‘Steve,’ said Psimon, his voice breaking with tears. ‘I see what happens in the future… I can read the thoughts of people standing half a mile away… I can know places I’ve never been to!’
‘I know,’ repeated Steve as Psimon’s despair climbed higher and higher.
‘I have led the police to finding twenty-one killers; helped them with countless other crimes. I’ve stopped children running out in traffic, grounded planes that I knew would crash…’
‘Psimon, please,’ said Steve.
‘But not him!’ said Psimon, his voice rising close to a scream. ‘Why can’t I stop him?’
Steve could think of nothing to say. He had only recently come to believe in Psimon, much less understand him. He was in no position to advise him on how to use his powers.
‘He kills us Steve,’ said Psimon desolately. ‘He kills us in the most horrible ways.’
Steve did not want to hear this. He had just started to relish the fact that all this was coming to an end. Now it seemed like it was only the beginning.
‘And he does not see it as a crime,’ Psimon went on. ‘He sees it as a duty, a divine vocation.’
‘We’ll stop him,’ said Steve.
‘No. We won’t!’ cried Psimon. ‘He takes me Steve… I have seen it. The only question is whether I die slowly at his hand, or quickly at yours.’
‘I refuse to accept that,’ said Steve stubbornly.
‘You have no choice,’ said Psimon.
‘We always have a choice,’ said Steve, rising angrily from his chair and going over to stand beside the window. ‘It’s just that we don’t always like the ones we’re given.’
Psimon watched him walk away, an enigmatic expression on his face.
Steve stared out of the window, thinking that Monday could not come quick enough. Bankruptcy, homelessness, marital strife… These were manageable things, unpleasant, unwelcome but manageable. Things he could understand. Things he could confront. Visions of death and a psychopathic bogeyman were something else altogether.
With a sigh of weariness Steve reached out to close the curtains. He paused as the growl of an approaching motorbike rattled the window. A Harley Davidson surged into view, closely followed by a large Suzuki and a second Harley. The bikes turned in to the house next door coming dangerously close to Steve’s BMW, which was parked between the two driveways.
‘My new neighbours,’ said Psimon from his chair. ‘Their mate moved in a few months ago after a spot of good fortune.’
‘Lottery?’ said Steve, relieved that the dour mood had lifted.
‘Littlewoods.’
Steve snorted his acknowledgement.
‘Things have been a bit rowdy since then,’ said Psimon.
Steve hesitated at the window; it was years now since he had owned a bike. He had sold his last one shortly after meeting Christine. She had not asked him to but Steve knew she did not like them. She worried about him. That had been enough.
Still, he missed it.
Steve took hold of the curtains just as two massive trikes thrummed down the street. One of them made for the drive but the turning circle was too sharp and he ended up on the grass verge running down the side of the pavement. The second one made an even worse hash of it, coming too close to Steve’s car and finding himself unable to manoeuvre either forwards or backwards.
‘Idiot,’ thought Steve, tugging the curtains closed. ‘I need to move my car,’ he said.
‘Sure,’ said Psimon as Steve crossed the room.
‘I’ll just be a minute,’ said Steve but just as he was about to leave the room Psimon sat bolt upright in his chair.
‘NO!’ he shouted in a shrill voice of fear.
‘Why not?’ asked Steve coming to an abrupt halt in the doorway.
For all the weird ways he had seen Psimon behave over the last few days, he had never heard him panic like that.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Steve impatiently. The last thing he needed was more hassle over a damaged car.
‘I don’t…’ began Psimon, looking scared and apologetic at the same time. Then he got up from the chair and stood there anxiously wringing his hands.
‘No… sorry. I think it’s ok,’ he said.
‘Well make up your mind,’ said Steve. He could almost hear the squeal of chrome on paintwork.
‘Go,’ said Psimon. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Steve sighed and shook his head despairingly. Then he trotted down the stairs and out onto the street.
Psimon was left alone.
*
‘Hang on there mate,’ said Steve as the BMW gave the familiar ‘beep-beep’ of being unlocked.
‘You didn’t leave us much space to get in,’ said a gruff voice from further up the drive.
Steve looked up as several of the bikers ambled back onto the footpath, helmets in hand. They had a grizzled, unwashed look. These were not your fair-weather weekend bikers; these were the real thing.
‘I know,’ said Steve. ‘Hang on I’ll move it back for you.’
Just then the rider of the marooned trike tried to reverse out of trouble grinding the side of his engine up against the wing of Steve’s car.
‘I was just going to move it,’ said Steve with rising annoyance but the rider of the trike just stared at him from his open-faced helmet.
‘Two wheels good, four wheels bad,’ he said in a voice that led Steve to think he was stoned.
‘You’re on three wheels you fucking idiot,’ said Steve, having finally lost patience with these jokers.
He snatched open the door of his car, slumped inside and reversed his car back to the far side of Psimon’s drive. Then he got out, locked the car and ignored the hostile stares that followed him back to the house.
*
Steve was gone.
The doorway yawned.
Psimon could not breathe.
He could not move; he could but barely think.
He had seen this before; seen it through the shadows and the fear. Now he waited for the hulking figure to fill the doorway and eclipse all hope. The rushing of his blood echoed loudly in his ears and yet his heartbeat pulsed to a sluggish, swollen beat as time slowed and stretched before him. He lost all feeling of his physical self. Psimon was locked inside his mind, and his mind was filled with fear. A fear that was validated as He appeared in the doorway.
*
Steve rushed forward as Psimon collapsed to the floor. He knelt down beside him, checked his pulse and breathing. He seemed all right but for some reason he had passed out. The look of abject terror on his face, when Steve entered the room, had given Steve such a fright that he had felt compelled to look back at the doorway to check that Satan himself was not standing there. As Steve drew him into a more comfortable position Psimon began to come round.
His eyes stared, unseeing, and he clutched at Steve like a child caught in the wake of some horrific nightmare.
‘He was here,’ cried Psimon. ‘He came for me.’
‘No one’s here, Psimon,’ said Steve firmly. ‘You are all right… you just fainted.’
‘No… I saw him,’ insisted Psimon. ‘I saw him there in the doorway.’
Psimon pointed at the doorway.
A chink of fear opened up in Steve’s mind as he followed the line of Psimon’s trembling finger. Steve clenched his jaw and slammed the door shut on the fear.
‘You saw me,’ he said almost angrily.
Psimon started to object but Steve grabbed his chin and turned Psimon’s frightened grey eyes to meet his own solid brown.
‘You saw me!’ he stated with a finality that got through to Psimon.
‘I saw you?’
‘Yes,’ said Steve. ‘You saw me… there is no one else here.’
For a while Psimon’s wide eyes just looked up at Steve.
‘Then I was wrong,’ he said at last and there was something like relief in his voice.
‘I guess so,’ said Steve.
‘But I’m never wrong,’ said Psimon s
ounding puzzled.
‘Yeah, well join the club,’ said Steve hauling Psimon up and guiding him back to his chair. ‘Most of us spend half our lives getting shit wrong.’
Psimon sank into the chair, the beginnings of a smile on his face.
‘I was wrong,’ he said again in a wondering tone as if he were entirely happy about the fact.
‘So you said,’ said Steve reaching for his unfinished bottle of beer. ‘I’m sure you’ll get over it,’ he added, taking a much-needed swig.
‘But don’t you see,’ said Psimon, sitting forward excitedly in his chair. ‘If I’m wrong about this, then I might be wrong about other things.’
Some of the colour had returned to Psimon’s cheeks and there was a brightness in his eyes. But the brightness had a manic quality to it and Steve did not trust it. It was not like the many other shades and moods that he had seen in Psimon’s gaze. This emotion was an impostor. This was not the Psimon that Steve knew. The brightness was dishonest.
‘Everything could be all right, Steve,’ said Psimon wonderingly, his gaze turning inwards as he tried to think things through in the light of this new experience.
‘Yeah, of course it will be,’ said Steve, although he did not truly believe it.
Steve felt suddenly flushed by a deep sense of weariness. Despite the eventual outcome it had been a stressful day, a stressful week in fact. He bent down and began collecting together the bags, cartons and plates of their takeaway supper.
‘What do you say we call it a day?’ he said.
‘It’s still early yet,’ said Psimon but Steve could see the fatigue behind Psimon’s new-found optimism.
‘It’s dark outside,’ said Steve. ‘That’s late enough for me.’
Psimon smiled.
‘You might be right,’ he said.
He stood up and started towards the bathroom. Then he stopped and turned round, looking at Steve with that strangely intense gaze of his.
‘That’s more like the Psimon I know,’ thought Steve.
‘Thank you,’ said Psimon.
‘For what?’ asked Steve.
‘You said we.’
‘We what?’ puzzled Steve.
‘You said… We sink your fucking boats.’
And Steve understood.
‘Figured I’d chose the winning side,’ he said.
‘Right,’ said Psimon with a smile. ‘Goodnight,’ he said.
‘Night, Psimon,’ said Steve.
And with that Psimon left the room, leaving Steve to finish clearing up.
Steve scraped the uneaten food into the bin in Psimon’s kitchen.
‘One more day,’ thought Steve. ‘Just one more day.’
He felt incredibly tired now but he would be sleeping in the chair again tonight. The fear on Psimon’s face had been far more convincing than the relief of his new-born hopefulness. Steve went round the flat, checking once again that everything was secure. Then before he retired he stopped by the kitchen once more, taking a glass of cold water from the tap. Their victory feast now felt more like the last meal of a condemned man and the euphoria of outwitting the ‘powers that be’ seemed like a distant memory. A new image loomed large in Steve’s mind, the image of a deranged serial killer who murdered his victims in the most horrible of ways.
‘He’s big,’ Psimon had said. ‘Like a giant.’
Steve put down his glass and his eyes moved to the Sabatier knife block next to the cooker. Maybe tonight he would sleep with a little reassurance close to hand.
‘You stab me in the face with a short-bladed knife,’ Psimon had told him.
Steve chose the longest knife in the block and went to get some sleep.
Chapter 26
International Psychic Convention: Manchester
Lucifer felt sullied.
To be surrounded by so many feeble, vacuous minds was sickening. He had listened to this self-glorifying fool expounding the effects of the mind over the body and how he, with his powers, could unlock their true potential. He had watched in scornful disbelief as the congregation lapped up his drivel. Only a handful of those listening showed any discernment, laughing at his pretensions and mocking his claims. These men, at least, showed some measure of will. They were big men, physically strong, some of them almost as big as he. He was pleased to see that they were not so easily duped.
But no…
Lucifer was not interested in anodyne frauds, no matter how ridiculous their claims might be.
Those in dominion concurred.
The chorus was silent.
Lucifer waited until the hall had begun to empty before he left his seat. A man and woman stepped into his path, talking excitedly about what they had just heard. They looked up and apologised for their discourtesy. Lucifer graced them with a smile and they went quickly on their way. He had a good smile, although he found it an odious task to use it. But over the years he had come to acknowledge the benefits of conforming to the conventions of the inconsequential world.
A face of wrath was long remembered; a smile was soon forgot.
Lucifer continued up the aisle towards the exit.
*
‘Aren’t you nervous?’ asked Steve as they crossed the quadrangle and approached the entrance to the lecture hall.
‘Nope,’ said Psimon, taking hold of the door and holding it open for Steve.
Psimon’s optimism had persisted through the night. He had greeted Steve that morning with a cheerful air that Steve found more than a little uncomfortable. He preferred the old Psimon, the unsettling Psimon, the always slightly melancholy Psimon.
Steve gave Psimon a sideways look as he went through into the lecture hall’s foyer.
‘Two?’ enquired a man sitting behind a long wooden counter.
‘Just one,’ said Psimon, before Steve had a chance to speak. ‘I’ll be taking the stand.’
‘Jolly good,’ said the man, reaching for a nearby clipboard. ‘Have you registered?’ asked the man eagerly.
‘Yes,’ said Psimon.
‘Name?’ asked the man.
‘Psimon,’ said Psimon.
The man glanced down the short list of names.
‘Ah yes,’ he said, ticking off Psimon’s name. ‘You’re sixth on the list.’
The man handed Psimon a small card.
‘Give this to Natasha,’ he said, pointing through the door into the hall. ‘She will show you where to sit and invite you onto the stage if you get a chance to speak.’
‘If he gets a chance?’ queried Steve.
‘Depends how quickly we get through the speakers,’ the man explained. ‘Each speaker has the opportunity to introduce themselves before facing the audience and the panel of experts. They can speak for as long as they like or until the audience votes them off.’
‘And why would the audience vote them off?’ asked Steve.
‘If they are not impressed by their performance,’ said the man as if this were common knowledge.
Psimon met Steve’s raised eyebrow with a bright, unapologetic smile.
They had arrived early for the debate. Sam Delaney, ‘Sports Psychic’, had just finished his talk and the hall was slowly emptying of people. They stood to one side as a group of people emerged from the exit and passed through the foyer. Then Psimon and Steve went through into the hall.
They passed through a small anteroom, the walls of which were lined with mirrors, and on into the main lecture hall where the seats rose up in a broad semicircle around the stage.
Natasha met them as they entered the hall. Psimon gave her a dazzling smile and held out his ticket. Steve rolled his eyes as he noticed the affect this had on the young woman.
‘This way,’ she said, blushing and smiling in return as she led Psimon away towards the left-hand aisle.
Steve stood there, feeling somewhat at a loss, until Psimon looked back and nodded at him to take a seat. Steve glanced down the aisle looking for somewhere to sit. People were still leaving their seats. Most were talking qui
etly as they left but one group was laughing and noisily carrying on. They were all big, solid men.
‘Rugby players,’ thought Steve. Probably Sam Delaney’s own team, come to give their ‘psychic coach’ a hard time.
Steve looked across the hall at Psimon. Even in these innocuous surroundings he felt uncomfortable being separated from Psimon. This was the final day of their contract and despite Psimon’s positive transformation Steve still believed there was something of substance behind his fears. As he descended the shallow steps down the middle of the hall Steve’s eyes followed Psimon as Natasha led him down the left-hand aisle to a bank of chairs to one side of the stage.
‘Sorry,’ said Steve, distractedly as he almost collided with a man and woman who seemed to be talking excitedly about the validity of Mr Delaney’s ideas.
‘Sorry,’ Steve said again as he bumped hard into another member of the departing audience.
Steve glanced up at the figure who had stopped him in his tracks.
The guy was massive, several inches taller than Steve and, even in his smart blue suit, Steve could see that he was built like the proverbial ‘brick shit-house’.
‘Sorry,’ Steve repeated as he stepped round the man.
The big guy said nothing. He didn’t seem the least bit inclined to move out of Steve’s way but he smiled as Steve edged round him. It was the smile of a charming man; a man with obvious, if somewhat ‘Neanderthal’, good looks. But Steve was not reassured, for the smile never came near the man’s eyes, eyes that were so dark they were almost black.
‘Fucking rugby players,’ cursed Steve as he squeezed past.
He looked up to check on Psimon who had just put a hand to his head as if to ease a headache or a moment’s dizziness. Natasha helped him to a chair and put a hand on his knee. Steve worked his way into a row of chairs near the front of the auditorium. He shook his head at Psimon’s dramatics.
‘She’s already interested,’ he thought. ‘No need to play the sympathy card.’
But when Psimon raised his head, Steve grew more concerned. There was a familiar haunted look in his eyes. It seemed the fleeting levity of Psimon’s rosy outlook had come to an end.
‘Are you all right?’ Steve mouthed the words.
For a few seconds Psimon just looked at him uncertainly. Steve was about to rise from his seat when Psimon waved him down.
First and Only Page 17
