The Sister Read online

  As for the paedophile priest, she'd find a way to ensure he paid for his sins.

  Chapter 13

  New Year 1975

  Although it was just before sunrise, the streets of Brighton were already busy. Traders exchanged friendly banter as the day's business commenced. Roller shutters clattered as shop windows were exposed. Van doors opened and then boomed shut, twin amber flashes and beeping sounds signalled the setting of alarms.

  Nobody noticed the diminutive hooded figure in the grey satin cape as she hurried by, late for an appointment. Despite the loose fit of the clothing, the form was unmistakably female. The sharpness of the air caught her breath, turning it into misty trails of cloud that evaporated in her wake. She glanced up at a clock as she passed. It confirmed she was five minutes late.

  Vera disappeared into a labyrinth of alleyways, before finally locating the impatient looking Mrs Smith.

  "Sorry, I'm late," she said, struggling to catch her breath.

  The older woman forced a thin smile, and turned to unlock the door. She made no attempt at friendliness.

  Decorated Romany style, red with the fine detailing picked out in yellows and greens, the shop's double front showcased the cleverly staged scenery. Set well back from the windows, one side depicted daytime, with all its sunny greenery, painted full size on canvas backdrops. The other showed night, dimly lit by an array of tiny starlights set into the black ceiling. Here, men sat about a campfire, drinking, smoking, engaging with each other, their faces half-aglow against the firelight.

  Vera imagined for a moment that she saw it flicker into life. The focal point behind the shop front was a traditional bow top caravan, complete with steam bent, carved wooden profiles, lavishly decorated in shades of red, green and gold. It looked authentic, and for all the world as if the builders, unwilling to move it, had constructed the shop around it instead. She'd never seen anything quite like it before.

  Beyond the lobby, there were four steps going up from ground level into the vardo. A pair of heavy crimson velvet tasselled curtains hung either side of the narrow entranceway. A horseshoe, hung above the door, for luck.

  She followed as Mrs Smith entered.

  Once inside, she pulled her hood down, revealing long, fine, hair the colour of pale flame. Her complexion was creamy, and her green eyes striking; they conveyed wisdom beyond her years. "Why is it so gloomy in here?" she said.

  "There's not enough electricity to fire the bulbs up to their full extent," the older woman explained, "besides, it's advantageous if they can't see you properly."

  Surprised at the lush décor, the younger woman's eyes settled on a painting that dominated one wall. A beautiful and mysterious looking fortune-teller in traditional garb, had been captured by the artist in part profile, one eye narrowed, she peered into a crystal ball held aloft in her left hand. She realised with a smile that she'd positioned herself in the middle of the scene used as the backdrop for the portrait.

  Mrs Smith sat. Vera remained standing and looked at the cloth covering the table between them, the colour and texture of it reminded her of fine green grass.

  "C'mon Sister, take a pew," she pointed at the red velvet seat opposite.

  A sudden whiff of the past caught her off guard, and for the tiniest moment, she wondered if she knew about her past. She didn't; it was pure coincidence. A habit she had of calling fellow Irish women sister.

  Vera acknowledged with a smile. "I guess we're all Sisters here."

  "What did you say your name was, dear?"

  "I didn't. Call me Sister, that'll suit me fine," she said.

  "Have you done this kind of work before?"

  "No," she said, shaking her head.

  "Y'know, I used to call meself Petulengro in the early days, before I came here. I had to change it, seeing as that isn't me real name. What's yours?"

  "It's Vera."

  "Then it looks like you'll be having to change your name too!" The older woman laughed, "What will you call yourself?"

  "I thought we agreed that a minute ago, call me Sister," she smiled enigmatically.

  "Sister Petulengro… Now that does have a good ring about it." Mrs Smith's eyes shone as she continued. "It's not too hard; they do half the work for ya. Okay, so this is how it we'll do it. You'll watch me for a few days, and if you're smart, you'll be up and running in no time. Remember, tell 'em what they want to hear. It's what they pay you for."

  Vera nodded her head. She needed the money too much to spoil her chances of a job with an argument about morals and ethics.

  Chapter 14

  As word of the new 'teller spread, one after another they came, in through the shop and into the vardo. Her clients were almost exclusively women. Some girls came by just for fun, and she didn't object to engaging in what they wanted to hear. She saw no harm in holding their palms upwards in her gloved hands, and telling them . . . You'll meet the man of your dreams . . . They hailed from a variety of backgrounds, rich, poor, widowed, and divorced. It made no difference to her. All had one thing in common. They craved answers.

  The Sister needed no props, no crystal ball, no cards, no tea leaves or hot sands. She needed only impressions, nothing more than that.

  Not allowed to intervene directly, she could point the way. At times, she strayed a little off the path, away from the one recommended by Mrs Smith.

  She saw that there were times when the truth would be more beneficial, although not without pain. It wasn't long before she was giving them a choice. Do you want the truth? Before you give me your answer, search your heart. It may be that deep down you already know. The truth, when it comes from someone else, has the power to hurt as well as heal.

  In many cases, the answers were there, but unable to face them, they needed them spelling out. Others, just needed a clue. A few thought they might use the information to their advantage. One such woman had been carrying on an affair; her husband threatened to kill himself. She wanted to know if he'd really do it.

  Sister held her gaze. "You want the truth?"

  She nodded.

  "I see a lot of blood, and you can't honestly blame him, can you? You, sleeping with another man in his bed . . ."

  "Blood? Whose blood?"

  "Yours," Sister said.

  The woman's features stretched; her mouth gawped; her eyes widened as a mix of horror and disbelief took hold. She'd not told anyone of her situation . . . so, how could she know? Afraid to hear more, she grabbed her coat and left in a hurry.

  Sister's thoughts turned to the last time she'd connected through the medium of skin. The experience had been too intense, even painful for her. The stone insulated her from that direct contact, yet still achieved almost the same results. Perfectly round, and of a similar composition to Obsidian, from the instant she'd picked it up, it appeared to have a life of its own. Struck with an immediate discourse, a transfer of impressions, she'd wanted to absorb them, follow them all, just like a bloodhound trailing a scent. Her senses were overwhelmed to such a degree; she was afraid she might fall over. She would learn to ignore the distractions that it threw up at her.

  The night she'd found it; she put it in her pocket and then picked up other stones on her way home and held them for a moment. None of them behaved like the black one. She grasped the mysterious stone ball again, expecting a further transfer. Nothing happened, not a thing. Whatever was in it before had now gone.

  When she arrived at her house, she let herself in and upstairs in her room, held it against the lamp. It was too dense to allow light to pass through.

  The following day, she recalled putting it down on the kitchen table in front of Mick McMurphy. Although perfectly spherical, it rolled loopily across the top, almost coming to a stop before wobbling and changing direction, lolloping around in a small circle, almost to a halt, rotating at right angles to its former position, and then as if driven by something inside, it did it all over again, a miniature perpetual motion machine.

  He picked it up and stroked an e
yebrow, somewhat mystified. "That's a meteorite thingy," he said holding it close to his eyeball, trying to fathom it. "It melted when it came in through the atmosphere and turned into thousands of tiny balls when they fell into the sea." He was deadly serious.

  "Aww, c'mon Mick, you can't really know that!" she scolded, and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  His face was a picture of amused indignation as he protested, "Yes I do, actually, or how else d'you think it turned into that shape!"

  She smiled at him. He's such a joker.

  He plopped it into her outstretched palm. The moment it touched, a fragment of Mick's life had flashed in her mind's eye. Afraid, she grabbed at his hand; the jolt from it almost felled her. The impressions rushing into her were the same as the stone but amplified by many, many times. She looked at her friend. Oh, please God it cannot be . . .

  Bemused by her expression, he said, "What?"

  Vera spoke very slowly, quietly. "I'm not sure … promise me, Mick, that you'll be careful . . ."

  She knew what she knew; something akin to a code of conduct meant she could do nothing about it. When he'd handled it, she drew off what the stone absorbed from him, and after that, it was clean again. She took from the stone, and it took from her. Her skin, already pale, became more sensitive still, so that even dull daylight could burn her.

  "She has no melanin in her at all." She recalled what Ryan had told her aunt, and it meant that she needed to cover herself from head to toe, whenever she ventured outdoors. And because of it, she preferred to spend her days inside, introspecting alone at the window, making sense of her precious black stone, watching other kids play, listening to the peals of their laughter. She put the memories of childhood behind her.

  Now, it was like that again. All day spent indoors, but at night, quiet and inconspicuous, she began pastoral work, visiting the homeless, the tramps and wino's who congregated in the quiet, dark alleyways away from the main roads leading from the seafront; outside the boarded up pubs and guesthouses. Her association with the stone charged her with an energy she hadn't possessed before she found it, and by now, she had an understanding of its powers.

  Without the sphere, she could already see what was to come. What it did, was allow her to reverse engineer from the future to the past, something akin to analysing the moves that resulted in checkmate once the chess was over. She'd seen the rope of life with its many fibres and strands, its loops and its coils, the coming together, and the pulling apart. She understood at last, exactly what fate held for her, just as she had the night she found it, when the stone had eclipsed the moon.

  She watched from the shadows as a group of rough sleepers gathered around a fire burning in a perforated oil drum. In hushed tones, one was talking; he had a blanket draped over his head and shoulders. The others, mostly, listened in awe.

  "Midnight it was, I couldn't sleep because I hadn't had a drop for hours. I was shivering, sick and cold to the bone; I wanted to die. Not knowing what else to do, I closed my eyes and prayed. When I opened them, she stood above me, in that cape o' hers, all alight as if she'd a fire burning behind her. She leaned over me, her hand out straight - like that - and I swear it glowed. I was scared; I never seen anything like it, and she was smiling, and I felt warm. The next thing I knew it was morning. I've not had a drop since."

  A murmur rose amidst the men. Some believed him. A few wanted to believe. The others were too far gone to care.

  "Well, how come you're still on the streets then?"

  "God did not build Rome in a day. All in good time, Czech, all in good time."

  Czech, a good man who'd lost his way. She smiled. They didn't need her tonight.

  It didn't take long for her to achieve a mythical status among the down-and-outs in Brighton. Some swore she could perform miracles, or they'd say she could be in two places at once. They christened her, 'Our Lady of Brighton.'

  When the church heard the rumours of a miracle Lady, they sent emissaries to investigate. She knew they were coming, and stayed away from the streets at night. It didn't occur to them to look for her in a fortuneteller's kiosk in the Lanes of Brighton during the day. The following Easter Sunday, she resumed her services. Through her, tramps, wino's and the lost, lonely and disconsolate, found a God they could believe in.

  The little bell above the door tinkled, taking her out of her reverie. She looked out from the darkness where she sat, not seeing who it was, but she knew.

  "I've been expecting you."

  Chapter 15

  Brighton June 1975

  Ryan was not looking for an affair that morning, as he strolled along the seafront past the pier. A few seagulls squabbled on the ground over scraps on the promenade, their loud cries attracting new screeching arrivals from the sky above into the fray. As the size of the group grew, he wondered absently, how many gulls it took to qualify as a flock.

  He turned away from the front and headed towards the heart of the town. A shepherd and his flock … a congregation of people. The definitions took on a religious connotation, and he found himself wondering what had happened to Vera Flynn . . .

  Inevitably, he arrived at the point in his recollections where she'd made the second of her predictions. The first was of course, uncanny, and left no doubt she was in possession of something extraordinary: the ability to foretell at least the near future. When she'd whispered the second prediction to him, it was far into an indeterminable future. The warmth of her breath was on his ear once more, and the tingle of pleasure her tongue had sent through him as she pushed it deep inside, sealing the memory there. As he thought through the coming about of, and later the consequence of her suggested future, he felt the stirring of an erection.

  Over the years, he still thought about her occasionally. How he would have loved the chance to study her.

  He reflected on the order of things, on the million and one thought processes discarded every hour of every day and deliberated on the sensory impressions filtered out as unimportant to survival. He also considered the unlikelihood of successfully predicting what would happen in the next minute. Oh, you might have a clue in the here and now as to which way events might turn, based on chance, probability and the ability to guess well, but to predict something an hour before, or the day before? The odds were beyond calculation. What mechanism could be involved in singling out from all other perceived information, a moment in time that did not yet exist? He sought answers from beyond the bounds of established convention, visiting mediums and their like.

  He'd yet to find a single one with any special ability, other than well polished-trickery.

  At first, he walked past the shop by a few paces. A distinct impression formed that he should go back. There's something different about this place . . . He stopped, retraced his footsteps, and then peering through the window; decided to go in. A tiny bell signalled his arrival.

  A soft female voice came from the gloomy interior. "I've been expecting you."

  What…? This was a new ploy. He squinted into the darkness.

  "Turn the sign around on the door, Dr Ryan, and lock it for me, will you?"

  He did as she asked without question; a sense of unreality pervaded as he turned the sign to Closed, and crouching, turned the key in the lock. He stood up and sensing someone right behind him, he spun around.

  She was there. He'd known it would be her. She lifted her face to him, her eyes a myriad of changing shades of green. He saw himself in miniature reflected in their opalescence . . .

  Her soft lips parted as they touched his; she orgasmed almost instantly, shuddering against him, electrifying him; he marvelled at the joys of her, knowing it had barely begun. What he'd known for a long time would happen was happening. The second prediction was coming true.

  It was an experience; he would later note, like being born again.

  She'd broken her vows of chastity. Abandoned by her powers, he again lost the chance to study her. Perhaps it was fated he shouldn't know more and once he'd served
his purpose, she never allowed him to sleep with her again.

  Chapter 16

  A few months passed and Vera closed the shop on medical advice. Ryan had invested in her practice, buying the unit to keep the pressure off her. A year later she was ready to open up again, he helped her with the cleaning and preparations. Despite her weakened state, she now considered it safe to handle the stone again. She took it from her pocket, removed one of her gloves, and making a fist around it, closed her eyes. A renewed vigour infused her, restoring her fully. He was incredulous as he watched the change.

  Later, he added to his notes. Vera seemed to relish losing her powers. I am sworn to secrecy over the reasons for it, but she seemed to know it served a greater purpose, and she enjoyed the freedom from responsibility more than anything, although the events of the past few months seem to have sapped her strength. I examined her in my capacity as a medical doctor, and as I signed the necessary paperwork, she decided to share something with me. He outlined what he'd witnessed, and concluded. She keeps a mysterious black sphere - she refers to it as 'The stone' - about her wherever she goes. It seems to invigorate her. I suspect it is the source of her power.

  She remained close to him, even working with him as he sought to make scientific sense of her. She wouldn't elaborate about the stone, other than to say it was her talisman. Without gloves, she wouldn't allow him to handle it, telling him he would taint it.

  "Taint it … with what?" he'd asked.

  Because she couldn't lie, she chose her words carefully. "Some things are beyond human comprehension."

  "I'd like to examine its composition further, I've never seen a material quite like it, it's almost obsidian, but how did it become so perfectly spherical?"

  She replied, truthfully, "I don't know."