by China, Max
She continued to gaze out of the window. Her eyes were almond shaped, her face elfin. She didn't look hot; she had no difficulty breathing; her pulse was normal. He decided to check it again and took her hand in his, turning it over, so the back of it lay against his palm. It was surprisingly soft, yielding and warm; his thoughts turned inexplicably to images of post-sexual spooning.
Ryan shook his head involuntarily to get the image out; with his other hand, he spread her fingers and inspected her palm. Opened fully, it was remarkably unlined, completely unblemished. His intention was to take her pulse, but he waylaid himself into examining the structure of her hand. They were not the hands of a girl that worked physically at all. Her fingers were long and slim; there was a slight callous near the tip of her middle finger, and he already knew it wasn't from writing. He guessed she must do a lot of painting.
Ryan felt for her pulse, frowning as he manoeuvred his finger around the inside of her wrist, he found no trace, feeling only the throb of his own heart in his fingertip.
He became aware of her turning away from the window; her eyes had changed appearance, no longer feline, they were now wide-open sea green and had settled on him. For the second time she smiled as a woman and then her pulse began strongly, it mingled and beat in accord with his. Ryan suddenly felt self-conscious under her gaze and looked away to break contact.
She spoke for the first time since she'd mentioned Dr Robert. "Talk to me, B. Ryan, I don't bite."
Ryan found himself taken aback for the second time that morning. How could she know his first name began with a B? Her eyes led him to the bag; the nameplate on it said B Ryan. So that was how she did it! He smiled in recognition of the simple fact. She could be no more than fifteen, but she had the knowing smile of a woman. He looked away.
"Vera, are you allergic to anything you know of that you might have come into contact with in the last few days, yesterday perhaps?"
She didn't respond; instead, fiddling with something she held in her free hand.
He caught a glimpse of a shiny black object between her fingers. The quizzical look on his face, prompted her to tuck it away behind her back.
Although he was curious, he decided not to ask about it.
If he had, she would have told him it was just a stone that she'd found two days before on the beach.
"I'd like to get you in for a blood test. The hospital will contact you with an appointment."
"She needs something doing - and now!" Mrs Flynn exclaimed, louder than she'd intended. She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes rounder than ever with embarrassment.
Ryan turned to look at her. "What am I missing here, ?"
She didn't reply.
He looked from one to the other for a clue, and noticed that she shot her niece a sharp look. Vera glanced almost imperceptibly at the bed. He eyed the hollow caused by sagging springs.
"Have you been sleeping well?"
Her aunt chimed in and answered for her, small round eyes rolling anticlockwise towards the ceiling. "That one hardly sleeps at all for nights on end. I'm telling you. You can hear her walking about, creaking open doors like a noisy ghost all night long. She isn't asleep, and she isn't awake either. When she does sleep, you can't wake her up at all!"
Vera gazed steadily at Ryan; he pretended not to notice, but the heat under his collar gave him away. His discomfort made her smile.
"Vera, when did you last get a good night's sleep?"
She made brief eye contact, and then looked over to her aunt. "Last night, the night before . . ."
"Since when?" Mrs Flynn scoffed.
"Since last night, and the night before!"
"Willful child, how dare you take that tone with me!" She moved within striking distance, the back of her hand raised above her left shoulder.
Jumping between, arms outstretched, he kept them apart. "Let's not be squabbling now," he said, holding his hand up in Mrs Flynn's direction as if stopping traffic, before continuing, "So, Vera, you would say you sleep all right?"
She hesitated for a moment. "Well, I would say so." She shot a defiant look at her aunt, knowing she'd say differently.
"That bed looks uncomfortable, you might try turning the –"
"Don't you think we've tried that!" she snapped. "The springs are poking . . . Soon they'll poke through this side as well."
The idea of having a new mattress delivered anonymously occurred to him, but he guessed they would know it was from him. When pride was one of the only possessions people had left, you couldn't afford to hurt it.
"How did you know about Dr Robert, Vera?"
She swivelled away from the window to face him square on, a faint comma of a smile appeared at the corner of her mouth, enigmatic, like the one in the painting of the Mona Lisa. A brief appreciation of Da Vinci's talent crossed his mind. How do you capture something as transient as that in a painting?
Mrs Flynn's face illuminated, and she glanced at Vera, a mixture of pride and awe. "She has the sight. I wasn't sure before, but now I'm convinced of it. This morning before you even arrived, she taunted me about Dr Robert. I didn't see how it could be true, but that smile of hers just confirmed it." She shook her head slowly. "A blood test indeed!" she guffawed. Fixing him with a hard stare, she pushed her face to within inches from his. The smell of her breath stunned him as she rasped, "Buy me a chocolate teapot!"
He chose not to respond, and instead cleared his throat into his clenched fist.
"I’m a doctor, but I’m hoping to become a psychiatrist. I'd love to understand a little bit better what you're going through, could you help me with that?"
Vera's eyes softened; he saw a kind of fleeting sympathy there. A second later, it was gone. "Doctor, I don't think I can do that, I believe it's beyond your powers of comprehension."
His voice was soft, but determined. "Try me."
"Dr Robert was riding to my house on a mare the colour of midnight, its mane tied off in black ribbons and bows. A storm rose from hell. The animal was uncontrollable, too fiery for him, unbroken. He fell from its back and lay in the mud. It was the same horse that dragged poor David Robert behind, the same one that led the funeral procession." Vera pointed to the painting. "Oh, I knew he was dead, but he didn't die like that," she explained. "He woke up clutching his chest, his bulging eyes almost popping out of his head. Knowing it was the end, he grabbed for a note pad and scribbled and scrawled and didn't finish it all. He tore the page from it - now you tell me - why would he do that, if he hadn't finished?"
There hadn't been a note!
He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. What if it were true? What would that mean?
She seemed to read his mind.
"You were there this morning, it's why you were late . . . there was a note. It slipped under the bed off the bedside table, the draught from the door blew it there when the housekeeper went in to wake him. She found it after you left. Do you want to know what it said?"
The cold truth of what she was saying started goose bumps rising; a chill ran over him, and the hair on his arms stood up as if in an electrostatic parade.
"Will you tell me?"
Vera beckoned him closer. "Yes, but it's for your ears only."
Mrs Flynn looked fearful. She shook her head and said emphatically, "I'll not leave the room!"
He bent forward and inclined his head towards her. She leaned and whispered something in his ear.
What she said made him stand erect and incredulous. She gave him three predictions, and of those, one came true within the hour. The second would be confirmed in the not too distant future, while the third would remain a secret until the time was right to reveal it many years hence. She played her tongue suggestively across her lips, her green eyes shiny with unmistakable desire.
Mrs Flynn was outraged. She grabbed his bag, shoved it into his arms and ushered him out. "That's enough! What sort of doctor are you anyway!"
Ryan blustered, protesting.
Her finger
pointed to the door. "Out!" She started moving towards him. He had the distinct impression if he didn't leave right away, she might help him on his way.
The sun came out beyond the confines of the room. Not visible outside the window, it didn't shine in directly, but the increase in light drew his attention to the painting. At the top was a tiny church with an illuminated cross. How did I not see that before? For no particular reason, he noted that the window faced north.
The business with Dr Robert and Mr Ryan's subsequent visit made Brenda Flynn's mind up for her. Vera's little predictions were becoming all too frequent and always coming true.
Keep her on the side of God, away from the Devil. After what she'd seen of her flirting with Ryan, it was time to act.
She reported Vera to the church and told them all that she knew of her devil's curse.
Chapter 11
Ryan had waited for three weeks for the results of Vera's blood test to arrive before he called the hospital. He'd hung on while the lady at the other end checked the records, papers rustled dryly as she leafed through them next to the receiver on her desk. In the background, two women chatted excitedly about their holiday plans. Finally, she picked the phone up again.
"Hello, Doctor Ryan, are you still there?"
"Yes," he replied, rather wearily.
"Thanks for holding. Vera Flynn you said? I'm sorry we don't have a record of an appointment in that name."
"Thank you for your time." While waiting, he absent-mindedly doodled on his paper blotter and after he'd put the phone down, he examined the series of shapes, squares within squares, elaborate crosses and concentric circles that he'd drawn. They had no apparent meaning: he wondered what a psychiatrist might have made of them.
Besides psychiatry, his number one interest was the paranormal. When he first met Vera he hoped studying her in more depth might confirm some universal truths he suspected were common to all beliefs, pagan, conventional religion, or otherwise.
Initially, he didn't believe in God or any other supreme being, but what he found repeatedly was that the more deprived and disconsolate the people, the greater the likelihood there was they'd be devoted to religion. He also discovered these people were more likely to have visions of a religious nature, to experience miracles, and benefit from miraculous cures.
There had to be a link, something that bound it all together, something that made it more than just mere happenstance. There just had to be . . .
Vera was herself born into grinding poverty. Her family, all Catholics, attended church every Sunday. If she truly knew what happened to Dr Robert before it happened. If she'd really seen it all unfold from afar as she said she had; the writing of the note, blown from its place . . . He scratched his head in frustration: he had more questions than answers.
Doctor Robert had died before he completed the note. The first of the three things she whispered in his ear that proved to be true. She'd told him about the note before anyone else knew of its existence. The first part read. I think the Flynn girl is… She told him what the doctor would have written. Working against God. At that point, she'd inserted her tongue into his ear, so quick, warm and sensuous.
Sitting at his desk, he touched his ear and remembered how stunned he was when she'd licked him. If there truly were a God, why would he create someone like her: If only to oppose Him?
Over the years, he'd found a reversal of his atheism; it came slowly. He became a believer. He'd seen far too many things to remain a sceptic. Back then, he'd yet to learn.
Finally, he plucked up the courage to find out why Vera hadn't taken the blood test.
He lifted the telephone again and dialled, it took a long time to answer.
"Hello?"
"Mrs Flynn?"
A two-second pause ensued. "Who is this?"
"Mrs Flynn, it's Doctor —"
She stopped him short. "You can't speak with her!"
"Wait, I didn't ring to talk to her. I rang to find out if everything was all right."
"Why wouldn't it be?" she growled.
"She didn't show up for her blood test, and I just wanted . . ."
"Mr Ryan, she doesn't need any medical test, and she doesn't need the likes of you. Anyway, she's gone now."
He hesitated a second "What do you mean . . . gone?"
"She's joined the sisterhood," she said.
"That's impossible, she's too young!"
"She's an exceptional case, Mr Ryan," she said with pride. "Accept it. Let it go and leave us be!"
The phone banged down.
Cut off, he scowled at the receiver. At the time of his last visit, he'd sensed animosity between them, and now he was unlikely to discover what it was.
He did as she asked and let it go.
Chapter 12
Sent initially to a convent for further study, it didn't take long for Vera's unique gifts to manifest themselves. The preliminary assessment reported: The girl appears to have the ability to read the past lives of people, to see deep into the very soul and nature of those subject to her scrutiny, indeed, even going so far as to predict the future - without evidence of trickery or deception.
When word of Vera's supernatural abilities reached bishop level, and beyond, it was inevitable, that the Vatican would take an interest. They sent two emissaries for her.
Once in Rome, specialist doctors hooked Vera up to EEG sensors and took electro-encephalograms while she slept to measure her brainwaves. After conducting psychiatric tests, polygraphs and other neurological evaluations, the investigators found no evidence of fraud or deception, and reported that the abilities she displayed were inexplicable, and beyond scientific understanding. A great deal of secrecy surrounded their conclusions and with special dispensation from the Holy See, the church accepted her as a novice nun. She became Sister Verity and spent the next few years in the Vatican, where she studied, and was herself studied by theologians in supernaturalism.
Prior to the burgeoning sex abuse scandals of the eighties and nineties, the Church was keen to keep its own house in order, to avoid scandal and negative publicity. In Sister Verity, they'd found someone who was capable of sniffing out and identifying the rot, God's own bloodhound. Sister Verity became widely known as simply 'The Sister' within the inner circles of the church.
In this role, she would attend confession in selected parishes, and it was there, in the confessional that she was able to establish the veracity of the priests. Her exposures were kept in-house in most cases, but some were too big to contain.
The newspapers ran headlines over the next few weeks: Priest accused of child molestation - More victims come forward - Accusations going back decades - Bishop knew of allegations - Priest commits suicide!
At first, she'd been only too willing to assist, later becoming unhappy, not only at the way in which the Church handled things, but also at the regularity with which she uncovered these people. 'Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone', was stretching the point. Although she was not without sin herself, the extent of sin she found in those holy places alarmed her. Inevitably, she came up against priests, who she had reported to the Church authorities first time around, only to find them transferred to another parish, in the hope that they would mend their wicked ways.
Her last case had been the final straw.
One of the things she needed to do while waiting in the confessional, was de-tune herself from the box itself, or she would be hearing how Mrs Dalton, or some other poor soul, had confessed to stealing eggs and potatoes to feed her starving family, while shame kept her from telling the priest that she'd also been sleeping with the milkman and the coalman while her husband was in prison, and her conscience had guilted her into thinking half a confession was better than nothing.
Well-worn hollows, formed by many different elbows, dished the shelf by the screen. The atmosphere was heavy and oppressive. It wasn't right. Placing her hands onto the wood, she focused beyond the fabric of its construction. So much guilt, unhappiness, sorrow and
pain, had been absorbed. The image of a choirboy came to her, sitting on the pew outside, deliberately timing his arrival so that he'd be the last in the queue.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it's been too long since my last confession, and since then you have had me indulge in vile practices with you, Father, and it has to stop!"
The priest was calm. "You want to turn your back on all the special privileges your position brings . . .? You no longer want to be in the choir?"
The boy blurted out, "I'll not be doing those things anymore; it's against God and nature…!"
The priest hissed through the grille, "It stops, when I say it stops!"
"No, Father, it ends now, or I go to the police!"
"Then go to the police! Do you think they'll take the word of an illegitimate orphan, against the word of a priest?"
He could have only been thirteen, his voice newly broken. Unsure, he rose suddenly and dismissed himself.
Father O'Donohue swept out of the confessional behind him.
The boy didn't make it out of the churchyard.
Strong as she was, she came close to breaking point. After six years of service, she decided it was time for her to leave and she left without permission to do so, returning to her home one last time, to retrieve the stone from its hiding place.
When they'd originally come for her years before, she'd dropped it into the water butt outside the front door of her house. She took it from its slimy drawstring purse, held it and closed her eyes. It was the first time she'd touched it since her friend, Mick, had been run over attempting to negotiate his way over a railway crossing whilst drunk. When that had happened, she'd wanted to throw it away. Now that she knew she possessed the ability to interpret what the polished black sphere merely amplified, it would become a supplementary tool, and as part of her calling and destiny, it was far too important to discard.