First and Only

by Flannery, Peter

  ‘I’m okay,’ he mouthed back.

  The shadow had passed.

  Lucifer had left the building.

  Steve was actually enjoying this. The panel consisted of a clergyman, a scientist, a magician-come-illusionist and a psychologist who had spent many years researching the way ‘psychics’ performed their so-called supernatural feats. They were all intelligent and well informed and none of them had that unpleasant edge of superciliousness that often plagued the detractors of the psychic world.

  And up against them came the psychics, the clairvoyants, the mediums and the rest…

  The first guy had been more comedian than psychic and had been hugely entertaining until the clergyman had caught him out with a clever piece of logic.

  The clergyman had led the applause as the comedian left the stage.

  Next came a man who claimed to be able to speak to the dead. But when the psychologist gave a more impressive performance than the would-be medium, the poor man had nothing else to say.

  The clairvoyant made some impressive claims and dire prophecies for the future but as there was no way to prove or disprove what she was saying, the audience lost patience and sent her packing.

  The fourth pretender was a spoon bender and clock mender, firmly in the mould of the great Uri Geller but the illusionist showed the audience how such trickery was accomplished and Uri had only one place to go.

  Another medium then, who claimed to be able to speak not just to the spirits of the dead but also to animals and babies who had passed away without ever being able to talk. Despite her impressive list of satisfied clients she had been unable to pass a simple challenge set her by the psychologist.

  ‘Only those who want to come through will do,’ she had protested as the audience invited her to leave.

  And then it was Psimon’s turn.

  Steve shifted anxiously in his seat as Psimon crossed to the lectern in the middle of the stage. He looked at Steve and gave him the smallest of smiles as if to settle the former-soldier’s nerves. Then Psimon lifted his eyes to the expectant faces.

  ‘Hello,’ he said in a quiet steady voice. ‘My name is Psimon… and I am psychic.’

  Steve looked up at Psimon with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. It was like watching a psychic version of Alcoholics Anonymous.

  ‘Hello Psimon,’ said the clergyman. ‘Can you tell us what makes you think that you are psychic?’

  ‘The fact that I am,’ replied Psimon to a ripple of soft laughter.

  ‘But what abilities do you possess?’ asked the scientist.

  ‘Many,’ said Psimon. ‘Chose one and I’ll tell you if I can do it.’

  The scientist sat back in his chair raising a contemplative hand to his chin. This softly spoken young man displayed none of the ego and self-aggrandisement that most of the other speakers had. But it was clear that he had already captured the attention of the audience.

  ‘Can you talk to the dead?’ asked the scientist.

  ‘No,’ said Psimon.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Psimon. ‘But I believe it’s because the dead no longer exist, other than as corpses in the ground, and in the memories of those left behind.’

  The scientist seemed entirely satisfied with this answer but there were mutterings of disapproval from amongst the audience.

  ‘Can you read people’s minds?’ asked the psychologist.

  ‘Yes,’ said Psimon.

  ‘Can you read my mind?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Psimon.

  The psychologist raised his eyebrows at this bold claim and the murmurs from the audience grew louder as they began to realise that there was something different going on here.

  The psychologist bent down and retrieved a large brown envelope from the briefcase beside his chair.

  ‘In this envelope is a picture,’ the psychologist announced to the audience holding up the envelope with more than a touch of showmanship. ‘Not a picture of a cross or a moon or a boat sailing across a wavy sea.’

  He looked meaningfully at the audience. They knew exactly what he was talking about. They had all seen such feats repeated by countless clairvoyants.

  ‘This is a picture that it would be almost impossible to guess.’

  Here he looked directly at Psimon.

  ‘Now,’ he went on. ‘I’m going to hold an image of this picture in my mind and you can either have a stab at guessing what it is… or you can leave the stage now and save yourself the embarrass…’

  ‘It’s a picture of Leonardo da Vinci’s giant crossbow firing an arrow at the world,’ said Psimon, cutting across the psychologist. ‘Only the arrow is a pen and the world is actually a human skull with the countries cut away to reveal the brain inside.’

  The psychologist almost dropped the envelope. His mouth sagged open and he could only stare at Psimon. The audience waited with baited breath for him to open the envelope which, with trembling hands, he duly did.

  ‘Child’s play,’ thought Steve as the auditorium echoed to the sound of astonished gasps and enthusiastic applause. ‘Give him a real challenge.’

  ‘How did you do that?’ asked the psychologist in a breathless whisper.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Psimon as the noise in the hall subsided. ‘All I know is it’s as clear in my mind as it is in yours.’

  ‘Can you read anyone’s mind?’ shouted someone from the audience.

  ‘Just about,’ said Psimon with a quick glance at Steve.

  ‘What about mine?’ someone else called out… ‘And mine,’ said another.

  ‘Wait, wait… just a minute,’ said the scientist, rising from his seat and appealing to everyone to calm down. ‘How do we know you didn’t set this up with Martin?’ he gestured towards the psychologist who was still quite obviously stunned by Psimon’s performance.

  ‘A true scientist,’ said Psimon with a small smile on his lips. ‘Do you always demand proof?’

  ‘Not when it’s a matter of opinion or belief,’ replied the scientist. ‘But when it’s a matter of fact, yes... I do.’

  Psimon acknowledged this answer with a respectful nod. Then his eyes suddenly fixed on the man and the audience watched as the scientist first gaped in surprise then blushed to the roots of his thinning blonde hair.

  ‘Is that proof enough?’ asked Psimon reining in his gaze.

  ‘Yes,’ gasped the scientist. He sat down heavily in his chair and looked up into the audience, to an attractive woman sitting near the back of the hall; his face a picture of anxiety.

  ‘Don’t worry about impressing her,’ said Psimon gently. ‘She’s already fallen in love with you.’

  The audience laughed as the scientist blushed all over again but the beginnings of an astonished smile showed that no damage had been done.

  Psimon turned back to the entranced faces of the audience. There were a few moments of bewildered silence and then the avalanche of questions began.

  *

  Lucifer was waiting beneath the vaulted skeleton of a willow tree. Waiting for the ridiculous debate to be over and for the heretic healer to begin her sermon and seal her fate. He had seen her arrive, this bride of speciousness; seen the fawns and the sycophants vying for her favour. He had seen her enter the hall by the door reserved for the privileged few. He would see her soon and watch with constraint as she condemned herself and left him no choice but to take her.

  Lucifer looked ahead to her confession, to the humbling, the question, the cleansing and the end… the end of all her lies. He would take his time with her. The last one had not followed the rightful order of the mass ordained by the chorus. He would make sure she knew the glory of pain before he took the breath of life from her sobbing lungs.

  Lucifer’s spirits lifted in anticipation of the rite to come but his expectancy was interrupted by a growing hubbub from people milling around in the quadrangle between the various rooms and halls.

  Lucifer widened his perception and listened to what was
being said.

  ‘That’s what they’re saying.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘Straight up… This guy’s the real thing.’

  ‘…The scientist called his bluff.’

  ‘Yeah but he shot him down… spoke directly into his mind.’

  ‘A genuine psychic.’

  ‘Let’s go and see.’

  ‘Can we still get in?’

  ‘It’s this one over here… the psychic debate.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  Despite his contempt, Lucifer was intrigued. He fell in with the swelling crowd and returned to the hall of lies.

  *

  Steve was getting more than a little concerned. The atmosphere had changed from shock and astonishment and was rising towards a kind of hysteria. And still more people were coming into the hall. The word had obviously got around that something extraordinary was going on. He looked up at the rows of seats behind him. They were all full now and people were sitting and standing in the aisles.

  Back on stage Psimon was fielding one question after another.

  ‘So you’re saying that none of the other people speaking here today are actually psychic. That none of them have supernatural powers of any kind.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Psimon and Steve found himself wishing that Psimon could be a little less honest and a little more diplomatic.

  ‘Don’t you think that’s incredibly arrogant?’

  ‘It would be, if it wasn’t true,’ replied Psimon.

  ‘So they are all liars and con-artists.’

  ‘No,’ said Psimon. ‘Only three of them are guilty of wilful deception. The others believe their powers to be real.’

  ‘But they’re not.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what are they?’

  ‘Yeah, what are they?’

  Psimon bowed his head. How quickly the brightness of wonderment fades to the dull flames of hostility.

  ‘People seek explanations for things they do not understand,’ Psimon said. ‘Some turn to science, because logic and reason prevail and endure.’

  Here he turned to the scientist on the panel.

  ‘Some turn to God, and find their answers there.’

  The clergyman inclined his head.

  ‘While others turn their gaze within, to the mysteries of the mind.’

  Psimon’s hand gestured towards the psychologist but he raised his eyes to the audience.

  ‘People believe in the supernatural because they do not understand. They do not understand the amazing complexity of the human brain and the influence of the subconscious mind. They believe in the supernatural because they do not appreciate just how unendingly wonderful nature truly is.’

  ‘And you do?’ came the unpleasant challenge.

  ‘No,’ said Psimon. ‘No one fully does. But we can try. And when we reach the limits of our understanding we must have the courage to say, I don’t know.’

  ‘So what about us?’

  ‘Yeah, are we all deluded?’

  ‘No,’ said Psimon, much to Steve’s relief. ‘You have simply believed in something that is not true.’

  The audience was silent.

  ‘But we can believe in you,’ said a woman from the back of the hall.

  ‘If you like,’ said Psimon with a smile.

  Silence again and Steve wondered whether Psimon had succeeded in calming the mob or if it was just taking a breath before going for his throat.

  Then once more from the back of the hall.

  ‘My husband hears the voice of our dead son,’ the woman went on in a small, tremulous voice. ‘But it brings him no comfort,’ she said. ‘It only makes him weep.’

  Psimon looked up at the woman. His eyes glittered with tears. The lecture hall was full but he spoke only to her.

  ‘Liam is gone,’ he told her. ‘He exists only in your hearts.’

  The woman put a hand to her mouth. The tears spilled down her cheeks.

  ‘The voices are not real,’ said Psimon. ‘Your husband is suffering from a mental disorder. He is grieving and he is ill. He will find no peace in chasing after ghosts.’

  The woman was too upset to answer. She could only nod her thanks.

  *

  Lucifer was inflamed.

  Who was this blasphemer to doubt the voice of this woman’s son, to dismiss what he had never heard?

  ‘His mouth is full of curses and lies and threats;

  trouble and evil are under his tongue.’

  He had been right to follow the chattering crowds. This man was dangerous. He spoke his lies with authority. He spoke with the power of the damned.

  *

  Silence claimed the crowded hall once more. The aching clarity of the woman’s grief had sobered the volatile mood. Then an old man from the front row raised himself up on a walking stick that was carved in the likeness of a Jack Russel terrier.

  ‘I once knew a priest who told me he knew a real and genuine psychic,’ the old man said. ‘A child truly gifted from God,’ he said.

  Psimon held the old man’s eyes, which, for all their years, were still clear and bright and had not changed.

  ‘Was he lying?’ the old man asked.

  For the longest time Psimon said nothing. Then he smiled at the memory of a kind old Priest; a memory that still warmed his soul.

  ‘No, he was not lying,’ said Psimon. ‘He spoke of me... I knew Father Kavanagh well.’

  The old man nodded his understanding.

  ‘I loved him,’ said Psimon. ‘I was with him when he died,’

  *

  Lucifer’s mind erupted in a conflagration of hate.

  And the chorus roared in fury.

  ‘It is the witness! The witness in the house of Jehovah!’

  He reeled with the force of revelation. He put out a hand, crushing the shoulder of the man standing in front of him at the back of the hall.

  ‘Hey! What the hell,’ protested the man.

  But Lucifer did not hear him. The chorus was deafening, the pain unendurable.

  ‘No one must know…’

  Lucifer opened his burning eyes and sought out the blasphemer at the front of the hall.

  ‘Silence the witness.’

  The rage was too great. It was all he could do not to rush down the steps and tear the heretic’s face off there and then. The chorus was rising, the blackness encroaching on Lucifer’s sight.

  ‘Cut out his tongue.’

  ‘Fill his mouth with dirt.’

  He could not bear to be in the presence of such profanity and suffer it to live.

  Lucifer turned and fled.

  *

  Steve was out of his seat.

  The look of absolute terror on Psimon’s face left him in no doubt. Any vestige of hope in Psimon’s mind was gone. The fear in all its fury had returned.

  He called out to Psimon but the rising clamour drowned out his words as people began to realise that something was wrong. Steve shouted louder but Psimon would not even look at him. He just kept staring up towards the back of the hall as if he had seen the killer himself.

  Steve turned to follow the line of Psimon’s gaze and as he did so he saw the shape of a huge man in a blue suit pushing his way out of the hall. The great figure moved on through the small anti-chamber and disappeared. Steve looked back at Psimon but as he did so an image froze in his mind. It was the image of the exit sign reflected in the mirrored walls of the anti-chamber. The ubiquitous metal box; the green sign, lit up from within. The bright letters shining clearly for all to see…

  Chapter 27

  Steve felt torn and tormented. Torn because he did not know whether to go and help Psimon or go after the ‘giant’ who had just left the hall. And tormented because he had come face to face with the killer and failed to recognise what was standing before him; what was smiling down at him, smiling down with those dead black eyes.

  The indecision lasted less than a second. Steve went to Psimon’s aid.


  ‘Psimon,’ called out Steve as he leapt up onto the low stage.

  The members of the panel were gathered hesitantly round Psimon who had collapsed to the floor and was clinging to the base of the lectern like a man caught in a flood, fearful of being swept away.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Steve as the scientist moved to block his approach. ‘He’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘That’s right. He is,’ said the young woman called Natasha when the scientist looked doubtfully at Steve.

  ‘He just collapsed,’ said the scientist as Steve knelt down beside Psimon.

  ‘Is it some kind of seizure?’ asked the psychologist. ‘Is there anything we can do?’

  ‘He gets these attacks,’ said Steve vaguely, then… ‘Psimon… it’s Steve. Can you hear me?’

  But Psimon just clung to the lectern his face pressed against the hard edges of wood.

  ‘He’s here… he’s here… he’s here,’ Psimon whispered over and over, his eyes staring blindly ahead of him, his brow beaded with sweat.

  ‘Is he all right?’ asked Natasha crouching down next to Steve, a glass of water in her hand.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ said Steve although he did not really believe it. ‘Let’s get him to a chair.’

  A chair was brought from across the stage but it took all Steve’s strength to pry Psimon’s hands free from the lectern.

  ‘He’s here… he’s here… he’s here…’

  Steve half carried Psimon to the chair.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Natasha.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ said Steve with more annoyance than he intended.

  Psimon just sat there gripping his knees rocking backwards and forwards, whispering over and over. Steve took his head in his hands, gripped him firmly and turned his face to look up at him.

  ‘Psimon,’ said Steve. ‘Psimon, look at me.’

  It was several long moments before Psimon’s eyes focussed on Steve and then the tension melted from his face and Psimon began to weep.

  ‘Steve,’ he said in a voice that was so forlorn that Steve felt the tears standing in his own eyes. ‘He’s here.’

  ‘I know,’ said Steve. ‘I know.’