The Sister

by China, Max

  He listened as Miller explained how he suffered from feelings of unworthiness, how they'd undermined him, and sapped his will to do anything, so that in the end, he'd dropped out of his psychology course halfway through.

  "Have you seen anyone about these feelings?"

  "No, not now, originally I did, but stopped before I came into your class at school … I thought you knew all about my background?"

  "I probably did at the time. I am only human though, sometimes I forget things other teachers wouldn't…" he said, turning off the wipers. "So how close were you to completing your course?"

  "This would have been the last year," he said. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Kirk shaking his head in dismay.

  "You need a purpose in life, something you can do to snap you out of it. Psychology is a fascinating subject. You were sufficiently interested to start with it though weren't you?"

  Miller nodded. "Do you know much about it, sir?" Although he was tired, and wanted his warm bed, he sensed the older man needed to talk.

  "So what happened . . ." Kirk asked, turning the engine off. "What went wrong for you to lose interest now?"

  Miller took a deep breath, and held it a full ten seconds, saying as he exhaled, "Everything . . ."

  Kirk listened intently as his former pupil started and then faltered; as he tried explaining how he'd lost the only girl he'd ever loved. "Her name was Josie, and she put the colour back into my life . . ." he fell silent.

  "Tell me about her," he said, resting a hand on Miller's shoulder.

  "I can't…" he looked down at Kirk's hand. "Your hand is cold."

  "That's right, and your clothes are saturated . . . In Tibet, the novice monks go outside, ordered by their master, onto the mountain slopes in the freezing cold, wrapped only in wet sheets. They have two choices. Freeze, or learn to generate Tumo, an intense body heat. Those that do, succeed in drying several of them throughout the night. Quite an achievement, wouldn't you say?"

  "How do they do it?" he said, thinking about it.

  "Our minds are gifted with powers we don't understand, all we need to know is how to tap into them, and that's not something I can tell you. How did you meet your girlfriend, by the way?"

  Strangely, he no longer felt cold. "I came across her one night, surrounded by a mob; two girls kicked, punched and pulled her down to her knees, just because she was pretty, I guess. She fought back, but it was futile, her face contorting with the pain of each new blow or wrench of her hair. I watched for only a split second before I intervened. I knew I ran the risk of coming under attack myself. I grabbed her hand and pulled her away. A dozen hard-faced youths encircled us; I kept my left arm around her and marched to the edge of the circle as if I couldn't give a shit. The pack closed in on us . . ." he said, his words trailing off.

  "And then what?" Kirk asked.

  "Someone yelled, 'Leave him!' It had come from behind the mob; they dropped their aggressive stances, and parted to let us through. I looked closely at them, trying to match the voice to one of the faces, and then I saw Thomas from the boxing club. I nodded in recognition of him, and as I walked past with my arm around the girl. Thomas grunted, 'All right.' That was how I met her. We were very happy, right up until the beginning of last month . . ."

  "Okay-y-y, so what happened last month?"

  Kirk felt the muscles tense beneath his hand, but he kept his grip firm and reassuring on the young man's shoulder. For a second, he thought Miller would clam up again. "Take your time . . ." he said.

  "She died. She was out with a hen party on their way back from France . . . and fell overboard on the night ferry; although they looked, they never found her body." He slumped forwards. "That's it for me now. Everyone I ever get close to . . . dies. I couldn't stand the pain, or the thought of going through it again." Miller said, darkly.

  Kirk lifted his hand from him, perhaps afraid at that moment, that Miller's jinx might get him, too.

  "It will take time, boy, believe me. You'll learn to love again, but first, you must rid yourself of that defeatist mentality."

  He sat up straight, angrily demanding, "And how do I do that then, Mister Kirk?".

  "It's just, Kirk, as you well know," his former teacher reminded him. "How do they dry the sheets on a cold mountain, Miller? Well, I did say I couldn't tell you, but I'd suggest it's sheer force of will," he looked at him, knowingly. "You will find a way."

  He opened the window a crack, the sound of the rain came in. Lighting a cigarette, he peered closely at it, as if it held a deep secret. "I don't think I'd have smoked if it wasn't for the war, and if it wasn't for cigarettes . . . I don't think I'd have made it through." He drew hard on the filter; the tip glowed and bathed his blunt face with an orange glow. "I'm sure I mentioned some of this before…"

  When he spoke of the war, it was his war, the Korean War, but knowing time was short, condensed the part he'd played into a mere summary. ". . . and when it was over, I met up with a couple of dozen men from my unit, most of whom had been held prisoner by the Chinese. They told me about the mistreatment they were subjected to . . . degradation, abuse, and brainwashing. Some had changed beyond the point that you might have expected the experience alone to change them. Today is the 25th April, and the 32nd anniversary of my escape through enemy lines . . ." For a moment, he drifted. "You know, boy, I escaped, but I never got away. I'm still getting away. Most of the others that made it, made it out within hours. I got left behind, and it took me two, even three days . . . Anyhow, look it up, do your own research . . . we don't have time to get into it now."

  "I will," Miller promised. "And what about you, sir, are you still teaching?"

  Kirk looked across the seat at him, the cigarette end glowing as he drew on it. He sucked the smoke deep into his lungs and blew it at the gap in the window, where it siphoned into the outside air. "No, I felt it was time for a change, aim at new targets…"

  "So what is it you do now?"

  "I'm still in education, a freelance trouble shooter. I weed out kids with problems. It's a challenge, but I enjoy the freedom it gives me." Changing the subject back to Miller, he said, "So you wanted to be a psychiatrist?"

  "Yes, I did. To be truthful, I don't find it that appealing anymore, not in isolation . . . coupled with something else, maybe. I'd love to be a private investigator. It's been an ambition of mine, ever since I first persuaded my mum and dad to allow me to read True Crime magazine. "

  "Really?" said Kirk, "That's interesting."

  Miller watched the rain rolling down the windscreen. After a lengthy pause, he said, "Do you remember the scene of that accident?"

  "Of course I do…What's on your mind?"

  "Well, nothing particularly, it's just that I've since found out that you originally came from that neck of the woods, and I wondered if you ever heard…"

  "Any rumours about the place? Of course I did, all us kids from around there heard them. I knew the place as Devils Pond, or Witches Pond as they called it sometimes. Apparently, there was an accident in the mines nearby, in the 1850's, and they lost a number of miners in a flash flood or something. They didn't recover all the bodies, about twenty or so were washed away underground." The older man was quiet for a moment as he allowed his memories to come back to him. "As far as I know, that's where the extra bodies came from that they found in the pond while looking for your friends."

  "Yes I heard that, I'm not sure they ever conclusively proved who they were. What about the other four bodies, did you hear anymore about them?"

  "Not really, the press had a field day though, I do remember that. The bodies were wrapped in boiler suits, and weighted down with stones, weren't they? What was it they called them…" he snapped his fingers as he tried to recall. "The Boiler Man Killings . . ."

  "I wonder who it was . . . I don't think they ever found him."

  "The police are useless," Kirk said absently as he yawned. "Might be a good first case for you to investigate…"

  Miller cau
ght the yawn from him. "Maybe one day, but for now I still have too many bad memories."

  "Try to discover to whom the unidentified remains belonged; they never did find out who they all were."

  "I think I'd like to look for living missing people, though, not dead ones. I don't think I could do that. I don't feel anything if someone is dead. That's why I never looked for Josie when she went missing. I knew she wasn't with us anymore . . ." he sighed. "If I'm going to look for missing people, they'll have to be still alive."

  "Well, I wish you luck with whatever you choose to do… Two roads diverged in a wood, and I . . . I took the one less travelled by, do you remember that poem?"

  "I do," he said solemnly. An irresistible tiredness washed over him, and he yawned again.

  Kirk reached over and took Miller's hand quite unexpectedly and shaking it, said, "Good night, Milowski, I hope you get on okay. Keep yourself out of trouble." He pronounced the name perfectly.

  "You can say my name?" he said in amazement. "I always thought you suffered from word blindness when it came to saying my name."

  "That's right," he said with a glint of humour in his eyes. "I always could say it . . ."

  Sometimes, you see a painter on the beach, or in the fields, dabbing his brush at the canvas then standing back, coming forward again, executing the finishing touches, before finally standing back once more with a smile, satisfied at last with his work.

  Kirk was a teacher, but as Miller left the car and glanced back in at him, he had a satisfied smile and look of a painter about his face.

  "Goodnight, sir."

  Miller ran up to his front door through the sheets of rain, when he turned back to wave; the car was almost invisible, Kirk had let the brakes off, and the car began rolling forwards, down the hill silently. It disappeared into the mists, sputtering to life as he jump-started the engine. The red tail lights illuminated briefly, and then they vanished too.

  He wondered, as he closed the door, shutting out the driving rain: Does it rain on Armageddon?

  Chapter 26

  The following night, in his dreams, Kirk instructed him in unarmed combat, Korean style. "Taekkyon," he explained. "Is actually a forerunner of Tae kwon do, I learned it during my national service in Malaysia." Moving like a shadow, he said, "Copy me." And Miller did.

  Unable to wake fully, he surfaced briefly, blinked his eyes and then drifted back into the depths, into Kirk's jungle. Behind him, the relentless sounds of pursuit as faceless enemies crashed through the undergrowth, preceded by their urgent voices, bugle calls and the barking of dogs. They were on his trail. There was no going in any other direction than forwards. He ran.

  The pale light of dawn breaking through the trees marked the edge of the forest.

  Tired of running, weak-kneed, every breathed ragged and hot, driven by an indomitable spirit, he pushed on, across the exposed open ground. Low vegetation snagged at his heels, almost tripping him as he made his way up the slope, where the line of darkness at the top met the brightening sky. The light at the edge of the world . . .

  Moments later, a mass of shadowy figures swarmed out of the tree line, their shouts took on a new urgency. They had seen him. The dogs, unleashed, raced forwards, closing the gap on him. Shots rang out. A bullet snatched at his shorts as it tore through. Another ricocheted off the rocks next to him; he stumbled over the crest, and teetered on the edge of a sheer rock cliff, hundreds of feet above the water, the sea. If he didn't jump, he knew he'd die and if he did, it was unlikely he'd survive the fall. And if that didn't kill him, he would drown in the sea. Already leaping as these things crossed his mind, he dropped through the air that tugged at his clothes, making him cold. The dark waters below approaching faster still, he saw the white foam tips of the waves crashing, heard their hollow roar. Praying he wouldn't hit the rocks; he braced himself for impact . . .

  His bed seemed to bounce in the instant before he awoke.

  For a few moments, he didn't stir, replaying what he remembered of the dream. The beginning was lost in a haze, but he had an overwhelming feeling he'd gained another chance, a new path to follow. Throwing back the bedclothes, he got out of bed.

  In the library half an hour later, he sat down with a book and read about the Korean War, the role of the Gloucester's and how rumours had spread among the men during captivity, that the Chinese had singled out their Colonel for special treatment: brainwashing.

  Returning the book to the shelves, he sought out books on brainwashing and mind control. Finding them, he flicked through the pages at speed . . . Thought to be among techniques used by religious cults . . . He stopped dead and leafed back through perhaps twenty pages before he found the words again and then studied the relevant text with a deep frown of concentration on his brow. Cults?

  When he'd finished in the library, he made his way to a cafe; he'd not yet eaten that morning. Taking a newspaper from the courtesy read rack, he experienced a strange lingering sense, a calling almost, a definite sense of something . . . like rain in the air before a storm. He couldn't quite finger it, but he knew it was coming. A half-enlightened moment followed, and as he unfolded the paper, he realised, he'd known what he would see all along.

  Heiress Disappears in Mysterious Circumstances.

  The article was a lengthy one, and he read it twice. Unable to explain the feeling, he knew somehow, that she was still alive.

  On his way home, he purchased every single daily newspaper he could find, and spread them out all over his lounge floor. His thoughts nagged at him. He was no longer reading about the heiress; he was looking for something else, but what?

  Rolling over on the carpet and propping himself up with his elbows on top of the Times, his fingers absently turned the pages, and then frowning, he stopped. Two-thirds of the way down the page was a short piece on the emergence of a particular cult operating in every major city in Europe, but particularly the popular tourist spots.

  The following day, he had a hunch, and he travelled to Piccadilly Circus, hoping to witness the cult recruiting at first hand. In the shadow of the winged statue of Eros, he found them.

  The rain before the storm still threatened, the feeling it was coming persisted. Thinking about the two roads Kirk had spoken of, he knew that this was the right one.

  The heiress's name was Olga Kale, and he began to investigate the case in an unofficial capacity. Earlier reports suggested that Olga had left London to visit Amsterdam, passing through Belgium, France, Spain and Italy. She had then inexplicably returned to Holland's capital. He was thinking. She would have gone east. Why would she go back to Amsterdam?

  That night he decamped into his bedroom and followed the half-remembered advice his grandfather had given him about solving problems overnight, whilst asleep. Take the problem to bed with you, think about it, write it down, take books, photographs everything to help you focus, and then sleep.

  He slept in his bed using the newspapers as sheets. Every time he moved, they rustled dryly. Imagining pages turning over, read, images sharpened in his mind.

  When he woke up in the morning, he'd worked it out. She'd been in Rome, where a convention attended by two thousand people had taken place. She had to have met someone who'd convinced her to go back with them to Holland, where the cult's headquarters were. It couldn't be a coincidence.

  He drew out the last of the inheritance his grandfather had left him, flying out to Amsterdam the following day.

  Chapter 27

  Three weeks later Miller found himself sitting opposite a man he'd met for the first time only a few minutes earlier. The office was clearly that of a very wealthy man.

  "I thought it was important to meet you," Donovan Kale said, "and to hear your account of things, first hand." He ran his hand through his thick dark hair, revealing a few strands of grey. Thin faced with a single deep vertical crease on each cheek, his deep brown eyes narrowed as he focused them on the young man before him.

  Miller was still jittery, the nervous energy dra
ining rapidly from him as exhaustion took over.

  The older man steepled his hands together. "Go on, in your own time."

  Never particularly good at explaining things, he took a deep breath and just started talking. "It wasn't long after Josie disappeared, and I didn't care about what happened to me anymore, but then I met an old teacher of mine . . ." He caught the look of confusion on the other man's face and paused. "Am I making sense? I don't make sense at the best of times. I'm tired…"

  Kale nodded and said, "Go on . . . it's okay."

  Suddenly keen to get the whole thing off his chest, he continued, "And the other thing was I think . . . I wanted her out of there; because I knew what it was like to have someone go missing. It became an obsession to find Olga, I don't know if you can understand that. I just had to do it." He looked for a reaction from Kale, who rolled his hand over, gesturing for him to continue.

  "I got myself recruited, I couldn't believe how many people they'd squeezed onto that bus. For a moment as we were driving, I thought, what if they have more than one commune that they can take them to . . . I needn't have worried.

  "They'd taken over a former school and its entire grounds. The place was enormous, and once inside, there must have been six hundred lost souls, in various states of delusion. They made us all feel extraordinarily welcome, bombarded us with love and affection, lots of touchy-feely contact. If it wasn't for the fact that I could switch off - dissociate myself - they'd have had me. They nearly did anyway.

  "They kept the new ones separated at first, singled out for special treatment. It was three days before I saw her; she had this beatific smile on her face, and she was gone . . . brainwashed already, but I saw where they kept her at night. The place had four separate accommodation wings, which they locked down at lights out. They allowed a limited amount of association, supervised by trusties, or premies; I think that's what they called themselves.