… she’d possessed something
miraculous,
and now she was deprived of its
use…
Nik Morton
Whitley Bay, winter - Wikipedia commons
No longer would she
know his nearness, feel his tender mind, experience his gentle banter, and
share the magic. What they had dreaded most had finally happened: he was dead
and she a 28-year-old spinster.
Dabbing her eyes, she
turned away and stumbled towards the creaking churchyard gate.
Alone. So terribly
alone. Not like normal people. This was different, more profound: her very soul
had been deprived. There was no-one else. She was a freak, a sport, like him,
like her father. 'Alone' is such a telling word.
Fumbling at the lych
gate, she was startled by a man's voice.
'Please accept my
commiserations, Miss Driscoll.'
Charis had to look up
at him, a good six inches taller than her, with a rather weather-beaten
complexion. Wisps of sandy hair blew about his eyes, crinkled-up because of the
wind. His wide mouth opened in a sympathetic wan smile, teeth the white of a
non-smoker. Stubbornly, he restricted the flapping of his raincoat about his
knees with one hand while the other clamped doggedly onto his brown trilby. 'My
name's Paul Napier,' he said.
Tying a black scarf
beneath her chin, she replied, 'Are you one of Lach - one of father's
associates, Mr Napier?' Her brow creased, though not with curiosity: the
headaches were back, with renewed force. Her father's only legacy.
'Oh, no, Miss Driscoll!'
He laughed nervously. 'I'm from The Courier.'
Furious that her
moments of mourning were not private, her pallor abruptly changed to crimson.
'You've filled your obituary columns, Mr Napier!'
He stepped back,
stung. 'It was my editor's idea!' he called to her. But she only half-heard,
swerving away from him into the deserted street.
***
Since she had been old enough to speak, he had insisted she called him
Lachlan. He often admonished her when she thought of him as Daddy. Yet they
shared so much more than daughter and father; there was no incest between them,
though many, if they knew, would regard this deep relationship as incestuous,
mentally if not physically.
When she first
realized he could walk in her mind, she backed off, terrified. Yet, once he had
invited her to explore his mind with her own, she was not slow to accept the
genetic gift. Within a short time they had prepared codes of conduct: in
effect, each would knock and await an invitation. Of course, the exquisite
temptation was always there, particularly strong at times of high emotion.
Fortuitously, their talent was accompanied by an unusually strong will. So, as
she passed puberty and had a few brief sexual encounters, Lachlan never pried.
And she reciprocated, respecting her parents' privacy. Over the ensuing years,
try as they would, neither could look into anyone else's mind; the knowledge
was quite daunting but they gradually resigned themselves to being the only
possessors of the talent. But now even that had altered irrevocably.
She had been by
herself for five days; the funeral was merely the culmination, the final
image-set to haunt her. And she would hold those images for all time: his
corpse, embalmed and serene, but now only a husk, without feeling, without love
pulsing through, without life. Why do people revere the husk so much. Is it
merely a graven image of a loved one? She mourned the loss of his mind, not his
body. After all these days, as if finally sank in that he wouldn't be coming
home from his Seaside Show, beaming at the audience's adulation, she felt at
her lowest ebb and found, strangely, there were no more tears left to shed.
The telephone
shrilled.
For a second her heart
stopped, as she thought absurdly that it was all a mistake and Lachlan was
ringing to tell her so. He had merely performed the greatest prestidigitation
ever, escaping from the Spirit World, a feat that even the great Houdini could
not achieve... Chiding herself, she lifted the receiver.
Before she could crash
the phone down, the reporter said in a breathless rush, 'I'd like to apologize
for this morning, Miss Driscoll. My editor shouldn't have asked me to interview
you at such an unhappy time. I felt a terrible heel after you left...'
'Thank you for
ringing, Mr Napier,' she replied calmly. He seemed so anxious to make amends,
to be friendly, and she could do with some companionship, even desultory - no,
she was being unkind. But no-one could take away her feeling of abandonment, of
isolation. No-one. 'And thank you for the thought. I do understand. I shouldn't
have snapped. You have a job to do...'
'Will you let me atone
for it by asking you out for lunch?' Perhaps he detected her hesitation, for he
added hastily, 'Nothing too grand - if it's not too sudden and you haven't
already eaten, and - but perhaps you'd rather be left alone?'
Utterance of that word
decided her. She said, 'How about the Sea View on the front?'
'Y-yes...' He sounded
nonplussed, the initiative snatched from him.
'In thirty minutes. I
don't live far - oh, but you'll know that, won't you, Mr Napier?'
'Er, yes. Fine, I'll
see you then - and I promise not to ply you with too many questions.'
''Bye for now, Mr
Napier.' Replacing the phone, she wondered why she had arranged to meet this
man, a reporter of all people.
Then the idea struck
her. He could help her locate any of Lachlan's relations: a kind of gene-trace.
Newspapermen had access to places and documents she and Lachlan hadn't, she
supposed. Their search had been compounded by the fact that he did not appear
on the Register of Adopted Children; in fact, the details of his adoption were
decidedly cloudy. If only he had been promiscuous! Then other progeny might
share the psychic gift. But he'd always been the devoted husband; even after
her mother died, he remained faithful to her memory. And yet he had known that
one day this terrible emptiness would engulf her mind. If she married it was
possible that her child would inherit the talent and be of one mind with her.
If... But her few boyfriends had always shied away when they perceived the
father-daughter bond - the sexual attachment was no match for something they
couldn't comprehend. She was no prude and enjoyed her infrequent affairs, but
her family's influence was too strong: she would not - could not - conceive
except when in love.
And such an intense feeling had eluded her.
She hadn’t met any man with whom she would want to create a new life within
her. Now, despite an all-pervading loneliness, she found herself stubbornly
clinging to these same principles. Perhaps Lachlan was to blame but she was
being selfish, she told herself. He’d suffered years of loneliness before she
was born. She tried to imagine how he must have felt, discovering the gift they
shared: for until that moment his talent had lain buried. There was a
difference, though: she’d possessed something miraculous, and now she was
deprived of its use; what he never experienced in those thirty years, he never
missed.
***
Charis spotted Paul Napier sitting at a corner-table; the others were
vacant: the tail-end of summer. On seeing her enter, he stood up.
Well-mannered, at least.
'Hello, Miss
Driscoll.'
His eyes were brown
all right, possessing a sad lack-lustre as he talked. He wasn't as
overpoweringly tall as she had first thought. She wondered if today's faux
pas attributed to his brown study.
Sherry half-filled his
glass. 'You haven't been waiting long, I hope?'
'No. You're dead on
time.' Freudian slip - ignored.
Outside, gulls reeled
and screeched above the deserted promenade. Dull grey clouds had risen and
darkened.
Having removed her
black Ottoman weave coat, Paul brought two Sherries over, which he managed to
spill in carrying.
'You seem nervous, Mr
Napier,' Charis said, warming her observation with a smile. 'Shouldn't it be me
who's on edge?'
'Possibly...'
Contemplatively, his finger caressed the lip of the glass and the smile
abandoned his face.
'Well, you are going
to ask me questions, aren't you?'
He nodded,
apologetically.
She leaned forward.
'Before you start, will you do me a favour, please?'
'Not to ask
questions?'
Charis released a
brief throaty laugh - the first since when? 'No, I'm not that ungracious, you
know, despite my outburst earlier. After I've told you all I know about Daddy,
will you investigate the circumstances surrounding his adoption?'
A flash of surprise in
his face revealed that her exposal of Lachlan's adoption was news to Paul
Napier. He considered his reply, alert eyes penetrating hers. 'When was he
born, Miss Driscoll?'
'1924.'
'Sixty-two. That's no
age to die... And he was adopted soon after his birth?'
'Yes, so he tells - so
he told me.'
He sighed, rested his
elbows on the small table-mat. 'It's a tall order, Miss Driscoll.' That wan
smile again. 'But yes I'll help.'
She sat back, relaxed
for the first time in a week; the dull pounding in her head receded - thank
God. 'We might as well stop all this formality. Paul - call me Charis, will
you?' He nodded, seemingly amused. 'What can I tell you about The Great Lachlan
that the Sunday supplements haven't already covered?'
Paul smiled thinly.
'I'll leave out the remarkable news about his being adopted, Charis. What about
the man behind the magician? Our town would like to know about him. We've few
enough celebrities to boast of, so naturally we're interested.'
As she talked about
her father she so wanted to reveal their well-kept secret. No, she was not keen
on meeting men in white coats carrying a straitjacket... The Great Lachlan
began to emerge as an honest cheerful family man involved in charity work and
sensational escapologist tricks. Charis had even appeared for a full season as
his ostrich-plumed assistant and learned many of his highly original tricks.
(Strange, she thought, how they never capitalized on their shared talent: he
never touched upon mind-reading in his act).
Paul touched her hand.
'You seemed distant just then. Do you want to go on?'
Eyes lowered, she
watched her fingers tremble on the table-top. 'Yes, it's past history now.
Lovely memories. Oddly, I feel detached from everything.' She raised her head,
looked about her, seeing only Lachlan. 'I don't think I can be hurt any deeper,
if that's what you mean.' Just a lingering horrible emptiness: are all lonely
people this desolate? And her eyes stung, tearless.
***
'Yes. No tourists!'
His laughter seemed forced, but well-intentioned.
Miserably she gazed
out across the curving mile-wide bay and the empty sea beyond. The stench of
wrack startled and pleased her, momentarily clearing the shadows from her mind.
'Gran used to talk of being brought down here, being rolled in seaweed to cure
her sleeping-sickness,' she mused, but he didn't hear. Damp leaves clustered
against the sea-wall, life-tokens discarded.
They began to walk
along the beach.
'I'm sorry it's bad
news, Charis,' he said, and stopped to pick up a smooth oval pebble.
She shrugged, casting
the thought of disappointment aside. 'Dad - Lachlan and I tried, too, to no
avail. I only thought you'd have more luck, with contacts and so on...'
Paul threw the stone
low and it bounced three times then plopped out of sight. 'The Great Lachlan
book's coming along, you know,' he said, attempting to change the mood of their
conversation. 'Thanks to you.'
Silence fell between
them, yet it differed from the previous times. It was almost companionable...
'What were you thinking then - skimming that stone?' If only she didn't need to
ask!
'A bit trite, I'm
afraid.' He lifted his shoulders. 'Oh, how little romance is left, I suppose...
Now, in your father's day...'
Sadness was still in
his gaze. She probed tentatively: nothing, a complete blank. Instead, she
guessed: 'You've lost your girlfriend?'
He nodded. 'Fiancée,
actually...'
All thought of her
father and the now-unused talent atrophying scurried away as she looked into
his eyes. No self-pity there, unlike herself. Resignation, perhaps, as if being
jilted had become too frequent an occurrence for him, the loser.
'The article went
well, didn't it?' she offered to lighten his burden.
'Yes.'
'There's always
another time, Paul, another girl...'
'So they say.'
She kicked sand, some
pebbles skittered. 'Other pebbles, Paul, to use a cliché again.'
'No.' He shook his head.
'It's no good saying that next time, next girl, would be different. I've said
it before, Charis. Too often.' A half-choked sigh. 'I get too wrapped up in my
writing, my research - the book on your father's a case in point...'
'There's plenty of
romance around, Paul. You've just got to look harder and not give in, ever.'
'How strange for you
to say that,' he murmured softly.
Charis froze, only a
moment. She, who had no-one, whose life revolved around a talent she could no
longer use and enjoy, who indulged in a selfish quest...
He added, 'I only wish
I could find some clues to his parentage, family. Doing my research, I often
picture him closeted with a large, happy family, by the hearth, watching his
father do party-tricks...'
'You're a hopeless
romantic.'
He smiled. 'Two of a
kind.'
Not quite, she
thought. I'm one of a kind... 'Paul, have you tried tracking down all possible
blood-relations?' She could not voice the hidden implication.
Paul stopped. Sand
scrunched. 'You never mentioned the possibility...'
'No,' she said, a
little peeved, 'but I have now.'
'That might put a
different slant on the investigation, Charis.' He seemed to hold himself back,
undecided. 'I can't say more right now.'
The walk across the
wet sand tended to take on a dreamlike quality: in their wake a trail of sodden
footprints quietly shrinking into themselves. Crossing onto dry sand he led her
up stone steps that were gritty underfoot.
***
'I'm sorry, Charis. I'd rather not have told you - but you insisted.'
She leaned against the
front door frame. 'Go on, Paul. Please.' Her voice was barely above a whisper.
'It's as if my idol
had toppled...'
'Please, Paul - I need
to know!' Hands reached up to her temple but couldn't assuage the insistent
ache, the pounding.
'Her name's Lena
Beaumont. She's fifty-two now, was his assistant before you were born.'
Charis listened to his
every word and memorized the woman's address. It was still a slender hope. 'I'm
going to see her.'
'But - ?'
'I have to.' Even now
she could not bring herself to explain the purpose of her quest. Fond of Paul
as she now was, she doubted if he'd believe her. Especially as at present there
was no proof.
'You're a very
stubborn woman.'
She met his
unashamedly admiring gaze. 'Another of Lachlan's traits, probably,' she said
cryptically.
'Do you want me to go
with you?'
'No, thank you. This
must be done alone. I still find it incredible to think that -'
'Mrs Beaumont assured
me he knew nothing of the child's existence.' He hesitated, then began, 'About
her boy, Charis...'
Gently she shoved him
out of the doorway. 'You'd better be getting back. I'll come and see you -
afterwards - and reveal all!'
***
A two-up two-down red-brick building, with dilapidated wooden fencing,
the garden unkempt, the front door and each window-frame flaking through years
of neglect. She was a peroxide blonde, wearing too much make-up, thick-set and
shorter than Charis. 'Mrs Beaumont?'
'Yes. You'll be the
lady the reporter was on about, I suppose?'
'Yes, I'm The Great
Lachlan's daughter.'
'That's what he
said...' Squinting, she mused, 'There is a resemblance, now I look...' Her eyes
were sad, so sad: withdrawn. 'Sorry, you'd better come in, love.' She stepped
aside. The shadowy hall was cluttered with toy soldiers. 'Excuse the mess, won't
you, my Michael's not very tidy.'
'Michael?'
'My son.'
'Oh.'
Charis stepped across
the threshold. Wood-panelled wallpaper seemed to suffer from worms, for small
bits were pocked, baring pink plaster.
'It's good of you to
see me, Mrs Beaumont. Really. May I see the boy - I believe he still stays with
you?'
Mrs Beaumont nodded,
led her into the lounge. Here, on the walls were framed posters advertising The
Great Lachlan and Lena. Then, Lena had possessed an attractive shape and eye.
'Michael!' Mrs
Beaumont called and the first glimmerings of foreboding began burning at the
edges of Charis's mind. 'Michael, come on, now, there's a lady to see you!' She
pulled a face, smiled. 'He's awfully slow, I'm afraid...'
Two people entered. A
man and a woman.
'We've a friend
visiting, haven't we, Michael?' In an aside, she added, 'They go to the same
school, you see.'
Charis stared, though
one look was enough. There was no mistaking their features - snub noses, high
cheekbones, unusually flattened faces, Mongolian eyelids and dark childlike
trusting eyes. Disconcertingly, they were as tall as her. She stepped forward,
said, 'Hello, Michael. My name is Charis. Who is this with you?'
His large tongue
lolling momentarily, he smiled with heart-rending affection. 'Barbra,' he
managed. 'My friend.'
Such dark eyes, as
though their souls peered through a long tunnel.
'They've both got
mental ages of 5-year-olds,' Mrs Beaumont's voice reached her but dimly as
Charis held Michael's broad, soft hand and probed. 'He's thirty-four next
week...' Charis grasped incredibly articulate expressions that conveyed
frustration and puzzlement, as though a dormant part of his mind was slowly
awakening, trying to counteract the devastating effects of an extra chromosome.
But there was sadness, too, an indefinable awareness that time was running out.
'He's living on borrowed time now,' came his mother's whisper. 'The doctors all
say they don't live much beyond thirty...' Yet death held no terror to his
mind; this existence ceased and happiness was elevated to another plane, that
was all. Barbra thought so too.
As though slapped,
Charis stepped back, stunned.
'Miss!'
'No,' Charis
whispered, 'I'm all right. Please, Mrs Beaumont, leave me with them for a few
more minutes, will you?'
'Well, if you're sure.
You look so pale... Well, all right, then. I'll put the kettle on, love.'
'Thank you.' She
watched Mrs Beaumont slip out.
There was no error.
She had snatched thoughts from Barbra.
Tentatively, as sweat
budded on her brow and made her spine cold, her moist palms gently pressed
their foreheads. With the utmost care, she drew Michael's mind out of himself,
shepherded him into her own. Once assured that he was at ease, she lifted
Barbra's mind free too.
Before this momentous
act of liberation, she had believed her quest had ended in failure, that she
was doomed to loneliness, unable to walk into another mind. Yet now she could
commune with Michael and someone else totally unrelated. Give them spiritual
uplift, enable them to communicate without the damning constraints of mutation.
They could experience her feelings and each other's whilst in her and of her,
and even vicariously experience travel and entertainment from her memories.
These minds that were a part of hers were quite unlike her father's for they
lacked his humour, his culture, his literary anecdotes and the magic. But they
were far from barren. The sheer joy at being thus freed was almost
overpowering. There was an enchanting humbling sense of wonder in both of them,
and this was transmitted to Charis most forcefully. Concern for her own psychic
loneliness paled beside the spiritual desolation Michael and Barbra endured.
And despite their entrapped minds being unable - until now! - to attain
freedom, they were nearly always smiling and, as the text-books said, were very
affectionate.
Any residue of elitism
crumbled away. For the first time in all these years, she could put her talent
to some worthwhile use. Outward-looking, instead of inward. To use her talent
on minds trapped within bodies. As she tenderly guided them back, she promised,
'I will return soon.'
'Don't worry, we're no
longer so alone,' they replied in unison, without speaking.
Mrs Beaumont came in
with a tray of coffee.
***
Afterwards, she had no idea where she was running to.
A solitary figure
stood on the shoreline, gazing out to the horizon.
Paul needed her too.
Now, she realized, she
was not unlike other people, experiencing a normal human feeling. Even if she
had a child - yes, perhaps Paul's - whose genetic make-up endowed the gift, she
would not emulate Lachlan: that belonged to the past, was fantasy, a selfish
dream. Her gift now belonged to the Michaels and Barbras of this world.
***
Copyright Nik Morton,
2015
If
you enjoyed this story, you might like my collection of crime tales, Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat
(2013), which features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own
words’. He is also featured in the story
‘Processionary Penitents’ in the Crooked Cat Collection of twenty tales, Crooked Cats’ Tales.
Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as a paperback and as
an e-book.
Or you could try my
co-authored fantasy novel Wings of the
Overlord (by Morton Faulkner) currently available in hardback (5 good
glowing reviews):
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