The Sister

by China, Max

  "Move on now, and tell no one," Sister said. The enigma that was her smile became clearer.

  Moving on . . . Miller had been planning to do that for years, the perfect excuse to indulge his dark side at last, he felt as powerful as her. A crazily related thought popped into his head. How would you like to come back to my place for drinks? You would? How lovely . . . Just pop that sack on your head for me. Oh, boy!

  His head spun with impossible velocity and just as he thought he'd pass out, it stopped abruptly.

  All track of time had been lost. They stared at each other. Miller had a curious smile on his lips. He was first to break the silence.

  "So that's what happened to you . . . When Ryan tried to contact you again, you had left for Rome. The church recognised you were gifted, and they trained you, effectively to use the gift for the good of people." He had a better grip on how the information had transferred itself into him.

  "That's right," her eyes shone. "They wouldn't have wanted me to work for the other side now, would they?"

  "It might have been easier," Miller joked.

  She smiled at him; eyes wide with warmth, green and bright as the newest leaves that caught the light of the sun in the treetops. "Aye, it might, but I chose the right way. I had to ask myself, would I give my soul to have everything in the here and now knowing I'd be damned forever? It was, as they say, no contest."

  The church had had enough of damaging publicity and was looking for ways to fight back. Vera had arrived at just the right time. Besieged by claims of child abuse and at a time when congregations were diminishing year on year; they needed someone capable of sniffing out the corrupt priests and the bishops that protected them. She became a soldier of the church. Known as The Sister; she answered directly to Rome. She became disillusioned with the way they dealt with the priests she handed them on a plate. They had sent them off to work in other parishes, where after a period of grace, the abuse would begin all over again. She'd lost confidence in the Church's ability to punish their own. Preferring, it seemed, to rely on the day of judgement to administer their justice. The final straw was Father O' Donohue. She'd exposed him, and all they did was send him to another parish. She tried to leave; they refused her resignation. In despair, she ran away. She never forgot Father O'Donohue. He, who would become a child killer. Forbidden to intervene, she had to watch like a wildlife cameraman. Some things had to happen, before other things could.

  "Sister," Miller said, "The killer priest, Father O' Donohue. I get the feeling you want to see him brought to justice?"

  "I did not tell you about him. Do what you will, I cannot help you."

  A garish looking neon cross over a modern church. He'll find you. Miller frowned as the last vestiges of swirling thought drained from his mind.

  " I saw something that didn't make sense to me just now, it tells me you're in danger. Is there something I can do to help you, Sister?"

  She shook her head, "Not now, but when the time comes, Miller, you will know."

  Miller tried to force himself to see more. He succeeded only in wearing himself out.

  Rosetta drove him back to the hotel. Drained, he dozed for the whole journey. Sister has an external power source that I don't have. He'd recharge his batteries overnight, and leave for home in the morning.

  As he drifted into sleep, he thought about Carla. You should call her, Miller. In his head, another voice argued. What would be the point in this somnambulant state?

  He sank into oblivion.

  The Sister was in his head, in his dreams. She taught him something he'd never have thought possible. When he returned home, he found he'd developed a psychometric ability with photographs, and if he held one, echoes of the sounds captured at the moment the picture was taken, were replayed. A snapshot was exactly that, a snap of sound that lasted a split second. He found it too fantastic to believe until he discovered that he could also see beyond the periphery of the photographs.

  It took a while for him to realise he was tuning in to the mind of whoever had taken the photograph, but who would believe him? It was another thing to keep quiet about. Who could you tell that to without them thinking you're a crank?

  Strangely enough, three names cropped up, and they were all women.

  Chapter 135

  Stella found him the next morning, in bed where she'd left him.

  He lay motionless, illuminated under the saintly halo of light the bedside lampshade deflected around his head and shoulders, a beatific smile frozen on his lips. Ryan looked as if he'd been happy in his last moments.

  She felt for a pulse, but already knew this time he was gone for sure.

  After Miller had left, he'd told her how happy he felt that his long days had finally drawn to a close. He'd confided that he was afraid of something she'd put to him several times, in past discussions. What if you are right, Stella, what if this life after death … this meeting your loved ones again . . . What if it's all a big lie? She'd squeezed his hand. "You have to believe in it now, Doctor Ryan," she told him. "Or what hope is there for the rest of us?"

  From the look of his face, he could have been winking at her; his good eye closed and that frozen smile . . . She guessed he'd found the truth.

  "I wish I could have had your faith," she whispered.

  She mused about the rewards of unwavering belief. How good would that have been after living a life believing there'd be a call, a letter, or a knock at the front door one day. She imagined that beautiful moment, when uncertainty was swept away, her sister alive at the door. Her parents had given up, and she had too, save for a spark that wouldn't die. In denial, she was alone, without faith, and it was killing her. She'd never confided in Ryan. Once he'd said something to her, following one of their philosophical discussions. Many people deny the existence of God all their lives, and then acknowledge his existence by praying to him in their last moments. It's never too late. Remember the crucifixion scene? Where the thief tells Jesus he believes in him, and Christ says, 'Today you shall be with me in Paradise'

  Despite what Ryan had said, he had wavered. Real inspiration was what she needed to restore her faith, not just a passage from the Bible. The worm of denial was dug deep in her. Eating away bit by bit, it was destroying her chances of happiness.

  She collected herself and reaching to turn the light out, saw a crumpled old envelope sticking out from under the lamp's base. It was addressed to her. She opened it. Inside she found his precious pencil and a note. With shaking hands, she took the note out and read it.

  The realisation that even as he'd faced his last moments, he'd still taken the time to think about her and Miller, made her cry. The writing, spidery and child-like, was still recognisably his.

  'My Dear Stella,

  Something for you, in recognition of your loyal service and in lieu of notice! Please ensure Miller gets to have my pencil.

  I'll see you again one day :-)

  B Ryan'

  Also in the envelope was a cheque made out to her for ten thousand pounds. She called Miller.

  The whole day rolled by as if she were an onlooker until suddenly, without remembering the journey; she found herself back home. Looking out of her window, reflecting on Ryan, she hoped he hadn't died during the night, but rather in the morning. Good Friday morning.

  Unsure what to do with herself, she removed the office keys from her key ring. She didn't know what to do with them.

  Everyone close to her had now died. Miller hadn't answered her last call, and she was desperate to speak to someone.

  Vodka was a last resort. It was a place to go when the pain became too much. She lifted the scabbed edges of her old wounds, and then cauterised them with alcohol, before packing her new pain back down into them, sealing them off again.

  She conducted yet another post-mortem on her feelings.

  Her mother was obsessed to the point of irrationality. Her dad, in supporting her obsessions, caught them as well, like a contagious disease. The bombardment was relent
less. You never support me; you don't believe it enough to make it happen.

  What it was that kept her immune, she couldn't be sure. It was probably the fact she'd never met her sister. She'd only known her from photographs, or from what her mother tried to indoctrinate into her, or punish her with. You should be grateful… Your sister would have loved that if she were here… She would never have let us down like that!

  Stella's personality was rebellious by nature, so she railed against the guilt and angst, knowing it held the key to her mental stability. All the while she was growing up, her dependence kept her mother sane. When she reached her mid-teens, her mum began to change. Stella noticed her flaky irritability, never far away, would come upon her more easily; the slightest thing setting her off. She would feel guilty afterwards, but she chipped a little of Stella's tolerance away each time. By the time she was eighteen, she was ready to strike out on her own

  She studied psychology and gained an understanding of it all. She found herself led down the path of looking at cults; the idea of becoming part of one big happy family was appealing. To give and receive unconditional love, to feel valued and worthy, to be with others that were as disaffected as she was. Compared to her own life, it would be heaven, but then she realised she would be living life on somebody else's terms, the same as she was now.

  She'd be living a lie, and she needed to get away from that.

  When she was in her third year at university, her parents, having been so strong all the way through, collapsed in on themselves. The train that carried their hopes derailed suddenly and so unexpectedly.

  Looking back, it was only ever a house of cards. One collapsed, and the other followed.

  She never did get to qualify.

  She joined the care professions herself, looking after old people, qualifying as a nurse.

  Then one day, feeling unfulfilled and insecure, completely on impulse . . . she answered an ad in the local paper.

  She managed to secure herself a job, working for Miller's missing person's agency. She had this crazy idea she might help herself by helping others find their lost loved ones, and she harboured a hope that she might finally find out what had happened to her sister.

  In drink, she had tried to pluck up the courage to ask for help, but in going about things the wrong way, she felt compelled to leave. Next, she landed a job working for the elderly Doctor Ryan and at last began to feel the pieces of her life coming back together. She learned a lot from Ryan without actually being a patient of his. He helped her; he had a knack for understanding people, a natural affinity with them. He understood the way her losses had affected her, there was no need for her to say.

  She could never have brought herself to seek psychiatric help. He understood that too.

  When he told her he was finally in the last furlongs of his working life, he illustrated his points of view with her, passing on some philosophies and stories. He told her about Gracie, how he knew that one day they'd be reunited.

  "A day that's getting closer," he added with a smile.

  She sensed in the same way that she had with her parents, that she wasn't quite getting the full story from him. In her last days with him, he'd encouraged her to go out and find another job. He hadn't wanted her to miss out.

  When Miller walked into the reception at Ryan's office, she knew she'd come full circle.

  Chapter 136

  Miller phoned Stella from the train on the way back from Edinburgh. Her answer-phone activated a drunken message. Hi, ish Shtella here, if I don't answer the phone ish 'cosh I've . . . on the vodka. I migh' be gone shome time. At the end of the recording, a series of muffled fumbling noises came down the line and then the message disconnected.

  On his arrival home, he tried calling her again, but she still didn't pick up. Bone tired, he was relieved. He'd call her later.

  Miller unpacked his holdall and set the few clothing items to one side ready for the washing machine. Upstairs, he flopped on top of his bed. He closed his eyes, hovering in the transition between waking and sleeping for the briefest moment until he heard a familiar gravelly voice. He descended further.

  Far, far down he found his grandfather with his back towards him, tending the soil in his back garden. Without turning, he scooped a handful up into a sieve and shook it into an old tobacco tin until it was full and put the lid on. He offered the tin over his shoulder, still without turning. "So, you never feel far from home. Take it." The weight of it surprised him. It was just like the one his grandfather carried everywhere until he died. "Granddad?" he said, but the old man faded before his eyes and he slept for the first time he could remember untroubled by his dreams.

  He didn't wake up until after 9 a.m. The first thing he did was telephone Stella. Her drunken voice answered; he hesitated; thumb poised ready to disconnect. I'll have to go round there . . .

  The phone transmitted rattling sounds and then she spoke. "Hello…?"

  "Stella, are you okay?"

  "Oh, Miller, I got myself into a mess last night," she coughed dryly. "Sorry . . . I have something for you that Ryan left. Can you come round later this afternoon, once I've had a chance to get my act together?"

  When Stella opened the door, he had a bunch of flowers behind his back. "I thought these might help to cheer you up," he said as he whipped them out, presenting them to her.

  She took them and managed a weak smile. "Thank you, very thoughtful of you . . ."

  He noted how pink and puffy her eyes were. "Are you sure you're okay, do you want me to come back…?"

  "That is exactly what I don't want. Come in." She motioned him in with a slight jerk of her head and turned down her hallway. He entered and closed the door behind him.

  Upstairs, there was a commotion going on, raised voices, rumbling noises, things moving and scraping across the floor. Miller looked up at the ceiling. She caught his eye.

  "That," she pointed her finger at the flat above, "is them upstairs getting ready to go on holiday," she sighed. "I'll be glad of the peace and quiet. Lovely, I can't wait." She smiled at the thought.

  "Are they always that noisy?"

  "Like you wouldn't believe . . ." She drew out a stool for him at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. "Drink?"

  "Have you got water?"

  She turned the tap on. "Yes, we have water."

  "Bottled water?" he shrugged.

  She opened the fridge and pulled a chilled bottle out. "Would you like a glass and ice?"

  "Is it bottled ice?" he grinned and took the bottle. "This'll do fine."

  She poured herself a fruit juice. He waited for her to sit, before doing so himself.

  "I can see you've done a lot of crying, Stella, are you okay?" His voice was quiet and comforting.

  She glanced at him and then quickly turned away, fanning her face with both hands. "I'm a bit all over the place with my emotions," she sipped at her drink. "I don't like losing people. Ryan was like my grandfather." She covered her eyes with one hand and tried to compose herself. "I'm sorry . . ." she said, wiping tears from her face.

  Miller laid his hand over hers. "I know he meant a lot to you. Take your time, tell me everything . . ."

  She withdrew her hand and started at the point where her sister, Kathy, had been missing for a year. As she spoke, her hands fluttered up in front of her and helped articulate her words.

  "At first, it drew them much closer together . . . I don't know all of it, but they were well on the road to splitting up when it happened. Their grief reunited them. That's where I came in. When I was born, I was a distraction for them you know. It gave them a reason not to fill up their entire lives with the searching. Having me, gave them an anchor, helped them balance their lives. I grew up in the shadow of someone who disappeared before I was a gleam in my father's eye and even though my sister was no longer there, I played second fiddle to her." She picked up a tissue and dabbed her eyes.

  "As I grew up, I began to understand it better. The candle . . . that candle mum ke
pt burning in her old room day and night. We never took holidays, because she had to be the one who kept it alive, transferring it from the last candle to the next, like she was the Keeper of the Eternal Flame." Stella's hand found the tissue again. She twisted it between her fingers as Miller looked on. He let her speak without interruption.

  "When I reached the same age as she was, I became a nurse at the same hospital. I wanted to see what it was like to walk in her shoes, go out to the same pubs and clubs, and listen to the same music that she did. Looking back now, I think I wanted to be the daughter that they missed so much, but I couldn't replace her.

  "When I got to twenty-one-years old they . . . No, she decided to kick it all in." She dabbed at her eyes again. "At first, I kept that candle burning. I rummaged through boxes and boxes of old newspapers, cuttings, posters and notes. You know there were letters from people who claimed to have seen her. There were letters from people that had dreamed about her. Letters from clairvoyants that knew what had happened . . . where she was . . . that she was still alive. Some of them even tried to exchange further information for money, and it was clear that mum and dad had paid more than a few of them in their desperation to get results." She stared at the backs of her hands and examined her bitten nails with disdain.

  "As well as becoming a nurse, I studied psychology, criminology and anything else that might help me to understand it all, to come to terms with it." She turned to face him and said, "Miller, I've lost someone I never even met, but I felt her loss every single day through them. And when I was old enough to understand, it became my duty to share it with them.

  "Now they're gone too. I lost them. What was it, three years ago? I lose track. I've been in denial. You know, after the funeral, I allowed that candle to go out. I told myself it didn't matter. It was only symbolic . . . pointless. It made no difference in reality. It was a focus for mum's prayers and hopes. I'm still looking for answers . . . it seems to have become a duty for me that I can't shake off, and it fucks me up. None of my relationships work out because of it. I've given up trying." Her hands settled back into her lap. "I'm so sorry, putting all this on you. Ryan's gone. There's no one left who understands, not that I can talk to."