The Sister (8 page)

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it's been too long since my last confession, and since then you have had me indulge in vile practices with you, Father, and it has to stop!"

The priest was calm. "You want to turn your back on all the special privileges your position brings . . .? You no longer want to be in the choir?"

The boy blurted out, "I'll not be doing those things anymore; it's against God and nature…!"

The priest hissed through the grille,
"It stops, when
I
say it stops!"

"No, Father, it ends now, or I go to the police!"

"Then go to the police! Do you think they'll take the word of an illegitimate orphan, against the word of a priest?"

He could have only been thirteen, his voice newly broken. Unsure, he rose suddenly and dismissed himself.

Father O'Donohue swept out of the confessional behind him.

The boy didn't make it out of the churchyard.

Strong as she was, she came close to breaking point. After six years of service, she decided it was time for her to leave and she left without permission to do so, returning to her home one last time, to retrieve the stone from its hiding place.

When they'd originally come for her years before, she'd dropped it into the water butt outside the front door of her house. She took it from its slimy drawstring purse, held it and closed her eyes. It was the first time she'd touched it since her friend, Mick, had been run over attempting to negotiate his way over a railway crossing whilst drunk. When that had happened, she'd wanted to throw it away. Now that she knew she possessed the ability to interpret what the polished black sphere merely amplified, it would become a supplementary tool, and as part of her calling and destiny, it was far too important to discard.

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 eyebrow, 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.