The Sister(27)

The silver pencil that shone so brightly last week was resting on top of a pile of loose notes. He tried to get a closer look without being noticed.

‘Are you looking at my pencil?’ he asked him. ‘Would you like to have a closer look?’

Picking it up, he handed it to him. It was far heavier than Bruce expected. It appeared to be very old, the engravings on the barrel worn away to a shiny, polished surface where his fingers rubbed. He saw his face in miniature, as if he were looking into a fairground novelty mirror, all big nose, receding jaw and bulbous top of the head. Faintly amused, he moved it back and forth, and then clicked out the lead, two, three clicks. Ryan watched his patient warily, as if afraid he'd run off with it at any minute.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, returning it.

‘Yes, it was my grandfather’s. It’s been in the family for years, and it’s been with me almost since the beginning of my career. Made by Sampson Mordan...’

He snapped out of his memories quite suddenly, ‘Right, we digress.’ Clicking out the lead to the correct length, he tested it against his thumbnail. Perfect.

‘Last week, you were telling me about the feeling you had, just before your first friend fell into the water.’ He scrutinised him over the top of his half-moon glasses. One of his eyes appeared faded, and watery; the other strong and deep blue. He seemed able to see right into Bruce, who shifted uncomfortably.

‘Now I understand he was messing about when that happened, he stopped dead on top of an old shoe that caused him to lose his balance and fall.’

‘I don’t remember telling you that, but yes – it’s true.’ There was a note of concern in his voice. The psychiatrist continued, ignoring his comment. ‘Then one by one, the others launched themselves to the rescue, and they all perished...’ He allowed his words to trail.

He nodded without speaking, he appeared to be deep in contemplation, staring at the light and shadows the blinds made on the wall.

‘You were a non-swimmer and made no attempt to join them in the water.’

The whiff of sulphur, released in his memory, smelled real enough to make him shudder. He was unable to go back beyond that point. He simply had no conscious recollection of it.

Ryan pressed on to where the obstacle of guilt needed removing, or climbing over. ‘The difference between you and them, the reason you are alive and they are not, is not one of cowardice. Neither is it because you failed to prevent the accident from occurring. The explanation is simple; on the day that events conspired to claim your friends, you were lucky.’

He studied the carpet, losing himself in its swirling patterns. Ryan coughed once to clear his throat. ‘Bruce, look at me. You are not to blame.’

He glanced at Ryan. ‘I let them down, there’s no getting away from that. I had the ability to prevent what happened, and I did nothing about it. Instead of reaching in with a long branch, what did I do? I threw a f*ckin’ seashell to Brooks, because I thought it had magic powers,’ he said bitterly, staring at the carpet again. ‘Yeah, I know it wasn’t my fault, but that doesn’t make me feel better; I know I was lucky, and you know something? That just makes me feel worse...and I still can’t sleep with the shadows that bother me...’

‘What shadows?’

‘I can’t tell you, you'd think I was crazy.’

‘Bruce, if you don’t help me, I won’t be able to help you.’ He could tell he wouldn’t give it up easily. The boy had slipped into the same defiant mood he was in the week before. Putting a new lead into the pencil, he clicked it out, and then pushed it back in flush. Not satisfied, he clicked it twice more, until he’d got it just right. Then he turned it and a slanted beam of light appeared on his forehead; it caught Bruce’s eye.

‘Help me to help you. Tell me about the shadows that disturb you at night.’





Later that night, he dreamed he saw his grandfather again. His mind tricked him into believing he was still alive and trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t hold on to what he was saying, only the words Remember Bruce, before he was snatched off somewhere else without the chance to say goodbye. This disturbed him. And then he was with the boys again reliving the moments before the accident, watching it unwind, seeing it from another point of view. For a second, he had the notion he might have been the buzzard looking down, and then dismissed the thought. Buzzards don’t think, do they? Taken through time, he saw the killer’s face again, for by now he knows he was a killer, and the girl... It was the same girl, the one in the purple dress.

Frightened, he blanked them all from his mind, but she still whispers in the quiet moments and follows him, staying in the shadows.





He reviewed his notes on young Milowski. Making progress, but painfully slow.

Despite successfully regressing him to the incredibly early age of ten months, a fact he’d had to verify with Bruce’s mother, there were still several black holes he couldn’t penetrate, areas he could not get the boy back to. He decided to take him to see Vera Flynn; she’d help Ryan understand the inner workings of his mind. All he needed to do at the next session was to get Mrs Milowski’s agreement. Then he’d take him on a therapeutic day trip to the seaside. Vera wouldn’t object; she loved helping people.

Reception buzzed him. ‘There’s something wrong with a lady in the waiting room; I don’t know what to do.’