(1989) Dreamer (23 page)

‘How long will that be?’

‘At least an hour. We have a lot of call-outs at the moment.’

She climbed wearily back into the Jaguar, locked the doors, and sat gazing blankly ahead. She closed her eyes, her brain churning, wondering whether she had imagined it. She saw the shadow moving, heard the shuffle of feet, the breathing, the grunting, the shadow following her up the steps. She shuddered and stared fearfully out of the window, at the dark, and switched on the radio.

She snapped it off again almost immediately, afraid suddenly of not being able to hear the sounds outside, and sat and waited in silence, thinking about the dream group and about Bamford and about the shadow that had come up the steps towards her.

And if Bamford was right? And Tanya Jacobson?

If the shadow had been in her own mind?

If. If. They probably were right.

Damn them.

Nutty as a fruitcake, old boy.

My wife?

Sam?

Got a brick missing from the load, I’m afraid.

The rattle of an engine startled her; she felt the beam of a spotlight, and saw the breakdown truck pulled up alongside her. The driver waved, and she raised her hand in acknowledgement. She unlocked the door, with a stiff, frozen hand, and climbed out. The rain had stopped, but the air felt cold.

‘Won’t start?’ said the man. Young, chirpy.

‘No.’

‘Nice car. Ought to be in a museum.’

‘It’s been very reliable.’

‘It’s the electrics in these old Jags. They ought to be rewired – complete new loom – that’s usually the problem.’ He slipped into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition and pushed the starter motor.

The engine fired immediately. He revved it several times whilst she stood, in numb disbelief in a cloud of thick, oily exhaust. He revved it again, hard, too hard, she thought, but beyond caring, then he stuck his head out. ‘You probably flooded it. Sounds fine. Very sweet.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘No. I didn’t flood it.’

He shrugged.

‘There’s another reason,’ she said.

‘Loose connection?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

The RAC man frowned. ‘Temperamental, is she?’

‘Temperamental,’ she echoed, looking away. Somewhere in a room above them she heard a faint tinkle of laughter, then a man’s voice, raucous, and another tinkle of laughter. She heard the clicking of a bicycle, and the creak of brakes, and saw an elegantly dressed woman dismount, and carry the bicycle up the steps of number 54.

‘Can I have your card, and I’ll just get your signature.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been bothered.’

He ducked into his cab and pulled out a clipboard. ‘Probably flooded. Happens all the time. What’s this got? Triple SUs?’

‘Pardon?’

‘SU carbs?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Flooded, most likely.’

She pulled the card out of the glove locker and handed it to him. It would have been easy to have agreed with him. Yes, I flooded it. How silly of me. But it hadn’t been that. Nor a loose connection.

It hadn’t been anything that a mechanic could have dealt with.

It was after midnight when she arrived home, and the hall was in darkness. She closed the front door quietly and took off her soaking wet coat. She could see a dim pool of light through in the living area, and walked down the corridor.

Richard was hunched over his desk, in front of his Reuters screen, whisky tumbler and bottle of Teacher’s beside him. He turned his head.

‘Look wet,’ he slurred.

And you looked smashed out of your brains. ‘It’s pelting.’ She walked over and kissed his cheek. ‘Still working?’

‘Andreas said there was going to be some action tonight. Reckoned there could be some big movements.’

He blearily rubbed his nose, poured out another four fingers, then tapped his keyboard and leaned forward as
if trying to focus on the screen. He frowned at the changing figures. ‘Where’ve been?’

‘Oh – we’ve got a problem over a shoot. Fish fingers – Superfingers – the client wants it done on location in the Arctic, and we’re trying to persuade them to do it here in a studio.’ She was glad he wasn’t looking at her; she had never been good at lying. ‘Then the car wouldn’t start.’

‘Bloody ridiculous car to poddle round London in. I tell you, that bloke Ken’s got a serious ego problem.’

‘It’s nothing to do with ego. He likes old cars; they’re a good investment and a good image.’

‘Especially when they break down in the middle of the night.’ He frowned again at the screen.

She stared out of the window, watching the rain sheeting down onto the dark silhouettes of the restless lighters and the black water of the river. At least the aggression had gone, that strange violent temper he’d arrived home with when he’d ripped her bra. Her slap seemed to have done something and he’d been calm since; testy, but calm.

‘Jon Goff rang. They’ve got some theatre tickets for Thursday, to see some new Ayckbourn thing.’

‘Damn, I want to see that. Can’t, Thursday. That’s the night I have to go to Leeds. We’ve got a presentation on Friday morning.’

He squinted at some figures, then checked something on a pad on his desk. ‘Jesus!’ he shouted at the screen, his voice an agonised roar. ‘You can’t fucking do that! How can you?’ He crashed his fist down on his desk. ‘How can you fucking do that?’

‘Ssh,’ Sam said. ‘You don’t have to shout like that. Nicky—’

‘Fuck Nicky. Jesus Christ. What’s the Market fucking doing? Andreas never gets it wrong! What do they think
they’re playing at? Tokyo told me they thought New York looked cheap.’ He glared belligerently at the screen cluttered with endless rows of figures and the strange names and symbols. Jargon. Language. A language that was as alien to her as the language of the dream group would have been to him.

She stayed, standing silently behind him for several minutes, watching as he drank more, tapped in more commands, cursed some more. He seemed to have forgotten she was there, seemed oblivious to anything outside of the small screen with its green symbols.

She left him and went to undress, and lay in bed for a long time, with the light on, thinking. Thinking about Richard and what was troubling him and wishing they could talk more openly, wishing she could tell him about her dreams without him sneering and wishing he could tell her what was wrong. She thought about Bamford O’Connell, about the dream group. She churned through the air disaster, the shooting, going down the steps of Hampstead tube station. She looked at the clock. 0215. Richard still had not come to bed.

Bamford O’Connell and Tanya Jacobson had now both said the same thing.

In my mind.

What had been coming up the tube station stairs? Her own imagination?

She heard the click of the shower door, then the sound of running water. Odd, she thought dimly. Odd Richard having a shower before he came to bed. She thought again of the steps and the shadow, thought about it for the hundred millionth time.

Nothing. There was nothing. Why the hell didn’t I go on down?

Meet your monster

Not me. I’m scared.

Scaredy cat, scaredy cat!

‘Bye, Bugs.’

She smelt the minty toothpaste, and felt his kiss. She sat up with a start. ‘What’s the time?’

‘Twenty-five past six. I’m late.’

‘It’s morning?’

Richard’s eyes were bloodshot, and his face was pasty white. Hers probably was too.

‘I’m playing squash tonight.’

‘Will you want supper?’

‘Yah – be in about nine.’

‘OK.’

The door closed.

Morning. She hadn’t dreamed. Had she slept? She slid out of bed feeling strangely alert, fresh. Must be a good biorhythm day. I feel great. Terrific. I’m resonating.

It’s going to take you time to resonate, Sam
.

Wow, Sam, you really resonated well
.

I did?

Resonate, she thought as the hard droplets of water of the shower stung her face, and the soap stung her eyes. Resonate! She smiled. She felt light, carefree, as if a weight had been lifted from her. Watch out, Slider, I’m resonating. I’m going to get you, you horrible slit-eyed creep.

She dressed and went into the hallway. Helen came out of her room in her dressing gown. ‘Good morning, Mrs Curtis. You’re off early today.’

‘Yes, I’ve got a breakfast meeting. What’s Nicky got on at school?’

‘An outing. They’re going to London Zoo.’

Sam walked through into Nicky’s room. He was just beginning to wake up, and she kissed him lightly on the forehead. ‘See you this evening, Tiger.’

He looked up at her dozily, a sad expression on his face. ‘Why are you going now, Mummy?’

‘Mummy has to go in early today.’ She felt a twinge of guilt. What was he feeling? she wondered. Unwanted? A nuisance? Someone in the way of her career? Bamford O’Connell’s words flashed at her.

You gave up your career for Nicky . . . Maybe you feel anger at him. Maybe deep in your subconscious you feel that if you didn’t have him around—?

She stared down at Nicky, reluctant to leave him, wanting to hug him, wanting to take him to the zoo herself, to show him the giraffes and love him. Wanting him never to feel for one instant the way she had felt throughout most of her childhood. ‘See you this evening,’ she said, turning reluctantly.

‘Will you be late tonight, Mummy?’

‘No.’

‘Promise?’

She laughed. ‘I promise.’

‘You didn’t tell me a story last night.’

‘Mummy was a little late last night.’

‘Will you tell me one tonight?’

‘Yes.’

‘About the dragon? Will you tell me that one again?’

She smiled and nodded, stroked his hair, kissed him again, then went out and down the hallway and put on her coat, which was damp.

It was still fairly dark outside, made worse by a swirling mist that was thick with drizzle. A glum paperboy in a sou’wester was standing in front of the mail boxes, sifting through the papers.

‘Flat Eleven,’ Sam said. ‘Have you got them?’

The lenses of his glasses were running with water. He peered helplessly through them.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, and hurried to her car.

*

Her energy faded fast, and by the time she got to the office after her meeting she felt tired and sticky; grungy. The hotel dining room had been hot, stuffy. Everyone had sat drinking too much coffee, crunching toast, bleary-eyed, surrounded by the smells of aftershave, fried eggs and kippers. What the hell had the meeting been about? Nothing, that was what it had been about. The suits at Mcphersons wanted Ken to understand the importance of this commercial, the significance of being invited to Leeds to make the presentation. Earnest, serious hellos. Positive handshakes. This wasn’t going to be no ordinary commercial. No, sir. The coming of Christ was an insignificant blot in the annals of time compared to the new Coming. The Dawning of A Great New Era. CASTAWAY. The first Personal Nourishment System. The Twenty-first Century Food. Food that Resonates.

The ashtray was filled with fresh, lipsticky butts, and the smoke haze was thick. Claire was hammering on her typewriter, head bent low in concentration.

‘Morning, Claire.’

Claire lifted her hand a few inches in acknowledgement and carried on her frenetic typing.

‘What are you typing?’

‘I’m just doing this for Ken,’ she said, almost furtively.

‘What is it?’ said Sam, getting increasingly infuriated.

‘They don’t want the giraffes.’

‘What?’ Sam opened the window and breathed in a lungful of wet Covent Garden mist.

‘They’re cancelling.’

‘The whole shoot?’ Sam said, alarmed.

‘No. They’ve decided to use pantomime giraffes. They’re worried about the animal rights people.’

‘Booze, cigarettes, animal rights, exploiting women . . . for God’s sake, we’re not going to be able to make commercials about anything.’ Sam sat down at her desk and slit open the top letter. It was informing her of an increase in lab charges.

Claire shook a cigarette out of the pack and looked slyly at Sam. ‘Horrible, that thing on the news. Did you hear it?’

‘What thing?’ said Sam absently, concentrating on the letter.

‘That poor woman.’

‘Woman?’

‘Last night. The one who was murdered.’

She read the first paragraph again, irritated by Claire’s chatter, trying to calculate the true cost of the increase.

‘It was on the radio this morning. Hampstead tube station.’

Sam looked up with a start. ‘What, Claire? What are you talking about?’

‘Last night. A woman was raped and murdered at Hampstead tube station. It was on the news this morning. Makes you wonder where you’re safe, doesn’t it?’

The room seemed to be dissolving around her. She felt her legs shaking and a sharp acidic sensation in her throat.

Claire began typing again.

‘Hampstead, did you say? Hampstead tube?’

Claire did not seem to hear her.

‘Jesus.’ She looked at her watch. It was twenty past eleven. She went outside, across to the news vendor and stood by his stand in the driving rain with no coat on as the first edition of the
Standard
was dumped by the delivery van, and the vendor untied the string, slowly, agonisingly slowly.

She read the headlines again, then again, stared at each word of the bold black type in turn, as if she was afraid to read on, as if by reading on it might all suddenly come true and she would find she was the girl who had been—

RAPED AND MURDERED ON THE UNDERGROUND.

Oh Christ.

Oh sweet Jesus, no.

She was only dimly aware of the world that was continuing around her. A taxi dropped someone off. Two people hurried past under an umbrella. A van was unloading parcels.

Then she saw the photograph underneath.

Saw the woman’s face smiling out at her, as if she was smiling at her and no one else. As if there was a secret understanding in that smile.

She reeled sideways, crashed into the vendor who smelled like a damp sack, apologised, held onto the news stand and stared again, numb with shock, at the photograph.

Please, no. Please let this be a dream.