Neil White - LOST SOULS

Sam looked up at the old man, who smiled, just a nervous flicker of his lips.

Sam looked back at the picture.

There was more in the picture, and when Sam saw his own name scrawled across the top corner he felt his chest tighten. There were two people painted underneath his name, standing in front of a statue, of some old Victorian dignitary on a six-foot plinth. Sam recognised it. It was a statue near the court. The faces of the people in front of the statue were empty, but Sam could tell it was two men from the width of the shoulders and the suits.

Sam sat back and folded his arms. ‘What does this all mean?’

‘I don’t know.’ Eric looked at Sam, his eyes wide. ‘Sometimes I don’t know until afterwards.’

‘Until after what?’ Sam was getting frustrated now.

‘Until after it comes true.’

Sam put the picture down. ‘Mr Randle, this is all very interesting, but I’m a lawyer. I deal with legal problems.’ He gestured towards the picture. ‘I just don’t see how I can help you.’

‘I didn’t come here for advice,’ he said softly. ‘I came here to warn you.’

Sam felt a flutter of nerves. ‘Warn me of what?’

The old man shook his head slowly, sadly. ‘I don’t know. But you’ve been in my dreams all the time lately, and they’re getting stronger. Really strong.’ He rubbed his eyes and his voice came out in a croak. ‘I haven’t slept well in months. I keep hearing things, awful things, people crying, screaming.’ He rubbed his eyes again. ‘And I hear children, but they don’t say much. But I feel their pain, like they are lost and can’t get home.’

Sam wondered what to do. He could ring the police, but then what would he say? An old man had painted a picture and dreamt about him?

But then Sam remembered how he had been waking up every morning lately, bathed in sweat, the same dream making him wake up scared, bolt upright. A dark house. A boy crying. Doors, lots of doors. Falling.

Sam held up his hand.

‘Mr Randle, I don’t…’

‘You’ve got children, Mr Nixon,’ he interrupted. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

Sam felt a burst of anger. This was more than a passing client. He had researched him, looked into his life before he came to the office.

Sam stood up quickly and got ready to march Eric Randle to the door.

‘It’s got a scientific name,’ Eric said as he looked up. ‘Precognition. It’s not just me, you see. There are a lot of people like me. Some people write things down, some of us draw. Some people just forget their dreams, until something happens and they think it has happened before.’ He leaned forward and became animated. ‘Have you ever had a dream that something awful was going to happen, and then, not long after, it does?’

‘I can’t say I have.’ Sam spoke through clenched teeth, one hand already on the door handle.

‘Perhaps you just don’t remember.’

‘And perhaps I just haven’t. Look, Mr Randle, you’ve got to leave. And if you don’t, I’ll make you.’

The old man looked anxious, waiting for a response. Sam didn’t give him one.

Randle stood up, moving more quickly than Sam thought he would. ‘You’re in danger, Mr Nixon,’ he said.

Sam stayed by the door, his eyes blazing now.

‘Keep that,’ Eric said, pointing at the picture. ‘It might mean something soon.’ He started to leave, and then stopped. ‘We have meetings.’

‘Who does?’

‘The people who have these dreams. We meet up and tell each other what we’ve seen.’ He put a leaflet on the desk. It had been done on a home printer, the colours dull on cheap paper. ‘The girl in the painting was in our group.’

Sam looked at the piece of paper again, curled up on the desk. ‘What, the dead girl?’

Eric nodded. ‘Her name was Jess Goldie. She used to write down her dreams. She had seen it coming, we both had, we saw it in a dream, but we hadn’t known it was her.’

‘When did you paint this?’

‘There’s a date on the back.’

Sam walked over to the desk and turned the paper over. The picture was over three months old. Or so the date said. He looked at Randle, who shrugged his shoulders and then set his jaw as he clenched back a tear.

‘She was my friend,’ he said, ‘and I couldn’t stop it.’

‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘I just want you to be careful, Mr Nixon, and promise me that you’ll listen to me if I call you.’

Sam thought about it for a moment, and then he realised that it was a cheap promise, one he could always break if he wanted.

‘Okay,’ said Sam. ‘Promise.’

Eric looked happy with that. Sam watched him as he gathered himself and then shuffled out of the office. When he had gone, Sam felt his forehead. He was sweating. He looked at his hands. They were trembling.

He laughed nervously. The day had turned into a strange one.

Sam watched Alison as she drank her beer. She licked her lips whenever she took a sip, and ran her fingers through her hair as she laughed at one of Jon Hampson’s anecdotes. Jon was the ex-detective who ran the Crown Court department at Parsons & Co. Some cops just couldn’t let go, as if they missed the dirt when they retired.

Sam looked away. They were snatching a quick drink before heading home. For Sam, it was just a way of putting off the evening round of arguments with Helena, but he wasn’t in the mood for Jon.

Jon Hampson had been a scruffy cop, but his switch to defence work after his retirement the year before had changed him. He was small and round, his face pale, the cheeks marked by broken veins, but he had started to speak in a deep bumble, an affectation that helped him play the part. He peered over his glasses and his suits were now three-pieces, always with a bright handkerchief to match his silk tie.

‘Can we give the war stories a rest?’ pleaded Sam. ‘I’ve come here to get away from work, not revel in it.’

Jon stopped talking and exchanged raised eyebrows with Alison.

‘Is everything okay?’ Alison asked.

Sam looked at her and saw the concern in her eyes. She was young, pretty and funny, just about everything his wife used to be, and he felt bad for snapping.

But the day hadn’t been good. It had started with Eric Randle watching him from the street, ended with a warning, and had a killer in the middle. And Sam knew that he still hadn’t caught up with his paperwork. The day had had too many distractions, and it would get no better when he got home.

Sam held up his hand in apology. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m just tired, that’s all.’ He sighed. ‘I just wonder sometimes about the point of it all.’

Jon didn’t answer at first, just watched as a waitress came over, bringing three more beers but no smile. He looked back at Sam. ‘What? This, now—café culture? Or life itself?’

‘No, no,’ said Sam, banging his bottle on the table. ‘Law. What I do. And what you do. Intruding. What is the point of it all? Of any of it?’ He rubbed his eyes and felt the skin sag under his fingers.

Jon laughed, too many cigarettes turning it into a wheeze. ‘You have had a bad day.’ He looked at Alison. ‘Has he been like this all day?’

Alison started to grin, but Sam shook his head. ‘There isn’t a point, and that is the whole point.’ He moved his beer around on the table, making small circles in the condensation from the bottle. ‘Seriously, why do we kid ourselves? I pretend I’m helping people.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s just bullshit. I help crooks stay free. Nothing more.’

‘Whoa, Sammy boy,’ said Jon, his hands held up in surrender. ‘It’s taken you this long to work it out?’ He winked at Alison. ‘Maybe it’s time for a holiday.’