He hesitates for a split second, rubbing his eyes with his hands. ‘Um, sure. They’re pretty raw at the moment, as you can probably imagine, but yeah, okay. I’ll introduce you. Give me five minutes on my own with them first, yeah?’
‘Of course. Then what? Shall I come over, or—’
He smiles. ‘Yeah, exactly.’
I return to sit with Meg and explain what’s going on while taking a couple of large swigs from my pint to steady my nerves.
‘Would you like me to come with you?’ she asks when I empty the glass and tell her I’m about to go over.
‘No, I don’t think so. I’m probably best doing this alone.’
Meg nods, a hint of relief on her face. ‘If you’re sure.’
I straighten my tie and double check my flies are done up before rising to my feet. ‘Wish me luck.’
A moment later I manage to catch Guy’s eye as I approach the table where he’s now sitting alongside Stan, Claire and a couple of others I don’t recognise.
For some inexplicable reason, I find myself doing a weird kind of bow in the parents’ direction as he introduces me. ‘This is Luke,’ he says. ‘The bloke I was telling you about.’
CHAPTER 6
I have a recurring dream. I can’t say how many times I’ve had it, but it’s a lot. It can’t be anything to do with the scaffolding accident, as it started ages before that. I’ve been dreaming it on and off for a long time – well over a year, I reckon, although I’ve not kept a record. As for what it means, I have no idea.
Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Does it have to?
I’d probably say no, if it had only been once or twice. But having had it so many times now, I suppose there must be some reason for it. What’s my subconscious trying to communicate?
The truth is I’ve probably dreamed it more times than I know. You only remember the dreams you wake up in the middle of, right?
Anyway, I had it just now – and awoke while it was still unfolding. That’s why it’s on my mind. I’ll have mostly forgotten about it by the time I’ve – hopefully – been back to sleep and woken up again at a more friendly hour.
It’s currently 4.07 a.m. on Saturday and pitch black. I consider getting up to go to the toilet, but my bladder doesn’t feel full enough to bother. So instead I dig myself deeper into the duvet and try to clear my mind in a bid to slip back to sleep.
It doesn’t work. Persistent memories of the dream continue to pervade my thoughts and, after a short while, I give in and get up to go to the bathroom.
Alfred gives me a shock, appearing out of nowhere and brushing himself against the back of my bare legs as I stand at the toilet.
‘Blooming heck, mate,’ I say. ‘Go easy with the sneaking up on me, otherwise you’ll give me a heart attack. Who’ll feed you then?’
He looks up at me with those big, pleading, greenish-yellow eyes of his – a pair of searchlights on the lookout for an early-hours snack – and I can’t resist.
‘Fine. You can have a couple of treats from the magic jar, but that’s it. Then it’s bedtime, okay? Not time to start annoying me, keeping me awake. Are we clear?’
He continues to stare at me, which I accept is as close to an answer as I’m likely to get. Then he accompanies me to his bowl, keeping up the leg-rubbing affection as he goes, so I almost trip over him at one point. I reach for the jar, tucked out of his way, grab a few and toss them down for him. At this point he stops sucking up to me and starts gobbling. I grab a glass of water to take back to bed and bid him goodnight.
Once I’m under the covers again, I find myself far too wide awake for my liking at this ungodly hour.
My mind returns to that damn dream. It starts in all kinds of different ways but always ends up the same: I’m living alone in a flat not unlike this one. The exact look and location of it varies on each occasion. Sometimes it’s here in Manchester; sometimes London or another UK city; at other times, it’s abroad or simply unspecified, as locations in dreams are wont to be.
In reality, my place is on the first floor. However, the flat where I live in this recurring dream is invariably at ground level. Another thing that’s always the same is the existence of a door leading to another self-contained section: a second flat, effectively. I’m aware of it from the start in some instances; in others, I happen upon it by chance. Either way, going in there never fails to unsettle me. And what I find is always pretty much the same: a corridor leading to two fully furnished, unoccupied bedrooms decorated in neutral green and beige colours, each with a made-up double divan and a little en-suite bathroom.
Further down the corridor are a small kitchen and lounge, again neutrally furnished but unused. The latter has patio doors that lead into a luscious garden including an outdoor swimming pool. Never once have I ever dared or even considered entering the water, though. And it’s not because it’s in use by anyone else or neglected.
The pool and surroundings always appear empty and immaculate, yet they hold zero appeal for me. Whatever the specifics in any particular occurrence of the dream, no aspect of this secret annexe ever feels good. I want to get out of there as soon as possible; to close the adjoining door between that and my ‘real’ home and try to forget its existence.
That’s easier said than done, of course.
After yesterday’s funeral, I’m surprised I didn’t dream about Iris or the accident. I have done previously, in the days leading up to it, but now I’m back to this old inscrutable chestnut.
I roll over in bed. Try to stop thinking about the dream. Instead, I cast my mind back to what happened at the funeral reception after I went over to speak to Iris’s parents.
It started relatively well, despite my weird introductory bow. Claire didn’t say much. She wasn’t really speaking to anyone, though, so I didn’t overthink the implications of that. Meanwhile, Stan shook my hand and chatted to me for a little while.
‘Please accept my sincere condolences for the loss of your daughter,’ I said, crouching down next to him and also trying to catch Claire’s eye as I spoke, since the sentiment was intended for both of them.
‘Thank you for that,’ Stan replied, ‘and also for making the effort to come today. We appreciate it.’
‘Of course.’
‘So you were with Iris when it happened: when the scaffolding fell down?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know her beforehand, or—’
‘No, no. I, um … I was looking for somewhere to take shelter from the awful weather. The wind was bad enough, but then it started really pounding it down with rain and hail. Iris was already there before me, also trying to stay dry. Obviously neither of us had any idea that it wasn’t safe to stand there. Once we realised, it was too late. Your daughter was so brave, though, even after she was injured. She was the one who called for help, possibly saving my life. Plus when the scaffolding first started coming down, she pushed me—’
Before I could finish my sentence, I was interrupted by a loud female voice asking what was going on.
I looked up from my crouching position to see Rita, the aunt who’d spoken during the funeral, standing over me and scowling. ‘Who the hell are you and why are you upsetting my sister like this?’ she demanded, much to my bewilderment.
My eyes turned to Claire, at which point I noticed she was sobbing into a tissue at the table. ‘Um. Sorry, I didn’t—’
‘Get lost, will you?’ Rita yelled, the large glass of white wine in her hand spilling some of its contents onto the carpeted floor.
I looked for Guy, hoping he could back me up – tell his mum that I was okay – but he was no longer anywhere to be seen. And by that time Stan was too busy consoling his wife to vouch for me. Was she really crying because of what I’d said? I couldn’t imagine why, nor could I understand the reasoning behind Rita’s sudden aggression towards me.
However, the last thing I wanted was to cause a scene, so rather than trying to defend myself, I apologised, rose back to a standing position
and left.
‘Come on, Meg,’ I said, my cheeks burning as I stopped at the table on the way to the door. ‘We need to go.’
She didn’t argue, grabbing both of our coats and springing to her feet in one slick move.
She waited until we were outside and a little distance away from the club, walking in the direction of her car, before asking what had happened.
‘Honestly, I don’t know. I was having a normal chat with Iris’s father, Stan, and then her aunt Rita rocked up out of nowhere, asking who I was and accusing me of upsetting Claire.’
‘Claire?’ Meg replies, looking confused.
‘Iris’s mother.’
‘Oh, of course. Sorry. There have been a lot of new names to take in today. Was she upset?’
‘Yes, but I’m not convinced that was because of what I said. I wasn’t really looking at her by then, as she didn’t seem particularly keen on talking to me. I was focusing on her husband. Clearly it was a mistake for me to try to talk to them so soon after the funeral.’
‘I wouldn’t beat yourself up about it,’ Meg replied as we continued towards the car. ‘You were only trying to do the right thing – to be a decent person. If you ask me, that Rita had already had too much to drink. I saw her throwing down a couple of shots at the bar before she came over to you. She probably got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘Arguing didn’t seem like a good idea. Never mind. It’s done now. Let’s head home.’
Back in the present, I’m still struggling to sleep when Alfred makes things worse by starting to meow loudly from wherever he is in the flat.
‘Be quiet,’ I say in a firm voice. ‘That was the deal when I gave you a snack, remember?’
It makes no difference. He continues to meow, causing me to put a pillow over my face and thump a fist into it in a bid to vent my frustration. I eventually close the door and use ear plugs to block out the noise. It’s a last resort, as it means I run the risk of sleeping through my alarm in a couple of hours. However, I’m shattered – and I desperately need some more rest before I have to get up and return to work.
If only there were ear plugs to silence inner speech. I may not be able to hear Alfred any more, but there’s a monologue rattling on inside my noggin that’s equally hard to ignore.
Thinking back to the funeral reception was a bad idea, because now I can’t stop wondering why Rita turned on me so suddenly and with such venom. Was it because of something specific I said or did? She blamed it on me supposedly upsetting Claire, but I’m still not convinced of this.
Claire would have overheard my conversation with Stan, sure. But was that genuinely what led to her distress? She may have been upset by something or someone else entirely. Bearing in mind she’d just sent her daughter’s body off to be cremated, it could also have been a natural outpouring of emotion and nothing whatsoever to do with what was happening around her.
Rita claimed not to know who I was when she came over, but that may have been a ruse to get rid of me. Her son Guy could have told her my identity. If so, perhaps that was enough to make her want me out of there. It’s feasible she blames me for her niece’s death. If I hadn’t been there with her when the scaffolding came down and she hadn’t pushed me to safety like she did, things could have turned out very differently.
Such thoughts have haunted me ever since Iris’s death. What even was it that she saw coming and shoved me away from? I thought there would be plenty of time to ask her afterwards, once we were both free from the wreckage, but now I’ll never know for sure. I fear it was the pole that impaled her – most likely what caused her death. This of course makes me feel terrible, because it suggests that if I hadn’t frozen like I did, Iris may not have been killed.
She was a better person than me in every way. It feels so wrong, so unfair. I know well enough from my own experiences how cruel life can be – how arbitrary. And yet no matter how much I try, I can’t accept Iris dying instead of me as being acceptable. It isn’t. I’m a miserable git who rarely does anything for anyone other than myself, while Iris appears to have been almost saint-like, or at least someone destined to achieve amazing, important things.
I need to do something to honour her memory and to justify my survival, for my own sanity if nothing else. But what that could be is beyond me right now. Especially at stupid o’clock in the morning when I ought to be fast asleep.
‘Stop it,’ I say out loud to myself. ‘Enough is enough.’
I pull the duvet over my head, leaving only a small gap to slowly, calmly breathe fresh air through. Next I undertake a process of relaxing my body, muscle by muscle, limb by limb, while simultaneously attempting to clear my head of all thoughts. It’s a technique to beat insomnia that I read about online and have used previously with varying degrees of success.
I focus on being in a comfy, calm, safe place and try to think of nothing else but this. Other thoughts – my recurring dream, Iris’s funeral, work, that pesky cat – do their utmost to assert themselves. But I’m doggedly determined to fend them off.
Each time my mind attempts to wander, I rein it in. I pull it back to that comfy, calm, safe place over and over, again and again, until eventually, at long last, I find my way back into the land of nod.
CHAPTER 7
Miraculously, I manage to get up in time for work despite my interrupted night’s sleep. I’m far from fresh, though, so when I open the door to leave and spot Doreen with her back to me, watering one of the plants in the hallway, my first temptation is to close it again and wait until the coast is clear.
Glancing at my watch, I see there’s no time to do that. Dammit. Why am I always running into her? Hasn’t she got anything better to do than hang out in the communal areas of the building, looking for people to bother? And if she calls me Liam again this morning, I might actually lose it with her.
I decide to race past her at top speed, in the hope she barely notices me. Not that it works.
‘Morning, Liam,’ she chirps. ‘Going anywhere interesting?’
‘Work,’ I reply without stopping, growling internally.
‘On a Saturday?’ she replies, like she’s never seen me do this before. ‘You poor thing. My Bob worked his socks off Monday to Friday, I’ll tell you. But he never once had to work at the weekend. That was his relaxing time. It’s a different world now, I know, but not a better one. No wonder everybody’s so stressed.’
I’m already at the bottom of the stairs by the time she’s stopped talking. I almost walk out of the door without saying anything in response, but instead I call: ‘That’s life. Bye now.’
‘Goodbye, Liam,’ she replies. ‘Have a good one.’
A couple of minutes into my walk to work, I spot a young woman in a bright pink hooded coat letting her pet poodle crap on the pavement without bagging it up, despite being right next to a bin. It makes me see red.
‘Hey,’ I bark at the twenty-something. ‘Aren’t you going to pick that up?’
She has dark, greasy hair scraped back in a high ponytail and is sucking on one of those chunky vape devices. She looks me up and down, pouting, before puffing out a huge cloud of vapour. ‘No, I don’t have any bags.’
‘Why not?’ I ask her. ‘What kind of dog owner are you? That’s bloody disgusting and a health hazard.’
She shrugs, vaping some more, a bored look on her face. Then she walks on regardless, black poodle at her side.
‘People like you shouldn’t be allowed to have pets,’ I call after her. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You’re a disgrace. If I see this happening again, I’ll take a photo and report you to the council.’
‘Whatever,’ she replies, unfazed, not even looking back. Her attitude makes me want to scream; I grit my teeth and continue on my way.
Being a Saturday, the barbershop is pretty busy. I’m not talking busy like one of those trendy establishments geared towards the cool kids: the kind where your achingly hip barber, probably wearing a waistcoat, spends as much time eyeing the
ir own reflection in the mirror as making your hair look nice. But there’s a constant stream of paying clients, which is good enough for me, and this helps the day pass quickly.
By four o’clock that afternoon, though, I’m starting to flag. My limbs feel heavy and I’m lethargic. I fear I might be coming down with something, although it could simply be my lack of sleep catching up with me.
I keep going for another couple of hours. But when I finish giving a twitchy teacher a number one buzz cut just before six o’clock and no one else is left waiting, I decide to call it a day.
As I’m cleaning up, having locked the door and changed the sign from OPEN to CLOSED, I hear someone knocking.
Not again. My mind jumps back to the last time this happened, on the night of the storm. I turn around – about to bark something arsey at whoever’s there – only to have the wind knocked out of me, dumbstruck by the person I see. I blink a couple of times in case my eyes are deceiving me and I’m hallucinating.
‘Hello there,’ a muffled voice says through the glass of the door. ‘I’m sorry to bother you while you’re shutting up. I don’t know if you recognise me, but … well, I’m here to offer you an apology.’
‘Right,’ I say, fumbling through my trouser pockets for the keys. ‘You’d better come in.’
I certainly do recognise the visitor I let inside and offer a seat. How could I forget her after she spoke at the funeral yesterday and then shrieked at me to leave the reception soon afterwards?
I can honestly say that Iris’s aunt was pretty much the last person I expected to see at the door when I turned around. And yet here she is, large as life, a visitor in my barbershop, twirling one of her red curls with her right forefinger and fidgeting in her chair. After the last time we met, it’s quite a change to see her looking so uneasy. Considering how she humiliated me, I do take a little pleasure in this, I must admit. But I play nice after reminding myself who she is and that she must still be struggling to contain her grief.
How to Save a Life Page 5