First and Only (15 page)

Nothing... the road was clear.
There was no sign of the car that had tweaked his suspicions.

With an unconvinced grunt Steve
drew the curtains and switched on a couple of table lamps before turning out
the main light, which was altogether too bright.

‘Coffee?’ suggested Steve.
‘Brandy?’

‘A cup of tea would be great,’
replied Psimon without opening his eyes.

Steve looked down at this
remarkable young man; his face, which had been almost back to normal, was once
again swollen and bruised and now dotted with painful looking blisters; and his
hands, trembling slightly as they rested on the arms of the chair, each centred
with a blood-black sore.

‘
Fourteen times…
’ thought
Steve. ‘
Fourteen times this has happened before. And who was there to help
you back to your flat then?
’

Psimon seemed almost asleep and
Steve went through to the kitchen to get them some drinks. When he returned a
few minutes later with two mugs of tea Psimon was not asleep but staring
wistfully across the room, his eyes glistening with tears.

They drank their tea in silence.
When Steve saw that Psimon had finished he went over to take the empty mug from
him.

‘Let’s have a look at you then,’
he said, putting the mugs aside and drawing a reluctant Psimon gently forward
in his chair.

‘I’m all right,’ said Psimon.
‘It’ll pass… All this will fade… It always does.’

Steve was having none of it. ‘Let
me see,’ he said taking one of Psimon’s hands carefully and holding it closer
to the light.

The skin remained unbroken but
the trauma to the underlying tissue looked painfully real.

‘So how does this happen,’ asked
Steve as he turned Psimon’s hand over, gently testing his fingers to make sure
he still had movement and sensation.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Psimon,
looking at his hand as if he too were puzzled by it. ‘I tend to think of it as
a kind of stigmata.’

‘You mean the wounds of Christ,’
said Steve, ‘magically appearing on the bodies of devout followers.’

‘That’s right,’ said Psimon.

‘Stigmata’s for real then?’ asked
Steve, glancing up at Psimon.

‘No,’ said Psimon. ‘But that’s
the way I think of it.’

Steve nodded as he laid Psimon’s
hand down and leaned forward to inspect his bruised face.

‘Besides,’ Psimon went on. ‘These
aren’t the wounds of Christ and I’m not a devout follower.’

‘Me neither,’ said Steve.
‘Sorry,’ he added when Psimon winced as he checked that his nose was not
actually broken.

‘But it is true,’ Psimon
continued as if he were pleased at having someone to discuss it with, ‘…that
the mind can effect physical changes in the body. I just think that with me
it’s more pronounced.’

‘You can say that again,’ said
Steve, directing Psimon to raise his top so that he could take a look at the
injury in his side.

‘When these attacks occur,’
explained Psimon. ‘It’s as if they’re happening to me. They feel so real… I
think my body believes it and makes it so.’

‘Doesn’t sound very scientific,’
said Steve bending forward to look more closely at the livid red weal in
Psimon’s side.

‘That’s cos I’m not a scientist,’
said Psimon.

‘Well it sure as hell looks like
someone gave you a good whack here,’ said Steve.

‘He didn’t hit me, he stabbed
me.’

‘
Yes,
’ thought Steve, ‘
That’s
what it sounded like.
’

‘Or at least,’ Psimon corrected
himself. ‘He stabbed whoever it was he’d taken.’

Steve glanced up at Psimon. He
still found it difficult to believe that someone, somewhere had been murdered
tonight and that Psimon was displaying the marks of the killing.

‘And has it always been like
this?’ asked Steve. ‘With all the others?’

‘No,’ said Psimon reflectively.
‘At first they were more like nightmares. Terrible nightmares that a young boy
couldn’t know enough of the world to have.’

Steve paused as he unravelled
this awkward sentence, then he shuddered as the meaning of it struck home.

‘But they’ve been growing more
powerful over the last few years,’ said Psimon. ‘More real… the distance
between us is closing.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked
Steve, moving back to sit on the arm of the nearby sofa.

‘That the time when we meet is
getting nearer.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Steve.

‘I just do,’ said Psimon somewhat
defensively.

‘And that’s all?’ pressed Steve.
‘You don’t know where or when?’

‘Only that it’s soon,’ said
Psimon ominously. ‘And close.’

‘Close?’ asked Steve.

‘Manchester,’ clarified Psimon.
‘We meet somewhere in the city.’

‘Oh, well that narrows it down,’
said Steve sarcastically.

Psimon turned his bruised face
away. It was obvious that this ‘encounter’ was not something he was eager to
talk about. But Steve was finally convinced about the validity of Psimon’s
fears and he was not willing to let it drop.

‘You must know more than that?’
he insisted. ‘From what I can see you seem to know just about anything you want
to know.’

Psimon refused to look at him.

‘Come on Psimon,’ said Steve.
‘You must be able to give me something… a description, a location, a time of
day… anything. Why don’t you just try.’

‘You think I haven’t tried,’
snapped Psimon, turning to look directly at Steve. ‘You think I’ve felt those
people die and never tried to see the face of the man who did it.’

‘So what’s stopping you,’
challenged Steve.

‘The fear, Steve! I can’t see
past the fear.’

The frustration was painfully
clear both in Psimon’s tone and the bitter regret shining in his eyes.

‘There comes a time when we have
to face our fears,’ said Steve more gently.

‘I’ve tried,’ said Psimon and now
he just sounded exhausted. ‘God knows I’ve tried. But it’s like a black wall in
my mind; a shadow that I can’t see beyond.’

‘But surely if you…’ began Steve
but Psimon cut him off.

‘Steve, you can’t even take a
piss if someone’s standing next to you at the urinal. And believe me, trying to
confront the murdering psycho who’s terrorised you from childhood is just a tad
more difficult.’

This statement had the desired
effect and Steve sat up straight on the arm of the sofa, chastened.

‘This isn’t some kind of trivial
phobia,’ said Psimon in a kinder tone. ‘It’s not an irrational fear. Nothing I
see beyond the next few days has any substance to it. There’s nothing to
suggest that it’s anything more than wishful thinking. I have dreams that seem
more real.’

Psimon’s despondency was
painfully apparent.

‘But if you could see something,’
ventured Steve. ‘Anything,’ he added. ‘Any small detail that might help me save
you.’

‘You can’t save me,’ stated
Psimon. ‘All you can do is decide how I die.’

‘
Don’t fucking patronise me!
’
thought Steve angrily but letting out a deep breath he reigned in his temper.

‘I may not be psychic,’ he said
tightly. ‘But I simply refuse to accept that!’

‘You have no choice,’ said
Psimon. ‘I have seen it.’

‘Okay,’ said Steve turning
Psimon’s gift back on himself. ‘What exactly have you seen?’

Psimon looked suddenly small and
fearful.

‘Why Manchester?’ asked Steve.
‘What makes you think you meet the killer in Manchester?’

‘Because I see nowhere apart from
Manchester between now and the time that I die,’ replied Psimon. ‘I do not
leave the city.’

‘
Useful!
’ thought Steve,
sarcastically.

He thought for a minute.

‘And what about meeting the
killer?’ he said. ‘That can’t be down to simple deduction… What’s he like? And
when do you first know he’s there?’

Psimon’s eyes narrowed as he
focussed on the interior images of his mind. He had grown quite pale and Steve
could see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip. For a while Steve did not think
he was going to answer.

‘It’s just the presence,’ said
Psimon distantly.

‘
Shit!
’ thought Steve with
growing frustration.

‘He’s big…’ added Psimon in a
voice that was barely more than a whisper. ‘…Like a giant.’

Steve rolled his eyes.

‘Like a giant…
’ he
thought. ‘
Great!
’

This was not exactly the detailed
description he was hoping for. More like the exaggerated image that a child
would form of an adult who had frightened them.

‘And the eyes…’ Psimon went on in
the same dreamlike voice. ‘So dark they’re almost black. And flat,’ he added.
‘No expression, no feeling at all.’

Steve sat forward. Psimon had
never mentioned seeing the man’s eyes before.

‘Anything else?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Psimon as if he were
in some kind of trance. ‘Just the presence, and the eyes, and then he’s gone
and all I see are the letters T, I, X, and the number 3.’

Steve had been leaning forward in
anticipation, now he settled back and sighed. Dark eyes probably meant dark
hair. And T, I, X and the number three…

‘
What the hell did that mean?
’

Not much to go on, that was for
certain but not nothing either. He raised his hands to his face and then a
thought occurred to him.

‘What do you mean, he’s gone?’ he
asked.

‘Sorry?’ said Psimon.

‘You said, “…and then he’s
gone”,’ repeated Steve. ‘I thought this guy is supposed to kill you. But now
you’re saying he turns up then disappears.’

‘Yes,’ said Psimon as if he had
never seen it that way. ‘The killing comes later.’

Steve gasped with exasperation.
He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘So tell me
about the killing.’

Psimon was not looking at Steve.
He seemed to be pondering on why he had not made this differentiation before.

‘Where does it happen?’ asked
Steve.

‘What?’ replied Psimon
distractedly.

‘Your death,’ said Steve, finding
it distasteful to keep to Psimon’s script.

‘I don’t know,’ said Psimon. ‘I
think it’s a church but if it is then it must be an old one.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Steve.

‘Because the walls are bare stone
and circular.’ Psimon’s gaze was focussed on a point some distance beyond where
Steve was sitting. ‘It’s a grim place,’ he went on. ‘Cold and grim.’

‘But you’re sure that’s where it
takes place...’ clarified Steve. ‘The killing?’

‘Yes,’ said Psimon in a sinister
whisper. ‘That’s where all the confessions take place.’

Steve felt a shiver run down his
spine and he hesitated before asking the next question.

‘And you’re sure I’m there?’ he
asked quietly. ‘In this place… You are sure it’s me?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Psimon as his gaze
suddenly focussed on Steve. ‘I’m sure.’

Steve’s heart was suddenly
beating faster. He felt a strange kind of light-headedness and Psimon seemed to
shrink away into the corner of the room. Part of him did not want to ask the
next question but he knew he must.

‘…if he kills me then it’s
over,
’ Psimon had said. ‘
But if you kill me then everything will be all
right.
’

Steve asked the question.

‘And what makes you think I kill
you?’

‘Because I have seen it,’ said
Psimon, his stone grey eyes boring into Steve’s down a long and echoing tunnel.
‘I have felt it,’ Psimon went on. ‘I feel the blade stabbing into my face,
slicing through flesh and bone.’

Steve was transfixed.

‘I feel a moment’s pain,’ said
Psimon. ‘A flash of elation, and then… nothing.’

Steve could feel himself growing
faint and he tried to slow his breathing.

Could he do it? Could he actually
kill someone he cared about to save them from an otherwise long and agonising
death? The prospect terrified Steve. It terrified him because he knew that the
answer to the question was yes.

Silence embraced the two men and
for some time they just sat there looking at each other until finally Psimon
spoke again. ‘Does that answer your question?’ he said.

‘Yes it does,’ said Steve
shortly, rising from the arm of the couch. ‘Now where do you keep the fucking
brandy?’

It was after midnight before the
brandy had dulled the trepidation in their minds sufficiently for them to think
of sleep. Finally jetlag and the disrupted sleep of long hours travelling began
to take its toll.

Psimon went first, declining
Steve’s help as he made his way to the bathroom.

This gave Steve the opportunity
to check Psimon’s flat for any security issues. He went through to the large
bedroom overlooking the garden at the back of the flat. This was obviously
Psimon’s room. There were locks on the windows and they were on the first
floor; no particular problems there. Steve went over to the window shielding
his eyes against the glass so that he could see the large suburban garden in
the darkness. The property backed onto a series of tennis courts and the smooth
expanse of what looked like a bowling green. The green was partly illuminated
by a series of small street lamps marking the line of a footpath that linked
Psimon’s road to the road running parallel to it. The passage seemed to emerge
on the far side of the house adjacent to Psimon’s.

As Steve’s eyes followed the line
of the footpath he caught sight of a cast iron fire escape rising up the back
wall of Psimon’s flat. ‘
That needs checking out,
’ he thought as Psimon
entered the room behind him.

‘I can barely keep my eyes open,’
said Psimon as he shuffled barefoot towards his bed.

‘Where does the fire escape come
into the building?’ asked Steve.

‘Just before the loo,’ replied
Psimon groggily. ‘The landing goes off to the left… there’s a door at the end.’