--17--
When Dennis left the university, he was alone. He'd spent an hour just sitting in the bathroom feeling ill, waiting for his migraine medication to kick in. When it did, when the pain in his head had dulled to a bearable ache, he left the building and walked toward the parking lot. He'd made sure he knew where the bus stop was. He'd be needing a bus to get home.
He'd checked himself out of the Institute that morning. As he'd never officially been committed, he was free to come and go as he pleased, and it pleased him to leave. He didn't want to be anywhere that Drs. Beck or Heilmann could find him. He had the distinct impression that neither of them would have anything particularly complimentary to say if they ever saw him again.
There were students milling around and Dennis felt strangely vulnerable there, around them. Maybe some of them had been there for the demonstration. Maybe they were laughing at him. That was okay, he was used to being laughed at. He was only twenty-three. He should've fit in with them. He didn't. He was different. He was smart though and maybe if he hadn't had that, that fucking *curse* then he could be there with them. He would've taken English. He always liked English. He liked reading. None of the characters he read about had searing pains in their head whenever they touched someone else.
He stood at the bus stop behind all the students. The bus was going into town and that's where he wanted to go, so he could walk home, back to his apartment. He wasn't sure that it'd still be there, really. Well, the apartment would be there, but his landlady had probably evicted him by now. He hadn't paid his rent in months, and even if she liked how he could tell her anything she wanted to know about her past just by touching her and how he'd talk to her for hours about her favourite soap operas like they were some exalted art form, he was costing too much for her to keep him there.
He dug in his pockets. Not enough change. He was screwed. He waved the bus on and stood at the kerb watching the little ripples of water in the puddle of rainwater around his shoes. He was screwed.
"Dennis".
He heard the voice clearly enough but he didn't turn. He didn't know that voice. It was far enough away and he was paying sufficiently little attention that maybe it was Beck or Heilmann suddenly out for blood. He didn't want to know.
"Dennis".
Closer now. No, he didn't know the voice. Maybe they'd sent someone for him. He sighed and turned around.
There was a man walking toward him.
"Dennis, I'm Cyrus Kriticos", said the man.
Dennis nodded. After the mysterious phone call he'd had the night before, he'd been wondering when this guy would turn up.
He waited, looking at Cyrus, the well-dressed man in front of him. But he didn't even bother to offer him his leather-gloved hand. Dennis almost smiled. That was a good sign. It was the best sign he'd had in years.
Maybe he wasn't so screwed after all.
***
There was a limousine waiting, and Dennis was ushered into it. Cyrus had a proposition for him, exactly as he'd promised he would when he'd told him to bow out of the demonstration. He'd told him it was better to be branded a fraud and to remain anonymous, and Dennis knew he was right.
All Cyrus had had to say was that he'd never have a moment's peace in his life if he went through with it. Every day there'd be someone there, asking him to prove it again, asking him to go touch a murderer and find out if he'd really done it, asking him to talk to the ghost of their dead aunt, asking him to go on some talk show and be surrounded by people, crowds, everywhere for the rest of his life. It was enough to make Dennis panic. He knew he couldn't go through with it.
Heilmann be damned, he was saving himself. Let the quack think what he wanted to believe. Dennis was looking out for number one.
And Cyrus Kriticos had a proposition for him. He'd never have to see his family again if he went through with it. He could live alone and never see anyone again if he didn't want to. He'd be peaceful.
All he had to do was catch twelve ghosts. That couldn't be so hard. Just twelve ghosts and he'd never have to feel that pain ever again. Cyrus would see to it.
First on the list was Royce Clayton. And Dennis knew just where to find him.
*** End ***
When Dennis left the university, he was alone. He'd spent an hour just sitting in the bathroom feeling ill, waiting for his migraine medication to kick in. When it did, when the pain in his head had dulled to a bearable ache, he left the building and walked toward the parking lot. He'd made sure he knew where the bus stop was. He'd be needing a bus to get home.
He'd checked himself out of the Institute that morning. As he'd never officially been committed, he was free to come and go as he pleased, and it pleased him to leave. He didn't want to be anywhere that Drs. Beck or Heilmann could find him. He had the distinct impression that neither of them would have anything particularly complimentary to say if they ever saw him again.
There were students milling around and Dennis felt strangely vulnerable there, around them. Maybe some of them had been there for the demonstration. Maybe they were laughing at him. That was okay, he was used to being laughed at. He was only twenty-three. He should've fit in with them. He didn't. He was different. He was smart though and maybe if he hadn't had that, that fucking *curse* then he could be there with them. He would've taken English. He always liked English. He liked reading. None of the characters he read about had searing pains in their head whenever they touched someone else.
He stood at the bus stop behind all the students. The bus was going into town and that's where he wanted to go, so he could walk home, back to his apartment. He wasn't sure that it'd still be there, really. Well, the apartment would be there, but his landlady had probably evicted him by now. He hadn't paid his rent in months, and even if she liked how he could tell her anything she wanted to know about her past just by touching her and how he'd talk to her for hours about her favourite soap operas like they were some exalted art form, he was costing too much for her to keep him there.
He dug in his pockets. Not enough change. He was screwed. He waved the bus on and stood at the kerb watching the little ripples of water in the puddle of rainwater around his shoes. He was screwed.
"Dennis".
He heard the voice clearly enough but he didn't turn. He didn't know that voice. It was far enough away and he was paying sufficiently little attention that maybe it was Beck or Heilmann suddenly out for blood. He didn't want to know.
"Dennis".
Closer now. No, he didn't know the voice. Maybe they'd sent someone for him. He sighed and turned around.
There was a man walking toward him.
"Dennis, I'm Cyrus Kriticos", said the man.
Dennis nodded. After the mysterious phone call he'd had the night before, he'd been wondering when this guy would turn up.
He waited, looking at Cyrus, the well-dressed man in front of him. But he didn't even bother to offer him his leather-gloved hand. Dennis almost smiled. That was a good sign. It was the best sign he'd had in years.
Maybe he wasn't so screwed after all.
***
There was a limousine waiting, and Dennis was ushered into it. Cyrus had a proposition for him, exactly as he'd promised he would when he'd told him to bow out of the demonstration. He'd told him it was better to be branded a fraud and to remain anonymous, and Dennis knew he was right.
All Cyrus had had to say was that he'd never have a moment's peace in his life if he went through with it. Every day there'd be someone there, asking him to prove it again, asking him to go touch a murderer and find out if he'd really done it, asking him to talk to the ghost of their dead aunt, asking him to go on some talk show and be surrounded by people, crowds, everywhere for the rest of his life. It was enough to make Dennis panic. He knew he couldn't go through with it.
Heilmann be damned, he was saving himself. Let the quack think what he wanted to believe. Dennis was looking out for number one.
And Cyrus Kriticos had a proposition for him. He'd never have to see his family again if he went through with it. He could live alone and never see anyone again if he didn't want to. He'd be peaceful.
All he had to do was catch twelve ghosts. That couldn't be so hard. Just twelve ghosts and he'd never have to feel that pain ever again. Cyrus would see to it.
First on the list was Royce Clayton. And Dennis knew just where to find him.
*** End ***