A Sublime, Celestial Blessing

A.G. Bennett

In the normal world of lies and falsehoods, a gospel of modern action was strategically printed on recycled paper for all humanity to view and heed. The thick, black newspaper headline blazed for all but those without vision or those who simply refused to acknowledge the world around them. Like a flame-filled, burning, crumbling tower, its proclamation sent a message to the world that few could successfully ignore:

Despite the fact that the newspaper was his employer, Terry Fitzgibbon was not overly impressed by the screaming headline. He nonchalantly brushed some small traces of dandruff from his light-grey suit. Terry's coat was old and slightly fraying and he realised he should consider replacing it, though he knew he probably would not bother. What do they expect with the pittance they pay me?

Terry Fitzgibbon gave a shiny gold coin to the old man who sold newspapers in Pitt Street, Sydney, removed a copy of his employer's paper from the man's stall and placed it firmly underneath his right arm. The old paper-seller in his torn, green coat smiled and revealed several missing teeth in what Terry considered was, perhaps, a gesture of familiarity. Although Terry bought his paper from this same man every Monday to Friday, he did not know the seller's name. They had never progressed any further in their relationship from the brief financial transaction they constantly conducted. In a way, Terry considered that the old man was no different from him: they were both on the lowest rung of their professions.

When Terry had decided to become a newspaper reporter, he originally held a vision that his life would suddenly transform into an interesting, challenging existence. He had failed to appreciate the reality that, almost four years later, he would still be assigned the most trivial events and stories: the ones no-one else was interested in performing. On Terry's agenda today was an interview with a local woman who had won the paper's winter football tipping competition. Just another non-event, Terry considered. Why don't they ever give me anything decent to cover? The Inner-City Strangler had just claimed victim number three. Why was he not covering that case?

He already knew the reason, so there was little point in posing the question: the truth was that the best stories were solely Garth Simpson's domain. Garth Simpson was the number one reporter on the paper and compared to him Terry was nothing - not even ranked in the top five reporters: he seemed forever destined to pick up the small crumbs others tossed his way. The winner of the football tipping competition: this was Terry's glorious assignment for today and in his jealous imagination he could almost hear Simpson chuckling to himself in his private office.

Garth Simpson was a short, balding man with just a few streaks of remaining white, wispy hair which clung to the sides of his head like low clouds would hug a small hilltop. He was only in his late thirties but appeared much older to those who did not know him well. He possessed a pair of tiny, strange, dull brown eyes which appeared much too small for his thin, angular face. They would gaze at Terry as if they were tiny pin-pricks in a white cardboard bag, and they seemed to reflect a dazzling, dull light that was located somewhere inside that creased, cranial covering. Simpson would strut up and down the office corridor as if he was a Pulitzer Prize-winner: his hands clasped tightly behind his back; his face slightly creased by an obvious self-satisfied smile; and his tiny holes for eyes would shine in the artificial light like two stars in an as yet unknown grand constellation. In a way, Simpson's display of sheer self-adulation puzzled Terry. For such an ordinary-looking man, his strong ego seemed much out of place.

Terry would cringe each time this request was made. It was as though Simpson viewed him as simply an office delivery boy with nothing better to occupy his time. Terry would sigh. Although Garth Simpson was obviously full of his own self-importance, he probably had a right to be. He was the number one reporter, whereas Terry might as well have been the office coffee boy.

Terry had already discussed the likelihood of securing better assignments with the editor of his paper, Jacob Edwards, but Mr. Edwards, as Terry addressed him, was always non-committal. "Just be patient, Terry," he would say. "All things come to those who wait."

Jacob Edwards was a thick-set, balding man in his late forties with a large bushy, black moustache. His thick, dark eyebrows and black wells for eyes made him appear menacing. He was friendly enough with staff, but not one who Terry felt he should take liberties with. Edwards had a reputation as a hard man: a ruthless individual - one who definitely should not be trifled with. Terry felt he had no choice but to do as his editor preached and, indeed, bide his time.

In Terry's opinion, Edwards was simply a buffoon whose progression to editor had been more by sheer luck than any inherent journalistic ability. The only asset that man had brought to the paper was the luxury cruiser he owned and used to wine and dine wealthy advertising moguls in supposed fishing trips outside the Sydney Harbour Heads. Terry imagined the tangled mess of fishing lines of those powerful individuals: it was simply more ammunition for his microcosmic world of discontent. The only lines he was allowed to dangle were a sordid assortment of catch-phrases intended to capture the interest of the most simple of souls, as all his editor was interested in was increasing sales by promoting the writing of proven muck-rakers like Garth Simpson. Terry was left to cover only the most uninteresting of by-lines. He gritted his teeth and sighed, straightened his blue tie and ran his hand through his short, black hair. I don't even like bloody football ... they should have got the sports reporter to do it!

Terry was tall and thin with a slight frame. His skinny physique meant that he was always the last boy to be picked when selections were made for his school's football team and that was the main reason why he never took much interest in sports of any kind. He knew that his best feature, according to his peers, were his piercing blue eyes, though they sometimes escaped the notice of those that mattered. This, he believed, was due to his substantial height.

Young women appeared disconcerted by his stature: he was close to six foot, four inches in the old measurement and he was sure his height was an off-putting trait. He only had to consider how he was still single and had not had a girlfriend in the last two years. These facts fully confirmed his suspicion that his height was at least a contributing factor in his failure to attract the opposite sex. It was simply another matter that had not been fully resolved by his joining of the newspaper. He had dreamed that women would flock to him when he became a fully-fledged reporter but, of course, it was not to be. Why would any woman be remotely interested in me with the trivial rubbish they make me cover? Football tipping competition ... what a load of crap!

The Newtown house of the woman who had won the football tipping competition was unremarkable in everyway. Terry knocked on the front door of the white fibro home and waited. Soon, a short, plump woman with long, black hair answered his knock and invited him inside. She would have been in her late 30's, some ten years older than Terry. She introduced herself as Karen - a fact he already knew from his brief research.

Terry attempted to display enthusiasm: he congratulated Karen on her success in the competition; forced a smile to pretend he was impressed with her ability, and quizzed her on her method of selection. In reality, he felt remarkably under-whelmed by the whole experience.

Terry emitted a gentle laugh from his small mouth. "I wouldn't mind borrowing that pin sometime - it has made you five thousand dollars richer." He was happy that he had snatched that superficial line from his dull memory.

"Yes, it's very good," Karen said. "The money will come in very handy." She bit her top lip and momentarily betrayed, what seemed to Terry, a slight and peculiar expression of guilt. She nervously brushed at her long, dark hair. "I must have been very, very lucky."

An awkward silence now prevailed. While Terry searched for something to say, they were suddenly interrupted by a small girl who danced into the room and, without acknowledging Terry's presence, approached Karen and grabbed her hand.

"That's fine," Terry said. "Take your time. Family comes first." He noticed how the young girl refused to make eye contact with him but the way she bowed her head, as if wishing to hide from his view, she did seem very aware of his presence. It bothered Terry and he was not sure why. For one so young, she seemed like a troubled soul and her nervousness appeared to be infectious. Not used to associating with the offspring of others, Terry attempted to dismiss his concerns as mere unfamiliarity to the ways of children, but he intuitively recognised a mysterious quality within this small child he found more than slightly disconcerting. Her eyes did not seem to belong to her small face and, instead, resembled those of an older adult, and he was irritated by the way she purposely ignored him.

Somewhat to Terry's relief, Karen and her daughter left the room hand-in-hand. He then amused himself by studying photographs that were placed on a wide mantelpiece surrounded by blue wall-paper. He noticed a small photo of Karen's daughter in a pink party dress. Dally, he thought, unusual name for a child ... There was also a photograph of a tall man standing with Karen in front of a long blue lake. Terry wondered if the man was Dally's father and Karen's partner. If the man was Karen's husband, Terry wondered what had become of him. There were none of the usual give-away signs that a man lived in the house.

Ten minutes passed-by before Terry was rejoined by Karen, minus her young daughter. "Sorry about that," Karen said. She smiled and Terry, for the first time, saw how very attractive she was. She had soft brown eyes, a small pretty nose and a finely shaped chin. "Dally is very particular about her dolly," she said. "Her father gave it to her."

Terry took the photograph of Karen in front of her mantelpiece. "You should receive the winner's cheque in the next few days," he told her. He replaced the camera in his shoulder bag. "That will make a lovely photo..." He stretched his back and raised his tall frame. He was almost as tall as the man who stood beside Karen in the photograph on the wide mantelpiece. He noticed how just like the man in front of the blue lake, he towered over the much shorter Karen. "Are you separated from Dally's father?" he asked.

Terry wondered why Karen would be remotely interested in the passing of Simpson's father, but he dismissed the quandary from his mind. "Well," he said. "That's about it. Congratulations again, and it was lovely meeting you and your daughter."

Terry again found Karen's statement to be peculiar. He stopped to view her worried expression. She seemed genuinely concerned and he instinctively placed his arm on her sleeve. He patted her arm reassuringly. "Don't worry, Karen - the police will get him soon."

It was later that day when Terry received the phone call from his sister in Queensland informing him that their father had died. Unbeknown to Terry, the old man had been living with a chronic heart condition for the last two years. Terry had cut-off contact with his father five years previously and the two men had not spoken since. Terry was remorseful that they had not mended their feud before his father died. The old man was now gone forever and the anger they had felt towards each other could now never be resolved.

Terry could not help but immediately think of Karen. She had earlier said she was sorry to hear about his father's death. He pondered over her words. How could she have known? What she had conveyed was probably by mere coincidence, but Terry was not completely sure. He had read about clairvoyants in the past and how the media and the police sometimes sought their help to solve crimes. Could Karen have such powers to see into the future? In his mind, he pictured her small frame strategically perched at a round table, studiously gazing into a crystal ball. He laughed and shook his head. That's a bit unlikely ... she more resembles a jockey. He laughed again and concentrated his thoughts on his father. I should have said I was sorry...

Later that night, Terry awoke in his bed. The large illuminated numbers on his clock-radio told him it was just after two-thirty. He turned his head to see a long, sweeping shadow in the corner of his bedroom and a sudden fear rose within him. He inhaled deeply and quickly wiped his sleepy eyes with his long fingers, but the shadow persisted and so he blinked and opened his eyes wide. He was relieved when the shadow now widened to form just another part of the old fashioned wardrobe in his bedroom, and he smiled to himself with the realisation that nothing was amiss - it was obviously an hallucination caused by his weariness from the events of that day. He tried to return to sleep but found himself wide awake, and so he lit a cigarette and turned on the bedroom television. By chance, he caught a late night news bulletin on the small screen.

The Inner-City Strangler had struck again and, this time - just as Karen had predicted - the killer had murdered a man. The police had already revealed that the latest murder displayed all the signs of being the same work of the individual who had earlier strangled the three women. There were hallmarks from the latest killing that were similar to the other murders - clues to the perpetrator's identity that had not been released to the general public. Also, worryingly for Terry, was that the murdered man had worked in journalism. He had been a junior reporter on a Sydney newspaper and Terry remembered how one of the earlier three female victims was also a journalist and had worked in a similar junior role. He was surprised that his own paper had not highlighted this fact.

Terry rose from his bed and walked towards the bedroom window. The window was open and he lowered his tall frame and manoeuvred his head forward to view the quiet street below. His apartment was on the fifteenth floor and the distance to the black bitumen road seemed frighteningly far away. He shuddered, as he had always detested heights. He withdrew his head and forced the window shut with a new-found consideration that he would actually prefer to be strangled than suffer such a damaging fall.

Karen's prediction had been that a man, not a woman, would be the next victim and Terry was now sure that Karen must have some insight into the future. The knowledge both frightened and excited him. He imagined what his discovery of her gift could do for his future prospects, but he quickly reigned in his racing thoughts: it was still conjecture, an unproven theory; a hypothesis still largely in its infancy.

The next morning, Terry studied Karen's entries in the newspaper's winter football tipping competition. She had only selected two wrong results for the entire season, and those tips were ones which would be best described as extreme long-shots. It was as if she had purposely selected the wrong teams on those two occasions, as if she wished to avoid a 100% record in the competition. Terry scratched his chin. There was more to Karen than met the eye. He was due in Queensland for the next few days to attend his father's funeral, but he considered he would again visit Karen when he returned to Sydney.

The funeral was a sombre affair. Terry renewed his acquaintance with his younger sister, Barbara, and her family, and he met some distant relatives he had not seen for decades. His father had evidently become somewhat reclusive in his final years and had only communicated with Barbara on an occasional basis, and Terry was surprised that the old man had written him into his will as a joint beneficiary with his sister.

Terry wondered if his father knew that death was approaching and, if this was the case, why he had not contacted him. Barbara must have read Terry's thoughts for she presented him with a letter his father had written in the weeks before he died. It was short and succinct, written in a hand that appeared shaky, but of firm intent:

Terry, I find myself leaving this world soon. Be sure to not make the same mistakes I have made in life. Respect those around you - even the fools. Terry, the fools are the ones you should respect the most for they are the ones you should be wary of and always, always fear.

The next week, Terry ventured to Karen's nearby Newtown suburb. Karen's home was much the same as Terry remembered from his previous visit. The familiar photographs remained in their nominated places on the wide mantelpiece, but Terry now noticed how the tall man by Karen's side in the lake photograph wore a wry, knowing smile. It was as if, at the time the photo was taken, he knew he would not live a natural lifespan.

"I brought you the five thousand dollar cheque myself," Terry explained. It was the only excuse he could think to use for his visit. He took an envelope from his coat's breast pocket and presented it to Karen.

For the first time since Terry had arrived, Karen's smile returned. "Dally picked it herself," she said. "It's not her real name - her real name is Susan, but she prefers Dally. It was a knick-name her father used to call her when she was very little...but Bill is dead now."

Karen bowed her head. "Yes, things were a bit tough for a while. Bill was murdered, you see, and they never caught his killer." She nervously brushed her fingers through her long, dark hair. "They never found his body. The police found his car abandoned in a northern forest and they said they were certain that someone had killed him." Traces of tears appeared in her brown eyes. "I miss him, sometimes..." She sighed and placed her fingers firmly around the cup in her hand. "My husband was a journalist, like you, though I'm sure you're in a much more important position than he ever was."

Karen smiled at Terry. "I guess time has to move on, otherwise we would never do anything in life." To Terry, she seemed to study him very closely. "Dally is staying the night at her grandmother's house," she said. "Would you like to stay for dinner?"

Terry accepted Karen's invitation and later that night after they had finished a light meal of pasta, he found himself in her bed. It seemed like a natural progression of events and Terry had never been one to let such an opportunity pass by. They made love, and then lay together in the darkness and shared a cigarette.

A car passed-by in the outside street and its bright headlights briefly illuminated Karen's face. Her eyes were wide and mysterious as she spoke again: "I'm not sure...the strangler is an evil one - his mind is touched and he has no conscience, perhaps he has no soul..." She exhaled deeply. "The next man to be murdered will be someone who you know. That's all I can tell you at the moment."

Terry kissed her on her pretty nose. He hugged her small frame with a hopeful belief that he might somehow protect her from any fears she may harbour for the future, but he knew that his tight embrace of her small body was more a method to ease his own worried conscience. Her warm body which pressed against his chest provided an unfamiliar reassuring feeling, but he could not help but wonder if it would not have been better to have kept their relationship purely platonic. He now knew her to possess a talent he could utilise in many ways for his own benefit, and he considered he should not form too close an attachment with this older woman lest it should interfere with the gift he wished to harness. Another car passed-by in the outside street and its lights now revealed Karen's contented smile. Terry's mind touched upon the great tasks that lay ahead for the next day but, for now, he held Karen in his arms and drifted peacefully into a light sleep.

The next day, Terry arranged an appointment with his editor, Jacob Edwards. He told Edwards that he was dealing with a psychic who could prove helpful in solving the murders and that he would like to submit a small piece on the subject. Edwards was sceptical at first, but eventually relented and allowed Terry to submit a small article to the paper as a colour piece on the investigation. Edwards seemed impressed how Terry's source had predicted how the fourth victim, and all future ones, would be male.

Edwards wanted to know who Terry's source was, but Terry would not divulge Karen's identity. Terry felt he should protect her from the media glare, as well as keep her information for his own purposes. Instead, he told his editor that the clairvoyant was a man who would only agree to be quoted if his real name was not revealed as he held an influential position in the scientific community. Edwards accepted this lie without further question. He agreed for security reasons, but mainly to protect the paper's exclusivity, that the man's identity should remain secret.

Terry believed that Edwards was not the most intelligent man he had ever met in his life but at least in the newspaper business it did not seem to have prevented him from reaching his illustrious position. Terry now saw an opportunity for increasing his own role at the paper and securing more important events to cover. With Karen's talents, anything now seemed possible.

Later that day, Edwards smiled when Terry presented him with his brief submission for the next day's issue. "Not bad, Terry...," Edwards's said, "an interestin' dark portrait of the killer, and your clairvoyant thinks that all the future victims will be men? That should sell a few more papers, eh?" He twirled his thick, black moustache, as if he was already counting the additional sales. "It's my bottom line, Terry. That's what we're talkin' about." Terry noticed a bundle of fishing line on Edward's polished mahogany desk. Business was obviously good if the editor was planning yet another fishing trip in his luxury cruiser.

Edwards explained to Terry his vision for tomorrow's front page which would highlight the clairvoyant angle: Who is the Inner-City Strangler? the piece was to begin. A Clairvoyant's Exclusive Revelations: as told to Terry Fitzgibbon.

Terry neglected to mention what Karen had said about the next victim being known to him. He thought it best to keep this to himself, just in case Karen was mistaken in her belief. He told her utterance to no-one, not even the egocentric figure of Garth Simpson who quickly became aware that Terry had been given a greater role by Jacob Edwards in the reporting of the news of the day.

Garth Simpson seemed more amused than threatened by Terry's long-awaited achievement. He called to Terry with a distinct laugh in his voice: "What's your clairvoyant say about the first two races at the Randwick gallops on Saturday?" He stood by his office door with a wry smile on his thin, angular face. "How about the last race in Melbourne then? Which horse will win that one?" He was clearly enjoying his little joke at Terry's expense, oblivious of the effect it had on the other workers who were now giggling. Their laughter caused Terry to squirm inside. Simpson's tiny pin-pricks for eyes gazed at Terry from their cardboard-like facial structure. The short, balding man then smiled and shook his head, as if Terry would never be a rival to be taken seriously. "Tell him to find me a winner at Eagle Farm in Brisbane if he can do it," Simpson said, "...a forty-to-one shot would be good." He was now appearing to take the joke a little far, as even the other workers began to roll their eyes and lose interest in his monologue.

Terry ignored Garth Simpson's gibes and left the office. As he made his way down Pitt Street, he was stopped by a small, thin man with a scruffy, black beard who asked him for a "spare cigarette." The man wore old-fashioned clothing which was smeared with dirt and grime, and Terry recognised him as one of the many destitute people who called the city home. The man's old coat emitted a stale, musty odour and his trousers were frayed, his shoes worn. Sympathetic to the man's plight, Terry reached into his shirt pocket and produced his cigarette packet. He carefully removed a cigarette and offered it to the homeless man. The man quickly secured the cigarette in his dirty fingers and his hand shook violently as he placed it between his dry, scarred lips. Deep, ugly nicotine stains marked his right thumb and forefinger. It indicated to Terry that the man's usual choice of tobacco was of the roll your own variety.

The man let loose a raspy cough and cleared his throat. "I saw ya comin' out of that newspaper office, and so I thought I should tell ya who I am." He drew heavily on the cigarette and rolled his jaw. His eyes were dark and strange.

The man smiled and revealed several blackened teeth within his mouth. His breath smelled of cheap port. "I'm the inner city strangler, buddy!" he said loudly. He then laughed outrageously. "I'm the one who gets all ya newspapers sold."

"I see," Terry said. The homeless man was obviously more deranged than Terry had previously thought. He was pitiful in the extreme. Terry removed his wallet from his trouser pocket, took out a twenty dollar note and pressed it into the man's hand. He turned to leave, but the man placed a dirty hand on his coat sleeve and spoke again:

Slightly bemused by the encounter, Terry quickly reached his inner-city apartment. Apart from the conversation with the madman, things were definitely looking up. With Karen's gift he would now be able to progress from the mediocrity of covering banal news stories. His first article of real importance would be in tomorrow's broadsheet and that night he drank a bottle of red wine with his dinner to celebrate his pending publishing success.

He slept soundly, but arose from bed the next morning feeling slightly worse for wear. When he purchased his daily paper from the old man in Pitt Street, the paper-seller in his familiar torn, green coat smiled as always. The seller's toothless smile often had the effect of disguising whatever pleasantry was intended but today Terry found its meaning even more confusing.

Terry almost dropped the newspaper on the street. Today's front page had been changed overnight from the one his editor, Jacob Edwards, had previously unveiled. The new headline now read: Star Reporter: Garth Simpson---Latest Victim of the Inner-City Strangler, and there was a small pen portrait of Simpson in the paper's left hand corner. The former number one reporter's pin-prick eyes now stared out from the front page of the broadsheet, his image immortalised forever as the fifth victim of the strangler.

A yelling noise in the distance distracted Terry and so he turned to see its origin. He saw the small, thin homeless man he had encountered the day before. The man was staggering down the walkway with a bottle of alcohol in his hand. He was yelling at the top of his gravelly voice:

Terry paused briefly to wonder if the twenty dollars he had given the homeless man had bought anything more than alcohol, such as the almost empty bottle of port the man now waved in his hand. The old paper-seller behind his stand watched the homeless man with interest. He smiled and winked at Terry, opened his toothless mouth and spoke again:

Terry rushed to his building to see Edwards but he found that his editor was locked in his office with a number of police detectives. The office gossip confirmed that Simpson had been strangled on his way home from work the previous evening. It had now become apparent that all of the strangler's victims had, at one time or another, worked for newspaper publications. Two hours later the detectives departed and Terry was granted an audience with his editor.

"Terrible business!" Edwards said. He brushed frantically at his bushy, black moustache. "I'm in the process of organising around-the-clock protection for all of our employees. The police have been very co-operative."

Terry sighed. He explained how his clairvoyant source had said that the latest victim would be someone that he knew. Edward's raised his thick, dark eyebrows and scrutinised Terry with his large, black eyes. Terry wondered if Edwards, like him, now feared for his own safety but, as usual, his editor's priority seemed to be his beloved newspaper.

It was not exactly how Terry had envisioned he would move up the ladder of opportunity, but with Simpson's sudden passing he could clearly see that his own career was now set to take flight. He rang Karen to arrange a time he could come over and she said that the following night would be fine. She said that Dally would be at home but perhaps it might be a good idea if Terry got to know her better. Terry did not understand Karen's reasoning, but did not consider himself in a position to object. As long as the little girl goes to bed in good time it should be ok...He consoled himself with this thought.

As promised by his editor, a police patrol car was situated outside Terry's block of apartments when he returned home, but he did not sleep at all well that night. Strange images raced through his mind: images of Karen and her peculiar daughter; the tall man in the photograph in front of the blue lake; and the dead Garth Simpson. In his restless dreams, Jacob Edwards was insisting Terry write pages of reports on how Simpson would have felt as he faced his very last moments on Earth:

The drunken, homeless man wandered through Terry's dreams accompanied by the old paper-seller in his torn, green coat. The paper-seller smiled and revealed his missing teeth. "I'm the inner-city strangler!" the homeless madman yelled, while the paper-seller laughed loudly and tore his prized newspapers to shreds.

The morning sunlight which poured through his bedroom window revealed that Terry had over-slept. He knew he should arise immediately and prepare for work, but a stronger inclination kept him where he was. He was thinking of his father. What was it his father had written in his final letter? What was the wisdom that old man had bequeathed him? He quickly remembered his father's exact words:

Dally, head bowed, slowly entered the room. She stayed close to the open doorway and shuffled her bare feet, as if reluctant to enter the room proper. Terry sat next to Karen on the brown leather couch, a cup of fresh tea in his hand.

"It's really ok, Karen," Terry interrupted. "Dally doesn't have to meet me if she doesn't want to." He could not see the point of this exercise and was simply anxious to gather more information on the murders from Karen. He feared that Karen may view him as a possible replacement for her dead husband and that thought filled him with slight trepidation. Although he was now fond of Karen, he was not sure if he was ready to be a father to such a strange little girl. His concerns were laid to rest, however, and the prospect of acquiring Dally as his daughter made very attractive, when Karen's spoke again:

"Oh, but you should talk to Dally, Terry." Karen smiled and her brown eyes shined in the lounge room light. "You see, she is the one who tells me the things that are going to happen." Karen's smile now beamed. "Her father used to say that she had a celestial blessing." Karen ran her fingers through her dark hair. "Sublime, was what Bill used to call it. Dally was the one who picked my winning football teams." Karen gave Terry a quick wink. "I actually picked two results wrong on purpose, so it wouldn't look like I was some kind of freak."

Karen smirked and silently nodded her head and, as Dally shuffled her small bare feet by the open doorway, Terry now smiled in Dally's direction and spoke in a soft, friendly tone: "Will you tell me what's going to happen, Dally?"

Dally again lowered her eyes to the floor. She shook her head, as if trying to convince herself that she would not have to speak to Terry if she did not want to. It appeared, though, that even as she resisted the urge she could not prevent the words eventually spilling from her young mouth. She slowly raised her small head and stared at Terry and, as she did finally speak, her eyes lifted frighteningly into the back of her head and exposed the white tissue which surrounded them.

"You're number six, Terry," she said. "Number six!" she repeated loudly. "You'll be the last one to die! My daddy told me, and my daddy is always right." With that, she turned and ran from the room and left behind her mother and Terry in an air of stunned silence.

Terry froze in shock. In the corner of his eye, he could see Karen beside him on the couch, gently weeping into her hands. Terry gasped for breath. In his opinion, there was nothing sublime about the future Dally had just predicted.

Terry almost ran from the house in his haste to leave. Karen pleaded for him to stay, but he ignored her words. He believed he would be safer in his own apartment: at least that residence would be patrolled by the police.

When he arrived home, he was reassured by the patrol car which was parked in his street. He considered waving to the officers in the car, but controlled his emotions and instead took the elevator to his apartment. He decided he would approach his editor first thing in the morning to request further protection - under the current circumstances surely Jacob Edwards would not deny him that. He had visions of staying awake all night - anything to avoid the fate the frightening child, Dally, had promised, but around two o'clock in the morning he inadvertently fell asleep on top of his bed.

With his sleep, came awful nightmares: the tall man in the photograph on Karen's mantelpiece was very much alive and was chasing him down a blind alley, armed with a length of rope. Terry felt sure the tall man in his dream, taller than he and of much greater build, wanted to kill him. He had recently slept with that man's wife and he was now the subject of that huge man's terrible revenge. The man swung the rope about his wide shoulders and called for Terry to stop, and it was only when the alleyway ended in a solid, red brick wall that Terry awoke in a deep sweat. He now thought he heard a noise coming from outside his building and so he pushed his tall, thin frame from the bed and nervously approached the bedroom window. He unlatched the window and forced it open with a bang.

The first thing that grabbed his attention was the absence of the police car far below in the outside street. His heart began to beat rapidly and his mind raced as to what he should do next. The sheer distance to the road caused him to feel faint and, before he could further consider his options, he felt the presence of someone behind him in the bedroom.

He hardly had time to react when what appeared to be a thick, plastic line was dropped over his head and pulled tightly around his neck. Only the instinctive movement of his right index finger to his breast bone prevented the line from choking him immediately. Terry coughed as the line dug deeply into his flesh. He attempted to swing his left arm behind him to dislodge his attacker, but that person raised his knee into Terry's back and almost caused him to topple out the open window. Terry saw the black bitumen road far below him and attempted to scream.

The person who aimed to end his life now spoke in a whispered, guttural tone: "What we need is more people buying newspapers, not more clowns writing them!" The voice was all too familiar: "It's my bottom line, Terry. That's what we're talkin' about..."

Terry began to lose consciousness. He choked and felt his long legs buckle beneath him and he slowly collapsed to the floor. It was at that precise moment that Terry felt another presence in his bedroom. His attacker, too, seemed to notice the intruder, as he momentarily loosened his grip on the line around Terry's neck. As Terry's assailant turned to investigate, Terry sensed his opportunity and made one final lunge with his left arm and leg. The man who was attempting to strangle him suddenly lunged forward over Terry's collapsing body. As his attacker's body passed over him and disappeared head-first through the bedroom window, Terry blinked his eyes and grabbed for his injured neck. In his dazed state, he then heard the resulting dull thud as the body of the inner-city strangler - the psychopath he had worked for, Jacob Edwards, hit the black bitumen road.

Terry coughed as he pulled away the thick fishing line from around his neck. He was surprised how he had managed to muster such inordinate strength to spare his life. The room began to spin around him and, before Terry completely lost consciousness, he saw a tall, glowing figure in the hazy light from the outside street. He recognized a familiar face he had seen in a photograph in front of a large blue lake, and the shining apparition of that tall man now stood before him, raised his long arm and spoke in a soft, rumbling tone: