(1989) Dreamer (22 page)

Sam looked at him, and saw him almost fuming with rage. Clive, that was his name.

‘He started making love to me, but he wasn’t satisfying me, so I told him he’d have to go to the back of the queue and try again later. Then this young boy from the office came in, and told me he’d been fancying me like mad for months and he really wanted to be my toyboy.’

The dream seemed to go on interminably. The young boy from her office. Robert Redford. Prince Philip. Jack Nicholson. John McEnroe. Paul Hogan, Richard Gere. All, it seemed, had desired her secretly for much of their lives. All had been unable to satisfy her.

Finally, everyone was standing up. The two hours had passed. Sam had resonated well, she was told. ‘Do you think you’re more in touch with your feelings?’ Tanya asked her.

‘Yes, I think so,’ she said dubiously.

Everyone was embarrassed about handing over their money, and it changed hands quickly, silently, almost shadily, like contraband, as if acknowledgement would somehow debase what they were going through.

‘So you’re going to come next week, Sam?’ Tanya asked.

Barry still lay on the floor in his black karate suit,
with his eyes closed. He raised his right arm. ‘Bye. Good meeting you.’

She wondered if he had ever once opened his eyes to look at her, and whether he would recognise her again.

‘Yes,’ Sam said.

‘You keep a lot inside you, don’t you?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘We’ll have to get it out,’ Tanya said. ‘It’s going to take a long time. Just don’t get sidetracked into those premonitions, Sam. We don’t dream the future—’ She tapped her head through her frizz of hair. ‘But we make connections. We meet our monsters. Forget the manifest, Sam. You’ve got to connect with your deep psyche.’

‘I’d like to believe you,’ Sam said.

‘You will, you’ll believe me.’

She walked out and up the basement steps, with her thoughts a churning vortex. Reassurance. It felt good to be reassured, to be told the answers. Schoolteachers told you the answers, too. They knew the answers to many things.

But not always the ones that mattered.

You have to meet your monster, Sam
.

Kill the dragon. Kill him dead.

She went outside into the dark night.

Went out to her monster.

The night seemed mild, more like summer than early February, and the group dispersed silently into it, with scarcely a ‘good bye’. She looked up at the sky, as she climbed into the Jaguar. The branches of the trees were like cardboard cut-out silhouettes against the brightness of the full moon.

She turned the ignition key, listened to the tick of the fuel pump, then pushed the starter. The engine turned over, then died. She pushed the choke lever up and tried again, keeping the starter button pushed hard in, listening to the churning of the engine, the hiss of the air intakes, the whine of the starter motor.

She took her hand off the button, and the noise faded away. There was the clicking of a ratchet, then silence. She slid the choke down to halfway, then tried again. Still nothing. She looked at the clock.

Quarter to ten.

She switched the ignition off, switched it back on and tried again. Again the engine turned over lifelessly.

‘Come on, don’t do this to me. I’ve got an early start.’

She sat, and blinked hard. She felt completely drained and a little foolish. Christ, what had she said? What had made her blurt all that out? To total strangers. To a bunch of loonies. What had they thought of her? Who cared? Probably more than they had thought of Sadie and her drivelling fantasies.

She tried again and kept on trying until she heard the battery beginning to die, and then she stopped, and looked at the clock again. If she phoned the RAC how long would they take? she wondered. An hour at least. Possibly two or three. She had a breakfast meeting at quarter to eight in the morning, and did not want to arrive shattered. The car was OK here, safe. She could send Drummond up to sort it out in the morning.

She shivered, and did not know why.

She locked the car and as she did so she heard the squeal of tyres and the roar of an engine. She looked up and saw a car hurtling down the street, its lights on full beam, making straight towards her.

Like in the dream, she thought, panicking, running
around the back of the Jaguar onto the kerb, watching the car thunder past.

Like in the bloody dream.

She shivered again.

We don’t dream the future . . . but we make connections. We meet our monsters. Forget the manifest, Sam. You’ve got to connect with your deep psyche
.

She walked down the street, feeling nervous of the shadows of the trees, like dark pools of blood, and afraid of the brilliant light of the moon in the open that lit her up, exposing her like a startled rabbit caught in a car’s headlamps.

The dream. It was all like the dream.

As she crossed the next pool of light, it faded suddenly, as if it had been extinguished. There was a patter, like tiny feet, then a splodge of cold water hit her forehead.

Rain. She felt relieved. It had not rained in this part of the dream.

The downpour followed quickly, within seconds, and she wondered whether to run back to the car and get her umbrella. But she was only a short distance from the High Street, and saw a taxi cross in front of her.

‘Taxi!’ she shouted and ran, but it had gone by the time she got there. She stood there as the rain became even heavier, drenching her, staring at the blurring headlights, tail lights, searching for a yellow ‘For Hire’ sign.

Another taxi rattled past, its tyres sluicing, shadows of people huddled in the back, then another, also taken. She felt her hair plastering down on her forehead and her coat becoming heavy from the water. Some way up the hill she saw the tube sign. For a moment she hesitated, gazed down the street and then up at the lines of lights. No taxis.

It wasn’t raining in the dream.

You’ll be OK.

No, Sam. No.

Oh shit.

You have to meet your monster
.

Dream. It was just a dream.

It’s much easier to put them down as premonitions than to face their real truths
.

Vagina. I’m getting a vagina
.

You mean she’s going back into her mother’s womb?

Of course. Didn’t everybody?

Maybe they did.

She ran towards the tube station, then stopped. Don’t be so bloody stupid.

Scaredy cat! Scaredy cat! Scaredy cat!

Me?

Scaredy cat! Scaredy cat! Scaredy cat!

Actually, I don’t take tubes any more – well – you know, muggers and all that. Richard doesn’t like it.

Scaredy cat!

She ran on again, towards the sign.

You’re not going to go down there, Sam!

Oh yes I am.

Oh no you’re not!

Oh yes I am.

Oh no you’re not!

Oh piss off.

She ran inside, past several people huddling in the entrance, into the chill dry smell of dust and staleness, and stared around at the ticket machines.

Out of order. Out of order
. The third one seemed to be working and she opened her bag, pulled out her purse, then hesitated, trying to find Wapping on the list of stations, but could not.

She walked over to the ticket office, trembling, wondering if the same woman from her dream was going to
be sitting there. She felt relieved when she saw a young man, with a heavy beard.

‘Single to Wapping, please.’

‘The lifts aren’t working,’ he said, raising his eyebrows.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The lifts. We’ve got a problem with the power.’

‘I can walk.’

He frowned. ‘Have you been here before?’

‘No.’

‘It’s a long way down.’

She felt a prickle of anxiety. ‘I—’ She paused. ‘I don’t mind.’

He shrugged. ‘Ninety pence. Turn right.’ He pointed with his hand.

She took the ticket, and walked through the unattended barrier. There was a sign at the head of the stairs.

THE LIFT SHAFT AT THIS STATION IS THE DEEPEST IN LONDON. 300 STEPS. USE ONLY IN EMERGENCY.

The grimy tiled walls were familiar, like the walls of a public lavatory; like the walls in the dream. She stared at the steel-cased shaft in the middle of the staircase exactly as she had seen it in her dream.

Christ, how the hell did I dream this so accurately?

Maybe I’ve been here before? A long time ago?

Must have been.

She was shaking.

Relax! This is a tube station. Everyone uses the tube.

She listened, hoping some more people would come so they could walk down together. There were brisk footsteps, and two men, deep in conversation started down the staircase. She heard more footsteps behind and the chatter of foreign students. A huge crowd of them, Italian, stylish careless, chattering excitedly,
laughing, energy, enthusiasm. Life. She started walking down with them, hurrying, to stay in their midst, not to be left behind on her own.

They were halfway down when she felt something snap, and her handbag fell to the ground. It bounced and rolled over down several steps; her Filofax fell out, and burst open, scattering paper all around.

Shit.

She knelt down, as the students stepped carefully through everything, without the pitch of their chatter altering. She crammed the sheaves of paper back untidily, hurrying, feeling foolish, then looked at the broken strap of her handbag. A rivet had sheared. Then she became aware of the silence. She was shivering from her soaking clothes, from the draught, and from fear, she realised, stuffing the Filofax back into her bag. The chatter of the students had already faded, and she was alone. Turn around, she thought, turn around and go back up.

She looked up and then down. Each was as dark and silent and menacing as the other.

You have to meet your monster
.

Was this what Tanya Jacobson meant?

Here?

She stood and listened and the chatter of the Italians was gone completely.

Calm, Sam. Calm. Just go on down. You’ll be fine.

She tucked her bag under her arm, took one step down, then another and heard the sharp echo of the shuffle of her feet.

It wasn’t raining in the dream.

The ticket collector was a woman in the dream.

Dream. Just a dream. That’s all.

She began, slowly, to walk down further, until she had completed one spiral and then another. Deep below her she heard the faint rumble of a train.

In the dream there hadn’t been any other people. There were plenty of people around tonight, surely there were? She walked down further, tiptoeing, trying to walk silently so there was no echo, so that no one could hear, so that if he was there waiting then – Christ, she thought, her coat was rustling, her handbag rubbing against it. She stopped again and listened. There was another faint rumble, then silence. How many steps now? How far had she come? She felt the back of her neck prickle. Someone had crept down after her. Someone was standing behind her.

She spun round.

No one.

She felt her heart beating, beating so loudly she could almost hear it. Come on, Sam. Meet your monster. Meet your monster.

And what the hell did you do when you met him?

Hit him with your bag and try to out-run him? Outrun him to where? To an empty platform?

She stood and stared fearfully back up the steps, then continued on down, slowly, trying to be silent, and knowing she wasn’t.

I must be nearly at the bottom, she thought. How many steps? Three hundred. She walked down some more, counting. Five. Six. Seven. God it was a long process. She could not even be halfway down yet, she calculated.

Then she froze.

Right beneath her, only yards away, she heard the shuffle of a foot.

She listened again, motionless.

Someone was standing below her, breathing heavily, panting.

She heard the scrape of a foot again.

Yards away.

Then she saw the shadow on the wall.

Stationary. Moving very slightly.

Someone standing very still, trying not to be seen.

Someone waiting for her.

The grimy walls seemed to be closing in around her. She felt ice cold water running through her.

Then the shadow began to rise up the stairs towards her, swiftly, determined. It grew larger, darker.

She heard footsteps, like drum beats. And a man grunting.

Grunting like a pig.

She turned and ran, tripping.

No. Help me. For Christ’s sake help me.

She stumbled and fell, bashed her knee, picked herself up, threw herself up more steps, grabbed the handrail, pulled herself on up.

She bounced off the wall on her right, then stumbled across, her shoulder crashing painfully into the rail on her left. Her lungs were searing, but she ran on, hearing breathing behind her, footsteps behind her, the grunting, the shadow chasing her own, touching it then falling back.

Then she was at the top and running, out through the barrier, through the people sheltering in the entrance and out into the pelting rain and the lights of the street.

She leaned against the wall, gasping for breath, swallowing deep gulps of air, feeling her heart crashing inside her chest. She doubled up in agony as a stitch gripped her stomach, and stayed there shaking as the rain washed the perspiration from her face.

She pulled off her gloves, and let the rain cool her hands, staring up at it thankfully.

She stayed a long time, until she had become little more than part of the furniture of the street; invisible; just a huddled thing, another of the derelicts of any big city you stepped past a bit faster and made sure you did
not look at. She limped down the street, her ankle hurting like hell, towards a telephone booth she could see in the distance.

She thumbed through the book, and found the number of the RAC.

‘May I have your membership number?’ the girl said tartly.

‘My card’s in the car. We have a company membership. Ken Shepperd Productions.’

She hung on for a long time before the girl came back. When she did she sounded surly, disbelieving, reluctant. ‘If you wait with your car, we’ll get someone there when we can.’