First and Only (7 page)

He suddenly became aware that
Psimon had ceased trawling through the magazines and had stopped in front of
the newspaper stand and was gazing down at tonight’s copy of the Manchester
Evening News. Steve noticed the tension in Psimon’s body and moved to stand
beside him.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

Psimon said nothing, only
continued to stare at the paper’s headlines.

Steve glanced down at the front page of the newspaper and his eyes were
immediately drawn to the emotive word…
TORTURE

This was the article that held
Psimon entranced.

‘Pretty grim,’ said Steve
referring to the series of brutal murders that had been in the news a lot
recently.

Psimon said nothing. He did not
appear to have heard Steve at all.

‘This doesn’t have anything to do
with…’ Steve began but Psimon had turned away heading out of the shop.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Steve as he
hurried to catch up with Psimon. He tried to slow him down but Psimon shrugged
him off.

‘Is this the guy?’ persisted
Steve. ‘The killer… is he the one?’

‘I need a coffee,’ said Psimon
brusquely. He pulled away from Steve heading for the coffee shop round the
corner.

Steve caught up with him at the
Costa Coffee counter.

‘Double shot cappuccino,’ snapped
Psimon in a sharp tone that Steve would not have expected. Psimon paid the
young woman behind the counter and moved along to the collection point where several
other people were waiting for their orders.

‘Just a coffee,’ said Steve when
she turned to him.

Moving more slowly now Steve went
over to stand beside Psimon.

‘Is it him?’ he asked quietly
while they waited for their drinks.

Psimon turned away but the
expression on his face was answer enough.

‘Then why don’t you go to the
police?’ Steve asked gently. ‘Tell them what you know. You might be able to
help them.’

‘I don’t know anything,’ said
Psimon despondently.

‘But you could tell them what
happened to you,’ said Steve. ‘Tie that to the current spate of murders.’

‘It wouldn’t help.’

‘But you could help them in other
ways,’ suggested Steve. ‘You obviously have some kind of gift. Why don’t you
use it to help the police find this guy.’

‘I can’t,’ said Psimon.

‘Why not?’ pressed Steve. ‘The
police use mediums… psychics. When they’ve got nothing else to go on,’ he
added. ‘Why not…’

‘Cos I’m afraid,’ snarled Psimon
rounding on Steve. ‘I’m afraid,’ he repeated more quietly looking embarrassed
as people turned to look at them.

Steve just looked at Psimon
feeling a mixture of sympathy and exasperation.

‘One coffee, one double-shot
cappuccino,’ said a young lad serving up their order.

Steve reached for their drinks
but stopped as he saw Psimon’s face suddenly screw up with pain. His lips drew
back from gritted teeth and his fingers curled tightly into claws. Psimon’s
body seemed unnaturally rigid, then as his legs buckled Steve grabbed hold of
him and held him up against the counter.

‘Psimon,’ he said. ‘Psimon can you
hear me?’ but Psimon was insensible, his body twitching with vicious spasms.

Steve lowered him to the ground
and cradled his head against his chest.

‘
What the fuck is this?
’
he thought. ‘
Some kind of seizure?
’

He was about to call for help
when Psimon drew a ragged breath.

‘It’s all right…’ he gasped to
Steve’s great relief. ‘I’m okay,’

Slowly Steve helped Psimon get to
his feet watching him closely.

‘Is everything all right?’ asked
a woman in a Costa Coffee uniform.

Steve glimpsed the manager’s
badge on her shirt. ‘Yes,’ he said sounding less than convinced himself. ‘Just
a nasty bout of indigestion.’

The manager asked one of her
staff to help them with their drinks as Steve led a still-shaky Psimon to an
empty table.

‘Thanks,’ said Steve as the young
lad set their drinks down on the table.

He guided Psimon into a chair
before taking a seat beside him. The manager returned with a glass of cold
water and, with a nod of thanks, Psimon reached out a trembling hand to take a
sip.

Steve waited for Psimon to regain
his composure. ‘So what was that all about?’ he asked gently when some colour
had returned to Psimon’s cheeks.

‘He’s taken someone else,’ said
Psimon.

‘Who’s taken someone else,’ asked
Steve but Psimon only looked up, a dark haunted look in his eyes.

‘The killer?’ whispered Steve.
‘That guy in the paper?’

By way of an answer Psimon
lowered his eyes staring into the glass of cool clear water in his hand.

Steve was struggling with this.
Picking out an incident from his past he could just about get his head round
but some kind of psychic link with a deranged serial killer was a step too far.
‘How do you know?’ he asked trying not to sound too sceptical.

‘I always know…’ replied Psimon
without raising his eyes.

‘This has happened before then?’

‘Many times,’ said Psimon.

‘How many times?’ asked Steve
warily.

‘Fourteen.’

‘Fourteen!’ exclaimed Steve.

‘Not counting Father Kavanagh,’
Psimon added.

Steve sat back in his chair,
stunned. His worldview was struggling to accommodate the new insights being
thrust upon him.

‘
This can’t be possible
,’
he thought. ‘
None of this is possible!
’

‘And he’s getting angrier…’ said
Psimon ominously. ‘More voracious.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That’s two in a week,’ said
Psimon. ‘The time between confessions is growing shorter. If we don’t stop him
soon…’

‘But you said he was going to
kill you,’ argued Steve. ‘Surely we want to stay away from this guy.’

‘We have no choice,’ said Psimon.
‘Our paths will cross. All that matters is how it ends.’

‘You mean if I kill you,’ said
Steve in a low scornful tone.

‘All I know,’ said Psimon looking
up at Steve. ‘Is that if he kills me then it’s over, that’s the end… but if you
kill me then everything will be all right.’

‘Some fucking choice,’ muttered
Steve under his breath. Then to his surprise Psimon smiled. It was a strange
smile of sympathy and understanding that made Steve feel like he was the
younger of the two men.

‘Not easy, is it?’ said Psimon.

‘What, being around you?’ said
Steve. ‘No... not easy at all.’

Psimon’s smile warmed but then he
suddenly turned as if he had heard something that caught his attention.

‘What?’ said Steve sensing the
alertness in Psimon’s manner. ‘What is it?’

‘He’s here,’ said Psimon rising
from his seat.

‘The killer!’ exclaimed Steve.

‘No,’ said Psimon as if Steve were
a particularly dim-witted student. ‘Commander Douglas Scott.’

‘Who the hell is…’ began Steve
but Psimon was already heading out of the coffee shop.

Steve took a quick scalding gulp
of his coffee, though he suspected he was going to need more than caffeine to
keep up with his changeable and distinctly irritating new charge. When he
emerged from the Costa Coffee front Psimon was walking quickly towards an area
of the check-in desks right next to security control; an area that was roped
off from the general public. Steve jogged to catch him up.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked
Psimon as he strode along beside him.

Psimon did not answer. His eyes
were searching for someone among the line of people beyond the cordon. 

Steve looked at the people moving
through the separate check-in area and despite the fact that they were dressed
in civilian clothes he immediately recognised them as military personnel.

‘
Navy
,’ thought Steve. It
was strange how each branch of the armed forces had their own recognisable air.

The screen above the desk listed
the flight for Glasgow but Steve noticed more than one monogrammed label that
bore the name ‘HMNB Clyde’. Her Majesty’s Naval Base Clyde, one of three
operating bases for the Royal Navy and home to the United Kingdom’s nuclear submarine
force.

Steve caught Psimon’s arm as he
approached the looping rope that corralled the military personnel from the
general public but Psimon pushed his hand away, his face animated and focussed.
There was no trace of the shaken young man that Steve had helped into a chair
only minutes before.

‘Douglas,’ shouted Psimon
suddenly and before he could stop him Psimon had ducked under the rope.

‘Psimon!’ hissed Steve making a
grab for him as he strode into the restricted area, heading towards a man near
the back of the queue. Steve cursed Psimon’s stupidity. The police were now
routinely armed in British airports and two of them had noticed this
infringement of security and were closing in on Psimon, their HK submachine
guns angled ominously across their bodies.

‘Dougie,’ shouted Psimon once
more making no attempt to conceal his approach.

Upon hearing his name Commander
Douglas Scott turned to see who was calling him. He did not recognise the young
man striding towards him but the young man certainly seemed to know him.

‘Douglas,’ said Psimon holding
out his hand. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’

Somewhat tentatively Commander
Scott reached out to shake Psimon’s hand. He glanced at the police officers
closing in from the sides giving them a slight nod to say that everything was
all right. The officers held their ground but kept their eyes on Psimon.

‘Do I know…’ began Commander
Scott.

‘How are you doing?’ interrupted
Psimon all smiles and geniality. ‘How are Anne and the boys?’

‘They’re fine,’ said Commander Scott,
his face a picture of puzzlement as he tried to figure out where this stranger
knew him from.

‘And Gregor’s leg… is he back to
playing rugby yet?’

‘It’s mending well…’ replied
Scott still struggling to put a name to this face.

‘That’s good… that’s good,’ said
Psimon and here he reached up with his left hand to clasp Scott’s hand in both
of his. He said nothing for a second or two, his gaze becoming suddenly intense
as he looked directly into Commander Scott’s eyes.

Scott began to frown under the
intense scrutiny but before he felt compelled to pull his hand away Psimon
released it with a smile.

‘Well,’ said Psimon as a gap
opened up in the queue ahead of Commander Scott. ‘I won’t keep you. Give my
best to Anne.’

Commander Scott seemed relieved
that Psimon was going but before Psimon turned away he looked at a young man
standing behind Scott in the queue, fixing him with the same penetrating gaze.

‘How’s it going Mike?’ he asked
to the young man’s obvious surprise. Then before anyone could challenge him or
seek clarification he turned away and headed back towards the cordon.

Commander Scott’s eyes followed
Psimon as he ducked back under the ropes then he turned to speak to the young
man called Mike standing beside him.

Steve watched them talking
quietly, doubt and confusion written on their faces. The young man shook his
head in response to a question from his commanding officer. They glanced at
Steve as Psimon came to stand beside him then shuffled down the line as it
shrank towards the check-in.

‘Where do you know him from?’
asked Steve.

‘Never met him before in my
life,’ said Psimon. Then, ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We should make our way through
to the departure lounge.’

Steve gaped at him in frustration
but Psimon just gave him one of those infuriating smiles and headed off towards
security control.

To Steve’s relief they passed
through security without any more surprises. Now they were finally able to sit
and enjoy a coffee before their flight was called out. Steve had bought a
newspaper and a couple of magazines and was attempting to read an article on
bird-flu while Psimon had found a pen and was studying the sudoku at the back
of the paper. Behind him a television mounted on the wall was playing Saturday
evening telly giving Steve a depressing glimpse into the normality of life that
he seemed to have left far behind.

‘Aren’t you going to phone them?’
asked Psimon suddenly.

Steve glanced up becoming
increasingly convinced that Psimon really could read his mind. Psimon was
looking at him. He seemed to have given up on the sudoku and was now sitting
there, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding his half-finished cup
of coffee.

‘They’ll be in the middle of the
bedtime routine,’ said Steve trying not to sound as miserable as he felt.

‘Still,’ said Psimon. ‘It might
be nice to get a quick message.’

‘Just leave it!’ snapped Steve.
It was clear that he did not appreciate Psimon commenting on his private life.

‘But what would you say if you
did call?’ asked Psimon with annoying persistence.

‘I’m not telling you that,’
snorted Steve turning his body away from Psimon as if to emphasise his
irritation. But in his mind he was kissing his wife and daughter goodnight.

‘
Good night darling
,’ he
thought. ‘
Give Nemo a kiss for me…
’

Faced with Steve’s broad,
obdurate back Psimon remained unperturbed. And in his pocket, where he held his
mobile phone, his thumb moved to the little green button and pressed ‘Send’.

Steve gave up trying to read his
article. He sat forward and drained his cup of coffee. Then he reached across
and snatched up the paper from where Psimon had laid it on the table. He turned
it over to see how far he had got with the sudoku.

‘
Hopeless!
’ thought Steve
with satisfaction when he saw that the numbers Psimon had entered were not even
close to being right, ‘
The seven doesn’t go there
.’

He took up the pen to correct
Psimon’s efforts. Meanwhile on the wall behind Psimon the picture had just
changed to the lottery draw with a shot of colourful balls bouncing around
inside a clear perspex sphere. A plunger suddenly lifted a single numbered ball
clear of the chaos and tipped it down a curving wire track. It was the number
seven. The plunger descended before rising to select another number. It
repeated the procedure six times but Steve was paying no attention. He was too
busy correcting Psimon’s mistakes.