The Chaos

  I thought the nightmares might stop when the baby was born. They started when she did, the first ones weeks before I even knew I’d fallen pregnant. She brought them to me somehow, and I thought that they might be hers, that once we were separate she might keep them. But she’s left them with me. The night we get home from the hospital, I have the nightmare again. This time I see the whole city wrecked; buildings crumbled to heaps, cracks in the road too wide to jump over; people dead in the streets; bodies carried out of rubble. And all I can think about is Mia. She’s not with me. I need to get to her.

  I make myself wake up. Where is she? Oh my God, where’s my baby? My hands reach blindly out. They find the top of her head, soft and warm. She’s there, asleep in her drawer.

  It was just a dream. It’s not real.

  The nightmare is full of lies. I would never let Mia out of my sight. It’s just some cruel trick my mind’s playing on me. Taking my deepest fears, twisting and running with them.

  Except. Except … one by one the pieces in the nightmare are fitting into place, like a jigsaw. Mia. Adam. Me.

  There’s something inevitable about it.

  I can’t bear it. It’s too lonely dealing with this on my own in the dark. I reach down again and scoop her up, bringing her into bed with me. I’ve woken her. I don’t think I’ve ever done that before, I’ve always let her find her own rhythm of sleep. But she’s awake now and she doesn’t cry. I prop her up on my legs. I hold her hands gently and she grips on, and we look at each other, eye to eye, silent for a long time.

  ‘I won’t leave you,’ I say to her eventually. ‘I’ll never leave you.’

  I wait for her to say the same thing back to me. Sometimes I think giving birth has sent me over the edge. It’s softened my brain, blurred all the edges. If she spoke to me now, I’ll never leave you, Mum, I wouldn’t even be surprised. It would be okay in a world washed through with milk and sleeplessness.

  She doesn’t talk to me. She just looks and looks and looks. And gradually her eyelids get too heavy for her. For a few minutes they flutter open and shut, and then finally they stay closed. She’s breathing through her mouth, each breath in is deliciously heavy, almost a snore. I move her onto the mattress next to me.

  Whatever’s going to happen, whatever the future holds, we’ve got now, Mia and I, faces so close we’re breathing air from each other’s lungs, and I’ve the comfort of sharing her sleep. We’ve got now. And for the moment, that’s enough.

  I drift off to sleep again and now the baby’s crying and I’m crying too. We’re trapped by a wall of flame. We’ll die here, burnt alive. I don’t care about me, but I can’t bear it for Mia. I fold my body round her, trying to shield her. The flames are getting nearer. It’s so hot my clothes are melting into me.

  ‘Sarah! Sarah!’

  Someone’s shaking my shoulder. It’s him. Adam. He’s trying to tell me something, but the place is falling down round our ears. I can’t hear.

  ‘Sarah, wake up! Wake up!’

  I open my eyes. I’m screaming and the baby’s screaming, but the air’s cool against my hot face. I’m in my room at the squat, and it’s not Adam waking me up, it’s Vinny.

  ‘You woke the baby,’ he says. I pick her up. My little girl. I frightened her. I get out of bed and walk up and down, rocking her, but it’s no good, so we get back into bed and I try a feed. She clamps on, her hands holding on for dear life, digging in. I wipe the tears from the eye that I can see, and gradually she calms down, and her steady suckling calms me too.

  ‘You need to do something. Talk to someone.’

  ‘A shrink?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Tell them about my childhood, talk it out?’

  ‘Why not? It might help.’

  ‘It’s not my past in my nightmares. It’s the future.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s what’s going to happen, to Mia and me. Not just us, it’s bigger than that. Something big.’

  ‘Can I see the pictures? You drew it, didn’t you?’

  I’d drawn it on the wallpaper I found, but I’d rolled it up again, couldn’t stand to sit and look at it.

  ‘Over there,’ I say, nodding towards the roll of paper leaning in the corner of the room. Vinny starts to uncurl it, holding it up in front of him, then realises how big it is and puts it down on the floor, weighting down the ends with my shoes.

  ‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘Jesus Christ al-fucking-mighty. That’s the guy, the kid in the car park. And the buildings and the fire. Jesus, Sarah, you know what you’ve drawn?’

  I shake my head and when I look back at him, he’s scared.

  ‘The date, there, 1st January 2027. That’s it, is it?’

  ‘That’s the date in my nightmare.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  He rubs his hands over his face and when he looks up again there’s that same haunted look.

  ‘You can’t keep this to yourself, girl. Not if it’s real. Is it real?’

  ‘I don’t know, Vin. It feels real to me. The boy, Adam, I saw him in my nightmare before I met him. He never had that scar either, but I saw it, I knew it was going to happen to him.’

  ‘Shit. This is some weird stuff. This is heavy. You gotta tell people. I know just the place. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  ‘It’s five in the morning, Vin. I’m feeding the baby.’

  He’s never worked on the same clock as everyone else.

  ‘When she’s stopped feeding. We’ll go then. I’ll show you. And I’ll get you some spray cans – I know someone who’ll have some. You need to show the world.’

  ‘Vinny, do you mean paint it on a wall?’

  ‘Yeah, man.’

  ‘No. No way.’

  He turns serious then.

  ‘You’ve got to. You haven’t got a choice. You’ve got to tell people.’

  ‘Shut up, I don’t have to …’

  ‘Yes, yes, you do, ‘cause you know what this is, don’t you?’

  I shake my head.

  He looks back at the picture.

  ‘It’s Judgement Day, Sarah. You’ve drawn fucking Judgement Day.’

  Chapter 27: Adam

  I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to see nobody. Nan leaves her perch ten times a day to check on me but all I want is to be left alone.

  One day she comes in holding something behind her back.

  ‘I’ve got something for you,’ she says. She produces a little square package, a parcel wrapped up in paper with robins on it.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s nothing really. Just something for Christmas. It’s Christmas Day.’

  Is it? 25122026? One week to go.

  ‘You going to open it then?’ she says, nodding encouragingly.

  My fingers fumble with the tape, but I get there in the end. It’s a chocolate orange.

  ‘Thanks,’ I manage. ‘I didn’t get …’

  ‘Don’t matter. Don’t s’pose you know what day it is, do you? I’m doing a dinner, roast and everything, if you want to come downstairs.’

  ‘Nah, it’s okay. I’ll stay here.’

  ‘I’ll bring it up then, shall I? It’s a nice one, bit of everything on it, turkey and sausage and that, roast potatoes, stuffing … I never knew you could microwave all that. Amazing really …’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You should eat something, Adam. Have a go. Just today.’

  ‘I said I’m okay.’

  ‘Just today, Adam. It is Christmas …’

  ‘Nan, if I want something, I’ll come and get it.’

  It’s like I’ve slapped her in the face.

  ‘I just want you to be all right,’ she says.

  ‘Take a look,’ I say. ‘Do you think I’m ever going to be all right again? Take a look at my face.’

  I can hear myself doing it, I hate myself for it, but who else have I got to take it out on?

  ‘I’ve seen your face,’ she says quietly. ‘It’ll get
better, better than it is now.’

  ‘It’s not going to get better, you silly cow. This is it. This is what I look like.’

  She reaches in her pocket for a cigarette. She puts the end in her mouth and holds her lighter to the other end. She flicks the flame into life, and the smell of the paper catching, the tobacco starting to burn, hits me like an express train. The smoke is in my eyes, behind my eyes, all around me, and I’m burning, the hair sizzling off my head, my skin crinkling in the flames.

  ‘Stop it! Get the fuck out of here! Get out!’ My voice rises to a scream.

  She looks up, puzzled, and then horrified as I snatch the cigarette out of her hands, drop it the floor and stamp on it.

  ‘Adam!’

  ‘Get out! Just leave me alone!’

  She leaves, and I’ve got what I wanted. Except it isn’t really – I’m on my own again, alone with my reflection and a head full of flames and fists, knives and the last look on Junior’s face. There’s another face too. Sarah’s, with that terror of hers, and her body squirming to get away from me in the car.

  Chapter 28: Sarah

  I can’t get on with the spray-cans. It’s too different, not my style, but once I’ve got some brushes, I’m away. I thought Vinny was mad, but there’s something in this. Each sweep of my arm is liberating. It feels like I’m getting the nightmare out there and maybe that’s where it will stay. Out of me.

  I’m in a tunnel where the road cuts under the railway. Hardly any cars use it, but there are some pedestrians, walking from the estate through to the High Street. Even so, I can paint here during the day. It’s amazing – people look as they walk by, but no one’s tried to stop me. Perhaps because I’m doing something big, they think it’s official, or maybe they can see it’s going to be better than a blank wall.

  I come here whenever I can, even Christmas Day. It’s a funny sort of Christmas. No decorations, no tree, but there are presents. There’s a little plastic bag on the kitchen table when I go downstairs in the morning. Inside, there’s a box of chocs for me and a little woolly hat for Mia, with a note: ‘Happy Christmas, from Vin xx’

  I feel ashamed ’cause I’ve not got him anything and I’ve got no money, so before I go out I make him a cup of tea and some toast and I take it up to his room. Breakfast in bed, that’s something, isn’t it? He’s out for the count. I want to wake him up, so he can see what I’ve done, but I haven’t got the heart, so I just leave the mug and plate next to his mattress.

  I bring Mia with me. She lies in the old buggy Vinny got out of a skip. I don’t leave her at the house, ever. They’re all nice guys, don’t get me wrong, and they’d never do her any harm, but, at the end of the day, they’re junkies. I’m not judging them – who the hell am I to judge anyone? It’s just that Mia’s too precious. I can’t take any risks with her.

  So I paint for as long as she lets me, sometimes two or three hours at a time. It starts to come together and I love it. I almost forget what it’s all about and get lost in the physical thing of painting, of creating something. Then when I step back and look, I’m taken by surprise. The violence in it, the chaos, the horror. It’s come from me, it’s part of me.

  When I paint Adam, that’s when I start to get emotional. It’s so obviously him: it feels like naming and shaming. I start to lose my nerve. Can I put real people up there? Is it right? But then I think, I’ve got to stay true to myself. This isn’t just a dream, it isn’t a fantasy, it’s real. I’m warning people. So I do Adam, exactly as I see him – beautiful eyes full of flame, scarred face, and I do Mia and I do the date.

  And suddenly there it all is. It’s big, you can’t really see the whole thing at once. You have to walk along and take it in bit by bit. But it’s there. The thing I’ve lived with for so long. It’s out there. I did it.

  I walk up and down, looking. There are bits I would change, bits that could be better, but I’m not going to start tinkering with it now. It’s starting to get dark. I cuddle Mia closer.

  ‘Let’s go home, Mia. Let’s get some sleep.’

  Chapter 29: Adam

  I lie on my bed for hours. When I drift off to sleep, the same thoughts morph into nightmares so bad I have to wake myself up. I don’t know where I am. The window’s on the wrong side, the bedside table’s the wrong height. This isn’t Weston. Where the hell am I? Where’s Mum?

  Reality creeps back into my head, but it don’t bring any comfort. Because as well as the fire, the fight, Junior, Sarah, there’s something else. 112027. I’m another day nearer. Time’s running out. If I’m going to do something about it, it’ll have to be soon, but I can’t do anything. Not a damn thing. All I can do is lie here, and listen to the clock ticking, and listen to my heart beating and wish I was a million miles away, and wish I was someone else.

  The police come for me early. Six o’clock on Boxing Day morning. I hear them battering at the door and, in an instant, I’m back in Weston and I feel sick in the pit of my stomach. I can hear voices – Nan’s and theirs – and then Nan is in my room.

  ‘They want to question you, down the station. You better get dressed. I’m coming too. They’re going to search the house while we’re there, got a warrant and everything.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Don’t kick up, Adam. Not this time.’

  ‘I didn’t do nothing.’

  ‘I know. You’re the victim, that’s what I said to them, but you were there, and a kid’s dead, so they’re bound to ask you questions.’

  I look round the room. It’s all I’ve got, my space, the weird mixture of my things and Dad’s. I don’t want anyone poking about, looking at stuff that isn’t theirs.

  ‘Get up, son. We’ve got a couple of minutes to get ready, that’s all. Oh, and your notebook.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Give it here. Wouldn’t help if they found that, would it?’ My notebook! With Junior’s death right there in black and white. Predicted. Premeditated. Planned. My notebook could make me into a murderer.

  ‘Have you read it?’

  She could’ve, last time she looked after it for me.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Don’t need to. I know what’s in it. It’s your dates, innit, your numbers.’

  ‘There’s the computer as well. Dad’s PC, and all the stuff I put on it.’

  She shrugs.

  ‘Can’t do nothing about that one.’

  We look at each other, and suddenly, at last, I feel like I could talk to her.

  ‘He was making threats, Nan. But I didn’t kill him. It wasn’t me.’

  She puts her finger up to her mouth.

  ‘Don’t say a word to them,’ she whispers. ‘Not a bloody word.’ Then she takes the book and scuttles off to her room to get dressed.

  The questions go on all day.

  I don’t say a thing.

  ‘Who else was there?’ Do you think I’d tell you that?

  ‘How did you end up in the fire?’ What do you think?

  ‘Did you see anyone with a knife?’

  It starts to become obvious they haven’t found the knife. It’s still out there somewhere; dumped, hidden or being carried about.

  They haven’t got the knife. They’ve got names but no evidence.

  I’m waiting for it to play out like a TV cop show, for someone to come in and whisper in the ear of the guy asking all the questions – the killer clue that’ll seal the deal for them. It was planned. The kid was ambushed, he didn’t stand a chance. There’ll be that look of triumph on their faces – we’ve got him. But it don’t come.

  Nan has a word with the solicitor sitting in with us, a young woman, dark and intense, making notes on her laptop the whole time. She shuts the laptop lid and starts asking her own questions.

  ‘Are you going to charge him?’

  ‘If you want to keep him any longer, I’m going to insist on a doctor being present – he’s only just come out of hospital. Are you going to keep him?’

  ‘You’re putting und
ue pressure on him. He’s sixteen. Are you familiar with the contents of the Children and Criminal Justice Act 2012?’

  They’re not happy but they finally agree I won’t be charged today, and I’m allowed to go. Outside, Nan shakes hands with the solicitor and nudges me to do the same.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. The solicitor breaks into a smile.

  ‘You can speak, then,’ she says. She hands Nan her business card. ‘Ring me if you need to, day or night.’

  We make our own way home, not knowing what we’ll find when we get there, but it’s just as we left it. I check my room, all okay, nothing missing, not even the computer.

  Back downstairs, with the kettle on and a fag sparked up, Nan fishes down her top and produces the notebook.

  ‘You’d better have this back.’

  ‘Nan,’ I say, ‘you know I never wanted to come to London?’

  She narrows her eyes, looking at me through a cloud of smoke.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I reckon we should get out now. London’s a bad place for me. My mum said it, didn’t she? It’s not safe here.’

  ‘Well, that’s where she and I disagreed, see, ’cause I think you’re here for a purpose. Times like these need people like you, people that show other people the way. You’re a prophet.’

  ‘Like Jesus or something.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I feel like the ground shifting under my feet. I knew Nan was weird, but I reckon she’s really losing her marbles now.

  ‘Shut up. Don’t be so fucking stupid.’

  ‘There’s that language again. You’re right, you’re not Jesus – Jesus would never have sworn at his Nan.’

  ‘Nan, I’m not Jesus. I’m not anything like that. I’m just … ordinary.’

  ‘Well, we both know that’s not true.’

  There’s a pause, while we look at each other – we both know she’s right.

  ‘Okay, I’m different. I can see things, but that don’t mean I can change the world.’

  ‘Can’t you? Can’t you really?’

  ‘No, Nan!’

  ‘I think you can. I think you will.’