The Sister

by China, Max

  He cursed himself. After the kid saw him, he should have just stayed away. It was the old man - who'd been with him - he'd jinxed the place. As he dyed his hair dark brown and cut off his beard, he made his mind up; he wouldn't be going back there again.

  Soon, he was back to thinking about the girl. He cursed her under his breath. She'd seriously fucked things up for him. The atmosphere. The associations. The lure had been just too much. Trailing behind her friends like that, letting him know she was lost and lonely. He'd just had to have her. He should have taken her straight down to the stream, fucked her there and then got rid of her. He'd allowed his cock to rule his head. His old man used to say. You can't let your cock rule your head; it has no fucking brain! Sound advice and he might have listened if the old man had practised what he preached. He gritted his teeth at the memory of the old man; he hated him and all he wanted to do was forget; that's the trouble with a photographic memory. You don't forget. You bury, but you do not ever forget. He balled his fist and crashed it into the wallboard, leaving a crater there.

  He stared at his knuckles - unnaturally white for a second; the torn skin peeled back, turning red as the blood bubbled up and dripped onto the floor.

  "FUCK!" The scream silenced the whole camp. The residents outside looked warily at each other. Not one of them cared to knock to ask if he was okay. When he was like that, they knew better than to disturb him.

  In the bathroom, he stared at the face looking back at him. Older, but still powerful, a gleam of madness shone in his wild, blood-shot eyes. I would not want to meet you on a dark night. A half grin pulled painfully at his scarred top lip, preventing a full smile. He'd not smiled fully since he'd split the scar when he was a kid.

  Lying on his bed, he tried to put her out of his mind, but she clung there. Photographic memories, you can't get rid of them; a flashbulb moment of concentration had burned them into his consciousness. He wasn't sure how it all worked, but if it wasn't important to him, he'd forget it. His old man was said, "You can't even remember what you had for breakfast, yet that little girl with the red hot pants next door, from ten years ago - you remember her like she was here yesterday!" Now he was older and understood things better, he thought it might be to do with capacity. He'd read the mind works like that, keeping all the important things at the front and letting the mediocre drift to the back . . . forgotten. The more you thought about things, the fresher they kept. An article in a magazine about Ted Serios stated he could create an image in his mind and transmit it onto film, often using iconic buildings and structures. Serios produced images, which, although recognisable, were clearly not photographs, merely impressions from his memory. Just imagine if I could do that. Somebody walks past with a camera while I'm reminiscing. Then goes into the chemists to get it developed. The technicians see it all on film. Next thing, he's arrested. No other evidence, no body, nothing. The Judge: "How do you find the defendant, guilty or not guilty?" The foreman: "Guilty." Oh, boy, the fun he could have with people that he didn't like, just as long as they carried a camera. A painful grin stretched his lips; he looked as if he were sneering. She was in his head again.

  "Don't hurt me!" The flimsy moment of resistance inside her confirmed she was a virgin as he pushed through. The memory made him hard again . . .

  It was a sign, and he should heed it. He'd give it a rest for a while, he'd done it before. It was nothing new. Change - he hated it, but he'd find something else. Necessity, the mother of invention, and the Devil makes work for idle hands. He was getting bored.

  He'd always lived among travellers; his bare-knuckle prowess guaranteed him a reluctant welcome wherever he turned up within the community. It hadn't always been like that.

  Widely regarded as a nutter, he had no friends, and although he kept himself to himself, he was often heard arguing with someone, or calling out in the quiet of the night. It was for this reason they pitched him well away from everyone else.

  In his secret life, however, his disadvantages made him determined to compensate, and he would disappear into remote places with books and plays. He would read aloud, playing different roles, experimenting with speech and elocution, speaking in a high, trill voice alternating with low ones. He listened to tapes of famous speeches; he learned to speak just like Churchill, his voice indistinguishable, he could imitate Burton, anybody he set his mind to.

  The seeds of his plans had germinated back then before he became a fighter.

  While her speech impediment didn't impede the respect and admiration she received from the community, the father was widely regarded as no good. Both parents had harelips, a trait, which inevitably, passed on to him. The money he earned from fighting, he wasted mostly on gambling, but he did have the sense to invest in a number of strategically placed properties around the country. No one knew exactly where the properties were.

  A licenced asbestos removal contractor, he would occasionally engage in honest work, always keeping a pack of disposable boiler suits in the car just in case a job came up, along with sets of paper over-shoes, gloves and a suitable mask to exclude the deadly fibres.

  One morning, preparing to remove asbestos from a police station, he had a brainwave. If the kit were capable of keeping asbestos out, it would keep fibres in. Once dressed, he used heavy-duty tape to seal the joins between sleeves and gloves, trousers and shoes to prevent contaminating himself. It was a discipline he would follow that also ensured he'd leave no clues behind.

  The police had only ever stopped him once, and that was because an indicator light wasn't working. The lone policeman noticed his muddy tyres.

  "Been off the beaten track have we, sir?"

  He took a deep breath and explained that he'd been working on a building site.

  The copper decided to check over the rest of the vehicle and asked to look in the boot. Shining his torch over all the boxes, he saw the disposable overalls and paper over-shoes, the duct tape and selection of facemasks. He eyed him suspiciously. "What's all this for?"

  "Can I get my papers?" he said.

  Hand on his truncheon, ready, the policeman nodded.

  While rummaging in the boot, he explained that he had to supply his own gear; otherwise, the tax office would take away his self-employed tax status.

  The officer picked up an old mask. "I didn't think people used these anymore?"

  "You can't beat the old ones you know, if it's just a quick job, I throw that one on and well, it's job done."

  He handed his business card to the policeman, who examined it carefully. It read in large letters Freelance Asbestos Surveys and Testing Services - 24-hour service. Below that in smaller letters was a contact name and telephone number.

  "Just one fibre, that's all it takes. Twenty, twenty-five years later, the insides of your lungs thicken, and you get . . ."

  The young officer had heard enough. Suddenly he was keen to get away. He handed the card back quickly, fearing it might be contaminated, unaware that he'd just allowed one of the most prolific criminals the country had known in a long time to continue on his journey.

  His rules for survival were simple.

  Never stay still. If you do, the past has a way of catching up with you. Always keep moving; always keep changing. If you stay the same, someone will get to know who you are.

  Unpredictable and unstable, it made him hard to pin down. Not for him the niceties of polite conversation, he couldn't do it anyway, could never be himself, the abrasiveness in him sprang from an inferiority complex over his condition, but it kept people away from him and that was how he liked it.

  Chapter 33

  Friday 17th April 1992 Brighton

  The Sister had packed ready for her journey. Seventeen years in Brighton almost over. They would come for her before noon, by then she'd be gone. Rosetta was already waiting with their bags at the rear of the shop. Rosetta . . . When that girl was conceived, she thought her powers had deserted her forever. For a while, she enjoyed normality. She was almost disappointed when the
y returned.

  It seemed to her a good time to be starting a new life far away, to resurface in a distant corner of the country, where she would keep a low profile. However, first she had an appointment to keep, one last favour to grant her benefactor.

  The tiny bell over the doorway tinkled, and a heavily pregnant young girl came in. Sister took one look at her… The girl was in need, tortured inside because of her faith. When she'd asked her if she wanted the truth, she didn't hesitate, answering straight away. "I want the truth," her strong chin lifted defiantly.

  Used to knocks, this one.

  Her green eyes settled on the dark haired girl before her.

  "Well, Jackie, I'd like you to hold this a moment for me."

  The girl took the stone and clenched it tightly in her right fist. Eyes narrowed with suspicion; she looked directly at the fortune-teller. "I don't recall telling you my name."

  Sister smiled serenely, their eyes met. "That's right … you didn't. You can call me, Sister." She reached over to retrieve the stone, thinking she should have used it more. It would be years before she understood it fully.

  Before she'd even touched it, she had an idea of what would happen . . . Emotions hung in the air, like sheets on a washing line disturbed by a rising wind, rippling wildly and softly flapping. Sister's head tilted backwards; her body arched away from the seat; her knees jerked up suddenly, hitting the underside of the table.

  This was something new, and nothing could have prepared her for it.

  Jackie stared at her mortified. Frozen in a contorted position, Sister's eyes moved rapidly as if she were watching a dream. Her breathing became strangely erratic as she exerted herself. Concerned, unsure if she were in the grip of an asthma attack, Jackie leaned forward, and as she did so, thought she heard whispers carried on her breath. She listened closely, trying to make out what the medium was saying.

  "Why they can never wait those two, they know I'm not as fit as them." The words, she recognised them. They were her own. Memories from that day had burned so deeply into her subconscious; she'd never forget it as long as she lived. This woman was reading her memories and projecting them back to her. Somehow, the two of them had joined each other in this particular part of her past.

  Jackie struggled to keep up with her two friends; on legs like lead weights, her whole body heavier than normal in the searing heat. She cursed her plumpness.

  "Oh, Jackie, it's because you've developed better than they have." Her mother's voice whispered to her through the mediums lips. The old insecurities stirred; she felt strangely depressed. She knew what would come next. She saw herself looking up the steep path; they were already at the top. They didn't even look round.

  "They don't even care if I'm all right down here," she muttered. Their voices, like a distant radio play; blew towards her on the breeze. "Harry Solomons . . ." Those words, she made out distinctly. The voices cut out suddenly, as the ridge above interfered with the wind's transmission. Jackie picked up the pace, as she tried to catch up, straining to hear what else they were saying, " . . . with him behind the bike sheds." What was that about the bike sheds? Their heads and shoulders disappeared from view as if they were going down invisible stairs on the other side. Shrieks of laughter pierced the air.

  She never did find out exactly what they'd been saying, but she remembered the sadness she'd felt at that moment, left out and alone.

  Karen and Gilda were so similar that inevitably, they always kept her on the outside. The other two girls homed in on her insecurities and never let up, driving tiny wedges of doubt into every crack they could find in her fragile make-up. "Two's company, three's a crowd," her mother whispered. Jackie's heart grew heavy at the thought they weren't truly friends.

  Through Sister, her mother chided her. "Why don't you ever stick up for yourself? You only have yourself to blame if you let people treat you like that! If you don't ever fight back, they'll know they can get away with it, and they'll end up walking all over you!"

  She started a conversation in her head that she had never had in reality. "Yes, Mum, I should start with you. You never have a good word to say about me. You criticise me, when all I am, is what you made me." The recollection of her frustrations stung her to tears.

  She realised her mum had made her a scapegoat for her own failings, made her feel that she was somehow responsible for them. She in turn one day would pass her own low self-esteem to her daughter.

  Jackie's legs gave up on her, and she let the others go on. In a minute, they'd stop to let her catch up, she'd find something funny to pipe up with - get the other two laughing, and for a while they'd all be close again. Those happy moments were what she lived for. Life for her was a cycle of reward and failure, always struggling to please someone. Her mother's distant personality had created that in her, now Jackie recreated it in her relationships. All her friends ended up treating her the same as her mum did.

  "Is this how your life will always be? Always the victim, always victimised? No, that's not going to be me," she said to herself, and with new determination, quickened her step, trying to catch up with the others. Their faint voices carried on the wind towards her. Sister's breathing whispers became ragged, and she couldn't make out what she was saying, her eyes no longer green, slowly turned brown. Jackie knew exactly what was coming next.

  She reached a flattened off area, a narrow wild flower meadow below the top. She'd decided to shortcut the distance between them, by moving along parallel to them from below, the grass each side of the path was up to her waist. The field was sunny, dried out greens and yellows, seeds from faded heads stuck to her clothes as she brushed past. Time slowed down, spent blooms bobbed, she thought herself in tune with nature. She remembered how so much more alive she'd felt, more than ever before, how she wanted to cry out with happiness, or sing. Her arms thrown out, hands outstretched level with her shoulders, she'd spun like a whirling dervish, letting go of her emotions, her long black hair flew out around her. The widest of smiles hurt her face. It didn't hurt for long.

  A powerful hand clamped across her mouth from behind. The hand reeked of sweat and tobacco. It all happened so fast. He was holding a knife, and he'd forced her to the ground. "Don't hurt me," she whispered. Her vulnerability sent him into a frenzy, pulling hard at her clothes, ripping them from her.

  "Don't look at my face!" he commanded.

  Shaking with fear, whimpering, she squeezed her eyes shut.

  He was on her panting and sweating; he smelled like an animal. Something popped inside as he drove himself roughly into her; she gasped. She'd always imagined there would be more pain. Then came the awful realisation; she'd become involuntarily wet as she continued receiving him, she felt that she'd betrayed herself . . . She kept her face turned away; his sweat dripped onto her; its foul saltiness found its way into her mouth; she gagged dryly as if invisible fingers had forced their way down her throat. Jackie became aware that she had a witness sharing her ordeal, she watched transfixed as the medium retched at the precise moment that she did, eyes bulging as his foul sweat poisoned her too.

  "So I make you feel sick do I?" He didn't wait for an answer. His hands tightened around her throat, squeezing the life out of her. Sister grasped at her own neck, helplessly reliving Jackie's ordeal alongside her.

  The rapist picked up a beat, thrusting up and down rapidly, like an engine piston, gathering momentum. He shuddered as he spent himself inside her, lay atop her motionless a moment, before pushing down with all his might; he began to crush her throat.

  Jackie looked up at the sky in a daze, exactly as she did that day as if looking through an invisible ceiling. She thought she saw herself, a reflection, a trick of the light. She'd taken on a ghostly appearance. Hair no longer dark, eyes no longer brown, a voice rasped, "Leave her alone!" It didn't seem real.

  Startled, he turned around to look; the voice had given her vital seconds. She was choking; he was spooked. She heard Gilda's familiar bossy voice nearby.

 
"Leave - our - friend - alone!"

  The rapist hid his face, rolled away and launched off down the hill, making his escape. She heard him thrashing through the long grass . . .

  Her two friends ran to her. She was rubbing at her bare flesh with clumps of grass held tight in her hands, trying to clean herself, trying to get his smell off her.

  "Why didn't I fight back?" she whispered. "I should have fought back!" She began to sob.

  What happened that day started a life-long friendship between the girls.

  Two blamed themselves for what happened to the third. Jackie developed an obsession with cleanliness and a pathological hatred for cigarette smokers; she would never be the same.

  Sister sat with her head forward over the table, breathing in great gulps of air. When she'd recovered sufficiently, she levelled a look at Jackie.

  "Sweet mother of Jesus . . . So that's what happened to you!" Jackie didn't answer; there was no need to speak. There was pain for her in The Sister's eyes. Jackie wept; relieved at last, she'd been able to share the experience with someone who understood.

  "And the child, it's his, isn't it?"

  Jackie nodded.

  "And you asked me for the truth, didn't you?"

  Jackie nodded again.

  "You already know the truth!"

  Jackie looked at her; wetness smudged the mascara round her eyes, making them look large and afraid.

  "That child deserves better than you would give . . . if you kept it."

  Jackie paused between each word as she repeated, "If I kept it…?"

  "That's right, if you kept it. You won't have an abortion because you're a good catholic girl, but 'Good Catholic Girl', you've been tainted. No, it's not your fault, not at all. You'd come to resent it, the child. You don't think so now. You don't believe it, but if you kept her, that is what would happen."