The Sister

by China, Max

  "Yes I do. Despite the fact that you say it was a dream. Questions have been raised about whether a person needs to be sleeping for dreaming to occur," Ryan shook his head, "I don't know if I should tell you this, but visions such as you had, are often seen as harbingers of doom. Statistically, there's a one in fifty chance of a death occurring, following a vision of the kind you experienced."

  "Well, those odds are a long shot, and to me it's just a coincidence. Anyway, why do you place such value in what I've told you? As far as you're concerned, it was only a dream after all."

  "True, but the chances of your turning up here at all, are remote after so many years. The fact you turned up right after I opened The Sister's prediction envelope . . . I'm not even going to try to work the odds out."

  Miller twisted his bracelet around, thinking about his grandfather. Ryan, too, was deep in thought.

  Finally, Miller broke the silence. "Can I just ask you something, do you believe in ghosts?" Miller guessed that, as a psychiatrist, he would say it was all in the mind.

  The doctor answered without hesitation. "I never did, until I met her. I realised without a God, how would she be possible? Now I believe in God and the Devil. I believe in ghosts, and I believe in life after death. After all is said and done, there must be something," he glanced at his bedside portrait of Grace. "I have to believe it, or else what has it all been for, these last few years. I believe there's a place for those who believe and a place for those who don't." He searched Miller's face for a reaction, before continuing. "Throughout my life, I've noticed that the bleaker life is the more religious the person experiencing it is likely to be, but don't get me started, we haven't got all day!" It occurred to him that he might have blown his chances by opening the envelope too soon. She wasn't going to come and knock on the door, or drift past on a cloud heralded by trumpets. He'd blown it. Maybe he should try to contact her, he wondered if Brenda Flynn was still alive and contactable on her old telephone number.

  Ryan's earlier words suddenly registered with Miller. No, Bruce, you have a purpose here.

  "What purpose?"

  "Sorry?" the doctor said.

  The telephone rang.

  "Pass the phone to me please."

  Miller obliged.

  Wriggling himself upright, he said, "Doctor Ryan here," he opened his mouth as if to say something, holding its shape as he listened instead, with his eyes on his former patient, he nodded. "Mm-m, I'll tell him. Can we speak again soon? I'd like that." He put the receiver down. "She wants to meet you. You'll go I assume?"

  His curiosity aroused; there was only one answer. "Yes."

  "Rosetta will meet you at 8:30 p.m."

  Miller checked his watch. "That's plenty of time."

  "No, it isn't. She's assumed you won't fly; apparently, you've developed a phobia… You're to meet her at Waverley railway station."

  "In Edinburgh? That's ridiculous, what if I change my mind?"

  Ryan ignored him. "She sensed you were here, all the way from Scotland. Remarkable." His face lit with a beatific smile. "That wasn't her, it was her daughter . . ." For a moment, he thought the doctor was going to say something else, but he was merely moistening his lips.

  "I'll get you more water."

  "Thank you," the doctor whispered. He closed his bad eye with his fingertip.

  He headed for the door and yawned, the sight of tired people had that effect on him.

  "Bruce?"

  He turned back. Ryan had his good eye fixed on him.

  "What is it?"

  The old man rocked his head from side to side. "Bruce . . . Mil … Milwaukee! Is that how you say it? I can't remember . . ."

  "It's close enough, it will do. Are you all right?" he said showing concern.

  "Bruce, Miller - Milwaukee . . . whatever your name is. Help Stella get a job for me, she's a good girl . . . and one other thing. Tell her, I don't want her to call a doctor under any circumstances. If I am to go . . . I want it to be on my terms. I don't want to be kept alive . . . do you understand, it's important to my beliefs," his eye beseeching.

  Miller turned back from the door and crossing the room, squeezed the old man's shoulder. "Of course I'll tell her."

  Down stairs, Stella busied herself tidying old files into boxes. At the sight of Miller, she raised her eyebrows and said, "Well, how is he?"

  "He's resting."

  "I think we should call a doctor."

  "He doesn't want that."

  She looked confused. "What?" she said. "What do you mean?"

  He explained Ryan's wishes; he said it was important to his beliefs.

  "He's going to die," she picked a piece of fluff from her sleeve. "What did you talk about? I suppose you won't tell me."

  "Stella, I have to go to Edinburgh. I can't explain … I don't know myself yet. Will you be okay?" Although she didn't answer, he knew from her return into his life that she was a part of whatever was going on.

  "You have to go now?"

  He nodded. "I'm going back to the hotel to collect my things and then yes, I'm leaving to catch the train this afternoon."

  She pulled a little girl face, poking her lower lip out as if she might cry at any moment.

  "Hey, I'll be back before you know it. I want to talk to you about coming back to work for me."

  She managed a half smile and said, "It's not the job that's bothering me. What if he dies while you're away?"

  "Just give me a call," he said, as he turned on his heel and left, closing the door behind him.

  "See you," she whispered.

  He didn't even say goodbye . . .

  Chapter 125

  "Ain't the same anymore, this game, slowly been strangled . . . see this cab? Got two hundred and fifty thousand miles on the clock . . ."

  The taxi driver hadn't stopped talking from the moment he'd entered his cab. Miller answered perfunctorily, too deep in thought to engage in any meaningful conversation.

  Far too many coincidences occurring to be just coincidence. For such a series of events to unfold in such a short space of time, it has to be synchronicity. No time to think about it now.

  Arriving back at the hotel at 2:35 p.m. he tipped the driver and then pushing through the revolving door, crossed the polished marble floor to the reception counter.

  The receptionist looked up from her computer screen and watched him approach. She stood to greet him.

  "Good afternoon, sir," she smiled politely.

  "Can I have the key for room number 112? I'm sorry; I'll start again," he smiled apologetically. "Good afternoon, I'm in a bit of a hurry, would you be able to make my bill up quickly? I have to leave more or less straight away. Oh, and can you get me a taxi for say," he checked his watch. "Ten minutes time?"

  "Where are you going?"

  "Kings Cross station."

  "It'll be quicker by tube."

  "I haven't travelled on the tube for so many years, it's probably changed so much. I think I'll stick with the taxi, but thanks for the suggestion."

  "Yes, of course, sir." She pushed a button on the telephone and then reached for the key. The sound of the phone came through its loudspeaker, ringing three times before someone answered. She snatched the receiver up as the male voice said, "Hello . . ." She maintained a polite smile as she organised the taxi and held out his room key.

  As he pressed the button to call the lift, the receptionist called out behind him. "Ten minutes, Mr Miller and your taxi will be here!"

  He acknowledged her with a smile and a mock salute.

  Using the bed as a staging point, he threw his clothes and other belongings onto it. He checked under the bed, scanned the room for anything else and then satisfied everything was there, crammed it all unceremoniously into his bag.

  No sooner had he settled the bill, than the cab arrived. He slung his bag over his shoulder, opened the door and got in. "Kings Cross, driver, please."

  "Damn traffic," he muttered under his breath, checking his watch as the dri
ver dropped him off. He'd missed the 3 o'clock train. She was right; I should have taken the tube. Now he'd have almost an hour to kill before the next train left at 4 p.m. After buying his ticket, he decided to have a look around.

  The station had changed beyond recognition since he was last there. Then, it had been old and grimy. Now, it looked clean and new. The journey would take about four and a half hours, which meant he wouldn't arrive much before seven thirty. Suddenly realising it was a bank holiday weekend, he thought about booking a room, at least for a couple of nights. He telephoned directory enquiries and obtained a list of numbers. With no accommodation available at any of the major hotel chains, he worked his way through a list of smaller hotels. He hung on the line with the last of the best-situated hotels; near the town centre. The receptionist was friendly, but chided him for leaving it so late. "It is a Bank Holiday you know, but let me check; sometimes we get a cancellation . . ." She came back on the line and confirmed they were fully booked, "But listen; I used to work at this little place . . ." She gave him a number to call, "Ask for Ronnie, tell him you spoke to Glenda . . . hang on a minute, someone's speaking to me . . . Oh, you know . . . this must be your lucky night; we've just now had a cancellation, would you believe?"

  Another coincidence? Shaking his head, he concluded it probably happened all the time and promised himself he'd put all thoughts of chance or fate from his mind. After giving his credit card details to secure the booking, he put his phone away and checked his watch. Still three quarters of an hour to go. Bored with waiting already, he spotted a newspaper discarded on a bench. The headline caught his eye. Boy 7 Rescued From Paedophile Gang: Two Dead, Police Appeal To Public. Although the paper was two days old, he picked it up, tucked it under his arm, and went to buy a coffee. Then he sat down to read.

  The bodies of two men have been found at an address in West Lothian, following a tip-off. A seven-year-old boy, reported missing early yesterday, was discovered at the scene. He is recovering in hospital. His parents are at his bedside. Police have asked the caller to come forward. Unconfirmed reports suggest it was a vigilante attack.

  The coffee tasted sour. He dumped it in the nearest bin and ambled leisurely over to the platform, where his train awaited.

  Chapter 126

  After boarding and finding his seat, Miller placed the paper in his lap. If only there were more people like that in the world.

  The carriage was unexpectedly quiet for a Bank Holiday; the few people that were on board spread themselves out as the number of seats that wouldn't be taken became apparent. A young couple put space between themselves and the drunken ramblings of a Scot emanating from the back of the carriage. He was far enough away from Miller not to bother him, but it occurred to him, he'd probably encounter him at some point in the journey. Travelling alone on public transport, he always seemed to attract the drunks and lunatics on board. It was another reason, given the choice, that he'd have preferred to drive. Although he'd yet to see him, he had a vision of him in his mind's eye. Not big, no kilt or Tam o' Shanter, pale skin, wiry ginger-blonde hair… He sighed at the thought.

  The train shunted forward. He watched the platform retreating as the train picked up speed.

  Miller's corner of the carriage had remained deserted. He was completely at ease in his own company, just him and whatever came up next. Selfish maybe, but he preferred it that way.

  He settled into staring out of the window, and wished he could sleep, but he never could in the company of strangers. He closed his eyes and entered a dreamlike state.

  Something about the motion of the train jostled memories and started him thinking about painful things, long past . . .he remembered how he first met Josie, only to lose her to the sea a few years later. The pain still raw, anguish flooded his memory, catching him off guard. Too late, he tried to shut it out. Although he'd been miles away when she went missing, he blamed himself. You knew you were jinxed, Miller. You shouldn't have got so close to her, shouldn't have allowed it to happen.

  He drifted into thinking about the meaning of unconditional love and how he'd loved unconditionally, experiencing its totality. Losing her the way he did, scarred him far deeper than he could ever have imagined.

  Since Josie had disappeared, he kept his mind off women as far as possible, carefully avoiding anything other than superficial involvement. When he felt the need for a woman, it was invariably with someone totally unsuited to him, someone from whom he could stay emotionally detached. He needed sex but avoided love. Pain and love were inextricably woven together, and he didn't want, or need those feelings in his life.

  Beyond the window fields flashed by, a movement in the glass caught his eye. Without turning, he saw the reflection of a dark haired woman in her mid-thirties, for the briefest moment, he thought his imagination had conjured it. He'd spent much of his life paying close attention to the periphery of his vision. Sometimes, he saw things that make him aware of other things, like the shadow on the pavement cast by someone coming around the corner before they'd actually arrived in person. His shadows had become fuller, and more defined. Half expecting the woman to be gone when he turned to look at her directly, she remained where she sat. She reminded him of a woman he'd met a few years ago. It wasn't a physical resemblance, more the haughty look she gave him as she turned her face away, with her nose up as if men were beneath her. Now she had his interest, she wasn't looking in his direction at all. She stared out of the window next to her. The train flashed through shade; the light changed . . . He caught her reflection looking at him. She was a very attractive woman. He turned away.

  He was now sure his reflections on the past were linked to the motion of the train, and he wondered absently, what would happen if he were travelling backwards. He drifted into thoughts of the woman he'd met years before.

  He was in his early thirties; she was at least ten years older than he was, with a good figure and strong, shapely legs. The fit of her clothes hinted at what lay beneath, fascinating him. He used to see her around in the supermarket, always on her own, then after shopping; she'd wait for a taxi to take her home. She was a prime example of not his type, but she had a prim and proper air about her that appealed to him, and he was in need of a woman. One afternoon, he waited outside for her. When she came out, he introduced himself just as she produced her phone to call a cab.

  "Hello, I often see you in here…"

  She looked at him suspiciously.

  "You're always on your own…" he disarmed her with a warm smile.

  The floodgates opened, and soon she was telling him everything. He offered her a lift home, barely getting a word in edgeways. She asked him to stop in the street around the corner to her house.

  "The neighbours are awful. If they knew that I had a man round my house . . ."

  "Is that an invite?" he asked.

  Her face turned pink. "You know, I'd have invited you in for a coffee, but the gossips around here . . ."

  "That's okay; I'll come back tonight when it's dark. No one will see."

  Pink turned to red. "I… Oh, I don't think it's a good idea . . ."

  He leaned over, brushing his lips against her cheek, and whispered close to her ear. "We could both do with the company."

  In two minds, she bit her lower lip and grimaced.

  "Which house is it?" he said.

  She seemed to be holding her breath.

  A woman came out from a nearby house carrying a bag of rubbish and saw them sitting there. She moved as far forward as she could before dipping to put the bag down, taking the opportunity to squint right into the car. That simple, single action made her mind up for her.

  She gave him her address.

  That night, just after dark, he'd turned up with a bottle of wine. She had a lot to say, to tell him about. He listened patiently for half an hour or so; he felt he owed her at least that. She finished her second glass; he reached over with the bottle to refill it. She put her hand out covering the glass. He put the bottle down.


  "I'd better not . . . if I get tipsy, I sometimes do things I regret later," she stared at the floor, suddenly overtaken by shyness. He took the initiative. Holding both her hands, he pulled her up.

  She lifted from the chair without resistance. He looked into her face and eyes. She smiled. He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. They kissed, and a passion exploded right out of her, taking him by surprise; dropping to his knees, he lifted her top to reveal her midriff, he licked and sucked at her belly, French kissing her navel. She went wild.

  Both of them were on the floor; her skirt hitched up over her thighs.

  He eased his head between her knees and ripped her white panties to one side.

  "No . . . No! No one's ever done that, it's not allowed!" His tongue alternated up and down each thigh, getting closer to her with each stroke, she arched her back and pulled his head in tighter, clamping her thighs around his ears. She came in a frenzy of denials.

  He pulled himself up next to her. She looked at him in wonderment.

  "No one has ever done that to me before." She sighed, regaining her breath.

  He moved his body higher up against her, pulling down on her shoulders, so her head was close to his abdomen and began to move her head down, while pushing his hips up.

  "What are you doing? Oh no . . . I'm not doing that. I've never done that to a man before and you can't . . ."

  He pushed himself against her lips; she turned her face left, then right to get away, her lips pressed tight and then suddenly her lips parted, and she was on him like a pro.

  We never even made it into bed. He smiled at the memory and wondered if she ever met anyone else after that . . . if he'd awakened a hunger in her . . . if she were still haughty and aloof around men. Thinking about her had made him a little hard.

  The woman from across the aisle now occupied the seat in front of him. She was staring at him, apparently fascinated by the fact he was staring right through her. She made a windscreen wiper gesture with one hand across his line of vision a bemused half smile on her lips. "Would you like a picture?"