The Sight

'I don't believe in you Mr Whittard.'
'And yet here I am.' Alan Whittard spread his arms expansively.'
'Yes, how very droll.' James Penson regarded him owlishly.

The pair sat facing each other on a pair of tatty leather armchairs in Whittard's home. Penson having arranged the interview some weeks earlier was still surprised that his approach had been accepted. Whittard was notorious for shunning publicity. This in Penson's eyes only exacerbated his ill opinion of the man. Blatantly the man was a fraud and Penson fully expected to debunk him in print. It was only fair however, to grant the man an opportunity to put his side of the story forward. Inwardly Penson snorted. In all the assignments he had been given he had not failed yet.

His assignment? To debunk the paranormal healing powers of the "Great" Alan Whittard.

'What I don't believe in Mr Whittard, is your alleged ability to heal people.'
'And animals.' Whittard responded with an jokey smile. 'Don't forget the animals.'
'Animals. Yes, well. I am not here to talk about animals. You claim to be able to heal people just by touching them.'
'That's not strictly true Mr Penson. May I call you Alan?'

Penson leaned back and steepled his hands under his chin. He found himself annoyed. Annoyed by Whittard's easy manner and damn it. His likeability. He was sure that it was all a sham but damn he wished the man was more like the charlatans he was used to exposing. All bluff and bluster degenerating into faux rage when challenged on their psychic or other abilities.

'By all means call me Alan yes. However to get back to what I am saying. Do you confirm that you present yourself as a healer. A man who can, I quote. "Heal your maladies. Rid you of your pains and remove the devils that beset you." Does that sound familiar? It should, its from your website.'

Penson said this last quite triumphantly, as if by quoting the man's website to him he would force a confession.

'Yes Alan. That is familiar to me, as it should be. I spent some time crafting those sentences. Considering very carefully the nuances of that last sentence.'
'The last sentence.' Penson stated flatly. 'And what significance the last sentence? I mean, you don't presume to make a mock of me by actually saying you are being literal here?'

Whittard looked at Penson. A small smile playing over his lips. He narrowed his eyes slightly and cocked his head to the side.

'Does your shoulder pain you Alan? It looks painful. I presume it has troubled you for some time?'

Penson shot Whittard a hostile stare.

'Do not presume to pull your cheap conjuring tricks on me Mr Whittard. I am no gullible client. Foolish enough to be parted with their money.

Truthfully Penson was slightly unnerved. He did have a painful shoulder. Irritatingly so for a number of years. How on earth had Whittard found out about it? Damn it again. He must have quite the research network.

'Alan, may I correct you in one respect?' Whittard leaned over the small scuffed round table before them. 'I never charge my clients a thing.' He settled back again. 'Not a silver penny.'

Whittard's gaze was firmly fixed at a point just above Penson's right shoulder. Penson dipped his head in an attempt to get the man to look him in the eye.

'Well, regardless of cost, these claims you make are quite frankly preposterous. Have you any real proof? Proof other than the less than veracious success stories that adorn your site?'

At this Whittard smiled. His eyes snapping back from Penson's shoulder.

'Proof. Proof? Well of course. Why what better proof could I offer you than your very own healing!' Whittard leapt to his feet. 'If you will permit me of course?'
'Permit you, damn it man. I will do no such th... Ouch. What the hell?'

Penson flinched back as Whittard poked the empty air above his shoulder. Damn, but that actually hurt. What the hell kind of trickery was this?

Whittard's easy demeanour had gone now as he stared at the thing on Penson's shoulder. To him it resembled a large, fat grey slug. Of course, Penson couldn't see it. He didn't have the sight. No matter. Quickly he shot his hands forward and snapped them on the slug-like thing.

Slowly he squeezed his hands together, knuckles whitening under the pressure. Penson stared in outraged disbelief at the mime performance going on above his shoulder.

With a jerk Whittard lurched back still squeezing the thing between his hands. It thrashed about feebly and then was still. Penson gazed on, bafflement warring with disbelief at the show he had just witnessed. He prepared to launch a tirade at Whittard and then stopped himself.

His shoulder. It didn't hurt. Not at all. For years a dull ache had been his constant companion and now it was gone?

'What the blazes is going on here?' Was all he could sputter.

'You had a small creature feeding on you. You are lucky it was small.' Whittard's face was drawn and strained. Gone was the jocular relaxedness of earlier.

Penson watched him mime putting something on the floor beside the table.

'I must ask you to leave now.' Whittard sank back into his chair. 'These actions take something out of me I am afraid. If you don't mind?'

As if at an unseen signal Whittard's housekeeper came bustling into the room and took Penson's arm. He mumbled feebly about not being sure about all of this as he was hurriedly escorted out.

Whittard gazed down at the dead thing on the floor. Another one down. Another thing that only he could see.

He raised a foot and stamped down hard. Just to be sure.