(1989) Dreamer

  ‘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 ele
ven. 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.

  She walked back slowly, crying with misery, helplessness, shame, guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Scaredy cat, scaredy cat, could have saved her! Could have saved her! Could have saved her!

  Her.

  She’d been talking to her only minutes before.

  It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. It had to be a—

  She blundered in through the office door and knocked Drummond, who was coming out, flying. The box he was carrying fell to the ground with a sharp crack and rolled into the gutter. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’

  She walked past Ken’s waxwork – the arm had been glued back on although the angle looked odd – and up to her office. She sat back at her desk and put the wet and soggy paper down and stared again at the photograph, then the words, then the photograph again.

  A thirty-seven-year-old mother of a young child was brutally raped and murdered at Hampstead Underground Station last night.

  Tanya Jacobson, a psychotherapist, was found dead in a boiler room halfway down the notoriously deep stairwell shortly after ten o’clock by a maintenance electrician. Ticket clerk, John Barker, had warned Mrs Jacobson earlier that the lifts were out of service and that the steps went very deep.

  Premonitions, precognition . . . that’s all a little bit – fringe, OK? We’re trying here to really connect with our dreams, go with them, free associate, get some good dynamics going.

  She looked up and saw Claire watching her. ‘I know her,’ Sam said bleakly. ‘I was with her just – before – she was . . . I went to this—’

  The dark room. Knickers being ripped down. Hands around the neck. The stench of onions.

  Tell me you love me.

  Cunt bitch.

  No. Please, no. Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me – I have a child – please—

  Sam felt an icy coldness torrenting through her, deep inside. She closed her eyes then opened them again. ‘It must have been minutes—’ She paused. ‘I could have prevented it,’ she said.

  Claire looked up at her, and frowned.

  Sam thought again of the grunting, and the dark shadow that came up the stairs towards her. ‘I ought to call the police,’ she said. ‘Tell them I was there.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘Yes – I . . . I don’t know,’ she sighed.

  She stood up abruptly and wandered around the office, clenching her hands. She walked over to the window and stared out at the sheeting rain, at puddles, at awnings, at black umbrellas and at an old man who was sifting through the contents of a litter bin.

  Dead.

  Terrific. Wow! Wonderful. I’m Tanya Jacobson.

  Tanya Jacobson. Sam felt the coldness of the draught on her hands, and water from her wet hair running down her face.

  Just don’t get sidetracked into those premonitions, Sam. We don’t dream the future – but we make connections. We meet our monsters.

  ‘I dreamed it,’ she said.

  Sam, dismissing a dream as a premonition is the easy route. I think you’re using that as an excuse not to face the real meaning of the dreams.

  Maybe it was the other way around? Were they using the psychology route to avoid facing up to premonitions?

  Christ. There must be someone who—?

  She felt the heat from the radiator rise up through the cold draught, as she continued to stare out through the window. ‘That clairvoyant you go to, Claire. Why do you go to her?’

  ‘Mrs Wolf?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sam turned around. ‘What do you go to her for?’

  ‘I go to her for guidance.’

  ‘Is she accurate?’

  Claire swept her hair back with her hands and looked sharply up at the ceiling, as if the answer was written there. ‘Yes, she’s – very accurate. She’s very accurate indeed.’

  ‘Does she help you to understand things?’

  ‘She’s very good at . . . helping people to understand things.’

  ‘Would she see me, do you think?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sure she would. You can just go along. You don’t even need an appointment, although it’s best to make one. Wednesdays. She’s always there Wednesdays.’

  23

  The shop was in a narrow street in Bloomsbury. She could see the sign halfway along on the other side. ‘THE WHOLE MIND AND BODY CENTRE.’ It was painted blue, and she sensed weird vibes coming out from it even from this distance. She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes early.

  There was a smaller sign in the window of the shop, a stand-up card which she read when she got closer.

  EVA WOLF, CLAIRVOYANT

  SITTING TODAY.

  Another on top of a neat stack of pyramids proclaimed THE WONDER OF PYRAMIDS! There was also a row of rock crystals, several packs of Tarot cards, an assortment of books – Realise Your Full Psychic Potential said one, Understand Magik, said another – and a silver four-leafed clover charm bracelet wrapped around a sign which said THE PERFECT VALENTINE GIFT!

  The interior of the shop was, like the sign, blue, with blue-tinted fluorescent lights throwing down harsh light across the shelves and the open floor. Designer occult, she thought. She went inside and the feeling of hostility almost overwhelmed her. She wanted to turn and run – from the heat of the blue fluorescents and the smell of joss sticks and the glare of a woman who looked up at her from behind a half-dismantled cash register.

  Was she Mrs Wolf?

  Her red hair was pulled back tight across her scalp, her skin tight over her face, as if she’d been affected by some freak pull of the moon. She wore a black polo neck sweater which showed her nipples dearly, like two black spikes.

  Sam turned away and looked around. There were several crystal balls on a shelf in front of her. A rack of meditation cassettes, more pyramids, astrological charts, shelves stacked with candles, some of them black, a pouch with several small stones laid on it, a display of herbal sleep tinctures, and all the time the smell . . . the joss sticks, yes, but something else, something weird. Seriously weird, she thought, the fluorescent lights burning down on her scalp like sun-ray lamps.

  The woman was bent over the cash register, picking at it with a screwdriver like someone trying to get the meat out of a lobster.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  The woman looked up. ‘Yes?’ It seemed to come out without her mouth moving, almost without a sound, almost as if she had imagined it. She felt strangely disoriented.

  ‘I have an appointment with Mrs Wolf.’

  The woman skewered the cash register again. ‘Through the books. Downstairs.’ Without looking up this time; again the mouth had not moved.

  Sam walked through to the back of the shop, past a stack of pocket books and hesitated at the top of the stairs.

  Cut and run.

  Don’t be silly.

  Claire comes here. It’s fine. Maybe that woman just had a row with her boyfriend or
something? Or her girlfriend? She went down a steep, narrow staircase into the basement, which was an extension of the books section. A man with a pigtail, dressed in black, was restocking the shelves. There were books all around, piled on tables, on shelves, in dumpbins. Past them on the far wall she saw an arrow pointing down a short corridor to a door.

  ‘Eva Wolf, Clairvoyant’, was handwritten in large script and underneath in smaller writing it said:

  CLAIRVOYANT SITTINGS. 30 Mins.

  £12

  PALM READINGS

  £10

  AURA READINGS

  £10

  TAROT

  £12

  PRIVATE SEANCES BY ARRANGEMENT

  The door was slightly ajar and a guttural mid-European voice called out from behind it. ‘Is that Mrs Peterson? You are rather late. I have another appointment.’

  ‘No, I’m Mrs Curtis.’

  There was a silence. ‘I don’t think Mrs Peterson is coming today. Come in, please. Come in.’

  Sam pushed open the door and went into a room that wasn’t much bigger than a toilet cubicle. The bare brick walls were painted the same blue as everywhere else and a single blue light bulb hung overhead. The room smelt faintly of joss sticks and strongly of a noxiously sweet perfume. Mrs Wolf was seated behind a tiny round table, which she dwarfed, wearing a dark polo neck sweater and an unfastened afghan waistcoat. She sat bolt upright, a tall, heavy-boned woman in her early-seventies, her stiff face daubed with gaudy make-up, and poker-straight wiry grey hair that hung down around it and over her forehead in a fringe. Her eyes stared at Sam from their shadowy sockets, like wary creatures of the deep.

  ‘Please shut the door behind you. Put your coat on the hook.’

  Sam did so and sat down. The woman took her hand quickly, snatchily, like a bird taking food, and held it firmly in her own large hand; it was hard, calloused, as if she spent her spare time digging potatoes, and her nails were unvarnished and had dirt underneath them. There was an old Bible on the table, wrapped in cracked cellophane, and a coffee cup with lipstick on the rim.

  The woman stared at her, as if she had been expecting something quite different and Sam felt awkward, too close, as if her personal space was being invaded.