(1989) Dreamer

  Must brush my teeth before he wakes. She slipped quietly out of the bed and felt a flutter of anxiety as he stirred, but he settled down again and continued snoring. She walked silently across the carpet, opened the balcony doors and slipped through the curtains into the first weak rays of the dawn sun. The sky was a mixture of greys and yellows, and the air smelled fresh, moist, strangely warm, you could almost believe you were in the Indian Ocean, she thought. Even the motorway seemed further away, empty, silent, like a canal. A low mist hung over the ground, and through it she could see some of the contours of the golf course, the grass shimmering with water.

  The sun seemed to be getting brighter as she stood there, and she felt the thin warmth of its rays now on her naked body. It gave her a curious sense of freedom, and she was surprised that she was not feeling self-conscious about being naked.

  I have a lover.

  The feelings inside her were weird. She felt light, almost lighter than air for a moment, then slow and ponderous, heavy as lead. Something had changed inside her; something that had happened in the night had changed for ever in a way she knew she was going to understand, but did not yet.

  She stared down at her breasts, and at her dark pubic hairs, the ends tinged a gingery gold by the sunlight. Her whole body became bathed in a gingery blonde glow, as if she was standing under a huge lamp.

  She leaned against the wet balcony rail, and looked down. The lights inside the glass dome were on; a workman, who looked tiny from here, was vacuuming the pool which also looked tiny, like a tear drop. A waiter ambled towards the poolside bar carrying a crate of beer bottles which clinked together noisily, and she was surprised how clearly she could hear them through the glass and nineteen storeys up.

  The fair-haired woman whom she recognised from yesterday strode into the pool area, holding a towel and a book. She stretched the towel out on one of the recliners under a sun lamp, and settled herself down into it. Sam leaned further forward, to see what was directly beneath, and the balcony seemed to wobble.

  Loose, it was loose.

  No it’s not, it’s your imagination. Go on, try it again.

  She stepped back nervously.

  Scaredy cat! Scaredy cat! Scaredy cat!

  The rail is loose.

  Scaredy cat!

  They slap these junk hotels up. What do they care about safety? The rail is loose.

  Scaredy cat!

  She went slowly, cautiously, back over to it, and peered over the edge. Christ. The drop down.

  Vertigo.

  She took a pace back, her head spinning.

  Scaredy cat!

  I am not afraid. Damn it, I am not afraid. I’m not some crank who’s scared of balcony rails. She marched forward, gripped the rail firmly with both hands and looked downwards.

  There was a sharp, rending crack and the entire balcony tilted forwards, throwing her against the rail.

  No. Oh Christ, no.

  The rail was holding the entire weight of her body.

  ‘Ken! Help! Help!’

  There was another crack and it tilted some more.

  She turned her head. The balcony door was above her now, several feet above her.

  ‘Ken!’

  She was whimpering.

  Oh God help me. ‘Ken! Ken!’

  There was another crack and she lurched further forwards, almost overbalancing. Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t move. Gently. Gently. She tried to turn, to climb back up on the sheer slippery floor, but the angle was too steep and each time she moved she felt the balcony lurch further downwards.

  Help me, someone.

  The woman below was stretched out under the sun lamp, directly beneath her.

  I’m going to fall on you. Get out of the way!

  The waiter carried another crate of beer towards the bar.

  Look up. Please look up.

  ‘Help!’

  A tight rasping whisper.

  ‘Ken! Help me.’

  She was swaying now. The rail was making splintering cracking sounds. She could feel it giving beneath her. She tried to push away, but it just sagged further.

  She looked desperately back up at the door. ‘Ken!’ she called. ‘Ken!’

  Then she saw him coming, and her heart leapt. OK, it was going to be OK, he’d know what to do. The balcony lurched again and she screamed.

  ‘I can’t hang on.’

  He came through the door, Ken, stark naked, except he had a hood over his face, a black hood with knife slits.

  ‘Ken? Are you mad? No games, Ken. No – no – no—.’

  There was a deafening rending, tearing sound.

  Ken stood there, watching her.

  Smiling. His lips smiling through the slit.

  There was one more lurch, a ferocious snap, then she was falling, plummeting, hurtling down.

  She felt her stomach crash up inside her throat. Clutching the rail still. The glass dome got bigger, bigger, the air screamed at her. The woman, she thought. The woman. I’m going to kill the woman.

  ‘No. No!’

  She heard a buzzing sound, sharp, insistent.

  Darkness. Darkness all around. Filled with the buzzing.

  She was cold, drenched with – water from the pool?

  The buzzing again.

  A strange clattering sound above her. Heating duct?

  The darkness. The void.

  The buzzing sound.

  Telephone?

  She put out her hand. Nothing.

  It buzzed again.

  She tried the other side, felt something hard, heard a sharp clatter, felt the unfamiliar receiver in her hand.

  ‘Your early morning call, Madam.’

  ‘Wasser? Thank – thank you – I—’ But the operator had hung up.

  Christ.

  The terror began to subside and her head swirled in confusion. She groped with her hand for the light switch, found it, pressed it and the light beside her bed lit up, dazzling her for a moment. She spun round and looked at the right-handed side of the bed, then sighed with relief: it was undisturbed; the pillows were fresh, undented. She closed her eyes, gulping in air, feeling the cold, plunge pool cold, of the sweat on her body.

  Thank God. She was conscious she was mouthing the words. She slipped out of bed, went over to the window and opened the curtains. It was still dark outside, dark and raining. She walked across the room and into the bathroom, turned on the tap and stared at her frightened face in the mirror.

  It was another one, she knew. The same feeling, the same vividness.

  The same as the other dreams that had come true.

  27

  She stared out of the Bentley’s window, through the weak reflection of her own face at the blackness beyond. The void. Nothingness.

  Hell was the void where you could scream for ever and no one could hear you. A void where it was always cold and where you never grew any older and never died and never escaped. For ever.

  Charlie Edmunds and Jake and Zurbrick from Urquhart Simeon Mcpherson had all been having breakfast when she’d gone down in the morning, and she had not been able to tell Ken about the balcony dream until now that they were on their way back to London. She left out that he’d been in bed with her.

  The day had gone well. Grand Spey Foods had liked the Castaway commercials, and had liked Ken. They would recce in April and shoot in May, three commercials, back to back; the budget had been approved at over six hundred thousand pounds.

  She told Ken how she had gone out on the balcony when she’d first arrived and thought it was loose then, but had checked it and it seemed all right, and he’d told her she shouldn’t be spooked by the dream, that maybe there had been a tiny bit of looseness and it was her survival instincts warning her. Maybe the same instincts that had warned her about the gun being left around and the rapist in Hampstead.

  ‘It could be that you’ve got sharp antennae, like rabbits’ ears. Like Bugs Bunny.’

  ‘Richard calls me Bugs.’
br />   ‘Maybe that’s why.’

  ‘He says that sometimes when I’m thinking I stick my front teeth out, like a rabbit.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Maybe you never see me thinking!’

  ‘I suppose “Bugs” is better than “Jaws”.’

  ‘Thanks a lot!’

  Ken drove for some minutes in silence, then lit a cigarette. ‘I don’t know about the air disaster – maybe that’s coincidence – but the other two . . . maybe someone up there likes you.’

  ‘My fairy godmother?’

  He smiled. ‘I favour the sharp antennae.’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like Bamford.’

  ‘Bamford?’

  ‘Our shrink friend.’

  Ken said nothing. He inhaled on his cigarette and tapped the rim of the steering wheel.

  ‘Do you ever think about death?’ she asked.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Are you afraid of it?’

  ‘I’m much more afraid of life.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He tilted his head back. ‘Afraid of going to my grave, I suppose, without having put anything back.’ He wound his window down a fraction and flicked some ash out. ‘I feel that when we live, we’re constantly taking things – burning up petrol, polluting the atmosphere, decimating forests, you know. Always taking. I think we all need to put something back into the world in return. That we ought to try and leave it a better place than when we arrived. I don’t feel I’ve done that yet.’

  ‘You’re funny.’ She smiled, and felt his hand on hers, squeezing gently. ‘Nice funny. You think a lot, don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe I think too much. What are you doing over the weekend?’

  ‘Going to the country. Richard’s shooting tomorrow and we’re going to a dinner party tomorrow night. Then on Sunday – nothing, I hope. What about you?’

  ‘I’m off to Spain in the morning. The Jerez shoot.’

  ‘Yes, of course. How long are you away for?’

  ‘Back Wednesday, if we stick to schedule.’

  ‘What are Spanish crews like?’

  ‘They’re OK. You’ve got quite a few quotes to do.’

  ‘It’s going to be a busy year.’ She laid her head against the soft leather, closed her eyes and listened to the faint swooshing of the tyres and the sounds of the traffic on the motorway all around them. Her toes were warm, roasting warm from the heater, and she felt very tired now; she dozed.

  She woke up with a start as the Bentley bumped along Wapping High Street.

  ‘You’ve had a good kip,’ Ken said.

  ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t much company.’ Then she saw the two police cars parked in the street outside the warehouse; she glanced at Ken and their eyes met and she saw him frown, but he said nothing. She looked at the cars again, one with the City of London Police crest emblazoned on the door, the other unmarked, apart from two discreet aerials.

  Ken helped her in with her suitcase and stood watching as the elevator door closed, and nodded, without saying, that he would wait a few minutes, in case.

  Christ.

  She knew.

  She was absolutely certain as she stood in the gloomy light of the lift, listening to it shuffle and clank slowly upwards. It stopped with its usual sharp jerk, and her suitcase fell over with a bang. She lugged it down the corridor, then stood outside the door to the flat, rummaging through her handbag for her keys. There was a stillness about the whole building, a quiet uneasy calm as if neighbours all around were waiting silently, watching through their spyholes.

  When she opened the door, Nicky came hurtling down the hall like a missile. ‘Mummy!’

  Not his normal gleeful greeting, but an angry, confused cry for help.

  ‘Tiger! What is it Tiger?’

  He was close to tears. ‘They cut open Teddy.’

  She felt a strange feeling of unreality, as if she wasn’t really here, but was imagining it. Dreaming it. ‘Teddy? Cut open? Who cut—?’ Then she saw a policeman come out of Nicky’s room.

  Helen followed in his wake, walking slowly.

  ‘What’s happened, Helen?’ Sam asked. ‘Have we been burgled?’

  Helen shook her head slowly. She was in shock.

  Sam felt a sharp twist of fear in her stomach. Was this real? Was she really here? The door frame seemed to slide towards her, and struck her hard on the arm. She stumbled into the hallway, putting her hand out to steady herself, and held onto the edge of the coat stand. ‘Helen? What is it?’

  ‘They pulled all his tummy out,’ Nicky started crying, and his face swirled in front of her.

  ‘Burgled? Have we been burgled? Where’s my husband?’

  The policeman walked down the corridor towards her and stared at her, embarrassed. He was young, about twenty, she thought, tall and gangly. ‘Mrs Curtis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think – er – the Inspector . . . perhaps you’d better have a word with him. Or your husband.’ He pointed down towards the living area, then backed away and walked towards her bedroom.

  ‘Why are you going in there?’

  ‘The Inspector,’ he said. ‘He’ll explain.’

  ‘I don’t want you going in there.’ She rested her hands on Nicky’s shoulders.

  The policeman went bright red. ‘I’m afraid we have a warrant, Mrs Curtis.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A search warrant.’

  ‘What are you—’

  Christ.

  Was this another dream? Another nightmare? Was Slider going to come down the corridor?

  A search warrant.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked.

  ‘I think it would be best if you spoke to the Inspector, Madam.’

  ‘I want to see it.’

  ‘The Inspector—’

  ‘You’re not going in there until I’ve seen it.’ She turned to Helen. ‘Don’t let him in there.’ She knelt down and kissed Nicky. ‘One second, darling. Wait here, and don’t let that man go in my bedroom.’

  ‘He cut open my teddy, he did,’ Nicky sobbed.

  ‘I’ll cut him open,’ Sam said, glaring at the policeman and sounding as if she meant it. She stormed down the corridor, then stopped as she saw another policeman on his knees in the kitchen, peering underneath the dishwasher with a torch. Pots, pans, plates, dishes had all been pulled out of the cupboards and stacked on the work surfaces, and something snapped inside her.

  ‘Get out!’ she screamed. ‘Get out of my kitchen!’ She grabbed a drawer, any drawer, and yanked it out; it was full of knives and spatulas and whisks and wooden spoons and she hurled it at him. It flew across the room, showering its contents out, hit the wall above him and fell down onto his head with a hard crack, hurting him. From the way he groaned, hurting him a lot.

  ‘Sam.’

  Richard grabbed her arm. ‘You’ve got to let them.’ He turned to the constable on the floor who was rubbing his head and staring at his finger. ‘Are you OK?’

  The constable screwed up his eyes. ‘Could you get her out of here, please?’

  Richard led her through the living area.

  There were two men in the room. One was standing by the refectory table, in a brown suit with bell-bottom trousers and a sixties Beatle-cut hairstyle, tying up bundles of documents with red ribbon. The other was kneeling down in front of Richard’s desk, pulling more documents out of a drawer, mustard socks and white hairless legs sticking out of his grey suit trousers. He glanced over his shoulder and then stood up, a burly man who might have been a bit of a boxer ten years before, with a greedy face and eyes that bulged out slightly, giving him the expression of a well-fed frog. His suit was too small, and crumpled, and his shirt collar was loosened, his tie halfway down his chest. He gazed at Sam in a faintly patronising way, as if he did not have to bother with her, as if she too was a child whose teddy bear he could order to be ripped open. ‘This the missus?’

  Richard nodded, eyeing S
am like a cornered animal. Then he stiffened, tried to smile a reassuring everything’s-fine smile but it flashed across his face like a nervous twitch. ‘Bugs, this is Inspector – er?’

  ‘Milton. Like the poet. Detective Inspector Milton.’

  ‘Good evening,’ she said.’

  ‘Company Fraud Department, City of London Police.’ He jerked a thumb at the man in the brown suit. ‘Detective Sergeant Wheeler.’ Wheeler carried on binding the documents without looking round.

  Fraud Department.

  Sam stared, baffled for a moment.

  Images flashed at her. Richard’s behaviour. His strange late hours bent over his computer screen. The money for the new house. The Rolex. The booze.

  Something trickled through her, cold, unpleasant.

  Detective Inspector Milton looked at her contemptuously. I could eat you for breakfast and fart you out into the pond, lady, so don’t mess with me.

  ‘Nice flat, Mrs Curtis,’ he said, in a snide, nasal voice. ‘I was brought up round here. My parents used to live around the corner. Couldn’t afford the rents now, of course, could they? Still, I suppose that’s progress.’

  ‘I want to see your ID and your warrant.’

  He fished his wallet out of his pocket and opened it one-handedly in a well-worn movement, holding it up so the lady could see it clearly, read it clearly, let the lady have all the time she needs, just like the rule book says.

  By the book, lady, know what I mean? Doing all this by the book. Know your types. Smart bastards. Well we’re smarter these days, Feet may still be big, but now our brains are big too. It’s our hearts that have got smaller.

  The photo showed a younger, thinner version of his face, with a startled expression and his eyes bulging even more. Then he snapped the wallet shut, put it back into his inside pocket and with the same hand, pulled out a sheet of paper which he handed to her. There was a crest on the top, several rows of formal type, their address and a signature at the bottom. R. Fenner. Magistrate. He folded it up and put it back in his pocket.