© Denis Fitzpatrick, 2015
‘They recognised the
voices which, a little while ago, had accorded and sung in cadence with their
own. But they were familiar voices no more . . .’ Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Marble Faun
Marjorie Rice Behan and Bellamy
Regence were the first out for ward 16’s regular six a.m. coffees, Bellamy
having just finished his second cigarette of the day. Marjorie and Bellamy were
often patients at ward 16, Rozella Psychiatric Hospital, and tended to
socialise with each other, despite the decades difference in their ages. They
were both comfortable enough with each other to sometimes sit silently together
for a long while, mutually sharing with each other their private fears and
dreams.
This intimacy, though, they did not at all
expect to result in both of them hearing the same disembodied, androgynous
voice. They looked at each other, seated side by side.
‘Did you hear something?’ asked Marjorie. ‘A
quiet voice, with no-one there?’
‘Yeah. Which is more disturbing than we
realise.’
‘Well, at least you heard it too. I’m not
senile yet.’
‘Could you make out what it said?’ asked Bellamy.
‘Nope. Could you?’
‘No. But I really do think this is
serious. We’ve both technically witnessed some psychic event.’ Their discovery though
was both boon and bane. Boon, because it meant that each of their own inner
voices were indeed real, objectively apparent to each other; yet bane because they
only had each other’s word to support their story of having undoubtedly experienced
the same type of telepathic moment. The question soon became whether they
should tell the nurses of what they had both clearly witnessed. Yet, really, it
was a moot point, as lacking any evidence whatsoever the nurses would have no
choice but to believe they were each again entering psychosis. Their enforced
residence in hospital would then most probably be a good stretch longer. No,
they quickly decided, they wouldn’t reveal their discovery. Instead they would
move into Marjorie’s two bedroom rent controlled flat when they were discharged
(a grateful Godsend to Bellamy who had somehow found himself homeless for the
past two months. Neither was he able to get safe, reasonably priced housing in
Sydney’s tight renter market, being thus forced to sleep on friends’ couches) and
hope to attract that voice again, this time maybe being able to record it with
their phones, or otherwise establish its reality. They were both looking
forward to residing together but each had to wait about two weeks before they could
be sent home. The time passed quickly, both of them practicing having their
phone’s recorder only a thumb press away. It was only a matter of time.
*
Their first night
together under their own roof proved successful, but terrifying too: both were
awakened in the wee hours of the morning by a long, sustained, keening, coming
from the kitchen. Both listened to it, petrified, each suddenly wide awake,
able to feel the blood drain quickly from their faces. Then the house returned
to silence again, but this time seeming to possess a sinister timbre.
It was Bellamy who broke the sudden pall,
opening his bedroom door - slowly creaking, and then apparently listening
attentively. He soon knocked on Marjorie’s door.
‘Is that you Bellamy?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Did you hear that scream?’
‘Yep. Wait, I’ll be out in a minute.’ Bellamy
then went to the kitchen to make some coffee for them both. Sleep was without
doubt foregone this night.
Over the coffees they both compared notes
and were now entirely sure that both were witnessing some strange psychic
phenomena, for equally strange reasons. It was more likely though, that there
simply were no reasons and they were both just random targets. After all, they
were just two ordinary people, albeit with serious mental illnesses that
entitled them to federal government welfare pensions. But for what ultimate
purpose? For what gain? Why was the spirit world asserting itself to them two
in particular? The only rational explanation, they decided, was that their
respective mental illnesses had probably taken a very threatening twist, and
they should really go back to Rozella before the sun arose in order to have the
nurses and doctors examine the phenomenon.
They ran into the old problem however; they
had no proof for the spirit they’d repeatedly clearly heard and the staff at
the hospital would just lock them up for another six weeks, without affecting
the voice in any way. Then they would be at the mercy of the voice if it turned
nasty, hounding them while they were completely trapped in the luscious grounds
of Rozella Hospital. Sure, they could flee the hospital if that voice sought to
persecute them, but they would just be brought back again against their will. And
even if they somehow weren’t brought back, the voice would hound them wherever
they were. But seeing as how it was proof that would solve all their problems,
they decided to both take turns at night, staying awake until the morning,
fingers at the ready on their phone’s recorder like they had practiced,
listening as best they could for the voice’s reappearance in order to record it.
Whoever was on the day shift would also listen attentively in order to record
the voice. It seemed like a good idea. In fact, the only viable idea.
Their success in attracting the spirit
stayed with them, for, four nights later, while both were unexpectedly partying
on a bottle of good Irish whiskey, Bellamy was able to record the voice. In
fact he had just opened its recorder function and had settled more into what
promised to be a very pleasant, toasty evening. They heard the voice again
while Marjorie brought back a fresh bottle of cola from the fridge. But Bellamy
only managed to get the last word.
‘Ware! Beckoning Charon!’
‘I heard it clearly this time, clear as
day,’ said Bellamy, after checking the failed recording. ‘Did you?’
‘Yep. And with a good education like yours
you should know who Charon is.’
‘The Ferryman, guiding people across the
river Styx into the next life.’
‘What did it mean though? Are we to beware
Charon’s beckoning, or to beckon him?’
‘Don’t know. But we have to get this
recording to some sort of authority. Something in the recording might cause some
interest. And then they can’t call us crazy anymore, or anyone else that hears
bodiless voices.’
‘We
might be the next level of humanity.’
‘Perhaps. But police or hospital? To whom do
we go for help?’
They decided, quickly once again, to take
their slim evidence to the local police as, after all, both Marjorie and Bellamy
were under somewhat of a continued assault by this spirit.
But since fools rush in
where angels fear to tread they resolved to see the police the next day. They
wound up the party a little later and retired for the night, sleeping
peacefully and undisturbed.
*
Marjorie was surprised to
be the first up and about the next morning at six, as Bellamy was usually up around
five a.m. She knocked on his door. Something didn’t feel right. She knocked
again. No answer.
She opened the door. There was Bellamy, in
his pyjamas, sprawled across his dishevelled bed, his right hand frozen in a fist
over his heart. She took his pulse. And then closed his eyes after feeling no
beating. She rang for the ambulance who confirmed Marjorie’s horror. Dead from
a heart attack. One of the paramedics pointed to the packet of cigarettes on Bellamy’s
bedside table and said she wouldn’t be at all surprised if they were what
caused the attack. Filthy smokes, she further averred, and an even more filthy endless
string of hypocritical governments for allowing that poison into everyone’s
faces, willingly or otherwise.
When the ambulance had taken Bellamy away
she suddenly realised why she was feeling so peculiar. She was sure there was
something that she was missing, even though Bellamy’s death could be the only
thing amiss (and that had just been taken care of): she could no longer hear
her voices. For the first time in over forty years she now had her own thoughts
completely at her disposal, no longer able to be hijacked from voices that were
simply not real. It was an unusual feeling. It was also a good feeling, her
mind so very calm and peaceful. To celebrate she headed out for a large
breakfast at a nearby café, tentatively sure that her voices had vanished
forever. She felt sure that Bellamy wouldn’t mind the sudden extravagance so
soon after his passing, after all, his death seemed to have brought her tranquillity.
He always was a good bloke.
‘Thanks, mate,’ she said to his ghost,
closing the front door behind her. ‘Yep, you’ve been a real Godsend.’
~~~
If you have been enjoying Fitzpatrick's stories here you may also enjoy his short story collections, and other books, available online as both Kindle books and paperbacks (go to http://amzn.to/1NfodtN). Other ebook and paperback options are available at http://bit.ly/1UsyvKD Fitzpatrick is also having a collection of short stories, Aberrant Selected, published by Waldorf Publishing and you can follow its journey at www.aberrantselected.blogspot.com
