First and Only Page 5

  ‘Jesus, that was close.’

  The village was supposed to have been cleared and only the tedious procedures of the unit had saved them from walking into an ambush. They had identified thirty marks, neutralised seventeen but that still left at least thirteen kalashnikovs trying to drill through the walls to get at them. He was just relieved that they were armed with nothing more than rifles.

  In his current position Steve was relatively safe but the rest of the unit were pinned down and would soon be outflanked. He knew he had to break cover to allow them to relocate. It was all about mobility, keeping the initiative, not allowing the enemy to dictate the sequence of events. The moment you stopped moving was the moment your options began to dwindle.

  Steve bit down on the pain from his back. The bullet had torn through his flesh and taken a chunk out of his shoulder blade before burying itself in the sand. Not critical but it hurt like a bastard, made his head swim. Blinking the sweat from his eyes he slung his rifle and pulled three fragmentation grenades from the webbing at his waist. He swallowed hard doing his best not to throw up. He just needed a second to clear his head, to stop the ground from tilting.

  He would give himself a count of ten. Then he would break the lads out and give these bastards a lesson in close-quarters combat.

  ‘1… 2…’ He got as far as seven when the explosion sent a cloud of dust and jagged chippings blasting towards him.

  ‘Fuck, they’ve got RPGs!’ thought Steve with a new kind of sick feeling in his stomach. Without a second thought he pulled the pins from the three grenades and lobbed them round the doorway towards the enemy.

  Pop… pop… pop…

  Pause…

  BOOM… BOOM… BOOM…

  Steve moved on the ‘B’ of the final BOOM! He switched his carbine to full automatic and charged headlong in to a storm of violence.

  The first bullet grazed his thigh, the second nicked his upper arm but he was moving now, pushing forward, regaining the initiative. And then behind him came the staccato crack of small-arms fire. M16s and C8s like his own, rising in lethal chorus as the rest of his unit broke from cover and took the battle to the enemy…

  Boom, Boom, Boom… went Steve’s heart as he looked at Psimon as if from a great height and distance.

  ‘You gave yourself ten seconds to gather your composure,’ said Psimon softly. ‘Ten seconds to keep from passing out. And still you think of yourself as a coward because you hesitated.’

  Steve swallowed the burning lump in his throat and turned away from Psimon.

  ‘If I hadn’t hesitated…’ he began huskily.

  ‘Paddy wouldn’t have lost his left foot,’ Psimon finished. ‘He wouldn’t have lost two foot of bowel. He wouldn’t have to wear…’

  ‘Enough!’ snapped Steve holding up his hands to ward off any more unwelcome images.

  They were silent for a while. Then…

  ‘How do you know?’ Steve began. ‘No one knows about that… no one. How do you…?

  ‘I have no idea,’ replied Psimon quietly, head bowed, eyes focussed once more on the hands in his lap. ‘I just do.’

  ‘Jesus,’ breathed Steve, still not quite sure what to make of what he had just heard. Having those memories dragged from his past and held up before his eyes had provoked a fierce reaction. He felt angry, frightened, threatened. But now as he looked at Psimon he found those feelings seeping away just as they had on the Edge. There was something vulnerable about Psimon, something desperately lonely. It took the heat out of Steve’s anger and aroused within him a kind of fraternal instinct, which as an only child, Steve found surprising.

  ‘Okay,’ said Steve when his heart had stopped trying to beat its way out of his chest. ‘I’m impressed.’

  Glancing up at Steve Psimon felt a wave of relief. There was no sign of the defensive paranoia that he might have expected.

  ‘Yes,’ he thought to himself. ‘I was right to phone him.’

  He had never known a man of such contrast… a man capable of such destructive violence and yet possessed of a gentle nature and understated empathy. He had chosen his knight well.

  ‘So, what else can you do?’ asked Steve in a tone that lightened the mood.

  ‘Well,’ said Psimon, and here he held up the envelope of cash that Steve had returned to him on the Edge. ‘How would you like to trade the fifteen thousand pounds for tonight’s winning lottery numbers?’

  ‘I said I was impressed, not stupid,’ said Steve, snatching the envelope from Psimon’s hand and deftly slipping it into the covered compartment between their seats.

  Psimon’s smile broadened.

  Steve let out a deep breath and ran his hands down over his face. He inserted the car keys, checked his mirror and flicked on the lights as it was already getting dark.

  ‘Okay, freak,’ he said. ‘Where to first?’

  ‘Did you bring the things I told you to?’ asked Psimon, finding the light-hearted insult strangely pleasing.

  ‘In the boot,’ said Steve referring to the travel bag and passport that Psimon had instructed him to bring during their phone call. He reached round to grab his seat belt and when he turned back Psimon was holding up two airline tickets. Steve reached across and turned up the flap of the envelope to look at the destination.

  ‘Manchester to Fort Lauderdale via Orlando (MC0),’ the tickets read.

  ‘So what’s in Florida?’ asked Steve.

  ‘The James Randi Educational Foundation,’ replied Psimon.

  ‘And what do they do at the James Randi Educational Foundation?’

  ‘They challenge claims of paranormal phenomena,’ said Psimon.

  Steve looked at Psimon with a ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ expression on his face.

  ‘There’s a million-dollar prize for anyone who can demonstrate genuine psychic ability.’

  Steve’s expression changed to one of the ‘Oh really?’ variety.

  ‘We have an appointment with the testing panel tomorrow afternoon at two-thirty.’

  ‘Oh, we do, do we?’ challenged Steve.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Psimon.

  ‘And I suppose you want me to protect you from all the nutters in America?’

  ‘No,’ said Psimon and his voice was suddenly serious once more. ‘I need you to get me out.’

  Chapter 8

  Dr Patrick Denning left the lecture in buoyant mood. ‘Silencing the Voices’ was far and away the most successful book he had ever written. That was the third lecture this week and every one sold out. The psychiatrist smiled to himself as he dwelt on the crowd of enthusiastic faces at the signing, each one eager to share their own ideas and insights into the world of schizophrenia. But it was he who held court, he who could grant or deny them the few minutes of attention that they craved. Now it was off to the restaurant for another free dinner at his publisher’s expense.

  He turned off the main road and headed for the short-cut via the canal. It was too dark and wet to take the towpath tonight but he was running late and nipping over the bridge would still save him a few minutes.

  The orange glow from the street lamps faded as he made his way up the narrow cobbled road. The white lamp that normally illuminated the bridge was out but it was only a short span of darkness and Dr Denning was not concerned.

  He was not concerned because he did not know that darkness of an altogether different kind waited for him upon that narrow arc of shadow… darkness in the form of a tall and powerfully built man. A man who had listened with sublime fury as the psychiatrist had preached his lies.

  Now He was here to teach the heretic the error of his ways.

  Dr Denning climbed the short humpback bridge over the canal but as he reached the summit a dark hulking figure stepped out in front of him. Fear clutched the psychiatrist’s bowels as the stranger raised his arm, something black and shiny in his outstretched fist. Dr Denning started to cry out but the lightning exploded in his chest, seizing his heart in an unyielding grip and tightening every mus
cle in his body to the point of snapping. His legs gave out and he might have injured himself on the cobbles had He not caught him… Had He not carried him away…

  He who called himself Lucifer…

  He whose name was Legion,

  For He was many.

  Chapter 9

  Steve was surprised at how easily he had slipped back into surveillance mode. Even now, as he scanned the bookshelves in WH Smiths for something to read on the plane, he had one eye on Psimon and one on the bustling flow of people heading for the check-in desks. His mind was in a heightened state of awareness, primed for anything out of the ordinary. Someone hesitating where there was no reason to stop. Someone moving too quickly or too slowly, and of course anyone who came close to Psimon. He knew that the chances of anything happening in an airport terminal were pretty slim, especially in these days of increased security but he had accepted responsibility for keeping Psimon safe and that was exactly what he intended to do.

  He suddenly became aware that Psimon had ceased trawling through the magazines and had stopped in front of the newspaper stand and was gazing down at tonight’s copy of the Manchester Evening News. Steve noticed the tension in Psimon’s body and moved to stand beside him.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  Psimon said nothing, only continued to stare at the paper’s headlines.

  Steve glanced down at the front page of the newspaper and his eyes were immediately drawn to the emotive word… TORTURE

  This was the article that held Psimon entranced.

  ‘Pretty grim,’ said Steve referring to the series of brutal murders that had been in the news a lot recently.

  Psimon said nothing. He did not appear to have heard Steve at all.

  ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with…’ Steve began but Psimon had turned away heading out of the shop.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Steve as he hurried to catch up with Psimon. He tried to slow him down but Psimon shrugged him off.

  ‘Is this the guy?’ persisted Steve. ‘The killer… is he the one?’

  ‘I need a coffee,’ said Psimon brusquely. He pulled away from Steve heading for the coffee shop round the corner.

  Steve caught up with him at the Costa Coffee counter.

  ‘Double shot cappuccino,’ snapped Psimon in a sharp tone that Steve would not have expected. Psimon paid the young woman behind the counter and moved along to the collection point where several other people were waiting for their orders.

  ‘Just a coffee,’ said Steve when she turned to him.

  Moving more slowly now Steve went over to stand beside Psimon.

  ‘Is it him?’ he asked quietly while they waited for their drinks.

  Psimon turned away but the expression on his face was answer enough.

  ‘Then why don’t you go to the police?’ Steve asked gently. ‘Tell them what you know. You might be able to help them.’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ said Psimon despondently.

  ‘But you could tell them what happened to you,’ said Steve. ‘Tie that to the current spate of murders.’

  ‘It wouldn’t help.’

  ‘But you could help them in other ways,’ suggested Steve. ‘You obviously have some kind of gift. Why don’t you use it to help the police find this guy.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Psimon.

  ‘Why not?’ pressed Steve. ‘The police use mediums… psychics. When they’ve got nothing else to go on,’ he added. ‘Why not…’

  ‘Cos I’m afraid,’ snarled Psimon rounding on Steve. ‘I’m afraid,’ he repeated more quietly looking embarrassed as people turned to look at them.

  Steve just looked at Psimon feeling a mixture of sympathy and exasperation.

  ‘One coffee, one double-shot cappuccino,’ said a young lad serving up their order.

  Steve reached for their drinks but stopped as he saw Psimon’s face suddenly screw up with pain. His lips drew back from gritted teeth and his fingers curled tightly into claws. Psimon’s body seemed unnaturally rigid, then as his legs buckled Steve grabbed hold of him and held him up against the counter.

  ‘Psimon,’ he said. ‘Psimon can you hear me?’ but Psimon was insensible, his body twitching with vicious spasms.

  Steve lowered him to the ground and cradled his head against his chest.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ he thought. ‘Some kind of seizure?’

  He was about to call for help when Psimon drew a ragged breath.

  ‘It’s all right…’ he gasped to Steve’s great relief. ‘I’m okay,’

  Slowly Steve helped Psimon get to his feet watching him closely.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ asked a woman in a Costa Coffee uniform.

  Steve glimpsed the manager’s badge on her shirt. ‘Yes,’ he said sounding less than convinced himself. ‘Just a nasty bout of indigestion.’

  The manager asked one of her staff to help them with their drinks as Steve led a still-shaky Psimon to an empty table.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Steve as the young lad set their drinks down on the table.

  He guided Psimon into a chair before taking a seat beside him. The manager returned with a glass of cold water and, with a nod of thanks, Psimon reached out a trembling hand to take a sip.

  Steve waited for Psimon to regain his composure. ‘So what was that all about?’ he asked gently when some colour had returned to Psimon’s cheeks.

  ‘He’s taken someone else,’ said Psimon.

  ‘Who’s taken someone else,’ asked Steve but Psimon only looked up, a dark haunted look in his eyes.

  ‘The killer?’ whispered Steve. ‘That guy in the paper?’

  By way of an answer Psimon lowered his eyes staring into the glass of cool clear water in his hand.

  Steve was struggling with this. Picking out an incident from his past he could just about get his head round but some kind of psychic link with a deranged serial killer was a step too far. ‘How do you know?’ he asked trying not to sound too sceptical.

  ‘I always know…’ replied Psimon without raising his eyes.

  ‘This has happened before then?’

  ‘Many times,’ said Psimon.

  ‘How many times?’ asked Steve warily.

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘Fourteen!’ exclaimed Steve.

  ‘Not counting Father Kavanagh,’ Psimon added.

  Steve sat back in his chair, stunned. His worldview was struggling to accommodate the new insights being thrust upon him.

  ‘This can’t be possible,’ he thought. ‘None of this is possible!’

  ‘And he’s getting angrier…’ said Psimon ominously. ‘More voracious.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That’s two in a week,’ said Psimon. ‘The time between confessions is growing shorter. If we don’t stop him soon…’

  ‘But you said he was going to kill you,’ argued Steve. ‘Surely we want to stay away from this guy.’

  ‘We have no choice,’ said Psimon. ‘Our paths will cross. All that matters is how it ends.’

  ‘You mean if I kill you,’ said Steve in a low scornful tone.

  ‘All I know,’ said Psimon looking up at Steve. ‘Is that if he kills me then it’s over, that’s the end… but if you kill me then everything will be all right.’

  ‘Some fucking choice,’ muttered Steve under his breath. Then to his surprise Psimon smiled. It was a strange smile of sympathy and understanding that made Steve feel like he was the younger of the two men.

  ‘Not easy, is it?’ said Psimon.

  ‘What, being around you?’ said Steve. ‘No... not easy at all.’

  Psimon’s smile warmed but then he suddenly turned as if he had heard something that caught his attention.

  ‘What?’ said Steve sensing the alertness in Psimon’s manner. ‘What is it?’

  ‘He’s here,’ said Psimon rising from his seat.

  ‘The killer!’ exclaimed Steve.

  ‘No,’ said Psimon as if Steve were a particularly dim-witted
student. ‘Commander Douglas Scott.’

  ‘Who the hell is…’ began Steve but Psimon was already heading out of the coffee shop.

  Steve took a quick scalding gulp of his coffee, though he suspected he was going to need more than caffeine to keep up with his changeable and distinctly irritating new charge. When he emerged from the Costa Coffee front Psimon was walking quickly towards an area of the check-in desks right next to security control; an area that was roped off from the general public. Steve jogged to catch him up.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked Psimon as he strode along beside him.

  Psimon did not answer. His eyes were searching for someone among the line of people beyond the cordon.

  Steve looked at the people moving through the separate check-in area and despite the fact that they were dressed in civilian clothes he immediately recognised them as military personnel.

  ‘Navy,’ thought Steve. It was strange how each branch of the armed forces had their own recognisable air.

  The screen above the desk listed the flight for Glasgow but Steve noticed more than one monogrammed label that bore the name ‘HMNB Clyde’. Her Majesty’s Naval Base Clyde, one of three operating bases for the Royal Navy and home to the United Kingdom’s nuclear submarine force.

  Steve caught Psimon’s arm as he approached the looping rope that corralled the military personnel from the general public but Psimon pushed his hand away, his face animated and focussed. There was no trace of the shaken young man that Steve had helped into a chair only minutes before.

  ‘Douglas,’ shouted Psimon suddenly and before he could stop him Psimon had ducked under the rope.

  ‘Psimon!’ hissed Steve making a grab for him as he strode into the restricted area, heading towards a man near the back of the queue. Steve cursed Psimon’s stupidity. The police were now routinely armed in British airports and two of them had noticed this infringement of security and were closing in on Psimon, their HK submachine guns angled ominously across their bodies.