The Sister (69 page)

Miller checked his watch again pleased she seemed brighter. "Okay, just a quick one."

"Sometimes the quick ones are the best," she laughed. "I take it you wouldn't mind Bacardi. I think I drank all the vodka last night."

She continued speaking to him from the kitchen down the hall; he struggled to hear, so he went to join her there. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"

"I was saying . . . Ryan left something for you. I'll get it in a minute . . ."

"What is it?"

She touched her nose. "I thought I was the impatient one . . ." She passed his drink over to him. "I assumed you wouldn't mind it mixed with coke."

"No, not at all - cheers." They touched glasses.

Miller sipped. It took his breath away. "Jesus, Stella, that's strong!"

"Oh sorry, must have mixed it up with mine," she handed him the other one.

He tasted it cautiously.
Even stronger than the first!
Returning it with a wry smile, he said, "After all you've been through, dealing with Ryan dying, I guess you need it more than I do."

She turned her glass around and looked through it at him; her eye magnified and her face elongated. "Things look different when you've had a drink. More palatable, I think. Ryan helped me see something; he
showed
me something . . . Do you believe in life after death, Miller?"

He considered the question. "Yes, I do. There was a time when I didn't, but now… Yes, I do."

"Have you ever lost anyone close, in tragic circumstances, Miller?"

Miller stared hard at her. He already knew she'd read his file. Was she testing him to see how truthful he was on the subject? He decided to tell her about Josie.

"Stella, I had a girlfriend once, she vanished while at sea on a ferry. They never recovered her body. I'm not sure if it's relevant now, I'm too close to the heart of things to see properly, but I thought I saw her once, seven years after she disappeared.

"I was on the tube coming back from
Piccadilly Circus. I had a notion I might write a book about the tide of human misery that lurks just out of sight below the mainstream life of the capital. The sex, the drugs, the runaways… I decided there, and then I'd always make time for the genuinely needy, to help them track down missing loved ones, for free.

"Anyway, at around half past seven the train pulled into
Russell Square. I was on my way to Finsbury Park, meeting a friend there, and I saw her quite clearly. The shadows were playing up that morning, but I wasn't on an assignment, or anything dangerous, so I thought nothing of it. He paused.
She's read your file, so she knows about the shadows.

"She was further up the carriage, sitting alone in a gloomy corner. The light above her kept flickering. I got this strong feeling. I can't explain it, but when I focused properly - it was her. She smiled. Not the way I remember her smiling. Her lips stayed together, but immediately we made eye contact; she turned and rushed straight out of the carriage, just as the doors closed. I thrust my hand between them, activated the auto release and then ran out after her. I wanted an explanation. I called out after her. I wasn't sure she heard me. She wasn't actually running, but I had to - or I wouldn't have kept up. She rushed up the stairs and then outside, always just in sight. I called out after her a couple more times, but she'd disappeared.

"I was devastated as you can imagine. Convinced she was alive, I stopped off at a café to collect my thoughts. All these questions ran through my head, but mostly - why? Someone came in and started talking to the lady behind the counter. "'Have you heard about the fire? There's been a disaster at Kings Cross station.'"
Stella's lips parted; she looked stunned.

"That's when I knew. All those near misses, more lives than a cat . . . I had some sort of early warning system working for me . . . I could still slip on a banana peel, and yet I had this
radar
that would warn me if I were in grave danger. What it is, I can only guess, but after I saw Josie that time . . ." He stretched out his fingers and stared into the palm of his hand.

"Did you ever see her again?"

"No, I never did."

"You didn't tell Ryan about any of this did you?"

Miller stared at her with surprise. "How would you know that?"

She grinned mischievously, "It wasn't in your notes."

A grin touched his lips, "He'd have loved that story, but it happened in the intervening years. I wish I'd remembered it the other day. Besides, I never told him everything."

"Why not?"

"I didn't want him to think I was a basket case."

Confusion creased her brow. "But he
was
a psychiatrist! Do you think that if you had known more about your 'radar' when your friends died, you'd have been able to save them?"

"Possibly . . . It still hurts to think I might have been able to . . . but then, things happen for a reason don't they? How did this come up, we were supposed to be talking about you. Talking about this doesn't make me feel better. It never will. That's why I keep it inside, out of sight . . ."

"Out of mind," Stella finished for him.

"Stella, I have to go . . ." He wasn't sure if the drink he'd had would put him over the limit, but he knew if he stayed there could be a repeat of Christmas three years ago.

"Okay," she said.

Miller sat bolt upright in bed, the pull of the sheets restrained him at the waist. Heart racing, eyes bulging; it was only a dream, but the worst yet. He traced the sequence back in his mind. It was a dream that had no beginning.

His sudden move had woken Stella. "Miller you scared me. What the hell is going on?" Her eyes narrowed. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course I do."

"You do? That's good. Would you remove your silver for me?"

"What?" He asked suspiciously. Where she was concerned, there was always an angle.

"Take your silver
off
for me!" Her face darkened; her voice deepened. "Take it off!" she commanded. She locked eyes with him and smiling demonically, began to writhe seductively on the bed. "Will you take it off?" she said, cajoling.

He slid one arm underneath her and pulled her on top of him. He was aroused.

She kept him at bay. "Answer me!" she whispered harshly.

What kind of game is this? "Of course I would."

"Then do it, show me. Prove it to me."

He removed all of it, with the exception of his crucifix and torc bracelet.

"The bracelet and the cross!" She spat the last word.

Surprised at her role-playing abilities, he said, "No, never. When they were given to me, and I was made to promise I would never remove them. I never have. He rolled himself on top of her. "If you continue to ask me to remove them… I will have to say, "
Who is this that asks me to break a promise . . ."
He spoke the last few words in a deep guttural, demonic growl. He scared her.

She put a finger over his lips. "Shush silly, you always get carried away," she laughed, her eyes crinkled to match her smile. "Wow, you've never taken it off since you put it on?"

"That's right," he said.

"Can I see it?"

He held his arm out to her. She turned his wrist. The torc glowed in the moonlight, polished and smoothed by years of wear. "It's beautiful," she said finally, and then manoeuvred herself under his arm, with her back turned, spooning into him, she drew it down against her breast and held it there. He felt the warmth of her breath as she dreamily said something he couldn't quite make out so he leaned in to hear her better.

. . .
you're not in bed
. . . a voice whispered. He rose into consciousness. His head was on the cushion of the sofa. He turned. Stella was staring at him with curiosity.
A dream within a dream . . . What the hell?

"Stella? I thought I'd gone home…"

Her lips pursed. "Mm-m, you don't remember? What's wrong with you, Miller, are you for real?"

Miller looked up. In the grey light of early morning, shadows played across the ceiling as the headlights of a car passed by.

He couldn't remember.

He nursed a glass of water. "This is why I tend not to drink," he said apologetically.

"It's okay," she said, "I'm used to it."

"Well, I'm sorry, I said I'd listen, and I fell asleep. You were saying you didn't believe in the existence of an afterlife…"

"It doesn't matter now. I'm tired, and a little bit wasted. I've come this far…" She turned away, tears rolling down her cheeks.

What's wrong with me? I don't know what's wrong with me… I can't get through. I shouldn't have had that drink.

"So . . . suppose I told you about a girl I once knew."

"Miller, come on, what is that going to prove? Some second-hand story isn't going to convert me. I need proof, actual proof."

"Just listen, then you can make up your own mind."

"Fire away." She sounded as if she'd already made up her mind that it was bullshit.

"After you'd left, I tried to get someone else to replace you, but it wasn't easy. I'd almost given up, and then one Friday afternoon I took a call from someone asking if the job was still open. I said it was, and within the hour, I had this girl in. She couldn't get a baby-sitter, so she brought her son with her. She was a little flaky. I wasn't sure she'd be right for the job, but I when I saw her boy… I knew I had to give her a chance.

"He was a little blonde, angel-faced boy. He had a penny whistle, and he thrust it into my face, I tried to take it, but he snatched it back out of reach, behind his back," his mother laughed. "You can look, but you can't touch!"

"What's his name?" I asked.

"'It
's Bobby,' she said, 'he's autistic.' With that, the little boy takes his penny whistle to his lips and begins to play". Miller smiled at the recollection, "I'd prepared myself to cover my ears, but you know what? He played that thing like a little maestro. The sound, the tune - I'd heard it before somewhere - a couple more notes and I had it. He was playing '
Mother Natures Son',
an old Beatles number. So I joined in quietly. Now I can't sing, but when it comes to singing along to that song . . . well, that's what I did. Mumbling along with what words I could remember. '
Born a poor young country boy, Mother Nature's son, all day long I'm sitting singing songs for everyone
. . . ' Singing along to the penny whistle, the delight that shone in that little boy's eyes was quite something. In those moments, there was a connection between him and me. I looked at his mum, and she was weeping and smiling, all at the same time. I knew I wanted to be a part of his life, if I could. It touched me so deeply."

"I
want to meet Bobby," she said wistfully, "he just sounds so sweet!"

Miller continued.

"She started with me the following Monday, I ran through the job with her, handed her an 'idiot sheet' covering everything. I noticed she'd got a tattoo on the inside of her wrist.
It was inked in a washed out green, hand-written script. I couldn't read it properly, and she caught me looking…" He drifted back to that day . . .

"You're looking at my tattoo," she held her arm out.

"It's a nice tattoo, but what does it say?"

"
Aparta de mi lado esos Seres malvados . . .
In English: Keep me safe from evil things - or something like that." She appeared distant, her eyes out of focus. "I had a Spanish boyfriend who used to carry one of those little devotional prayer cards they sell in the cathedrals and churches over there . . ." She paused to sip her drink before continuing, "Anyway, I had this awful dream one night. I can't tell you what it was about, but I woke up scared and upset. When I told him about it, he gave me the card. The prayer was to Santa Barbara. He told me it would keep me safe from bad things. And I felt better, you know … like straight away. I'm not religious, or superstitious, but you know something? He died the next day.

"After that I had the tattoo done and ever since then, I've carried the card around with me as well."

She undid her purse, took the card out and handed it for Miller to look at. The picture showed the saint bathed in golden light, her face serene, around her crowned head a golden glow. She held a cup and a sword. The prayer was lengthy, and Miller could see why she used only part of it for the tattoo, but '
Oh Dios',
would hardly have taken any more room on her wrist.

"Why did you omit
'Oh Dios',
from the tattoo?"

She took the card back off of him. "Because I didn't just want to limit the plea to God. It leaves me free to appeal to
anyone
out there to keep me safe!"

Miller turned away from his recollections, back to Stella. "It was a talisman of words, a verbal amulet, etched in green, the colour of life. If she believes hard enough that it will keep her safe, then it will. Belief is a powerful ally."