by China, Max
"But how will I know?" he asked.
"When the time is right, you will know."
"And then what?"
"You will see."
He unfolded the packaging and pulled her folder clear, releasing a musty odour. The paperwork had yellowed at the edges; the hand-written notes faded. From beneath them, he retrieved a discoloured buff envelope. The sellotape securing the flap had dried out and brittled with age. Holding a corner in each hand, he debated whether to open it.
It wasn't the time.
He drifted back through the years and examined her all over again, with the benefit of a more experienced mind.
Chapter 116
To have believed for thirty-two years that whatever it was that she'd predicted would come true was a measure of Ryan's conviction, but it faded as fast as his health declined.
The test of faith she'd set him all those years before, the reason he'd carried on working after Gracie had died… He had to know what it was and whether it had been worth it. More than that, he needed to know that she was right. Because if she were, he'd know without a doubt that there really were more things in heaven than earth, that there truly could be a life after death and that he'd be reunited with Gracie at last.
It had to be true.
The spectre of self-doubt rose in him. To have waited this long in vain, would mean the end of everything. He was almost ready to accept he might have been wrong . . . that perhaps The Sister wasn't quite all he thought she was, no more than a clever trickster after all . . .
Sensing how little time he had left, he made up his mind. As soon as Stella had found a new job, he'd stop fighting just to live another day. He'd just give in and slip quietly and unnoticed out of the back door.
The temptation to open the envelope containing the prediction had never been stronger. He wondered what could happen if he peeked inside. After years of self-control and with time running out, Ryan succumbed and opened it. Pulling out a yellowing sheet of paper, he unfolded it.
Chapter 117
Miller shot forward on the bed gasping for air before he'd even opened his eyes. The folds in his bedcovers restrained him as if he were wearing a lap belt. Gulping another lungful, he realised he actually had been holding his breath. His heart hammered so hard against the inside of his ribs that he felt as though a herd of stampeding buffalo were trampling his chest, the heavy beating pounded in his head.
It was just a dream. He flopped down onto his pillows while the effects subsided. There were no curtains or blinds at the windows. The daylight intensified by the whiteness of the walls and ceilings hurt his eyes. He closed them.
During the course of his life, he'd escaped drowning many times, but never before had his sleep been troubled by these apparent flashbacks. Lately his dreams generally had become more frequent and increasingly lucid, their significance progressively disturbing and portentous. Last week he dreamed that he was working with a researcher named Michael Simpson, who specialised in the study of brainwashing and its application within cults. Although he'd never seen or heard of him before, his nightly encounters with him had seemed so real. The dreams culminated in a trip to Amsterdam where he'd confided that someone was trying to kill him. It was crazy, but he feared for Simpson.
The dreams meant something, and despite endless analysis, he couldn't fathom what. Deep down, he thought they represented a warning.
He switched on his laptop with the intention of googling the meaning of dreams. A news feed caught his eye. He stared in growing disbelief. Researcher Murdered in Amsterdam.
Able to guess correctly a good deal of the time, his intuitive powers now seemed to border on the psychic. He knew now with certainty before he read on, what the researcher's name would be.
Stunned, he reached over to the bedside table and checked his watch. Just before nine o' clock. Opening the bedside cabinet drawer, he fumbled through the accumulation of discarded notes and half-empty boxes until he found what he was looking for: a dog-eared old business card. After all these years, he wasn't sure why he still kept it; perhaps he'd thought he would need it one day. The area code was an old one, but he knew what it should be, so he added the new digit and keyed the number into his phone.
A few seconds later, it started to ring.
Chapter 118
If he'd been on stage with a magician, he'd have thought it was sleight of hand, or some other conjuring trick. The note read: When a former patient returns, a new church rises from the mountain.
It wasn't at all what he'd expected. A former patient returns, and a new church . . . What was all that about? He always thought it would be something momentous, not something so mundane and cryptic. Guilt weighed heavy on him or was it merely disappointment.
You should have waited.
An uneasy feeling crept over him. He feared the consequences of his actions. Which former patient? You should have waited, you silly old fool.
A seemingly random thought popped into his head. A vision appeared of someone he'd not thought about in years.
The telephone rang. Startled, he lifted the receiver. "Hello, Ryan here."
"Dr Ryan?"
"Bruce?"
"How did you know it was me?"
His heart leapt at the realisation that he'd chosen exactly the right time to open the envelope. Was it a coincidence? It couldn't be. For a moment, he worried how he would tell her, and then realised there was no need.
She already knew.
Chapter 119
Miller pulled up in a taxi, paid the driver and stepped out into the unseasonably warm sunshine. From the pavement, the façade of the building didn't appear as imposing as it did when he was last there. The heavy ornate cast-iron gate was secured in the open position with a heel operated counterweighted stay. The stone steps looked familiar, though more dished and worn in the middle than he remembered. High on the wall, the unblinking eye of a CCTV camera lens pointed down, covering the entrance. Arranged vertically, four buzzers shared the same bright alloy speaker panel.
Miller selected the third one up and pressed, the buzzer sounded, and the electronic keep snapped back, allowing him entry. Climbing the stairs, he noticed that the creamy-coloured walls were scuffed and scruffy, probably not painted in years.
He made a quick diversion to the men's lavatories before going into reception. He looked at himself in the mirror while washing his hands. Picked out in the harsh glare of fluorescent lighting, the scar on his chin showed white against the peppery stubble. The cut had been so deep that his beard no longer grew on it. Miller traced the smooth, inverted scimitar shape with his finger, to where it curved away from just below his lower lip onto his chin.
Donovan Kale had kept Miller's identity a secret from the press, but someone, although unable to get it directly from Kale, had eventually tracked him down. They attacked him on an isolated section of a canal towpath beneath a bridge. The darkness had masked the danger signals, and he hadn't seen the shadows as they'd swirled about him, warning of danger. At the last instant, he caught the dull gleam of a knife as it slashed at his face. If he hadn't pulled out of the way… Now, that was a close shave. He dried his hands and sauntered out across the landing. Opening the door into the reception area, he was surprised to see that the layout had not changed. The chairs, coffee tables and magazines were laid out exactly as he remembered. He picked up a dog-eared old National Geographic magazine and checked the date: 1970. Like stepping back in time.
Ryan emerged from a door behind the reception desk and came around to greet him.
Miller felt the cool, papery texture of his skin as they shook hands. He was shocked at how frail the doctor had become, but gave no sign of it. The psychiatrist looked pleased to see him; his good eye full of mirth.
"Bruce, how are you?" he said leaning back to get a better look at him. "How you've grown!"
Miller responded with a laugh, "I'm fine - you haven't changed a bit!"
Ryan shot him a suspicious look. "Well, my boy - that ca
n only mean one of two things. Either I look fabulous now, or I looked old and decrepit back then." He indicated a chair.
"Come on, Bruce, sit. We shan't be disturbed." Both men sat. "I'm intrigued to know why you've contacted me after all these years," Ryan rubbed at his good eye. "You refused to say on the phone, so why are you here?" he gestured, spreading both hands.
"Doctor Ryan, people just call me Miller these days, I'll tell you why later." He coughed into his fist. "I keep dreaming that I'm drowning."
"How often do you have these dreams?"
"Three times in the last week or so."
"Mm-m." His hands moved apart and revealed his silver propelling pencil. He rotated the shaft through a variety of angles to catch the best light.
Miller jerked his chin in the direction of the pencil, "I can't believe you still do that."
Ryan ignored him. "It's all a question of timing, you having these dreams, contacting me. There's something else going on. I don't want to run out of time or get too tired to concentrate fully. I tire so easily these days . . ." A hint of resignation tainted his voice. Since opening the prediction envelope, he felt as if he'd turned an hourglass, and started a countdown on his remaining life. Why have you set me this puzzle and then left me all alone to solve it?
Dismissing the fear that he may have opened the envelope too soon, he decided to play for time. He retrieved his appointment book from the counter, flicked the pages forwards and then back again.
"Mm-m, now let me see . . . I might be able to fit you in next week, once I've had the chance to go through your file properly." In reality, he was hoping he would have heard from The Sister by then.
Miller could see the appointment book was empty. "What about tomorrow?" he said, in a voice edged with sarcasm. "That's if you can fit me in with that busy schedule there?"
Ryan followed his gaze to the diary. "Aah . . . perhaps I should explain. This isn't mine – or at least, it isn't up to date. My secretary is looking for a job you see."
"You still have the same secretary?"
"No, she left years ago. This one started about three years ago. She's made a few changes, one of which is not keeping my physical diary up to date, she keeps all my appointments on a computer now, so I don't know what's happening if she's not here."
"Well, how do you know you can fit me in then?"
"The truth is Bruce I'm winding down, that's how I know. I'm keeping things going until Stella gets another job. Then I'll call it a day. That's where she is, by the way, at an interview. She's as bright as a button; it won't be long before someone snaps her up." Ryan didn't tell Bruce about the coincidences involved in looking at his file when he'd telephoned, or the real reason he kept the business open.
"You can't do this afternoon?"
Ryan thought quickly. He felt sure deferring their meeting until the next day was the right thing to do. "I know we haven't discussed what you came here to talk about. I'd like to cover everything in one go, and to do that I'm going to need to get your file out and read it again, just to refresh myself. Besides, I'm having to man reception while Stella isn't here. I'll ask if she can work tomorrow. If you come in around one o'clock, we'll spend the whole afternoon going through everything."
Ryan studied him over his silver-rimmed glasses. Miller noticed that the pupil of his left eye was milky-blue and unfocused, looking into some distant point. The eye was blind. Most people would have tactfully avoided staring, but Miller was not good at such things. Ryan caught him and stared him out until he averted his gaze.
"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow, Doctor Ryan."
Immersed in writing notes, he didn't look up.
Miller let himself out.
So much to talk about . . . He'd just have to cover it tomorrow.
Chapter 120
When Stella returned later in the afternoon, Ryan handed her a note reminding her to prepare all the files in the archive room ready for digitalising, apart from the two he'd separated from the rest.
"How did your interview go?"
"I'm not sure. I think they liked me, but they had another couple of candidates to see and…"
The swirling fog of too many resurrected memories confused him, and he didn't pay much attention to her reply. He needed to sleep.
"I'll leave you to lock up for me," he said. "Oh . . . and there was something else . . ." putting a forefinger to his temple, he suddenly remembered. "That's it! Can you leave the Milowski file on my desk? I'll see you tomorrow."
"You've forgotten that it's Good Friday tomorrow, Doctor Ryan," she hesitated. "Are you all right?"
She couldn't believe how much he seemed to have aged suddenly, and she feared he might have left his plans for retirement for too long.
"I'm just really, really tired. I'll be all right after I've had a lie down for a bit. Look, I could really do with your coming in tomorrow. Have a lie-in first, if you like…" his eyes implored her.
She answered without hesitation, "Of course I will. I'll leave the file for you. I'll see you later in the morning."
Ryan nodded. He looked utterly drained.
She wasn't convinced he'd actually heard her and knowing she wouldn't see him before she left, she called out, "Goodnight, Doctor Ryan."
His key was already in the lock, and letting himself through the door at the back of his office; he walked up the stairs to his living quarters. He'd divided the house up years before always intending to sell the practice and the accommodation one day and move on, but Grace had died the year before he was supposed to retire. Left without a reason to stop, he'd just worked on. In the hallway at the head of the stairs, he paused before the collage of photographs. The middle one was a portrait of Grace in her prime. He'd arranged all their milestones around it, their wedding day, the first house they'd shared, their first car, anniversaries and holidays. So many happy moments, but no children … we should have had children.
"Hello, dear," he said. He paused in front of her picture and examined her expression. It never ceased to amaze him how the photographer had captured her vivacity at that moment, in that certain light. Viewed from varying angles at different times during the day or under the lamplight glow cast down the hall, he sometimes thought her eyes lit, or her smile shifted, lifting him when he was down, or weary. "Wonderful thing, the mind, it keeps us alive," he said as he moved away from the portrait. Glancing back, he thought she looked concerned, so he gave her a reassuring smile, and then tottered along on tired legs down the hall to his bedroom. "It'll be all right, dear, don't you worry."
He woke up thinking he'd managed to sleep right through until the next morning. For a few moments, he panicked, and then realised with relief that he'd only slept for an hour.
Hauling himself out of bed, he struggled on stiff legs to the kitchen and put a TV dinner into the microwave. He left the food heating while he went into the bathroom and splashed cold water over his face in an effort to freshen up. This is going to be a long night.
After his meal, he returned downstairs to his office. Stella had sorted the paperwork from the archive room already. The Milowski file was on his desk.
She'd planted a post-it note on it and written a single word: 'Enjoy!'
A weak smile drew across his lips. He realised how much he would miss her.
Beneath the note was another, much older one. Although the once royal-blue ink had faded with the passage of time, he recognised the hand that wrote it. The handwriting triggered unpleasant memories of Penny, and reminded him of one of the last tasks she'd ever carried out for him. He dismissed her from his thoughts.
A close examination of the pages revealed they were out of sequence. The temptation to sort them back into order was strong.
How did that happen? I don't have time for this.
After puzzling a moment longer, he decided with some disappointment, that it was just more evidence that Penny had failed to maintain her high standards until the end. He wondered if she'd set it as a sort of time-bomb revenge, knowi
ng he would look at the files again in the future. Even if she had perceived he'd wronged her, he found it hard to believe that she would have stooped to such pettiness.
He looked for an easy way in, and not finding it straight away, he flashed over each page searching out keywords, attempting to follow the jumbled order of the paperwork before him.
He jotted a few notes from the original text onto a pad. At regular intervals, he paused to reminisce.
In those days, a hypnotherapist by the name of Anderson had worked with him; he recalled the early discussions they'd had. Milowski had maintained his earliest memory was that he'd fallen into a fire when he was less than a year old. A trauma that undoubtedly affected him so deeply he'd volunteered the memory before regression had even begun.
Snippets of conversation returned. Soon he was back in the room with Anderson.
"It's extraordinary he can remember so far back, even taking into account the trauma of falling into a fire. He was ten months old!" Anderson nodded as Ryan continued, "It isn't acquired false memory syndrome either because I checked that out with his mother immediately afterwards. It actually did happen," Ryan rubbed at his eyeball. "Have you made any progress?"
Anderson looked exasperated, "He's an impossible subject for hypnosis. He just resists no matter what."
"Call yourself a hypnotherapist?" Ryan said.
"I'd like to see you try!" Anderson retorted.
"Well, actually I did, when he first came in to see me while you were on holiday," Ryan caught the light on his pencil and continued talking without looking in Anderson's direction. "Did he say anything significant about the rest of his early life?"
"He spoke freely about everything he could remember leading up to the age of fifteen - it's all in my notes - then he just clammed up for the entire duration of that year. The number of near-death misses he'd had, he seems to remember all of them. He even jokingly said, 'I could write a book about the times I nearly died'. In every single case, it seemed; he was saved by some timely intervention, and I found that most strange."
