Voice on the Wing

5: Mental as Anything

It was my turn to laugh. Septic, maybe, but never psychic! The voices were a madness. They were my own brand of crazy. I had a band of little imps sitting on my shoulders singing accapella gibberish to me. I just didn't know the song to enable me to sing along.

"You find it funny?" said Dave. He raised an eyebrow to Spockian proportions. If he'd had pointy ears I would have mistook him for the real thing, except with browner hair and a less respectful air.

"No," I said. I did, but his question popped the bubble of mirth instantly. "I find it ludicrous."

"Why?" said Dave. "Think about it. You hear voices. From what you've told me, you've been tested extensively for mental issues such as schizophrenia, so it's not that."

"They could have got it wrong. They don't know everything."

"In my experience, they know very little, but still. I agree with them on this occasion. You're too... normal"

I felt flush. I may have blushed. He didn't know it, but I'd just been paid the biggest compliment of my life. Normal! I'd have given so much just to be that. Instead I had a swarm of bees permanently buzzing around my head. I'd had a lifetime of unwanted company I'd been forced to accept and to speak to someone about it - someone who seemed genuinely interested - was liberating. I no longer felt imprisoned by my secrets.

"Thank you," I said. "I still don't believe in psychics and all that life-after-death rubbish."

"Fine. So you're crazy and the voices told you to do it. You blacked it out but your guilt took you to the bodies you'd mutilated.

"No! I didn't mean that. I meant..."

"I know what you meant. I do, though, which is good for you."

"You do?"

"Yes." He nodded slowly, glancing at the tape recorder. It wasn't revolving. I hadn't seen him turn it off. "I'm not going to go into details, but I've had dealings with a psychic before. She helped me with a personal matter involving my son."

The way his voice cracked at the mention of his son indicated the 'personal matter' was traumatic and didn't have a happy outcome.

"Either way," he continued, "I believe. I wouldn't shout it out here at the station, however. They'd lock me up as quickly as some think I should you."

He paused, possibly expecting a response from me. I didn't give one, letting him carry on. He was in charge here. As odd as his words were, it showed he was at least on my side. I might still get out.

"What if the voices were... not spirits but something spiritual?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Just because I believe in this sort of thing doesn't mean I'm an expert. Vibrations. Auras. Even ghosts? I'm not so sure on the latter but we all leave energy behind. Perhaps you can pick up on it and your voices are your way of interpreting them."

"But I can't understanding what the voices are trying to say. They've led me but that's just a feeling rather than an instruction."

"Maybe you're just not listening correctly."

"Maybe they need to speak my language. They're my voices after all."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

I ignored that. Of course they were my voices. I wasn't hearing the lingering dead. I was listening to the echoes of my own dark thoughts. Or something. I didn't know. Maybe the officer was right. What if I was psychic and I was being directed to the bodies. But why just those? The voices were there all the time. If it was a sort of latent power I was tapping into, why didn't I find more? Or know the lottery results? Why just the victims of this particular monster?

"Come on," said Dave.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm going for a coffee and to relieve myself, though probably not in that order, then I'm going to try and catch a killer. You're going home."

"Home?"

"Yes, you're innocent. I can't hold you. But here's my card. If you ever get the feeling you're being led somewhere you might not want to go, give me a call."

He handed me a card and I slipped it into my pocket. This would be one business card I wouldn't immediately throw away or use to doodle on.

"I will," I said.

"And start to properly listen to those voices of yours."

I nodded. It was something I'd been trying to do for most of my life. I didn't see how his request would change anything, but I supposed I could try harder.

It would appear I wouldn't get much of a chance to try at anything. I also wouldn't get the chance to discard or deface his D.C. David Philips' card. Three months might seem a long time but, when you're trying to get used to the fact that you might be psychic, something you've always derided, time slips by you unnoticed. It sneaks quietly past, perhaps with the Mission Impossible theme playing in the background. If you did see, you'd not recognise it and, once you looked away, it would slip off the latex mask and run off laughing.

Three months can be forever or it can disappear in the cracks between one heartbeat and the next. I'd tried to take Philips' advice and listen. I forced myself to open up, dropping defences and prejudices which had built up over the years like a callous on my life. By the time the three months was done, I felt as if I had achieved nothing.

But I was wrong. I felt it. I didn't quite hear it in actual words, but, much more so than previously, I felt their need. This was more than a push. It had substance. If I looked, I was sure I'd see a hand taking mine. The voices had body, almost. I rang the detective constable.

"Stay where you are, I'll come get you."

"I can't. I have to follow them. It's like an imperative and I have to keep moving." The voices were carrying me and I was under their power.

"Fine. I'm on my way." I heard a door shut and a car start. "Where are you?"

I told him.

"Isn't that where...?"

"I found the dogs. Yes."