The Sister(166)

‘Sister,’ Miller said, ‘The killer priest, Father O' Donohue. I get the feeling you want to see him brought to justice?’

‘I did not tell you about him. Do what you will, I cannot help you.’

A garish looking neon cross over a modern church. He’ll find you. Miller frowned as the last vestiges of swirling thought drained from his mind.

‘I saw something that didn’t make sense to me just now. It tells me you’re in danger. Is there something I can do to help you, Sister?’

She shook her head. ‘Not now, but when the time comes, Miller, you will know.’

Miller tried to force himself to see more. He succeeded only in wearing himself out.





Rosetta drove him back to the hotel. Drained, he dozed for the whole journey. Sister has an external power source I don’t have. He’d recharge his batteries overnight, and leave for home in the morning.

As he drifted into sleep, he thought about Carla. You should call her, Miller. In his head, another voice argued. What would be the point in this somnambulant state?

He sank into oblivion.





The Sister was in his head, in his dreams. She taught him something he’d never have thought possible. When he returned home, he found he’d developed a psychometric ability with photographs, and if he held one, echoes of the sounds captured at the moment the picture was taken, were replayed. A snapshot was exactly that, a snap of sound that lasted a split second. He found it too fantastic to believe until he discovered he could also see beyond the periphery of the photographs.

It took a while for him to realise he was tuning in to the mind of whoever had taken the photograph, but who would believe him? It was another thing to keep quiet about. Who could you tell that to without them thinking you’re a crank?

Strangely enough, three names cropped up, and they were all women.





Chapter 135



Stella found him the next morning, in bed where she’d left him.

He lay motionless, illuminated under the saintly halo of light the bedside lampshade deflected around his head and shoulders, a beatific smile frozen on his lips. Ryan looked as if he’d been happy in his last moments.

She felt for a pulse, but already knew this time he was gone for sure.

After Miller had left, he’d told her how happy he felt that his long days had finally drawn to a close. He’d confided he was afraid of something she’d put to him several times, in past discussions. What if you are right, Stella? What if this life after death, this meeting your loved ones again – what if it’s all a big lie? She’d squeezed his hand. ‘You have to believe in it now, Doctor Ryan,’ she told him. ‘Or what hope is there for the rest of us?’

From the look on his face, he could have been winking at her; his good eye closed and that frozen smile... She guessed he’d found the truth.

‘I wish I could have had your faith,’ she whispered.

She mused about the rewards of unwavering belief. How good would that have been after living a life believing there'd be a call, a letter, or a knock at the front door one day. She imagined that beautiful moment, when uncertainty was swept away, her sister alive at the door. Her parents had given up and she had, too, save for a spark that wouldn’t die. In denial, she was alone, without faith, and it was killing her. She’d never confided in Ryan. Once he’d said something to her, following one of their philosophical discussions. Many people deny the existence of God all their lives, and then acknowledge his existence by praying to him in their last moments. It’s never too late. Remember the crucifixion scene? Where the thief tells Jesus he believes in him and Christ says, 'Today you shall be with me in Paradise.'

Despite what Ryan had said, he had wavered. Real inspiration was what she needed to restore her faith, not just a passage from the Bible. The worm of denial was dug deep in her. Eating away bit by bit, it was destroying her chances of happiness.

She collected herself and reaching to turn the light out, saw a crumpled old envelope sticking out from under the lamp’s base. It was addressed to her. She opened it. Inside she found his precious pencil and a note. With shaking hands, she took the note out and read it.

The realisation that even as he’d faced his last moments, he’d still taken the time to think about her and Miller, made her cry. The writing, spidery and child-like, was still recognisably his.

'My Dear Stella,

Something for you, in recognition of your loyal service and in lieu of notice! Please ensure Miller gets to have my pencil.

I’ll see you again one day :-)

B Ryan’

Also in the envelope was a cheque made out to her for ten thousand pounds. She called Miller.





The whole day rolled by as if she were an onlooker until suddenly, without remembering the journey; she found herself back home. Looking out of her window, reflecting on Ryan, she hoped he hadn’t died during the night, but rather in the morning. Good Friday morning.

Unsure what to do with herself, she removed the office keys from her key ring. She didn’t know what to do with them.

Everyone close to her had now died. Miller hadn’t answered her last call, and she was desperate to speak to someone.





Vodka was a last resort. It was a place to go when the pain became too much. She lifted the scabbed edges of her old wounds, and then cauterised them with alcohol, before packing her new pain back down into them, sealing them off again.