by David Kiely
Three days passed without incident. On Thursday, Angela put in a full day at the drugstore and was on hand to supervise the late closing. It was past nine o’clock when she arrived home, tired and in need of cheering up. She had a glass of wine and watched half a movie.
“I remember feeling terribly depressed. Seeing Rhoda again made me realize what a failure my own life had been. There she was, traveling the world in a high-flying job, and there I was—living alone, a lowly shop assistant with nothing to look forward to but old age.”
That night, Angela did not stop at one glass of wine. She drank the entire bottle. She collapsed into bed around one o’clock. She could not know that she was about to have another out-of-body dream, more terrifying than the previous one.
The mysterious force came for her as before, lifted her from her bed, and propelled her into blackness. As was the case in Rhoda’s bedroom, there was no intervening sensation of travel.
“I woke up in what I called ‘the spirit,’” she says. “I found myself high above a city. It was broad daylight.”
She thought at first that it must be New York. There were skyscrapers and a network of highways linking the strange city with a green and flat countryside. Then she saw what could only have been an inland sea, or indeed a lake. A voice in her head—the sibilant one with the Galway accent—was telling her that the city was Chicago.
She remembers with amazing clarity finding herself above an intersection in what looked like a business district. The light of a summer afternoon slanted between the buildings, casting long shadows. A line of cars waited for the lights to change.
Some distance away—two blocks away to be exact—there was a flurry of activity. From her vantage point, Angela had a bird’s-eye view.
She saw a speeding white car approaching the intersection. The lights changed and a yellow taxicab moved forward. There was no possibility that the driver of the white car could stop in time. He tried to swerve, and the cab driver did the same. Had both not attempted the evasive maneuver, all might have been well. But the white car struck the cab on the passenger side, sending it spinning across the intersection and into the path of oncoming traffic. There was a pile-up.
Angela found herself being propelled at great speed toward the stricken taxi. She was among the first to examine the wreck. Lying in the back seat was a woman of about her own age. Her eyes were open and staring, her head twisted at an unnatural angle.
It was Rhoda, and she was dead.
Angela woke again in her bed. She was shaking with terror, her heart hammering so fast that she feared for her own life. She stumbled from the room, made her way downstairs, went into the kitchen, and poured herself a brandy. She drank it swiftly and poured another.
This time, she did not hesitate to ring Rhoda’s mother. As it happened, the elderly woman slept very little and was not in the least perturbed. After all, Angela Brehen was an old friend of her daughter’s.
“Listen, Mrs. Delany, would I be able to get in touch with Rhoda? Did she leave a number or anything?”
Rhoda had. It turned out to be that of a hotel in Chicago.
It was after 2:30 in the morning. Angela knew that America was several hours behind but had no idea in which time zone Chicago lay, only that it was farther west than New York. She dialed the number and was greeted at once by a pleasant-sounding woman. Yes, Ms. Delany was a guest. Could Angela hold?
Angela broke the connection a minute later. She was trying to come to terms with the impossible.
“I couldn’t believe it,” she says. “I still can’t. But it turned out that Rhoda was killed that day at the time I saw it happen, allowing for the time difference. I saw it all like it was happening right in front of me. I couldn’t have imagined it because it was only later that day that we got word back in Galway. I went round to Rhoda’s mother and heard about it. And the horrible thing was, she was somehow holding me responsible. God knows why. After the funeral she never spoke to me again.”
Rhoda’s remains were flown home and laid to rest in Galway. The funeral took place some eight days after the accident. But before then, on the Saturday following Rhoda’s death, Angela was to have her third odd experience. This time, however, there were no paranormal overtones—or so it seemed. It was simply a meeting between two people, in ordinary, workaday circumstances.
Angela went to her job in the drugstore as usual. She was greatly perturbed by her friend’s death and the events surrounding it; she thought that the routine of work would help her cope with the tragedy.
By lunchtime she had recovered some of her equilibrium and could bring herself to chat with the regular customers. At one o’clock she grabbed a sandwich, did some desultory shopping, and was back at her post at a little after two.
To this day, she asks herself how it was she recognized the face. Sixteen years had passed since she last saw the man, in 1988. And she had been no more than a child.
“To crown it all I’d only spoken to him for about five minutes,” she reminds us. “I wouldn’t say I have a great memory for faces. About average, I suppose. But right away I knew it was Barry McNulty. He was much thinner than I remembered and his hair was a lot shorter, but there was something about him that I recognized. Maybe a certain look he had—a kind of intenseness.”
Barry had a little boy with him, of perhaps five or six. The child looked bored and was running a sticky finger along a neat display of hair colorants. Angela saw two boxes topple. She left her station at the back of the shop.
“Angela? It is you, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed, Barry—Angela Brehen. That wasn’t today or yesterday.”
“You didn’t marry, then, I take it?”
He had lost none of his forwardness. It was a trait she found unappealing in men. She found herself staring at the child, whom Barry now had by the hand. He must have read her thoughts because he hurried to enlighten her.
“My sister’s boy, not mine. He’s staying with me a few days. I’m living here now, you know. Moved last month.”
“That’s a coincidence.”
“Isn’t it?”
There was something about the manner in which he said it that left her wondering.
He was glancing about the store. “So this is what you do, eh? Nice.”
He thinks I own the place, Angela concluded. She had no intention of disillusioning him.
“Did you like the book?” he asked suddenly.
“Book…?”
But she had remembered at once, as soon as he walked into the shop. She had given not a thought to it in sixteen years.
“It was okay,” she said. “Well, not really. If you want to know, I didn’t think much of it at all.”
Something in her face must have betrayed her, brought to the surface the terror of the past days. Barry was looking at her intently.
“There’s something wrong, isn’t there? I’ve come at a bad time; is that it?”
“No, no. Well…yes. A friend died.”
“I’m sorry. Were you very close?”
“We were once.”
He was still studying Angela’s face, seemingly trying to find answers there. “Why do I get the impression there was something very unusual about this friend’s death?”
“Maybe you’re psychic, Barry.”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” He saw her frown. “Seriously. I know things. Like that time in the bookshop; I could sense what you were looking for.”
His nephew was betraying an almost intolerable impatience to leave. Angela suggested they meet that evening. She knew a quiet little hotel off Shop Street where they could talk further. Barry found her there a little after eight.
Over drinks they got better acquainted. She found him an unusually good listener—so good, in fact, that before long she was confiding in him details of the bizarre events surrounding Rhoda’s death.
“I read about it in the Tribune,” he said. “One of these freak things. We know not the day nor the hour, as the man sa
id.”
“But somebody knew,” she countered.
“What do you mean?”
“A voice told me in a dream.”
“Hmm.”
“Is that all you can say—‘Hmm’? I’ll tell you something, Barry: it totally freaked me out, hearing that voice.”
“I can well believe it. But look at it this way, when you’re a remote viewer, you’re—”
“Remote viewer?”
“A clairvoyant. That’s what it is, you know: clairvoyance, remote viewing. When you view a scene remotely, you’re entering a different dimension altogether. Time doesn’t exist there—at least, not as we know it. So it doesn’t matter if something is in what we call the past, present, or future; for the clairvoyant, it’s happening in the here and now.”
“So I can see into the future in the same way I can see the present? I thought the future didn’t exist. That we have free will. That we can all make our own future. It isn’t written in stone.”
He looked at her keenly.
“That’s only someone’s theory, Angela. Nothing more. You yourself proved it wrong. You knew that Rhoda wouldn’t survive the week. The voice told you so. That’s as much proof as you need that you can look into the future.”
“It could have been coincidence.”
He laughed loudly. Heads turned. He lowered his voice.
“That’s rich coming from somebody who claims to have visited her best friend clairvoyantly—twice in the one week. Angela, you know as well as I do it was the real deal. You had a premonition of your friend’s death, and you traveled to Chicago to see it happen. I believe you, because I’ve been there myself. You have a gift, just like me: a psychic gift.”
“That’s not what I’d call it. I want to be rid of it, if it’s all the same to you.”
“No, that’s the wrong attitude. You should develop it. That’s where I come in.”
Angela did not like the turn Barry’s conversation was taking. He was altogether too sure of himself and too intrusive. She reminded herself that she hardly knew him, much less trusted him with her private affairs. And what, she asked herself, could be more private than your own thoughts, your very dreams?
“I’ve always been psychic,” he said. “My mother was, so I think I get it from her. Over the years I’ve perfected the art. I help a lot of people with my gift, Angela, and you can too.” He sat back in the chair. “I suppose you could call me a healer.”
“Really! You mean you can heal diseases?” Angela thought it best to humor him.
“I can do anything,” he announced with all the zeal of a cult leader. “I am what is known as a magician in the great Western tradition.”
“You mean you’re into black magic?”
“No,” he quickly corrected her. “On the contrary, magic is a powerful tool that can be used for good or evil. Black magic seeks to destroy; white magic seeks to improve and heal. As I say, I use my gift for the betterment of mankind.”
He raised his drink, basking in what he believed was Angela’s silent admiration. She, on the other hand, could not help thinking that Barry’s speech had been rehearsed, that it was a stock speech kept in readiness to impress the gullible.
“W. B. Yeats,” he said, “was one as well.”
“The poet? He was a magician too?”
“Yeah, the poet. He was one of the most important members of the Golden Dawn.” He leaned forward, his hands clasped together. “I have to level with you, Angela. Running into you—in the chemist’s—it wasn’t an accident.”
She felt uneasy. “Oh?”
“A little bird told me you’d be there. Well, if you must know, it wasn’t a bird—it was a voice. You told me about the voice you were hearing. I have one as well. It goes with my psychic abilities. See, I knew you were experiencing this stuff even before you did. That’s why I’m here.”
She was growing nervous. “I don’t follow.”
“Let me get us another drink, Angela,” he said. “Then I’ll explain the plan to you, see what you think of it.”
The “plan” turned out to be one of the most audacious ventures that Angela had ever embarked upon. Barry’s initial premise was simple: they would “visit” each other clairvoyantly.
“And that was my biggest mistake,” Angela sighs. “But I was lonely; I was vulnerable. I’d just suffered the trauma of Rhoda’s death. My mind was in turmoil…and in a strange way I didn’t want to disappoint him. From what he told me, I believed he could help me. When I look back on it now I can see it was mad, but at the time it seemed almost logical. Barry McNulty was very convincing.”
They exchanged addresses and, with the aid of paper napkins, each sketched out a crude map pointing the way. “Though I doubt if you’ll even need a map,” he said with conviction. Barry’s home was on the outskirts of the city. In passing, she learned that he was divorced, with three children who lived with their mother. He had joined the civil service on leaving college. Angela found that incongruous but said nothing.
They met again in the same hotel. They agreed on “rules.”
“We promised each other that we wouldn’t pry,” she goes on. “That we’d respect each other’s privacy. If one of us had somebody round then the other would make themselves scarce.”
Barry had brought along an unusual item. It was a book on meditation techniques. It was photocopied, and she got the impression that the original was not in general circulation but a limited edition, perhaps published by the occult circle to which he claimed to belong. He urged her to study it well. It was, he said, greatly superior to her old Tuesday Lobsang Rampa book.
She was also to discover that he used drugs to help achieve what he called his “altered states.” He did not come right out and admit it, but rather hinted. He suspected that Angela would shy away from the very notion of narcotics, and in that he was correct. The idea appalled her.
During that second meeting, they laid down the ground rules and fixed a date for the first experiment. Angela did not know what to expect when Barry told her he would visit at a prearranged time.
“Will I be able to see you?” she asked.
“I doubt it. The purpose of the exercise is for me to see you.”
On the night in question, a Saturday in early August, she stayed up late, reading without much interest a copy of a woman’s magazine. She had made herself comfortable in the living room; from time to time she would cast a nervous glance at the clock.
“I was sitting there,” Angela says, “reading some silly problem page or other, trying not to get too afraid, when all of a sudden I felt this presence in the room.”
She put away the magazine and turned in her chair. She saw nothing.
“I didn’t have the feeling it was Barry,” she remembers. “You know the feeling you get when you’re in a room and there’s someone behind you. It’s a ‘knowing’ feeling, comfortable even, because you’re familiar with the person who’s there. This wasn’t like that. It was terribly unsettling. For the short time it was in the room, I had the strongest urge to run out the door and just keep running. I remember getting up and backing towards the door, and just as I was doing that, the phone rang.”
“Did I scare you?” At first she did not recognize the voice. The words were delivered in a curt, clipped manner. It unsettled her so much that she could not speak.
She thought she heard people laughing in the background. Then the question came again.
“Did I scare you, Angela?” This time, the tone was deliberately threatening.
“Barry? Barry, is that you?” Angela tried to keep her voice calm. She could barely hold the receiver steady.
“Of course it’s me! Who the f*** else could do what I’ve just done? Now, do I have to ask you the question a third—”
“No, no!” Something told her that she must humor him, play his game. She had the unreasonable fear that the consequences of antagonizing him might be terrible. “Yes…yes, Barry, you did scare me. I—I can’t describe it.”
“Leave the descriptions to me,” he said brusquely. “Your house is a semidetached bungalow,” he continued, in a smooth, matter-of-fact voice, as though reading from notes. “There’s a dining room with open-plan kitchen on the right and a living room on the left. You have a dado rail with blue flowery wallpaper and a suite of furniture to match. There are two standing lamps, one next to the TV, the other next to the two-seater.”
Angela, standing in her hallway, clutching the phone, was looking through the doorway into the living room. The back of her head tingled as Barry proceeded to describe what she was seeing, as though he were standing right beside her.
“There’s a coffee table with two magazines,” he went on. “The RTÉ Guide and Marie Claire. The carpet is dark gray with a light blue design running through it. On the mantelpiece there are six or seven photographs. One of them is of you with an older woman in front of Tower Bridge.”
“Stop!” she cried. “I believe you, Barry. Jesus, it’s too weird for words.”
Again she heard laughter in the background.
“I’d call that a very successful experiment, wouldn’t you? Tomorrow night it’s your turn. I’ll be expecting you around ten.”
“Barry, I—”
“Angela, you’d better stick to the plan,” he said abruptly, “or you’ll regret it!”
The line went dead, leaving her perplexed and not a little afraid. She wondered what it was she had gotten herself into.
The next day, she tried to reach Barry McNulty but without success. His phone was off the hook.
“I was so shocked by his manner,” Angela says. “I think that shocked me more than the weird presence in my living room. I was in turmoil for the entire day, and the awful thing was, I couldn’t tell anyone about it. They’d have had me certified. At the same time I tried to rationalize his odd behavior. If he was a drug user, and there was every indication that he was, then he probably wasn’t even aware of having been so rude to me. In the end, I decided it was safer to go along with what we’d planned. I’d try to visit him clairvoyantly at the appointed time, then have nothing more to do with him.”