I crash to a halt as I see the figure ahead. For a moment, I feel a flicker of fear but it quickly changes to irritation. This is my hallucination, I think crossly. I’m an agoraphobic with few friends; there shouldn’t be anyone here apart from me. I have half a mind to march up to my mushroom-induced interloper and tell them to get out of my street.
I square my shoulders and decide to do just that. It’s a young woman wearing a tight red dress and high heels, so impossibly tall it’s a wonder she’s not toppling over. She doesn’t glance in my direction, even when I’m less than three feet away from her.
‘Hey!’ I say sharply.
She still doesn’t look at me. Instead she turns away and I follow her gaze, my heart sinking when I see another person strolling towards us. I tut like a petulant child.
‘Hello,’ drawls the young policeman who tried to help me earlier. He’s speaking to the woman.
I do a double take. What is he doing here? Although maybe it makes sense: he did play a major role in my day. It doesn’t mean I want him in my head though. ‘Why couldn’t I hallucinate Ryan Gosling?’ I mutter to myself.
Neither the woman nor the policeman seems to hear me. He walks up to her and pushes her against the wall. ‘I’ve been waiting for this for so long,’ he breathes.
The woman’s mouth curves into a slow smile. ‘Ally Bear, you’re my kind of man.’ Then, just like that, their lips lock together.
I cough. ‘Er, excuse me?’
His hand reaches down to the hem of her dress and tugs it higher. She moans, pressing into him and my cheeks flare up in embarrassment. I don’t want to see this! Why would I hallucinate this?
‘Do it,’ she murmurs.
No! Don’t do it!
‘Only if you beg me,’ he purrs in response.
I put my hands over my ears and squeeze my eyes shut. ‘No, no, no, no, no!’
I feel something sharp digging into me and hear a faint but familiar, low-pitched growl. I take my hands slowly away from my ears and stare at the Chairman. His hackles are fully raised and his pupils are wide and round. He hisses and spits, leaps off my lap and bounds away. I blink several times, shaking myself back into awareness. I’m still in my own living room and in my own chair.
I look round. Everything’s the same although my tongue feels furry and there’s a strange metallic taste in my mouth. ‘Maybe I won’t go ordering any more mushrooms again after all,’ I murmur.
I uncurl my legs, go to the mirror and stare at my reflection. I pull up my eyelids and examine my pupils. They look normal enough. Sticking out my tongue, I check for other signs that I’ve been drugged.
Then, the thought hits me that maybe someone did something to me today. One of the paramedics maybe, or that policeman himself. They could have given me something slow acting, which is why it didn’t take effect until now. Something that brushed against my skin. It might be related to the strange electric shock I received from the old man...
My heart pounds and my chest tightens. They could have done it to gain access to my home while I was passed out. I race jerkily towards the door, checking every lock again. It’s still closed. It would be though. My potential assailant wouldn’t get past it. The windows: maybe I didn’t check them as closely as I thought.
I waste no further time and grab the phone with one hand, ready to punch in 999, and a pre-prepared paper bag with the other. Living room – windows all closed. Kitchen – closed. Bathroom – closed. My throat constricts: upstairs then. I stare at the mountain of steps leading up to the first floor. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
‘Who’s there?’ I shout hoarsely. There’s no response. ‘I’m coming up! I’m armed!’ I look at the paper bag I’m clutching. That really was a ridiculous thing to say.
Barely managing to breathe, I ascend one step, then another and another. When I reach the landing, the lights are dancing in front of my eyes again and I know I’m not far from blacking out. I can’t let myself; if I do, anything could happen. Bedroom one – closed. Bedroom two – windows still all closed. Utility cupboard – empty. Bathroom... I stretch out for the cold metal doorknob and start to twist. My breaths are so loud that I can’t hear anything else. Whoever’s on the other side of that door could be shouting and I wouldn’t hear them. I clench my teeth and throw it open.
A pair of dark, frightened eyes stares back at me from the bathroom mirror. Me. There’s no one there after all. My face is pale and there are dark circles under my eyes, but the contours of my cheekbones and the familiar smattering of freckles across them comforts me. I breathe into the bag, doing what I can to slow my heart-rate down, and continue to keep my gaze fixed on my reflection. Something’s still not right.
I drop the phone and reach one shaky hand up to my long brown hair which curtains my face in waves. For some reason, it’s damp.
Chapter Three
I am interested in imperfections, quirkiness, insanity, unpredictability. That’s what we really pay attention to anyway. We don’t talk about planes flying; we talk about them crashing.
Tibor Kalman
It’s not surprising that I don’t sleep that night. The Chairman also spends most of the wee hours hiding. It’s not the first time I’ve wished he could talk; perhaps then he could tell me exactly what happened.
I get through the night by sitting upright in bed, hugging my knees tightly to my chest. I manage yet again to avoid another full-blown panic attack but it’s still a relief when dawn breaks. When the telephone rings just after nine, it’s a welcome distraction.
‘Ms Lydon? This is Sergeant Rawlins. We met yesterday? I was hoping we could come by again today.’
I almost gush down the phone. It’s embarrassing. ‘That would be fantastic. Can you come now?’
If the policewoman is taken aback at my sudden desire to have visitors, she doesn’t show it in her voice and merely agrees to come by mid-morning. As soon as I replace the receiver, I’m galvanised into action. I’ve been scouring the internet and I can find no trace of anyone experiencing strange, post-mushroom-eating hallucinations in the last month. At least, not from mainstream, supermarket-aisle mushrooms. So either a policeman or paramedic used an airborne or skin-to-skin contact pathogen to make me dream like that or I am going crazy. Frankly, I am more inclined to believe the latter. I may be agoraphobic and extremely paranoid but that doesn’t mean the emergency services of Great Britain are out to get me. I’m not a complete idiot.
Unfortunately, if I am going insane, I have no idea how to deal with it. A doctor might want to take me into hospital for evaluation; I might even be locked up in a psychiatric ward. I don’t think that will help me in the slightest.
At the moment, the easiest thing to do is to eliminate the police from my amateur enquiries. Why did the young policeman pop up out of nowhere in my dream? Is my subconscious telling me something? I just wish it would speak a little more clearly.
I dash upstairs and change, ensuring that I wear a long-sleeved shirt along with a pair of jeans. Officer Sex-In-The-Alley touched my arm yesterday and I was wearing a T-shirt, so he’d connected with my bare skin. It was nothing more than a brief brush – and seemed innocuous enough – but I’m not taking any chances. I even hunt through my underwear drawer to find the long-sleeved gloves I bought for a fancy-dress party. It’ll look weird but, let’s face it, I am weird.
Once I’m satisfied with my clothing, I close all the upstairs doors and steel myself to open the ground-floor windows. If I’m not nuts and this thing (whatever it is) is airborne, then I need fresh air to keep everything ventilated.
When the doorbell finally rings, I slowly unbolt each lock. Butterflies squirm in my belly but I manage to squash them. It’s not the two police officers standing on my porch, however, it’s the postman. He’s a regular visitor and is well aware of my foibles but there’s something dark and furtive about him. Still, while I wouldn’t say I feel comfortable when he appears, his presence is not frightening.
‘Hello, Zoe!’ he sa
ys, raising his thin eyebrows. ‘You have a parcel.’ He holds it out and I take it awkwardly, shoving it under my arm.
‘There’s no sign of another letter is there?’ I ask. I’ve been waiting for my annual missive from HMRC. There’s nothing like a tax return for someone who appreciates boredom.
He shakes his head. ‘Sorry.’ He looks like he’s about to say something else but he’s interrupted by a car pulling up next to the oak tree.
We both look at the police car and I notice that his body stiffens. When Officer Sex-In-The-Alley raises a hand in my direction, the postman grins.
‘Been a naughty girl, have we?’ He pats me on the shoulder and winks. I’m annoyed but I try not to show it. You should never let some people know that they’ve annoyed you because they’ll do it more often. I think the postman is one of those.
I mutter something inane and barely notice his departure because I’m focused on the policeman. His uniform looks normal and he’s not carrying anything out of the ordinary. His eyes still look kind. I really must be crazy if I think he’s involved in some intricate plot to send me into a drug-induced dream world and throw water on my hair.
‘Ms Lydon,’ he calls out cheerily. ‘I hope you’re alright?’
His concern seems genuine. I force a smile. ‘Yes.’ Sergeant Rawlins joins him on the path. I look from one to the other. ‘Come in.’
They exchange glances as I step aside. I direct them into the living room but don’t invite them to sit. They do anyway.
‘So, Ms Lydon, we’d normally ask you to make a statement down at the police station but...’
‘But because I’m a loon who refuses to step outside you’ve been kind enough to come and do it here instead,’ I say drily. They both look uncomfortable.
‘Indeed.’ Rawlins laughs awkwardly. ‘We just have a few questions.’ She waves a recorder in my direction. ‘Do you mind?’
I examine the device a little too thoroughly before nodding. ‘Sure.’
‘Have you ever seen the man who collapsed at your door before?’
‘No. As I told your colleague,’ I smile pointedly at Officer Sex-In-The-Alley, ‘sorry, I don’t know your name...’
He looks embarrassed. ‘Hartman. Constable Hartman.’
‘As I told your colleague, Constable Hartman,’ I repeat, ‘I’ve no idea who he was.’ I watch their faces carefully. When both their expressions flicker, I suck in a breath. ‘You don’t know who he is either, do you?’
Rawlins seems frustrated. ‘We’ve been to all the neighbouring streets and checked with all the residential homes. No one has seen him before.’
Panic swirls in the pit of my stomach and I’d been doing so well up till now. ‘He was wearing slippers!’
‘He may have driven here. Or someone dropped him off in the area. We are confident we shall establish his identity soon.’
I have no response. I simply stare at them as I try to work through the possibilities.
‘Did he say anything?’ Rawlins probes.
‘He told me not to trust the department.’
‘What department?’
‘I have no idea.’
Rawlins frowns. ‘Can you think of any reason why he’d come to your door in particular? It’s not the easiest to access, after all.’
I rub my forehead. ‘Nothing springs to mind.’ I meet her eyes. ‘Why did he die?’
‘We’re waiting on the post-mortem.’
‘So it may not even have been natural causes? He might have been...?’
‘You are letting your imagination run away with you, Ms Lydon,’ she says, no doubt silently adding ‘crazy lady’ as an epithet at the end of her sentence.
I give up on her and appeal to Hartman instead. ‘This can’t be normal. Elderly people can’t just appear from nowhere.’
He scratches his neck. ‘It does look a little...’
For a moment, Rawlins’ façade slips. ‘Alistair!’
My mouth drops open. ‘Alistair? That’s your name?’
He smiles at me, while Rawlins rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah.’
‘Ally Bear,’ I whisper.
Hartman freezes. ‘What? What did you say?’
I stare at him while he stares at me. Rawlins is beyond confused. ‘I’m not quite sure what’s happening here...’ she begins.
‘Who calls you that?’ I interrupt.
His neck reddens. He doesn’t answer but I can see enough of the answer in his eyes to tell me that someone does.
I feel the walls press in on me. Nothing is making any sense.
* * *
After they leave, I sink into a chair and press the base of my palms against my temples. I was so flabbergasted by Hartman’s reaction to the endearment that I stopped watching his movements so carefully but I don’t think he did anything out of the ordinary.
I toy with the parcel the postman gave me, eventually opening it more out of the need for something to do than real curiosity. It’s a box of chocolates sent express delivery by Jerry to thank me for completing yesterday’s project. In light of everything that’s happened, the website work seems so inconsequential that I barely raise a smile.
It has to be a coincidence, I decide. Perhaps Ally Bear is a common pet name. Or maybe I overheard something yesterday that appeared in my hallucination. It could have happened easily enough; a co-worker at the scene might have called him that sarcastically and I didn’t notice because I was in such a state of shock.
But that doesn’t explain my wet hair or the vividness of the experience.
There’s one way to find out: I will have to let myself hallucinate again and see what happens.
I have no idea, of course, how I happened to hallucinate in the first place. And was it a hallucination or a dream? After my lack of sleep last night I am pretty tired but not ready to drop off just yet. All I have to do is wait till night-time, fall asleep, dream of exactly nothing and forget this ever happened. I twist my fingers in my lap. I’m not sure I can wait that long.
I spring up, jog upstairs and into the bathroom. I fling open the cabinet and rummage around until I find what I need. When my fingers curl round the small white bottle, I give a grim smile. Valium. It was prescribed when my agoraphobia started but after several days it had no visible effects other than helping me fall asleep. It might do the trick now, though.
I check the expiration date; they’re still usable. I fill a glass of water and down the pills. As I head to my bedroom to lie down, it occurs to me that I should try to re-create last night as closely as possible.
I switch direction and tramp downstairs. I pick up the book I’d been reading, find the same paragraph and settle down in the same chair. After I’ve read the paragraph again, I put the book to the side and close my eyes.
‘Bring it on,’ I whisper.
* * *
The top of my ears prickle and I open my eyes. I’m immediately disappointed: I’m not in a wet cobbled street but in a room, a strange room filled with old-fashioned furniture and flocked wallpaper. For a moment I wait to be assailed by my own strange terror but when I remain as fine as I did in the puddle-filled street, I relax and walk over to the mantelpiece to examine the array of ornaments. I pick up a tiny glass elephant and frown. It looks like typical tourist tat.
I’m about to replace it when I hear a soft noise from behind. I turn round and where before there was a bare rug, there is now a single white envelope. The handwritten address on the front keeps moving; the words vanish then reappear as I watch.
Something in the corner of my eye flutters and I glance up and see another letter floating down. It moves like a feather, buoyed by invisible currents of air – but there’s no breeze in here. It lands gently next to the first envelope.
I look up at the Artex-covered ceiling. There’s no gap in it but still, as I watch, another envelope magically appears. Then there’s a postcard, followed in rapid succession by a larger brown letter. I’m transfixed so it takes me a moment to notice that I’m no longer
alone. Somehow I’m not surprised by who’s with me.
‘Hello,’ I say cautiously.
The postman doesn’t hear me. He walks to the middle of the room, avoiding stepping on the letters on the floor. He looks older, with deep lines and furrows on his face. He nudges one of the letters with his toe before letting out an anguished howl. The noise is so unexpected and so filled with pain that I take an involuntary step backwards.
‘Are you alright?’
He doesn’t react so I move towards him. Nervously I reach out to touch his shoulder in almost the same place where he patted mine earlier today. He scratches at it absently but doesn’t realise that I’m next to him.
Without warning, a sudden flurry of envelopes drop at the postman’s feet. Some of them land on his head or careen through the air and hit his face. Every time one connects, a tiny paper cut appears. I back away, watching in horror. Soon he’s surrounded by a puddle of brown and white paper that reaches his ankles, then his knees.
I catch sight of something in my peripheral vision, realising too late that it’s a sharp-cornered envelope flying in my direction. I duck to avoid it but I don’t move quickly enough. There’s a sharp pain as it strikes my cheek. I lift up my fingers and touch the spot. I’m bleeding.
Despite the pain and blood, I know none of this is real. Everything that’s happening is in my head so even though more and more envelopes start appearing, some whizzing around the room at dangerous speed, I don’t believe I’m in any danger. I know for certain that this is only a dream but it’s an odd experience. I’m out of my comfort zone but I’m not in the least afraid.
Unfortunately the same cannot be said for the postman. The pile of letters keeps growing and he is panicking. He struggles, his arms flailing. It looks like he’s trying to escape but his feet won’t move; he looks like someone stuck in quicksand. I reach out and try to grab his hand to pull him away but every time I get near, he yanks it away, clawing at the air. All the while, the envelopes continue to fall.
When the pile reaches his stomach, his face grows red as if he’s struggling to breathe. The letters swirl around him, fluttering and flying like some strange vortex or cyclone of post. Soon I can only glimpse flashes of him through the thick cloud of paper. I can certainly hear him, however: he’s screaming at the top of his lungs.