Out of Reach Read online

  A garden. Sunlight. Laughter. A young girl full of smiles. Remember. Remember. Remember. Remember this.

  *

  Schaefer almost lashed out at whoever pulled him out of the blissful dream world where he and Amber were still together, but as his vision spasmed into focus he recognised Gilmore just in time to restrain himself. Schaefer was lying prone on the couch in Gilmore’s office and the old man was gently shaking his shoulders.

  “Thomas, can you hear me?” Gilmore asked.

  Schaefer nodded slowly, careful not to aggravate the angry lump on the back of his head. He felt the familiar sensation of his skin becoming taut around the burning swelling, and reached up to touch it. The dividend was instant and painful; his nerve endings reacting with so much tender violence that it set his teeth on edge.

  “This should help,” Gilmore said as he snapped an instant ice pack. He handed it to Schaefer, who sat up and pressed the gloriously cold plastic bag against the vindictive lump.

  “I should never have let you see him,” Gilmore chastised himself. “What were you thinking? You could have killed him.”

  “He’s alive?” Schaefer asked. His mouth was dry and sticky.

  “He’s in the infirmary. We’ll log it as an accident. I don’t want to do anything else that could disrupt his treatment,” Gilmore said with more than a hint of irritation. “And I’ve persuaded Gareth not to press charges.”

  Schaefer nodded his appreciation.

  “I know what you’ve been through, and I know how hard it is out there,” Gilmore continued, adopting a more conciliatory tone. “But you must never bring that kind of aggression in here ever again. This is a place of healing.”

  Another nod, tinged with contrition. Schaefer felt regret as the adrenalin ebbed away leaving a small, shameful island of rationality to deal with the devastation left in its wake.

  “It won’t happen again,” Schaefer said.

  Gilmore put a reassuring hand on Schaefer’s shoulder.

  “Was it worth it?” The doctor asked. “Did he tell you anything?”

  Schaefer hesitated. He had known Gilmore for many years, and was certain the doctor had nothing but honourable intentions. However, one of the many hard lessons Schaefer had learnt was that in addition to being alone when he entered and exited the world, man was alone for the duration of his existence. Friends were an illusion, and trust was a lie fabricated by people who wanted company in their weakness and misery.

  “He told me something he couldn’t possibly know,” Schaefer replied. And that was all he would ever tell Gilmore about what passed between him and Derek Liddle.

  THIRTEEN

  The man on the bike gave Schaefer a second glance as he cycled past with his family. He was obviously attuned enough to know that Schaefer was not of his world. Or maybe he was an amateur shadow dweller: a banker who liked to dabble with street walkers; a lawyer who searched for trade in the back streets of Soho; an accountant who scored powder from hard-faced East End dealers. Whatever he was, as the family passed, Schaefer saw the man slow his bike so that he was at the back of the pack, a protective figure between his offspring and the haunted, brooding man whose eyes burned with hatred as he walked alone through Dulwich Park. Apart from the cyclists, none of the other people around Schaefer gave him a second glance. They were too involved in their own lives to notice what stalked through the park on this bright day. A mother chastising a crying toddler for misbehaviour as she struggled to push a baby in a buggy with a wobbly wheel. Grandparents with a pair of older children feeding greedy birds by the duck pond. A young couple in tracksuits and trainers out for a run.

  Schaefer walked the wide path across the park, past the café, crowded with parents feeding their broods. Happy, angry, sad, spoilt, gracious, jealous – whatever state these families were in, they were normal. As his breath clouded the cold air ahead of him, Schaefer turned to look at the men, women and children inside the busy café and wondered whether he would ever experience normality ever again. His earlier loss of control only put more distance between him and whatever passed for normal.

  The incident with Derek Liddle had clouded Schaefer’s relationship with Gilmore, but, as he continued through the park, Schaefer consoled himself with the one positive thing that had resulted from the violence, something that he had not shared with Gilmore: he knew that there was something he needed to remember. The knowledge had come to him when he had stopped trying to contain his anger, and he felt the familiar resonance of truth in the sudden awareness that he had forgotten something important. While the rage clouded his mind and motivated his actions, at the very heart of his being, Schaefer experienced a moment of clarity. He recalled himself saying the words remember this. Try as he might, Schaefer could not recollect when he said them, where, or what they related to. All he had were the words themselves and an accompanying, palpable feeling of certainty that whatever he had forgotten was extremely important. Schaefer hoped that the woman he was about to see would be able to help him. Failing that, he would trawl through his notes of the past ten years and see if the secret was in there.

  Schaefer continued through the park, past the busy playground where children squealed with delight as they spun, swung, and slid around the apparatus. He branched off the main path onto a narrow one that led to a small gate in the north east of the park. Schaefer walked a few dozen yards up Court Lane, an affluent, tree-lined suburban street, and stopped outside a house he had not seen for years. An eight-foot-high, sandstone-coloured wall split the double driveway, and loomed over the pavement. Two black, wrought iron gates either side of the wall reinforced the impression that the occupant was keen to keep the world at bay. Schaefer lifted the latch on the left gate, and stepped onto the paved driveway. A concours vintage gullwing Mercedes was parked outside the large, double-fronted Victorian house. The front garden gave a taste of the horticultural paradise that lay to the back of the building, bursting with trees, plants and shrubs. The house itself was covered in well-trimmed ivy, the pointing was unblemished, the brickwork immaculate and all the stonework clean and in the same condition as when the building had first been built. It was as if time had stood still, but in reality reflected years of painstaking, expensive restoration by someone with a true passion for having things just so. Three stories, nine bedrooms, five huge reception rooms – Schaefer guessed this house was the stuff of estate agent’s dreams. He climbed the two steps that lead to the huge front door, and rang the doorbell.

  Moments later the door opened and Schaefer saw a familiar, pretty face. Bernice was a late twenty-something wannabe hippie who helped out around the house. Long blonde hair that fell to her hips, a lithe, boyish figure that was maintained by a strict diet of vegetables and enlightenment, and clothes that looked so authentically flower power they could only have been obtained from a vintage shop – a lace-fringed white vest and a flowing petal patterned long skirt.

  “Hello, Mr Schaefer, it’s been a long time,” Bernice said with a smile.

  “Hello, Bernice.”

  “Do come in.”

  Schaefer stepped into the porch, the walls of which were lined with the coats and jackets of countless unknowns. He opened the glass panelled door that led to the hallway, and waited for Bernice as she closed the front door. The house was a throwback to a bygone era and everything in it venerated the past in some way. A 17th Century Thomas Tompion long case clock held pride of place in the hallway, its simple case giving no hint of the grand timepiece’s true value and importance. Next to it was an antique ebony occasional table, every inch of which was covered with tremendously detailed china trinkets and figurines. The walls were lined with plush patterned fabric, and portraits of a long dead, distinguished family looked down at Schaefer and his meagre circumstances.

  “Follow me,” Bernice said. She led Schaefer to the other side of the house, through the library, which always reminded him of a Victorian explorer’s study, past the waiting room, and into a second, smaller hallway. They stop
ped outside a bare wood door. Bernice knocked softly.

  “Come in,” a familiar voice said from the other side of the door.

  Schaefer followed Bernice in and saw Ellen Ovitz staring up at him from her tatty old armchair. She hadn’t changed. Her curled, shoulder-length, light brown hair framed her chubby face, which, although normally warm and genial, was currently cold and stern. Schaefer had guessed Ellen was mid-forties, but she carried herself with grandeur and bearing that gave her the impression of being ageless. And despite her modest five and a half feet, Ellen was the most formidable woman Schaefer had ever met. He could feel her eyes upon him as he crossed the room and took a seat in the gnarly old sofa that was part of a matching set with the chair.

  “Can I get you anything?” Bernice asked.

  “I’m fine, darling,” Ellen replied. “Thomas?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Bernice withdrew, shutting the door behind her. There was an awkward moment of silence, during which Ellen studied Schaefer intensely. Schaefer was uncomfortable under her gaze and his eyes darted around the room looking for something to fix upon. There was the mahogany mantel which was covered in crystals, small pyramids, and protective symbols. Next to it was the large cluster of raw amethyst crystals. Beside Ellen’s chair was the small fireplace where a few lumps of coal and a couple of logs burned gently. Above them the slate mantelpiece cluttered with old family photos. The large gilded mirror above them, and the garish gold-flecked palm leaf wallpaper that adorned the whole room. Beside him there was a potted palm, and beyond it, Schaefer saw with a jolt of recognition, a small jade dragon that rested on the windowsill and stared out at the lush garden beyond. The dragon that Derek Liddle could not possibly have known about.

  “I was surprised to hear from you, Thomas,” Ellen began. “We did not part on good terms.”

  Schaefer could feel the weight of Ellen’s eyes upon him. The sudden, oppressive mass he felt burden his entire being was more than guilt, there was also a load of shame.

  “Yeah,” was all Schaefer could bring himself to say.

  “You told me what you thought,” Ellen went on. “That you believe all this is nothing more than a fairy-tale and that I’m nothing more than a – what was the word you used?”

  Ellen paused for dramatic effect. She had an incredible memory and Schaefer knew that she damned well remembered exactly what he had said.

  “Oh, yes, that’s right, you called me a charlatan.”

  “Maybe I was a little out of line,” Schaefer tried. He knew it wasn’t going to be enough.

  “There’s one word I expect to hear from you, Thomas,” Ellen said in the most matronly voice she could manage.

  “Sorry?” Schaefer offered.

  “Good,” Ellen said, her mood brightening instantly. “So what brings you back to the fairy-tale?”

  Schaefer felt the burden lift, as Ellen’s demeanour changed. Everything felt lighter, and even the air in the room, which had felt oppressive, suddenly became fresh and revitalising. Even as he had accused her of being a charlatan, Schaefer had known there was something very special about Ellen. She had tremendous power to affect the world around her, but, like any human talent, if you chose to devalue it, to ignore or belittle it, you could eventually convince yourself that it had never existed in the first place.

  “I don’t know where else to go,” Schaefer replied. “There are things happening that I can’t explain.”

  “What things?” Ellen asked.

  Schaefer produced the crayon note he had taken from Katie Blake’s bedroom. He leant forward and handed it to Ellen along with the photograph of Katie.

  “She looks like Amber,” Ellen observed instantly.

  “A man going by the name of Leon Yates, in a completely unrelated case, knew Amber’s name. He said it to me just before he threw himself off the roof of a tower block. One of his associates said that Leon told him I used to talk to a dragon and cry about how I wasn’t able to keep my women.”

  Ellen followed Schaefer’s gaze towards the dragon on the windowsill. When he looked back at her, Ellen’s eyes were full of sympathy.

  “You poor man,” Ellen said. “I warned you what would happen if you did not move on.”

  “I have moved on,” Schaefer replied, a touch too defensively. This was how their last conversation had started.

  “Amber is in your thoughts every day. You live in a blighted world that her disappearance took you to. You have not moved on, Thomas.”

  There was a sense of finality to Ellen’s words that suggested she had pronounced judgment rather than offered an opinion. If he didn’t want the conversation to deteriorate, all Schaefer could do was look indignant.

  “You may not like the truth,” Ellen continued. “But what use am I if I give you lies? Let me see what I can get for you.”

  Ellen shut her eyes and felt Katie’s photograph. Schaefer could hear the ticking of the gilded mantel clock, and counted eight seconds before Ellen’s response came.

  “You’re being played,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “I know,” Schaefer countered.

  “Listen,” Ellen responded with mild irritation. “You’re being played in a way you can’t possibly comprehend. There’s a block. Someone or something has place a block around you. I’ve never experienced this. It’s as though you don’t have a future.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  Ellen opened her eyes, which were tinged with the unfamiliar discomfort of uncertainty. It might even have been fear.

  “It’s not death,” Ellen said. “I don’t know what it is.”

  “Leon Yates said I face something worse than death.”

  Ellen put the photograph down on the cluttered side table nestled beside her armchair.

  “This Yates clearly had the gift. Let me see what I can get on him.”

  Ellen shut her eyes again, and Schaefer counted four ticking seconds, before there was a sharp intake of breath. Ellen clearly did not like what she had found, and her face contorted as though she had encountered something disgusting.

  “A heart of darkness. Very dark. But he was looking for more. Looking for a way to...” Ellen trailed off, searching for the right words. “You know I don’t handle darkness very well, but this man was evil, and he wanted more. So much more.”

  Ellen opened her eyes with a shudder.

  “I believe he was part of a group called the Collective,” Schaefer said. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “No. But it doesn’t surprise me that he was involved in darkness. I don’t like what you’re doing, Thomas. The shadows are eating at your soul. You must leave all this behind. You must move on, Thomas.”

  “What about the girl?” Schaefer asked. “Her name is Katie Blake. Is she alive?”

  Ellen picked up the photograph and closed her eyes. Five seconds ticked by.

  “Yes, but she is not safe.”

  “Any idea where she is?”

  Ellen concentrated for a moment.

  “No,” she replied.

  “Will I find her?” Schaefer asked.

  “You’ll find the truth,” Ellen replied almost immediately, before opening her eyes and putting the photograph down.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Schaefer’s voice betrayed more exasperation than he had intended.

  “I don’t get handed a set of instructions with the information provided to me by the universe,” Ellen replied, somewhat defensively. “We have to work to interpret what is gifted us.”

  “Okay. Fair enough,” Schaefer defused the friction that was building between the two of them. “There’s something else. I got very angry earlier today. Enraged.”

  Ellen’s face clouded. She knew Schaefer was talking about violence.

  “Evil breeds evil, Thomas. You must not allow yourself to go to these places.”

  “In that moment of—” Schaefer hesitated. It was his turn to search for the right word. “Of release, I unlocked an old memory. There
is something I told myself to remember, and I’ve forgotten what it is.”

  “Come here,” Ellen instructed.

  Schaefer crossed the room and crouched opposite the diminutive psychic, as she took his hands.

  “Oh, Thomas,” Ellen whispered, visibly shaken by whatever she was experiencing. “You poor boy. No one should have to go through what has befallen you. There is something you’re meant to remember. Something important.”

  Ellen paused, suddenly puzzled. She let go of Schaefer’s hands.

  “The thing you’re supposed to remember hasn’t happened yet.”

  It took a moment for Schaefer to comprehend what he had just heard.

  “What is that even supposed to mean?” he asked impatiently, as he got to his feet.

  “You’re on a dark path, Thomas. You must turn away from it. You’ve got to listen to me, and move on. If you continue on, I foresee only pain, suffering, and evil beyond that you have already experienced.” Desperate to get Schaefer to listen to her, Ellen pleaded, “Thomas, please, you must move on.”

  “You lose your daughter and see how easy it is for you to move on!” Schaefer snapped.

  Ellen’s only reaction to Schaefer’s flash of anger was a sad nod of her head.

  “I can only ask you to do what you find possible. If what I have asked is impossible, then at least promise me one thing.”

  Schaefer’s rage subsided.

  “What?”

  “A man is coming to see you with an offer. It seems like the answer to all your prayers, but it is not. Do not take it.”

  “Who is he?” Schaefer asked.

  “That’s all I have,” Ellen replied. “But listen to me, Thomas. When this offer comes, you must refuse it.”

  FOURTEEN

  The crazy, cryptic woman didn’t know what she was talking about. Schaefer sat on an old tea chest and considered the wisdom of his visit to Ellen Ovitz as he absentmindedly leafed through one of his old journals. If he didn’t know any better, he might allow her words to influence his actions, but Schaefer understood that psychics worked in a similar, more benign way to cult leaders. They used sophisticated parlour tricks – cold reading, suggestion, and aural hypnosis – in order to convince people of the truth of their prognostications. In reality, their words could influence the future if one believed they could influence the future. You’re going to meet a tall, dark stranger, would instantly make most people be on the lookout for a tall, dark stranger, and make them more receptive to an approach from someone of that description. Schaefer found himself wondering why he had gone back. Had it really been to confirm that she had not breached his confidence and told anyone about their sessions? Or had he reached such a low level of desperation that he was ready to believe in the world beyond?