by Andrea Drew
Events would occur effortlessly; it was a faultless plan, the perfect solution, a way out. Turning back the covers, Brenton sighed and got into bed. He turned off the small glass lamp on the matching antique side table and closed his eyes. In a minute or so, with deep breaths, Brenton relaxed for the first in a long time and slept like a baby.
Monday 20th January, 3.27am
I wrestled with sleep for what felt like the entire night, but realistically was more likely a couple of hours. My insomnia didn’t give in that easily. There she stood at the bottom of the bed, waiting patiently for my attention, hanging around the corner of my bed.
−Gypsy, wake up.
−What do you mean, wake up? I’m asleep, I’m dreaming.
−I know who he is. He’s shown himself.
−Leave me alone.
−Someone’s grumpy.
−I hope you’re right, Isabella. So far, Christie and Ryan believe I’m the devil incarnate and the man I love has chickened out. There’s quite a bit at stake. I could lose everything here.
I sighed, realizing I’d snapped at a child, a spirit child but nonetheless undeserving of my grumpiness. What was wrong with me?
Although devastated by Connor’s lack of loyalty, there was still no excuse. However, Isabella replied before I could explain.
−Like your life, you mean?
−Well, no, not like my life, but losing Connor sure comes close.
Much as I didn’t like to admit it, if Connor ever left me, I’d be devastated. Isabella wasn’t letting up however.
−His name is Brenton. He’s close to Christie, he works with her—another graphic designer. He’s helped her through the pain of losing her grandfather. But he wants her out of the way now. He’s planning to poison her in the morning, leaving something in her coffee.
−Huh? Why would he want her out of the way?
−He’s in love with Ryan.
I gasped, a hand coming up to my mouth.
−What? With Ryan? How did Ryan and Brenton meet?
−Yes, Brenton prefers men to women. The night you, Ryan and Christie did the reading, Ryan sped off and left Christie by the side of the road. He drank, a lot, and ended up at Brenton’s favorite bar. Brenton recognized Ryan and took him home.
Not sure how to respond to that, I paused. −But, but, what does this mean?
−Ryan stayed the night. He woke in Brenton’s bed and of course assumed the worst—but nothing happened, he was so drunk he wasn’t capable of anything. Ryan doesn’t know that, of course.
−Isabella, this is ridiculous. I mean, what are the odds of Ryan running into Brenton?
−If I didn’t know better, I’d say Brenton planned it. I don’t see how Brenton could have set it up. He believes it was the hand of fate and they were destined to be together. He hasn’t had contact with Ryan before that night, but he’s heard all about him from Christie. Ryan’s all she can talk about.
−Fucking hell, you have to be kidding me. If they wrote me off as a nut before, they’ll have me locked up in the loony bin after I tell them this. Jesus Christ.
I folded my arms across my chest. −This is heavy, Isabella. I don’t know if I can do this.
−You can, you’re stronger than you think. Besides you’re already in deep, what’s the harm in wading in a little bit further?
−I lose Connor. Not like this, I don’t want to force him to choose between family and me again. The first time was bad enough. After my interference in the Reardon family, they take most things I say with a grain of salt now.
−Well, if he loves you the way you think he does, then none of this will matter, will it? He’ll stand by you.
If I thought life tested me before now, the biggest test loomed ahead. −What do you suggest?
−You need to let Ryan and Christie know that it’s Brenton. That he’ll slip something into one of her drinks in the morning. He wants Ryan all to himself.
−Maybe. How is he doing it? What’s his poison?
−He’s gone to the garage. He took down a bottle of –
Shit! The connection broke with a twig-like snap. What just happened? Someone had cut the telepathic contact.
Connor. You bastard.
The only person that could cut a connection between two psychics or telepaths would be a shield, a protector, a fucking sentinel.
Connor, the coward, had cut us off. He wanted to end this. Well, I wouldn’t go down without a fight.
My eyes snapped open and I shoved back the covers. I stormed toward the lounge room, where he flopped across the couch, seemingly asleep.
I knew better.
“Connor, wake up.”
“Huh?” His shoulders rose, hair tousled, eyes marred by sleep.
“You fucking bastard! You cut us off! Of all the slimy, covert tricks, this one is good, really good. I didn’t think you were capable of something like it, but obviously I underestimated you.”
Connor jumped up from the couch in an instant, the veil of pretended sleep falling from him.
“The connection with Isabella just snapped mid-sentence. She’s already told me who the murderer is—it’s not Ryan, it’s some weasel Christie works with, Brenton of all names. You broke the connection before she could tell me the name of the poison. You fucking prick!” I ripped the blanket off the couch, pounding it into a ball.
Connor brought an arm out. “Gypsy, calm down! What are you going on about? Listen−”
“I’m not listening to you again! The only person capable of cutting off my talk with Isabella would be someone who can block psychic signals, a protector, and a guard. You know, like a fucking sentinel. Know any of those?” The blood raged through me, every nerve, every hair on high alert.
“Gypsy, it’s not like that. Of course I want to save Christie’s life, I love her.”
“Really, so what happens if she turns up poisoned tomorrow and ends up in a hospital? What do we tell the doctors to search for, huh? Ryan and Christie already think I’m a complete fucking idiot, and by the sound of it so do you! Christ, Connor, of all people I thought you’d understand.” I stamped to the kitchen, planning to make a hot drink. How I’d get back to sleep now I had no idea.
“Connor, don’t insult my intelligence and tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about, please.”
He gazed at me with round eyes, the blanket at his feet where I’d thrown it.
“I just want this to stop, Gypsy. I’ve already lost my brother, my ex-wife, my nephew. All I have left is Christie. I’m not losing her, too.”
“But don’t you get it? If we don’t stop this prick Brenton, you’ll lose her for good! You’re not making any sense!”
I couldn’t believe this. He’d never cut a telepathic connection before, ever, but then again I’d never given him the chance. He had it all fully justified in his own head, even though he could be putting Christie in danger. I’d drink my hot chocolate and stumble back to bed.
Maybe if I could get back to sleep, I could establish the connection with Isabella afresh. I only needed a few seconds to get the name of the poison.
I poured the warm water into a mug and stirred in my hot chocolate, picked up the cup and left the kitchen. Connor sat on the couch with the blanket around his shoulders, staring at the flickering pictures on the TV with the volume down.
“I’m going back to bed,” I said. “One of us needs to try and salvage the situation and save your daughter’s arse.”
He didn’t glare back.
Monday 21st January, 9.55am
I awoke the next morning to light streaming between the closed curtains and my telephone ringing off the hook. I rolled over to my left to contemplate the electronic green figures on the alarm clock.
Shit, I’d slept in! The clock blared at me, 9.55 a.m. The alarm usually woke me around 7.30 a.m. I’d left my mobile phone downstairs, and could hear the ringtone pinging relentlessly. After a two second pause, it began again. Someone really wanted to talk to me. Throwing back th
e covers and swiping the hair from my eyes, I began the trek downwards. Swinging open the door to my study, I searched for the source of the noise. My phone in its purple case lay open on my desk, buzzing furiously almost falling off the desk.
I picked it up and saw the name on the screen. I swiped it and held it to my ear.
“Connor,” I panted, out of breath from the race downstairs.
“Gypsy? I called a few times, you worried me.”
“Sorry, I can’t believe I slept in. My alarm didn’t go off. What’s going on?”
“Christie’s in hospital.” His deep voice gave little away.
Holy crap, it had happened.
“Oh my god, when?”
“Not long ago, Ryan called. She’s at St Vincent’s now; I’m on my way there.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She collapsed at work. She said she felt sick, nauseous. She threw up in the ambulance, but now she’s making no sense, hallucinating.”
“I’ll meet you there, out the front.”
“Yes, she’ll probably still be in emergency. Call me when you get there.”
I hung up and dropped the phone on my desk. My hands were shaking and my heart banged like a shed door in the wind.
Oh my god. I’d hoped Isabella and I were overreacting, but now it had happened. We were right. At that moment, I never thought I’d say it, but I wanted to be wrong, the wrongest I’d ever been.
My mouth flew open and I shuffled back a step.
I stamped upstairs, sprinting into my bedroom, racing back and forth to find clothes closest to me, and cleanest. Pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I jumped down the stairs, grabbed my bag and keys from the kitchen and headed for the car.
In the twenty minutes it took me to get to the hospital, I ran through scenarios in my head, all of which went nowhere without a solution. I was right; the professionals could take it from here. Isabella had led me in the right direction, even if Ryan insisted on my lunacy and Connor sat on the fence.
I needed Isabella.
Power walking from the car park to the hospital’s front entrance, I called Connor.
“Gypsy, where are you?”
“Out the front of the hospital.”
“Come around and see us. We’re in the Banksia unit around the back.”
“Okay, see you in a sec.” I hung up and recommenced panting as I strode around the building toward the rear of the complex.
Unfortunately, I knew what admission to the Banksia unit meant. Christie had been placed in a psychiatric ward. Good god what next?
Puffing my way to the edge of the complex, I spied the sign and headed through the sliding doors, the main entrance to the unit. There Connor sat, his long legs stretched to full length. He seemed huge on the tiny cheap visitor’s chairs. When he saw me, he jerked his body up and out of its perch in the plastic chair and bounded toward me.
“Connor!”
“Gypsy, glad you came.”
“How could I not? How is she?”
“Come with me.” Connor loped along the corridor and I followed his lead.
“She vomited repeatedly, and slurred her speech like she’d been drinking. Now she’s hallucinating, spouting the weirdest things. Talking about slimy creatures climbing through the windows to come and attack her. Ryan spoke to the staff about the stress she’s been under, losing her grandfather and her hair falling out, although I’m not sure that in the face of her babbling she should be in the Banksia unit. I guess that’s Ryan’s call to argue the point.”
“My god, Connor she isn’t mad, it’s the poison!”
“We don’t have any proof of that.”
“Yet.”
“Let’s just play it by ear for now. Conflict isn’t going to help anyone.”
“Since when did you get to sit on the fence? You’re a sentinel; you’ve been in contact with Isabella, how can you deny this is real, and that Christie really has been poisoned?”
He paused before a closed beige door at the end of the carpeted corridor. “I want to hold onto what I’ve got.”
“Does that include me?”
“Look, let’s keep this low key for now, okay? We’re in a psychiatric ward.” Connor had dropped his voice to hushed tones, and as he pushed down on the door handle, a nurse seated at a desk shot me a wan smile. Connor ushered me through the corridor and a dark, longhaired man with a haunted, vacant expression grunted at me.
“It’s okay, she’s in here,” whispered Connor.
We turned into a small, brightly lit room and there slumped Christie in a plastic chair of a different color. She hunched over a kidney dish. Seeing her like this threw me. I glanced at Connor. While we hadn’t got along, I would never have wished this on her, not in the slightest.
Ryan hovered at her side, his face creased and worn.
“Connor,” he whispered, extending his hand to shake hands.
“Ryan. I came as soon as I heard.”
Ryan shifted his gaze to me briefly. “You brought her with you.” He obviously couldn’t acknowledge me yet. If I didn’t know better, his frayed temper would have puzzled me, considering his reputation as Christie’s staunchest supporter and provider of support and care. Now I knew better thanks to Isabella. A one-night stand with a man could do that to a straight guy’s conscience. Cheating was cheating whether with the same sex or the opposite, as far as I knew, in fact as far as most people knew.
“How is she?” Both of their eyes turned to Christie, whose hair hung across her face.
“Uncle Connor,” she said through dry, cracked lips.
Connor moved quickly to squat beside her. “Christie, honey, I’m here.”
“Beedlejenkblarncraum. There, over there!” She screeched and pointed to the window.
“It’s okay, Christie,” he murmured, “I’ll get them. They’ll never hurt you.”
Could have fooled me.
With a crack of the knees, Connor stood up.
“Maybe we should take this out to the corridor.” He stepped toward me and gestured toward the doorway.
Ryan leaned closer to Christie, murmuring soothing words and smoothing down her hair. “I’ll be out in a sec,” said Ryan, turning his head toward us before moving his attention back to Christie.
In a split second, Christie bolted upright and scooted in my direction. She waved her arms manically, eyes bulging, the pallor of her colorless face highlighted in the morning sun.
“You bitch−fucking thing! Brother, my flesh, bleeding burning brother. Hurt him, trapped and tortured, crucified, vicious nasty hag, old witch…”
Shit. I knew exactly what she meant, and I wondered if Ryan did. This outburst certainly confirmed a few things. Someone had been visiting the scumbag in jail.
Ryan turned back to Christie to murmur what I could only assume were soothing words in an effort to placate her, and I quickened my steps to reach Connor in the corridor.
The top of my head reached Connor’s chin, and he bent slightly to whisper in my ear.
“I’m not sure if this is a good idea. You being here might have set her off.”
“If so, that would be because a cobra is whispering in her ear. She’s easily led.”
“He’s her brother, Gypsy!”
“Yeah, and your nephew, who just happens to be cooling his heels in jail since he shot a cop. Blood isn’t always thicker than water, is it?”
As Connor turned his gaze elsewhere, I saw a muscle in his cheek flicker. He didn’t want to say it. Yet it didn’t matter whether he said it aloud or not, I knew him inside out, knew every inch of him, warts and all. I had a fair idea what he was thinking.
“That’s different.”
“Really, how? Because he chose to be a victim, to slide down a spiral of hate and anger. That was his choice, not yours. As you said, he was never going to change, no matter what. I know Christie’s your last and closest blood relative, but regardless of how you feel about this, blood tests need to be done, and fast. If y
ou love her like you say you do, have the damn test. I want to save her, not punish her. I thought you of all people knew that.”
His eyes met mine. I scrutinized his face. I recognized the flush, the dark eyes, and the clenched fist. A tidal wave of emotion swam beneath the surface, but of course, Connor would never let on. Ryan appeared, standing between us.
He pushed out a breath and rubbed his brow. “She’s calmed down, for now, anyway. What the hell is with the weird arse torture story?”
So Christie hadn’t told him. My focus didn’t move from Connor’s face. “Ancient history.”
“It should never have come to this. I should have known. The stress, the grief, it’s overwhelmed her. She needs rest.” Ryan shook his head.
Damn right, it should never have come to this.
“She needs a blood test is what she needs. Did you ask the medical staff to check for poisoning?” I directed my question to Connor rather than Ryan.
A heavy cloud passed across Ryan’s face. “Believe it or not, I did, against my better judgment. They took blood as soon as she got here.”
Connor, as usual, played the mediator, the soother of frayed nerves. “Some rest will do her good.”
“If they don’t know what the poison is, how the hell will they look for it? Meanwhile she’s the victim of another poison—whatever psychiatric med they decide on in their endless wisdom.” I struggled to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, and of course, failed miserably. I had my own experience with psychiatrists in years gone by, and wouldn’t spit on them if their collective arses were on fire. They ruined lives, and I’d be damned if I’d let them ruin Christie’s.
Ryan’s feet were planted wide, and he gestured at my chest with a pointed finger. “Listen; mind your own fucking business. We never asked you−“
“Actually, you did.” My tone had flat lined with the last of my sympathy depleted. Playing nice for Connor’s sake didn’t sit well with me anymore. Time to lay out some cold hard truths. “I’m a messenger, nothing more nothing less. I don’t make this shit up to play mind games, and at no point did I make any accusations. The two of you dubbed that in.”
“You cheeky fucking−” Ryan would probably explode at any second—his cheeks puffed out and face changing color—but I’d started and meant to finish.
