by Matt Hilton
She’d played matchmaker with Shelly and Bob. Merely by observing their subtle interactions she could tell that they were attracted to each other. What did she display when she was in Carter’s presence? If her body language was as obvious as the strength of her emotions, she must come across as a preening harlot, or at least a giggling schoolgirl in the first flush of hormone-induced crushes.
She’d kissed Carter.
She was married. She was in love. She had no right to be. She was in love with the wrong man.
Complication.
Things, she knew, could only grow worse.
FORTYONE
Broom’s cottage
There was something infinitely ridiculous about the latest twist in my abilities. To search out a missing person by strength of mind bordered on the realms of fantasy. Yeah, I’d heard of supposed psychics who used their intuition to find missing or murdered persons. It was well catalogued. Many a famous psychic had grown their fame - and their bank balance - on the back of a police investigation. My only problem with the entire psychic detective thing was that the police never, ever, placed any faith or credibility in their paranormal consultants. Generally, those famous psychics made such broad sweeping deductions that they might add a fresh nugget of evidence to the investigation, but I for one had never heard of a single incident where the psychic had led the police directly to either the murdered person or the one responsible for the crime. In my opinion, psychics weren’t necessarily frauds, but clever people with a strong intuitive streak and a new perspective over a stale or jaundiced investigation. Ergo, it was all guess work, and every now and then they’d hit on a pertinent point that the investigators had initially missed.
Nothing magical about it.
Science. Chance. Maybe a little of both.
And yet, there I was with my brain chiming with the realisation that I’d just had a conversation with a missing child who until that moment had been feared dead.
It couldn’t possibly be true.
Could it?
Something was certain; however, whatever, had occurred, it had left me both exhilarated and dismayed. Not to mention physically shattered.
It was like Big Ben was tolling in my brain. My muscles felt like they’d liquidised and there was a tremor in my extremities that threatened to shake the ligaments loose from my bones.
“I’ll get you something sweet to drink,” Broom said. “I guess that you’ve burnt up your sugar reserves. That’d explain why you’re so weak.”
I felt hypoglycaemic, so maybe a sugar rush would help. First, though, I needed answers. “What did I just do there, Broom?”
“It goes way beyond my ability to explain. All I can come up with is that not only are you capable of seeing a person’s auric lights, but you can latch on to an individual life force simply by thinking about and then reaching out to them. If you actually spoke to the girl, then we must assume that you are equally able to transmit your conscious thoughts along some sort of astral umbilical cord that connects your energy with theirs.”
Blinking, I said, “This gets weirder and weirder.”
There was a cold sweat on my brow. Thick, oozing bulbs of perspiration. One of them trickled into the corner of my mouth and it was so bitter that I spat into my cupped palm.
“Are you okay?”
“I feel like it’s the morning after a heavy session on the booze,” I said.
“I’ll get you your drink. We have to be careful…”
“Your enemy the devil prowls around…”
The last time that I’d employed my power to seek out Janet’s energy, Cash latched onto my weakness. On that occasion he’d managed to get his hooks into me, had almost turned me against my best friend. I wasn’t going to allow him to do so again. As Broom bustled out of the bedroom, heading for the kitchen, I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes.
In the past when going inside myself, I’ve had to go through a routine. It’s a little like self-induced trance. I’d lie down, or sit, and consciously tell myself to relax. Toes first, feet, legs, torso, arms, then head, in that order. That time, all I had to do was sink into Broom’s plush mattress and I was gone.
Past incursions into my psyche had taken me to desolate landscapes, to dungeons, to torture chambers, all figments of the bitter hatred I held for my brother. The last place I expected to find myself was striding through a swaying field of golden wheat beneath a cool, mother of pearl sky. A copse of trees, heavy with foliage danced to a vagrant breeze. Birds twittered and cooed. Somewhere nearby a stream trickled over a bed of pebbles.
A quick perusal of my clothing showed me that I was clad in my grungy coat and chino trousers. Realisation banished them, and in their place I wore a pale yellow T-shirt, khaki trousers and open-toed sandals. I frowned down at my appearance. These were clothes from a distant memory. They were the clothes I was wearing when first I met my fiancée-to-be, the woman who would carry my child. And the glade, subtly altered by recollection so that it was even more beautiful, more peaceful, was the field where I’d come across her sitting before an easel with a rigger brush dangling from the corner of her mouth as she studied the foliage of the trees before committing them to canvas. Though it shouldn’t have happened in that purely ethereal state, I experienced a twinge of longing.
The wheat was taller, more golden under the sun than it had been in the real world. Plus, it stretched off to a horizon empty of the buildings that crowded the landscape of my memories. There should have stood barns and sheds and the peaked roof of Karen’s parents’ farmhouse. Here was only a translucent mist that moved with a sinuosity that brought a floating jellyfish to mind. It was a swirling void I recognised immediately as repressed memory. There I’d first kissed Karen, there we’d first made love, there we’d given life to our baby. The farm was a place I didn’t wish to return to, neither in my thoughts nor in the tangible world. Too many memories. Happy memories that were now too painful to bear.
Looking around, I searched out the path that bordered the field before meandering its way through an area left to nature’s whims, down between rugged crags to where the stream bubbled beneath dappled shadows. Without conscious volition I was between the crags. Looking down I searched for her easel. I searched for Karen. Neither was there.
The scene was sullied.
Cash stood ankle deep in the water, grinning up at me like a shark inviting me to bathe with him. He was wearing board shorts and a baggy T-shirt. “C’mon in, Carter, the water’s lovely.”
Squinting at him, I said, “This isn’t right.”
“Why not, brother? Personally I think it’s the nicest outing we’ve shared in a while.”
“That’s my point,” I snapped. “It shouldn’t be nice.”
“Aw, stop with the vitriol will you? Can’t we just have a comfortable meeting for a change? Why can’t we sit in the shade, dangle our toes in the water, and have a little head-to-head like we used to when we were boys.”
There was a ripple in the fabric of my mind. The scene changed and I found myself sitting on a wooden jetty, my legs dangling over the edge, blue jeans rolled up to my calves as I made lazy strokes in the water with my toes. A fishing rod was in my hand, my index finger resting lightly on the line just above the reel as I waited for the telltale pluck that would signal a trout had taken the lure.
Beside me on the jetty was my little brother. Cassius, snub-nosed, tousle-haired, freckled, missing his front teeth, smiled back at me. “I want to catch the biggest fish ever, Carter,” he said, the voice both high-pitched and sibilant through the gap in his teeth.
“You will, but you have to be quiet,” I hushed him. “The fish can hear us. They won’t take your bait if they hear you talking.”
Cash squinted at me, his lips pursing. “How can fishes hear, Carter? They haven’t got ears.”
“Not like ours, they haven’t. But they can still hear things.”
“No they can’t.”
“They can. They feel the vibrations
of your voice in the water.”
Cash flicked a pebble off the jetty. A faint splash. Concentric circles pushed to the far bank of the river. “That’ll confuse them,” he grinned.
“You’ll frighten them away,” I scolded him.
“A little pebble? That won’t frighten them.”
“It will. Why do you have to spoil everything, Cash?”
His bottom lip protruded. “I don’t spoil everything.”
“Yes you do.” My voice was bitter. I thumped him on the shoulder. “You spoil everything that I do. I didn’t even want to bring you with me, you little twerp. Now you’re going to scare all the fish away.”
“I only flicked a pebble,” he said.
There was only the ghost of ripples on the water now. My anger grew exponentially. “You’ve frightened them away. This is a waste of time. You’ve spoiled everything, Cash. WHY DID YOU EVEN COME WITH ME?”
Storming to my feet, I threw down my fishing rod. Cash jumped up too, but not to challenge me. He tried to get past me but I grabbed at his collar. Bigger than him by a head, he could squirm all he wanted. Thrusting him to the edge of the jetty, I demanded, “Can you see any fish, Cash? Can you? No. Because you’ve frightened them all away.”
“I haven’t, I haven’t,” he cried.
“Where are they then?” Shaking him. “Show me.”
I pushed him. It was all it took. He windmilled his arms, his bare feet slapping at the planks in an effort to halt the inevitable. Gravity would not be denied. Cash fell face first into the river. And he sank like a stone.
If I could see my face I believe I would have been holding that fixed glare, the tight smile of one who gloats. But only for a second. Panic engulfed me. A raging tide leaped from my stomach to my throat, to the cry of dismay that I yelled. “Oh my God, Cash? What have I done?”
Craning forward I searched for my little brother. The water was as still and viscous as treacle. There was no sign of Cash. A single bubble popped on the surface. “Cash!” I screamed.
Then I was hurtling towards the water.
Splash. Tinkle, tinkle.
I landed in water that barely covered my sandals.
Blinking, I swung side to side in panic, still seeking my little brother.
“How touching.” Cash’s voice came from behind me. “You do care for me after all.”
Gasping, I swung round to confront him.
Adult Cash stared back at me.
“What?” I demanded. “What just happened here?”
Cash hiked his shorts. “Truth hurt, does it?”
“Truth? That wasn’t real. It didn’t happen like that.”
Cash sniffed. “Maybe not in your mind, but that’s the way I remember it. You pushed me in the river, Carter. I almost drowned.”
Shaking my head, I lifted a hand towards him. “That’s a lie and you know it. I didn’t push you. You fell in.”
Cash shook his head ever so slowly. “No, brother. That’s what you made me tell Mom and Dad. You promised to beat me up if I ever told them the truth.”
“No,” I said.
“Yes, Carter. Painful as the truth might be, you forced me to lie. I was spanked whilst dear old Mom and Dad hailed you as a fucking hero.”
“It didn’t happen that way…”
“It did, Carter. So did all the other times that you bullied and beat me. From my earliest memory until I was twelve years old, it was constant, brother. You pushed me, you hit me, you called me names.”
“That was just kid stuff. All kids do that.” Even to my own ears the argument sounded weak. “You pushed and hit me as well.”
“In defence.” Cash moved close to me. His eyes were on a level with mine. Behind his pale irises I saw something stir, a coiling blue shape. I reared back from him.
“Get away from me,” I said. My hands came up, against his chest, shoving him away.
He stumbled away, slipping on the slick pebbles of the stream. Finding his balance he looked at me. Cash smiled. “Do you see, Carter? You’re still the same now. Still the bully you were as a child.”
Stooping down, Cash selected an algae-slick stone from the streambed. He lifted it in his hand. Circular, the stone was as smooth and as large as a grapefruit. It would weigh five times as much. “You know what advice is given to a person who is being bullied?”
I watched him approach with a certain amount of disassociation. One step, two steps, three. Cash was only an arm’s length away. He lifted the stone like a shot putter.
“Advice is to stand up to your bully. Show them you can’t be walked over,” he said.
Then he swung the rock at my head.
FORTYTWO
Broom’s cottage
Blood was on my face, my throat, seeping through my shirt, so that it felt hot and slick on my chest.
Cash’s hurled stone must have bashed my skull open to cause the profuse bleeding I was suffering.
“Oh, my God…” I clutched at my face. My blood was hot. Steaming. It was on my fingers. Sticky and viscous and smelling of…of…what is that smell?
“Hold it there.” The voice was one I knew. Not Cash’s, though. Someone else. There was a touch of panic in the voice. “I’ll bring a towel.”
Round about then I realised that my blood was so hot that it was burning. “Jesus Christ!” I howled.
“Carter, try not to move,” Broom shouted from the door. “Pull your shirt off your skin before it gets chance to soak through, but don’t get up. I’ll only be a second.”
Against his command, I sat up. The blood pooled in my lap. Soaking into my trousers. “Ooooohhhhaaaaawwww!”
I leaped up, dancing across the bedroom floor, droplets of my blood spattering the carpet. Must have been the mix of red on cream but my blood stained the pile brown.
“Jesus, Carter, look at the mess you’re making.” I blinked at my friend who was approaching me with a towel.
“I’m bleeding to death and you’re concerned for your fucking carpet?”
Broom’s face twisted. “Bleeding? What are you talking about?”
I showed him my hands. He didn’t seem all that concerned. “My head’s split open!”
“It’s not blood, you nutcase,” Broom growled at me. “It’s flamin’ hot chocolate.”
Funnily enough, the blood all over me was a bit too brown to be the lifeblood of a healthy man. And it did smell strange. Kind of sweet and…chocolaty. That was what the smell was.
“H-h-hot…” I stammered.
“I’m not surprised,” Broom said, dabbing at my clothing, at my face, with the towel. “You knocked the whole mugful over yourself, you dozy idiot.”
Reality was finally beginning to impinge. I was back in Broom’s house. Not by the stream. My fingers plucked gingerly at my scalp. Other than sticky chocolate milk there was only matted hair. There was no gaping hole in my skull. “Cash didn’t brain me with a rock, then?”
“Your head’s fine. As long as you discount your obvious madness.” Broom pushed the towel into my hands. “Here…you can do the rest. I’m going to have to put something on the carpet or else it’s going to be stained permanently.”
Catching sight of myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, I struck a slightly ridiculous pose. Chocolate stained me from hair to groin. There were tracks across the carpet leading back to an equally large stain on Broom’s bed. Had it been blood and not chocolate, anyone would believe that a serial killer had been up to his tricks.
Broom bustled back into the room, cloths and cleaning fluids at the ready. “What the hell were you dreaming about, anyway?”
“Wasn’t a dream,” I muttered. “I was with Cash.”
“What? After what I just told you? You still went ahead and confronted him?”
“I know. I know. Bad idea. But after what happened earlier I couldn’t allow him to influence me the way he did.” I gave him a pointed look. “Surely it’s better that it’s only chocolate all over the place, rather than your blood? Don’t yo
u remember he was pushing me to shoot you last time?”
Crouching and spraying chemicals from a bottle, Broom caught himself mid-pose. He blinked at me from under his fringe. “So what happened this time? Judging by what you said, Cash tried to smash your head in with something.”
“Yeah…” I said. “A big rock.”
Knees creaking, Broom stood up. “How could you let that happen, Carter? You control the environment. How could you allow that maniac to pick up a rock?”
“Dunno,” I answered truthfully. Wiping chocolate from my face, I said, “I don’t think that I was fully in control this time.”
Broom shook his head. “No, not possible. It’s your mind, your thoughts. Cash couldn’t have free reign without your allowing it.”
Shrugging, I said, “I made a mistake. When I think about it, I hadn’t done any planning, hadn’t put any controls in place. To be honest I think I just dropped directly into an old memory. Maybe Cash wasn’t even there with me. Perhaps it was just a dream, after all.”
It was wishful thinking, of course. I knew that what I was saying was a lie. Cash had been all too real. The memory of our fateful fishing expedition had been more than a memory. It was a replay of events. And, as much as I didn’t want to accept it, Cash was correct; I had been a total shit to him when we were growing up.
Was he trying to destroy me with guilt? What was he saying? Was I to blame for him turning out the twisted individual that he’d become? Had he murdered all those pregnant women in an effort at eradicating the years he’d suffered at the hands of his bullying older sibling? If so, how could cutting a living foetus from the womb of a dying woman possibly validate him? No way that I could see.
Broom returned to his scrubbing. In the end he sighed. “This is doing no good. It looks like you’ve cost me a new carpet.”
“Sorry.”
He waved off my apology. “Doesn’t matter. I was getting tired of it anyway. It was starting to look soooo last year.” His vanity was his way at pushing aside my embarrassment. It worked.