‘And that’s all?’ pressed Steve. ‘You don’t know where or when?’

  ‘Only that it’s soon,’ said Psimon ominously. ‘And close.’

  ‘Close?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Manchester,’ clarified Psimon. ‘We meet somewhere in the city.’

  ‘Oh, well that narrows it down,’ said Steve sarcastically.

  Psimon turned his bruised face away. It was obvious that this ‘encounter’ was not something he was eager to talk about. But Steve was finally convinced about the validity of Psimon’s fears and he was not willing to let it drop.

  ‘You must know more than that?’ he insisted. ‘From what I can see you seem to know just about anything you want to know.’

  Psimon refused to look at him.

  ‘Come on Psimon,’ said Steve. ‘You must be able to give me something… a description, a location, a time of day… anything. Why don’t you just try.’

  ‘You think I haven’t tried,’ snapped Psimon, turning to look directly at Steve. ‘You think I’ve felt those people die and never tried to see the face of the man who did it.’

  ‘So what’s stopping you,’ challenged Steve.

  ‘The fear, Steve! I can’t see past the fear.’

  The frustration was painfully clear both in Psimon’s tone and the bitter regret shining in his eyes.

  ‘There comes a time when we have to face our fears,’ said Steve more gently.

  ‘I’ve tried,’ said Psimon and now he just sounded exhausted. ‘God knows I’ve tried. But it’s like a black wall in my mind; a shadow that I can’t see beyond.’

  ‘But surely if you…’ began Steve but Psimon cut him off.

  ‘Steve, you can’t even take a piss if someone’s standing next to you at the urinal. And believe me, trying to confront the murdering psycho who’s terrorised you from childhood is just a tad more difficult.’

  This statement had the desired effect and Steve sat up straight on the arm of the sofa, chastened.

  ‘This isn’t some kind of trivial phobia,’ said Psimon in a kinder tone. ‘It’s not an irrational fear. Nothing I see beyond the next few days has any substance to it. There’s nothing to suggest that it’s anything more than wishful thinking. I have dreams that seem more real.’

  Psimon’s despondency was painfully apparent.

  ‘But if you could see something,’ ventured Steve. ‘Anything,’ he added. ‘Any small detail that might help me save you.’

  ‘You can’t save me,’ stated Psimon. ‘All you can do is decide how I die.’

  ‘Don’t fucking patronise me!’ thought Steve angrily but letting out a deep breath he reigned in his temper.

  ‘I may not be psychic,’ he said tightly. ‘But I simply refuse to accept that!’

  ‘You have no choice,’ said Psimon. ‘I have seen it.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Steve turning Psimon’s gift back on himself. ‘What exactly have you seen?’

  Psimon looked suddenly small and fearful.

  ‘Why Manchester?’ asked Steve. ‘What makes you think you meet the killer in Manchester?’

  ‘Because I see nowhere apart from Manchester between now and the time that I die,’ replied Psimon. ‘I do not leave the city.’

  ‘Useful!’ thought Steve, sarcastically.

  He thought for a minute.

  ‘And what about meeting the killer?’ he said. ‘That can’t be down to simple deduction… What’s he like? And when do you first know he’s there?’

  Psimon’s eyes narrowed as he focussed on the interior images of his mind. He had grown quite pale and Steve could see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip. For a while Steve did not think he was going to answer.

  ‘It’s just the presence,’ said Psimon distantly.

  ‘Shit!’ thought Steve with growing frustration.

  ‘He’s big…’ added Psimon in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. ‘…Like a giant.’

  Steve rolled his eyes.

  ‘Like a giant…’ he thought. ‘Great!’

  This was not exactly the detailed description he was hoping for. More like the exaggerated image that a child would form of an adult who had frightened them.

  ‘And the eyes…’ Psimon went on in the same dreamlike voice. ‘So dark they’re almost black. And flat,’ he added. ‘No expression, no feeling at all.’

  Steve sat forward. Psimon had never mentioned seeing the man’s eyes before.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Psimon as if he were in some kind of trance. ‘Just the presence, and the eyes, and then he’s gone and all I see are the letters T, I, X, and the number 3.’

  Steve had been leaning forward in anticipation, now he settled back and sighed. Dark eyes probably meant dark hair. And T, I, X and the number three…

  ‘What the hell did that mean?’

  Not much to go on, that was for certain but not nothing either. He raised his hands to his face and then a thought occurred to him.

  ‘What do you mean, he’s gone?’ he asked.

  ‘Sorry?’ said Psimon.

  ‘You said, “…and then he’s gone”,’ repeated Steve. ‘I thought this guy is supposed to kill you. But now you’re saying he turns up then disappears.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Psimon as if he had never seen it that way. ‘The killing comes later.’

  Steve gasped with exasperation. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘So tell me about the killing.’

  Psimon was not looking at Steve. He seemed to be pondering on why he had not made this differentiation before.

  ‘Where does it happen?’ asked Steve.

  ‘What?’ replied Psimon distractedly.

  ‘Your death,’ said Steve, finding it distasteful to keep to Psimon’s script.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Psimon. ‘I think it’s a church but if it is then it must be an old one.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Because the walls are bare stone and circular.’ Psimon’s gaze was focussed on a point some distance beyond where Steve was sitting. ‘It’s a grim place,’ he went on. ‘Cold and grim.’

  ‘But you’re sure that’s where it takes place...’ clarified Steve. ‘The killing?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Psimon in a sinister whisper. ‘That’s where all the confessions take place.’

  Steve felt a shiver run down his spine and he hesitated before asking the next question.

  ‘And you’re sure I’m there?’ he asked quietly. ‘In this place… You are sure it’s me?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Psimon as his gaze suddenly focussed on Steve. ‘I’m sure.’

  Steve’s heart was suddenly beating faster. He felt a strange kind of light-headedness and Psimon seemed to shrink away into the corner of the room. Part of him did not want to ask the next question but he knew he must.

  ‘…if he kills me then it’s over,’ Psimon had said. ‘But if you kill me then everything will be all right.’

  Steve asked the question.

  ‘And what makes you think I kill you?’

  ‘Because I have seen it,’ said Psimon, his stone grey eyes boring into Steve’s down a long and echoing tunnel. ‘I have felt it,’ Psimon went on. ‘I feel the blade stabbing into my face, slicing through flesh and bone.’

  Steve was transfixed.

  ‘I feel a moment’s pain,’ said Psimon. ‘A flash of elation, and then… nothing.’

  Steve could feel himself growing faint and he tried to slow his breathing.

  Could he do it? Could he actually kill someone he cared about to save them from an otherwise long and agonising death? The prospect terrified Steve. It terrified him because he knew that
the answer to the question was yes.

  Silence embraced the two men and for some time they just sat there looking at each other until finally Psimon spoke again. ‘Does that answer your question?’ he said.

  ‘Yes it does,’ said Steve shortly, rising from the arm of the couch. ‘Now where do you keep the fucking brandy?’

  It was after midnight before the brandy had dulled the trepidation in their minds sufficiently for them to think of sleep. Finally jetlag and the disrupted sleep of long hours travelling began to take its toll.

  Psimon went first, declining Steve’s help as he made his way to the bathroom.

  This gave Steve the opportunity to check Psimon’s flat for any security issues. He went through to the large bedroom overlooking the garden at the back of the flat. This was obviously Psimon’s room. There were locks on the windows and they were on the first floor; no particular problems there. Steve went over to the window shielding his eyes against the glass so that he could see the large suburban garden in the darkness. The property backed onto a series of tennis courts and the smooth expanse of what looked like a bowling green. The green was partly illuminated by a series of small street lamps marking the line of a footpath that linked Psimon’s road to the road running parallel to it. The passage seemed to emerge on the far side of the house adjacent to Psimon’s.

  As Steve’s eyes followed the line of the footpath he caught sight of a cast iron fire escape rising up the back wall of Psimon’s flat. ‘That needs checking out,’ he thought as Psimon entered the room behind him.

  ‘I can barely keep my eyes open,’ said Psimon as he shuffled barefoot towards his bed.

  ‘Where does the fire escape come into the building?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Just before the loo,’ replied Psimon groggily. ‘The landing goes off to the left… there’s a door at the end.’

  Steve moved to leave the room.

  ‘Night,’ said Psimon.

  Steve paused at the door. ‘Goodnight,’ he said. And as Psimon pulled his shirt over his head Steve could see the angry red line of the injury in his side.

  ‘Christ!’ he thought for the umpteenth time. ‘How the hell does he live with this?’