First and Only

by Flannery, Peter

  ‘I’m not saying anything,’ replied Psimon. ‘But what if there really was someone in the world who could read people’s thoughts, see into the future, move things with their minds…’

  Steve looked down at Psimon. His bearing was suddenly more upright than it had been, his jaw set more determinedly. He seemed somehow more mature than Steve had first given him credit for.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Steve. ‘I guess I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘I have,’ said Psimon looking up at Steve. ‘I’ve thought about it a lot.’

  Despite his misgivings Steve had the growing feeling that he had misjudged this guy Psimon entirely. He had been trying to figure out the kid’s angle, to identify the catch that he would later come to regret. But he was finally becoming convinced that Psimon was on the level. That there was no hidden agenda…

  ‘Other than the fact that he thinks you’re going to kill him,’ Steve reminded himself.

  Steve suddenly found himself feeling sorry for Psimon. Not in a patronising way, more in the way he might have looked out for a rookie soldier in their first real firefight. With a sigh of resignation Steve sat down once more.

  Psimon glanced across at him. ‘Thank you, Mr Brennus,’ he said softly.

  ‘Steve… Call me Steve.’

  Psimon smiled shyly and gave him a small affirmative nod. The relief in his eyes was unmistakable.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ thought Steve. ‘I haven’t said yes yet!’

  Psimon’s smile broadened and his gaze drifted back out over the plain. There followed another, more companionable pause. Finally Psimon broke the silence. ‘How would you feel if there was someone who could read your mind?’ he asked.

  ‘Nervous,’ replied Steve with an appropriately nervous laugh.

  ‘And how would the Prime Minister feel?’ asked Psimon turning to look at Steve. ‘How would a president feel?’

  Steve’s eyes narrowed as he met Psimon’s intense gaze, the hairs on the back of his neck rising unpleasantly. He knew the havoc that a wayward email could cause a government let alone someone who could read their most damaging, their most sordid secrets.

  ‘And what if you had committed murder and you lived a hunted life of violence and deceit?’ asked Psimon. ‘How would you feel then?’

  ‘Terrified,’ said Steve in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

  The intensity slowly faded from Psimon’s eyes but he continued to hold Steve captivated. ‘So what do you say, Mr Brennus…’ he said at last. ‘Will you help me? Will you be my guardian angel for the next five days?’

  For the longest time Steve just looked at Psimon, trying to make sense of all the things they had been talking about. The fact was he did not believe in psychic phenomena. And that just left a frightened young man who, at worst, seemed to be suffering from some kind of delusion. Maybe he had convinced some paranoid and dangerous individual that he really could disclose their dirty little secrets. In which case his life could well be in danger. And if that were so then Steve could certainly help him. In the end he went with his gut instinct. The kid was frightened and needed help; the kind of help that Steve could provide. Besides, as Psimon himself had said… he could do with the money.

  ‘Yes,’ said Steve at last. ‘But no more of this ‘I’m going to kill you malarkey’… deal?’

  ‘Thank you Steve,’ said Psimon and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

  Steve looked away awkwardly and together they took in the twilight view from Stormy Point on Alderley Edge.

  ‘So what about you…’ asked Steve with a sideways glance at Psimon. ‘Do you think there’s a person out there with genuine psychic powers.’

  ‘Out there…’ said Psimon and his gaze swept across the Cheshire plain as if he were taking in the entire world.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not a single one!’

  Chapter 6

  Richard Chatham put down the old-fashioned handset and reset the newly installed monitoring equipment. He had been wryly amused when his mobile phone had turned up at his office earlier today. Phoning him on his own mobile phone had been a neat trick but now the mysterious phone-thief had called back and this time he had not been so clever… not by half.

  The phone he had used this time belonged to a woman. Admittedly it was a woman who had recently died but every new piece of information now added to the file that would, sooner or later, lead them to their man.

  ‘But what would they find,’ thought Chatham. He looked over the data that had been accumulated.

  Male… Caucasian… mid twenties… British native… South Manchester accent… moderate levels of stress… no indication of deception…

  Chatham had already gleaned much of this information himself but it was reassuring to have it confirmed by the voice analysis software. But now, in addition to the growing profile, they had a name…

  Psimon

  Having spoken to him a second time Chatham no longer felt the overwhelming sense of shock that had so unnerved him during their first call. In fact, despite some serious misgivings, he was convinced that ‘Psimon’ meant them no harm, them being MI5 and the British government in general. In fact, if the information that he had provided turned out to be reliable, he could just be the most valuable informant that Chatham had ever dealt with.

  Chatham had no idea how Psimon could know the things he did but however he managed it this guy was frighteningly accurate; a quality that the security services prized above all else. So at least some things were becoming clear…

  Psimon wanted to make a deal.

  He had something that was of considerable value to MI5 but he also wanted a couple of things in return. The first was certainly possible to arrange. Indeed Chatham already had the ‘guest list’ from their first phone conversation. A symposium at the Dstl, the Defence Science and Technology Laboratory at Porton Down in Wiltshire, the UK government’s most secure research facility. The second request was for something that Chatham was not at all sure he could provide… legal immunity for a Mr Steven Brennus, and not just standard immunity…

  Class A Transactional Immunity... the highest level of immunity that it was possible to award.

  This would effectively place the recipient outside, or rather beyond the law, granting them immunity not only from any form of prosecution but also from any form of detention by law enforcement agencies. Such a status could only conceivably be granted to someone who possessed information of imminent and critical importance to national security. Someone who knew the location and deactivation sequence of a nuclear bomb in the heart of London… that kind of thing.

  ‘Check it with the Chancellor,’ Psimon had said. ‘He can get authorisation from the Prime Minister.’

  ‘I’m not about to phone the Chancellor of the Exchequer,’ Chatham had said.

  ‘You won’t need to,’ said Psimon with annoying confidence. ‘He’ll call you.’

  Chatham had laughed at his mystery caller’s certainty but something told him that his laughter would soon ring hollow. Now, as he sat there pondering their second conversation Chatham wondered just what could be so important that it might require legal immunity, so compelling that Psimon expected some of the most eminent minds in the world to attend a symposium at his bidding. He looked down at the title that Psimon had given him for the week-long seminar…

  First and Only

  ‘First and only what?’ thought Chatham, sitting back in his chair with a sigh of frustration. And yet, in spite of the fact that this ‘case’ was playing havoc with his personal life, he was already looking forward to the next call from Mr First and Only. He smiled and opened his laptop to update his ongoing report.

  For the first time in seven years Richard Chatham was enjoying his job.

  Chapter 7

  For as long as he could remember Psimon had been afraid. But now, as he followed Steve Brennus down the forest track, he felt… not safe exactly but protected; protected from the violence, the madness, the unr
elenting hatred of the man that haunted his dreams and stalked his every waking thought.

  ‘Was it enough?’ thought Psimon. ‘Would it be enough?’

  The truth was he did not know. He had never been able to face ‘the fear’; never been able to see beyond it. It lay like a poisoned knot in his mind, confounding any attempt to penetrate it. But now at least he had done what he could. He had walked the enchanted paths of Alderley Edge and come away with a knight of his own.

  He was content.

  He watched the way Steve walked over the slippery uneven ground, never losing his footing, moving with the economy of motion that came from years of physical training. Beneath his bulky, waxed-cotton jacket and brown denim jeans lay a lean and muscular physique. Despite the flecks of grey hair that peppered Steve’s temples one might have taken him for an athlete or a boxer but not necessarily for the soldier that he was. The soldier that he once had been.

  Steve Brennus, ex-para, ex-SAS… now failed entrepreneur and ex-happily married family man.

  His face was all hard lines and rugged edges and might have been considered ugly but for the warmth of his brown eyes. Steve had the kind of face that could stop a fight before it began but it was also a face that fell easily into a smile, an honest smile that softened his harsh features and put people at their ease. Psimon liked his face and found himself looking at it whenever Steve glanced back to make sure he was okay.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ asked Steve as he became aware of Psimon’s scrutiny.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Psimon feeling caught out.

  ‘You’re not gay are you?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Why, would that be a problem?’

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ said Steve. ‘Just seemed like you were checking me out.’

  ‘Appraising, maybe,’ suggested Psimon.

  ‘Huh,’ said Steve. He stopped on the path and turned to face Psimon. ‘And how do I measure up?’ he asked.

  Psimon looked him up and down.

  ‘Well, you’re smaller than I expected,’ he said, the corners of his mouth twitching.

  ‘Cheeky bastard,’ said Steve turning away and heading back down the path but Psimon had seen the beginnings of a smile on his face.

  The ground levelled out as they neared the road and Psimon could see a dark BMW parked up in a lay-by where the path emerged from the woods. Steve reached into his pocket and a moment later the BMW gave a little beep-beep, its indicators flashing in recognition as Steve pressed the button on his key.

  ‘Nice car,’ said Psimon.

  ‘Not for long.’

  Psimon grimaced apologetically and made no further comment. Then at Steve’s invitation he opened the door and settled into the passenger seat pushing his bag down between his feet.

  Steve took off his jacket and threw it onto the back seat before getting in beside him.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘First things first…’

  Psimon took a deep breath and readied himself.

  ‘Who am I protecting you from?’

  Psimon had been expecting the question but it still felt strange now that it came to it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, cringing slightly at the vagueness of his answer.

  ‘What do you mean you don’t know?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Well I’ve never actually met him,’ admitted Psimon. ‘I don’t know who he is.’

  Steve looked across at him. ‘So somebody’s threatened you from a distance,’ he said. ‘Letters, phone calls…’

  ‘No,’ said Psimon. ‘We’ve never actually spoken, not really.’

  ‘But you have had some contact,’ pressed Steve. ‘Some reason to think he might want to hurt you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Psimon in a voice of dark intensity.

  ‘Right,’ said Steve with obvious relief. ‘So when did you last have contact?’

  ‘Fourteen years ago,’ said Psimon.

  Steve shifted round in his seat to look directly at Psimon.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘You want me to protect you from a guy you’ve never ‘actually met’, never ‘actually’ spoken to; a guy you’ve not had any kind of contact with for fourteen years!’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no contact exactly,’ said Psimon enigmatically, his eyes flashing up to meet Steve’s exasperated gaze.

  ‘Okay,’ said Steve making an effort to remain patient. ‘Why don’t you start from the beginning.’

  Psimon looked down at his hands. He said nothing for a while, then…

  ‘I was eight years old,’ he began. ‘I’d gone to church to talk to our parish priest. He was a friend of mine,’ he added as if this was important.

  Steve said nothing, only settled back in his seat to listen.

  ‘Father Kavanagh was taking confessions when a man came into the church.’

  Any impatience drained away from Steve. He could see that this was not easy for Psimon.

  ‘The man went into the confessional and started abusing Father Kavanagh.’

  ‘Physically abusing him?’

  ‘No,’ said Psimon. ‘Just talking through the screen, saying things… horrible things.’

  Steve waited for him to go on.

  ‘Father Kavanagh wasn’t well,’ resumed Psimon. ‘His heart was weak. The man’s abuse was too much for him. He collapsed… I went to help him.’

  ‘Did the guy hurt you?’ asked Steve when Psimon didn’t continue.

  ‘No,’ said Psimon. ‘I told him to stop it… to leave Father Kavanagh alone. But he didn’t. When he heard me there he went wild, threatened to kill me. He tried to get at me but I held the door shut, I kept him out.’ This last was said with tight-jawed conviction and Steve could see this memory was still alive and vivid in Psimon’s mind. Something Steve could relate to. He too was plagued by images that lost none of their intensity with the passing of time.

  ‘So why did he want to hurt you?’ asked Steve.

  ‘It was what I heard,’ said Psimon. ‘It was what he told the priest.’

  ‘You heard his confession?’

  ‘He wasn’t there to confess,’ scoffed Psimon. ‘He was there to gloat and to drag Father Kavanagh into the filth of his crime.’

  ‘And you heard this?’ asked Steve. ‘You heard him boasting about his crimes.’

  At last this was starting to make some kind of sense.

  ‘Yes,’ said Psimon. ‘I heard him.’

  ‘And what makes you think he’s after you now, after all this time?’ asked Steve. ‘Has he been released from prison? Does he know who you are?’

  ‘No,’ said Psimon. ‘He was never caught.’

  ‘Then what makes you think you’re in danger?’

  To Steve’s mind they were coming back to Psimon’s paranoid, unreasonable fear.

  ‘I can feel him getting closer,’ said Psimon staring fixedly at his wringing hands. ‘I can feel the lines of our lives converging. At some point in the next five days our paths will cross again. Only this time I won’t be able to keep him out.’

  Steve leaned back in his chair. This was all getting a bit too Mystic Meg for his liking.

  ‘So what you’re telling me is that you want me to protect you from a man that you feel is going to hurt you?’

  ‘Going to kill me,’ corrected Psimon.

  ‘But you have no proof,’ said Steve. ‘No death threats, no crazed stalker at the bottom of your garden.’

  ‘Depends what you mean by proof,’ said Psimon.

  ‘We’re back to this psychic thing, aren’t we?’ said Steve with renewed frustration. He was not about to take serious money off someone just to protect them from an imaginary bogey man that had frightened them as a child.

  ‘Yes, I suppose we are,’ said Psimon with a note of disappointment.

  ‘And I’ve already told you, I don’t believe in psychics.’

  Psimon’s hands ceased their nervous agitation. He closed his eyes and let out a long slow breath. And there it was again, that sense of him being mor
e mature, more knowing than his years might suggest.

  ‘If I can convince you…’ said Psimon without looking at Steve, ‘that I know things I couldn’t possibly know. Will you take me at my word and honour the contract that we agreed on the Edge.’

  Steve was right on the verge of saying no and letting Psimon out of the car. And yet despite himself he was curious, almost amused to see what Psimon might say. He and the lads had once visited a palm reader in Kabul; a spindly old man who told Steve he had the spirit of a tree and would sire five children.

  ‘Load of old bollocks!’ he had thought then and he thought about the same right now. But still he wondered what Psimon might have to say… He was Virgo maybe, or that he suffered from self-doubts and should pursue his dreams, that his love life would soon improve and did he know anyone by the name of Anthony or Andrew or Andrea...

  ‘What the hell,’ he said finally. ‘I’ve nothing to lose.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Psimon. Then he hesitated looking sideways at Steve. ‘But please, don’t be frightened… don’t be angry…’

  Steve’s eyes narrowed at the genuine note of concern in Psimon’s voice.

  Psimon did not close his eyes. He did not go into a trance. He did not look at Steve’s palm or take out a pack of tarot cards. He simply looked Steve straight in the eye and said…

  ‘You wouldn’t have hesitated if you’d known they had RPGs.’

  ‘What did you say?’ said Steve, his spine turning suddenly to ice.

  ‘You wouldn’t have hesitated if you’d known they had rocket propelled grenades,’ said Psimon. ‘You gave yourself a count of ten just to compose yourself, to steel your nerves. You would not have hesitated a heartbeat if you’d known they had RPGs.’

  Steve’s heart was suddenly hammering in his chest. He was no longer in the driving seat of his comfortable BMW; he was back in the searing heat of the Iraqi desert, his bloody back pressed against the rough blocks of the shattered house and his C8 carbine assault rifle held diagonally across his body. Bullets slammed into the wall behind him chiselling chunks of concrete from the edge of the doorway and filling the air with clouds of gritty dust that stung his eyes and crunched unpleasantly between his clenched teeth.