The Sister

by China, Max

  "Stella, you're talking to me, and I'm listening. You really mustn't worry."

  Her face contorted as she stifled a yawn, and staggered into the lounge, plonking herself on the sofa. "I'm so tired. I need to sleep, but…"

  "But what, what is it?"

  "Miller, will you stay until I wake up?"

  He nodded. "Of course I will." He felt almost as drained as she did.

  She allowed herself to tip over to one side, lying down, curling her knees up into her body, her hands and fingers woven together, thumbs to her lips. She closed her eyes and was asleep within seconds.

  Poor kid . . .

  He watched over her from where he was sitting. His eyelids felt droopy. He closed them. Listening to her slow, steady breathing lulled him. He slept too.

  With no idea what the time was, he opened first one eye and then the other, guessing from the total lack of sound outside that it must be just before dawn. He looked at his watch; it was 9:30 p.m. You were asleep for three hours. Disorientated, he decided not to wake her, and slowly eased himself away from the cushions. She detected his movement and sat up blinking, her face crumpled at the light. "Where are you going?" she said, stretching her arms wide, yawning.

  "I didn't mean to wake you, I should get going. I've got a busy day tomorrow."

  "You must think I'm awful, falling asleep like that. I never even offered you a proper drink. Do you want a drink?"

  Miller checked his watch again pleased she seemed brighter. "Okay, just a quick one."

  "Sometimes the quick ones are the best," she laughed. "I take it you wouldn't mind Bacardi. I think I drank all the vodka last night."

  She continued speaking to him from the kitchen down the hall; he struggled to hear, so he went to join her there. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"

  "I was saying . . . Ryan left something for you. I'll get it in a minute . . ."

  "What is it?"

  She touched her nose. "I thought I was the impatient one . . ." She passed his drink over to him. "I assumed you wouldn't mind it mixed with coke."

  "No, not at all - cheers." They touched glasses.

  Miller sipped. It took his breath away. "Jesus, Stella, that's strong!"

  "Oh sorry, must have mixed it up with mine," she handed him the other one.

  He tasted it cautiously. Even stronger than the first! Returning it with a wry smile, he said, "After all you've been through, dealing with Ryan dying, I guess you need it more than I do."

  She turned her glass around and looked through it at him; her eye magnified and her face elongated. "Things look different when you've had a drink. More palatable, I think. Ryan helped me see something; he showed me something . . . Do you believe in life after death, Miller?"

  He considered the question. "Yes, I do. There was a time when I didn't, but now… Yes, I do."

  "Have you ever lost anyone close, in tragic circumstances, Miller?"

  Miller stared hard at her. He already knew she'd read his file. Was she testing him to see how truthful he was on the subject? He decided to tell her about Josie.

  "Stella, I had a girlfriend once, she vanished while at sea on a ferry. They never recovered her body. I'm not sure if it's relevant now, I'm too close to the heart of things to see properly, but I thought I saw her once, seven years after she disappeared.

  "I was on the tube coming back from Piccadilly Circus. I had a notion I might write a book about the tide of human misery that lurks just out of sight below the mainstream life of the capital. The sex, the drugs, the runaways… I decided there, and then I'd always make time for the genuinely needy, to help them track down missing loved ones, for free.

  "Anyway, at around half past seven the train pulled into Russell Square. I was on my way to Finsbury Park, meeting a friend there, and I saw her quite clearly. The shadows were playing up that morning, but I wasn't on an assignment, or anything dangerous, so I thought nothing of it. He paused. She's read your file, so she knows about the shadows.

  "She was further up the carriage, sitting alone in a gloomy corner. The light above her kept flickering. I got this strong feeling. I can't explain it, but when I focused properly - it was her. She smiled. Not the way I remember her smiling. Her lips stayed together, but immediately we made eye contact; she turned and rushed straight out of the carriage, just as the doors closed. I thrust my hand between them, activated the auto release and then ran out after her. I wanted an explanation. I called out after her. I wasn't sure she heard me. She wasn't actually running, but I had to - or I wouldn't have kept up. She rushed up the stairs and then outside, always just in sight. I called out after her a couple more times, but she'd disappeared.

  "I was devastated as you can imagine. Convinced she was alive, I stopped off at a café to collect my thoughts. All these questions ran through my head, but mostly - why? Someone came in and started talking to the lady behind the counter. "'Have you heard about the fire? There's been a disaster at Kings Cross station.'"

  Stella's lips parted; she looked stunned.

  "That's when I knew. All those near misses, more lives than a cat . . . I had some sort of early warning system working for me . . . I could still slip on a banana peel, and yet I had this radar that would warn me if I were in grave danger. What it is, I can only guess, but after I saw Josie that time . . ." He stretched out his fingers and stared into the palm of his hand.

  "Did you ever see her again?"

  "No, I never did."

  "You didn't tell Ryan about any of this did you?"

  Miller stared at her with surprise. "How would you know that?"

  She grinned mischievously, "It wasn't in your notes."

  A grin touched his lips, "He'd have loved that story, but it happened in the intervening years. I wish I'd remembered it the other day. Besides, I never told him everything."

  "Why not?"

  "I didn't want him to think I was a basket case."

  Confusion creased her brow. "But he was a psychiatrist! Do you think that if you had known more about your 'radar' when your friends died, you'd have been able to save them?"

  "Possibly . . . It still hurts to think I might have been able to . . . but then, things happen for a reason don't they? How did this come up, we were supposed to be talking about you. Talking about this doesn't make me feel better. It never will. That's why I keep it inside, out of sight . . ."

  "Out of mind," Stella finished for him.

  "Stella, I have to go . . ." He wasn't sure if the drink he'd had would put him over the limit, but he knew if he stayed there could be a repeat of Christmas three years ago.

  "Okay," she said.

  Miller sat bolt upright in bed, the pull of the sheets restrained him at the waist. Heart racing, eyes bulging; it was only a dream, but the worst yet. He traced the sequence back in his mind. It was a dream that had no beginning.

  His sudden move had woken Stella. "Miller you scared me. What the hell is going on?" Her eyes narrowed. "Do you trust me?"

  "Of course I do."

  "You do? That's good. Would you remove your silver for me?"

  "What?" He asked suspiciously. Where she was concerned, there was always an angle.

  "Take your silver off for me!" Her face darkened; her voice deepened. "Take it off!" she commanded. She locked eyes with him and smiling demonically, began to writhe seductively on the bed. "Will you take it off?" she said, cajoling.

  He slid one arm underneath her and pulled her on top of him. He was aroused.

  She kept him at bay. "Answer me!" she whispered harshly.

  What kind of game is this? "Of course I would."

  "Then do it, show me. Prove it to me."

  He removed all of it, with the exception of his crucifix and torc bracelet.

  "The bracelet and the cross!" She spat the last word.

  Surprised at her role-playing abilities, he said, "No, never. When they were given to me, and I was made to promise I would never remove them. I never have. He rolled himself on top of her. "If you contin
ue to ask me to remove them… I will have to say, "Who is this that asks me to break a promise . . ." He spoke the last few words in a deep guttural, demonic growl. He scared her.

  She put a finger over his lips. "Shush silly, you always get carried away," she laughed, her eyes crinkled to match her smile. "Wow, you've never taken it off since you put it on?"

  "That's right," he said.

  "Can I see it?"

  He held his arm out to her. She turned his wrist. The torc glowed in the moonlight, polished and smoothed by years of wear. "It's beautiful," she said finally, and then manoeuvred herself under his arm, with her back turned, spooning into him, she drew it down against her breast and held it there. He felt the warmth of her breath as she dreamily said something he couldn't quite make out so he leaned in to hear her better.

  . . . you're not in bed . . . a voice whispered. He rose into consciousness. His head was on the cushion of the sofa. He turned. Stella was staring at him with curiosity. A dream within a dream . . . What the hell?

  "Stella? I thought I'd gone home…"

  Her lips pursed. "Mm-m, you don't remember? What's wrong with you, Miller, are you for real?"

  Miller looked up. In the grey light of early morning, shadows played across the ceiling as the headlights of a car passed by.

  He couldn't remember.

  He nursed a glass of water. "This is why I tend not to drink," he said apologetically.

  "It's okay," she said, "I'm used to it."

  "Well, I'm sorry, I said I'd listen, and I fell asleep. You were saying you didn't believe in the existence of an afterlife…"

  "It doesn't matter now. I'm tired, and a little bit wasted. I've come this far…" She turned away, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  What's wrong with me? I don't know what's wrong with me… I can't get through. I shouldn't have had that drink.

  "So . . . suppose I told you about a girl I once knew."

  "Miller, come on, what is that going to prove? Some second-hand story isn't going to convert me. I need proof, actual proof."

  "Just listen, then you can make up your own mind."

  "Fire away." She sounded as if she'd already made up her mind that it was bullshit.

  "After you'd left, I tried to get someone else to replace you, but it wasn't easy. I'd almost given up, and then one Friday afternoon I took a call from someone asking if the job was still open. I said it was, and within the hour, I had this girl in. She couldn't get a baby-sitter, so she brought her son with her. She was a little flaky. I wasn't sure she'd be right for the job, but I when I saw her boy… I knew I had to give her a chance.

  "He was a little blonde, angel-faced boy. He had a penny whistle, and he thrust it into my face, I tried to take it, but he snatched it back out of reach, behind his back," his mother laughed. "You can look, but you can't touch!"

  "What's his name?" I asked.

  "'It's Bobby,' she said, 'he's autistic.' With that, the little boy takes his penny whistle to his lips and begins to play". Miller smiled at the recollection, "I'd prepared myself to cover my ears, but you know what? He played that thing like a little maestro. The sound, the tune - I'd heard it before somewhere - a couple more notes and I had it. He was playing 'Mother Natures Son', an old Beatles number. So I joined in quietly. Now I can't sing, but when it comes to singing along to that song . . . well, that's what I did. Mumbling along with what words I could remember. 'Born a poor young country boy, Mother Nature's son, all day long I'm sitting singing songs for everyone . . . ' Singing along to the penny whistle, the delight that shone in that little boy's eyes was quite something. In those moments, there was a connection between him and me. I looked at his mum, and she was weeping and smiling, all at the same time. I knew I wanted to be a part of his life, if I could. It touched me so deeply."

  "I want to meet Bobby," she said wistfully, "he just sounds so sweet!"

  Miller continued.

  "She started with me the following Monday, I ran through the job with her, handed her an 'idiot sheet' covering everything. I noticed she'd got a tattoo on the inside of her wrist. It was inked in a washed out green, hand-written script. I couldn't read it properly, and she caught me looking…" He drifted back to that day . . .

  "You're looking at my tattoo," she held her arm out.

  "It's a nice tattoo, but what does it say?"

  "Aparta de mi lado esos Seres malvados . . . In English: Keep me safe from evil things - or something like that." She appeared distant, her eyes out of focus. "I had a Spanish boyfriend who used to carry one of those little devotional prayer cards they sell in the cathedrals and churches over there . . ." She paused to sip her drink before continuing, "Anyway, I had this awful dream one night. I can't tell you what it was about, but I woke up scared and upset. When I told him about it, he gave me the card. The prayer was to Santa Barbara. He told me it would keep me safe from bad things. And I felt better, you know … like straight away. I'm not religious, or superstitious, but you know something? He died the next day.

  "After that I had the tattoo done and ever since then, I've carried the card around with me as well."

  She undid her purse, took the card out and handed it for Miller to look at. The picture showed the saint bathed in golden light, her face serene, around her crowned head a golden glow. She held a cup and a sword. The prayer was lengthy, and Miller could see why she used only part of it for the tattoo, but 'Oh Dios', would hardly have taken any more room on her wrist.

  "Why did you omit 'Oh Dios', from the tattoo?"

  She took the card back off of him. "Because I didn't just want to limit the plea to God. It leaves me free to appeal to anyone out there to keep me safe!"

  Miller turned away from his recollections, back to Stella. "It was a talisman of words, a verbal amulet, etched in green, the colour of life. If she believes hard enough that it will keep her safe, then it will. Belief is a powerful ally."

  "Okay, Miller, it all sounds very intriguing, except I'm not convinced."

  "Have you ever experienced coincidence?"

  "Well of course I have."

  "Have you ever wondered why certain events are apparently linked by a series of coincidences?"

  "I can't say I have ever had first hand experience of anything like that."

  "Well I have."

  "What - real first hand experience or just another story you heard from someone else? What you just told me wasn't your experience. It belonged to someone else!"

  "So if I tell you something first hand, direct from my experience. Would you believe it then?"

  "I'd believe that you believed it."

  "There's none so blind—" he retorted.

  "You think I don't want to see? Do you think I should just accept what you say as gospel without question?" Her mood changed; he'd touched a nerve.

  "Stella, you read my file and accepted that as gospel."

  "Hey—," she said angrily. "Why do you keep bringing that up?"

  He scratched his head. He'd not mentioned it before, but he hadn't intended to make her angry.

  "What more do you want from me?" she said hotly, "another apology?"

  "Okay, Stella, where's your file, so I can have a good look at you?"

  "So now you're trying to make me feel guilty about it? Well, I don't have one…" Miller reached out unexpectedly and grabbed her hand too quickly for her to resist. He held it tight. Heat flowed between them. It came from him.

  "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.

  "I've just read your file."

  Her mouth was half-open, "You're kidding me, aren't you?" She wasn't sure she should believe him; her eyes were round with incredulity. "Are you saying you can read people? I don't believe you!"

  Suddenly she felt immensely tired. It washed over her as if she'd worked too hard, for too long without a break. "I wish you'd told me you were going to do that."

  "Well then, now you know how it feels."

  "I still can't believe you did that!"

 
; "I didn't, I just told you that I did."

  Stella frowned, "Stop playing games with me, Miller, I have to know the truth. Can you honestly read people, can you tell the future?"

  He hesitated and then said, "Sometimes . . . it's a bit of a story. I didn't used to be able to do anything much at all. Lately, it seems that I can." Pausing, he searched for the right words. "I always had good intuition - I could tell if someone was lying to me and all that." He thought about the shadows that had dogged him most of his life. He'd gone from fear to apprehension, at some point knowing they looked out for him, whispering in the night, influencing his dreams. How can I tell her I have to sleep with the light on to get a decent night's sleep?

  "I suppose the truth is, if I can do it at all, it only works when it matters," he said, and then after a moments reflection, added, "Lately, there have been lots of times when it really seems to matter."

  "So did it matter so much just now that you felt you needed to grab my hand?"

  "I just had this overwhelming need to convince you, but I don't know why."

  She didn't look convinced.

  "I can't say any more than that really. If the truth were told, mostly it's intuition. Reading reactions, tiny changes of expression, it isn't anything special."

  "You say it's nothing special!" She shook her head in amazement. "It is exactly what Ryan referred to in his notes. He thought you had a greater ability to survive because you may have been psychic, or that each subsequent survival made you psychic. I didn't believe it when I read it, but now I think he might have been onto something," she said, her mood turning dark. "So all the time, when I knew you before, you might have been able to help me, and you never said anything?"

  "I didn't understand it as much as I do now, and anyway, if you needed my help to find your sister - why didn't you just ask?"