THE SOUL FIXER (A psychological thriller)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘I don’t wish to talk about it.’

  ‘She had a favourite bean-bag teddy called Jasper,’ he said.

  Words were sponged from her mouth. ‘How can you know that? Only Paul and I know that. Have you been talking to Paul, is that it? Is this some kind of plan you’ve cooked up between you? What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ve never met your husband, Mrs Carmichael. Those teacakes look very tasty. It’s been so long since I last tried one, but I can almost taste them in my mouth.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject. How do you know about Becky’s favourite toy?’

  ‘Because someone told me that is what she said. Apparently it was a question you’ve asked of a number of so-called psychics.’

  She stood up. ‘That’s it, I’m leaving.’ She noticed how the woman behind the counter glanced at her.

  ‘Please, hear me out, Mrs Carmichael. I didn’t come here to harm you. I’m here to help. Really, do I look like a man off his head?’

  ‘Looks can be deceptive,’ she returned. Something in his face made her sit down again. Below the twinkle in his eye there lay a deep pool of sorrow.

  ‘She came to you in a dream. She was calling for your help. Is that not true?’

  Susan felt the emotion well up hot and sickly inside her. ‘No, it was my way of dealing with grief. I see that now.’ Then she thought about it. ‘You can’t know about my dreams! I never even told Paul about them! The only other person is my friend Rose. Has she been blabbing?’

  ‘I don’t know anyone called Rose. You have to believe me when I say that the information came from Becky.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘And yet here I am telling you about it, which makes it possible, does it not?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Oh yes, I know that,’ he said, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his eyes. ‘She’s dead but she cannot move on.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Pass over, you know, step into the light at the end of the tunnel, that kind of thing.’ It was said almost dismissively, a touch of humour in it that felt wrong.

  ‘Are you trying to be funny, because this is one sick joke, mister?’

  ‘What I’m trying to say is that her soul is trapped here.’

  ‘I’m supposed to believe that claptrap?’

  ‘You wanted to believe it six months ago. You wanted to believe your daughter was calling out to you in your dreams. Needed your help.’

  ‘Dreams are one thing, ghosts are another.’

  ‘I didn’t mention ghosts. I’m talking about your daughter’s soul. The two are quite different.’

  ‘And you would know, of course.’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, I do, as it happens.’ He pointed at the tiny, scraped-out foil sheets on her plate. ‘Is that real butter or margarine they gave you?’

  ‘Forget the butter!’ she said. ‘I can’t listen to this…’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’ he said.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘She still needs your help, Mrs Carmichael. And you need help also. It has been difficult for you, I understand that.’

  ‘Really? Do you know what it’s like to have your child murdered? I don’t think so!’ Her cheeks flushed and she felt tears begin to well up.

  ‘My son was murdered,’ he said.

  She blinked. A tear was dislodged and she quickly swept it away with a fingertip. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Blake… I didn’t…’

  ‘Many years ago now. He was a very young child at the time.’ His eyes played over some faraway scene. ‘So, yes, Mrs Carmichael, I do understand perfectly how this has affected you, which is why I wish to help you. And your daughter.’

  ‘Who told you about Becky, my dreams…?’

  ‘A woman. A special woman.’

  ‘Where can I find this special woman?’

  He smiled again. ‘I still detect a good deal of suspicion in your voice, Mrs Carmichael. That is understandable. But you have to trust me. I can help you both. And in return you will be helping me.’ He fiddled with the button on his tweed waistcoat. ‘Becky is cold and she is lonely and she doesn’t know that she is dead. She remains a frightened young woman and will remain so until such a time that her soul can be released.’

  ‘I never believed in the existence of the soul…’ she began.

  ‘I do not have the time to convince you one way or the other. I can only hope that what I’ve told you already will convince you that I am telling the truth. I can help you find your answers, Mrs Carmichael. With those answers will come peace, for everyone concerned.’

  ‘So where is this special woman?’

  ‘In a place called Connalough Point.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘And if I had not told you then you never would have heard of it. It is a small island, isolated, for people seeking refuge from the cruelties of the outside world, where people like you seek answers. Where you will be able to contact your daughter.’

  Susan Carmichael frowned deeply. ‘A hippy commune?’

  ‘No, not a commune. A meeting of minds, you might say.’

  ‘That’s all very cryptic, Mr Blake. Deliberately vague.’

  ‘Do you wish to help your daughter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then take that pen and paper you have and make a note of a telephone number I’m going to give you.’ She hesitated. ‘It cannot hurt, to take a number,’ he said.

  She listened and took note. ‘Who do I ask for?’

  ‘Helen Blake. My wife.’

  ‘So you run the place?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Well, it’s my wife that runs it really. I help out in my own small way. I’m more of a silent partner nowadays.’ His face fell serious. ‘But you must promise me one thing; you must not tell anyone about our meeting, about me coming to you like this. You must not talk about me, even to my wife when and if you should meet. I did not tell you about your daughter, about Connalough Point.’

  ‘So how do I explain where I got the number from?’

  ‘Tell her a man called Anthony Collier contacted you; he’d read about your daughter’s death and that he suggested Connalough Point. That will suffice. You see, attendance is only by the strictest invitation and personal recommendation, and no recommendation comes higher than from Anthony Collier.’

  ‘So who is this Anthony Collier?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that. It is only a means of getting you onto the island. There is one other thing you have to remember – when you are asked if Mr Collier told you something special, you reply Hood. Is that clear?’

  She smirked. ‘A password?’

  ‘If you like. More confirmation that you’ve spoken to Collier.’

  ‘Suppose I don’t want to go?’

  ‘That’s down to you, in the end; I cannot do more than I already have.’

  Susan looked at her scribbles on the pad. ‘And the special woman? Is that your wife?’

  He gave a light chuckle. ‘She is special, that is true, but it is not she. You will soon learn who that woman is, once you are there.’

  She put her pad and pen away. ‘That’s all very interesting, Mr Blake. I’ll consider it.’ She rose from the table.

  ‘You said it as if you were addressing Jehovah’s Witnesses at your front door. You do not take me seriously, I fear.’

  ‘You fear correct,’ she returned. ‘But I will think it over.’

  ‘You are afraid your husband will think you mad if you tell him.’

  ‘We’ve had a tough time, Mr Blake. I don’t want to upset things any more than they already are.’

  ‘Trust me; he will not refuse you if that is what you desire. It will be in his interests, too. He will know that.’

  ‘You don’t know him…’

  ‘I know him better than you think. Well, Mrs Carmichael,’ he said suddenly, taking out an old-fashioned gold pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket, flipping open its case and st
aring at it, ‘no doubt you have things to do. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.’

  She nodded. Went to the counter and paid for her teacake and pot of tea and left the café. Once outside in the cold light of day the absurdities of the conversation made her smile and she admonished herself for listening to what were obviously the ramblings of a dotty old man. What he said in there was mere coincidence, or casual stabs in the dark that hit home. Some people are cruel, she thought, getting heated. It bothered her for the remainder of the day.

  Becky came to her in a dream again that same night.

  She was crying, standing in a sea of blackness, her arms folded tight against her slender body. She appeared to be very frightened, shivering, a look of terror glazing her flitting eyes.

  ‘Becky!’ cried Susan. She wanted to go to her but she could not move.

  ‘Mother?’ said Becky. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘I’m here, darling!’ she said, squeezing out tears of happiness at seeing her daughter but feeling a rush of sadness at her plight.

  ‘Where are you?’ said Becky. ‘I can’t see you! I can’t see anything!’

  ‘I’m over here, darling! Over here!’

  But the image of her daughter faded, shrank back like mist till she disappeared altogether and all that remained was the terrifying black void.

  * * * *

  5

  Cloak-and-Dagger

  An internet search the next day didn’t throw up anything about any place called Connalough Point. There was nothing on Silas Blake or his wife either. These days it was hard to hide from the internet. Details of people leaked out in the most unlikely places. But Susan Carmichael drew a blank. There were hundreds of Anthony Colliers on there and no way she could determine which belonged to her.

  The feelings the dream had induced in her remained. She tried to rationalise it. The meeting with Blake had brought on the dream. Her subconscious had been triggered by his words, his ludicrous suggestions. But her counter-arguments failed to work. She was overwhelmed by the simple parental instinct to protect a child.

  Even though that child is dead?

  She got angry with herself for allowing the old man inside the fragile armour she’d built up around her.

  Her husband was in the garden. She saw him through the window. He looked lost, desperately unhappy, wandering amongst the shrubs and flower beds. He’d been in the garage, sorting through stuff he was going to cart to the next conference on his thin calendar of conferences. Their worlds existed in the same silent orbit but never came together. He never spoke about his feelings, she never spoke about hers. That way their shattered and crudely repaired universe might stay intact.

  She brought him out a gin and tonic and called him over to sit at the garden table on the lawn.

  ‘A bit early for this, isn’t it?’ he said, sitting down and picking up the glass.

  ‘Be a devil,’ she said.

  They sat in silence, sipping their drinks. ‘What is it?’ he asked, but he didn’t look at her. His eyes were searching a thick expanse of laurel. ‘You’ve got something on your mind.’

  ‘Are you planning on attending any conferences soon?’

  He nodded, put the drink down. ‘That old chestnut, eh? I’m not going to give them up.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to. Though I can’t understand why you have to go through with them. We have enough money in the bank now for you to be able to consider other options.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to consider other options,’ he said stiffly. ‘And it’s your money, not mine.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘It belongs to both of us.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s easy to say. Maybe I don’t need charity.’

  ‘I’m your wife, Paul. That’s not charity!’

  He stood up. ‘I’m not starting with this again.’

  ‘Please, sit down, Paul. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get into that. It’s about Becky…’

  She saw how his face twisted in agony at the mention of her name. ‘What about her?’

  ‘Sit down,’ she said softly.

  Reluctantly he did as he was asked. ‘I don’t want to discuss it. It’s too painful.’

  ‘I know. I share that pain, Paul.’ She hesitated before going on. ‘I’ve been having dreams.’

  ‘What kind of dreams?’

  ‘About Becky.’

  ‘So have I. It’s natural. I had one the other week. She was a kid again…’ He bent his head.

  ‘She came to me, Paul.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She’s afraid and lost and lonely…’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s your own feelings that are coming out in your dreams. Dreams aren’t real, Susan. They’re a product of your subconscious.’ He grabbed his glass, took a large swig of the gin and tonic. ‘Maybe you ought to go back to seeing a counsellor.’

  ‘I don’t need to see a counsellor, Paul. I met a man yesterday…’

  He looked at her, his eyes wide with concern. ‘You met a man?’

  She smiled. ‘No, not that kind of man!’ she said. ‘He was an old man called Silas Blake. You didn’t think I’d be on the lookout for someone else, did you?’

  He hung his head again. ‘I wouldn’t blame you. I’ve not been good company lately.’

  ‘He said he wanted to help us. He wanted to help Becky.’

  His eyes steeled. ‘Becky’s dead, Susan. No one can help her now. What is he, some kind of spiritualist crank? This place attracts them along with its fair share of crystal-worshippers, yogurt-weavers and tree-huggers.’

  ‘He wasn’t your typical hippy, Paul. He told me about Becky coming to me in my dreams. I’ve not told anyone about my dreams before.’

  ‘He had a lucky guess. Look, don’t take this to heart, but are you feeling OK? I mean, is your medication working?’

  ‘He told me about this place called Connalough Point, a small, isolated island where they can help us.’

  ‘Help us do what, exactly?’

  ‘Find answers. Find peace.’

  ‘They’re cranks, Susan. Don’t fall for this. Get it out of your head. Let her go, Susan. Let our daughter go.’

  ‘She needs my help, Paul. I know she does.’

  ‘You are the one who needs help, Susan.’

  ‘OK, so maybe I do. Maybe I can find it on Connalough Point.’ She sighed. ‘It’s far away from here, far away from what’s happened, with people who have been through similar things to us. That can only be good, can’t it? It wouldn’t be for long, a month perhaps. What harm can it do?’

  ‘When you start talking about our dead daughter like she’s alive, that she’s coming to you in your dreams, then I can think of plenty of harm that can be done.’

  ‘I know she’s dead, Paul.’ She put a hand to her chest. ‘I feel it here every second of every day. But I want peace, Paul. OK, so I’ll never be able to bring her back, but if I can find something to help cope with it, that can only be a positive thing, for you, for me, for us.’

  He thought about it long and hard. ‘An island, you say? Where is this island?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know.’

  ‘And you say it’s isolated?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good thing? To be so cut off?’

  ‘I think we need it. To get our heads straight, to get our lives back on track.’

  ‘I dunno, Susan. It’s a little weird, all this. Tell you what, I have a conference in the next couple of weeks. Let me get that over and done with, then I’ll think this thing over and I’ll let you know, eh?’

  ‘You’re just trying to fob me off. You don’t mean it.’

  He gave a heavy sigh, massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘You want the truth? It’s a crazy idea. You’re clutching at straws. This guy you met, he’s just touting for business, that’s all. It’s probably some kind of scam, preying on the weak and vulnerable. Let it rest, huh?’

  ‘I’m not weak,’ she snapped. �
��I’m hurting, and I think our daughter is, too.’

  ‘There you go again!’

  ‘Then I’ll go on my own if I have to.’

  ‘Fine, you go and join your group of hippies, if it makes you feel better.’

  He didn’t say anything more. He got up from the table and went over to the garage, going inside and closing the door behind him.

  She had the piece of paper with the telephone number on it laid out before on the table. The phone in her hand. She stared at it for a good five minutes before dialling.

  A woman answered. It was a calm, pleasant voice, belonged to a woman of a certain age.

  ‘My name is Susan Carmichael,’ she explained.

  ‘Good afternoon, Susan Carmichael,’ she replied. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I was given your contact details by a Mr Anthony Collier.’

  There was a brief silence at the other end of the phone, a silence filled by the faint crackles and splutters of a distant connection. ‘And?’

  ‘I have lost a daughter, Mrs Blake,’ she said. She sucked in a breath, because it always cut her up to say the next thing. ‘She was murdered…’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Mr Collier said you might be able to help me. The place you have on Connalough Point – it’s where you can help people like me and my husband isn’t it?’

  ‘What help do you seek?’

  ‘My daughter – I’m afraid she cannot move on…’ She expected some kind of stifled laugh, or a curt reaction that told her what she was saying was nonsense.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She comes to me, in my dreams.’

  ‘They may simply be dreams.’

  ‘They might not.’

  ‘Describe what she says, where she is.’ She listened whilst Susan told her everything she could. ‘We may be able to help. We may not. Connalough Point is somewhat exclusive and we aim to keep it that way. We are very particular about who we allow onto the island. You would have to agree to a face-to-face meeting before a final decision is made. Before we agree to such a meeting, I need to find out a few personal details.’

  The woman went on to ask about Susan’s marriage, her family life, relatives, a host of tiny, everyday details, and Susan gave as much information as she could. Not once did she feel threatened by dropping her guard or releasing the information. The woman had the same curious effect on her that her husband Silas had. When the questioning was over with there was silence again. ‘Can you help me, Mrs Blake?’ she pushed tentatively.