On this occasion, I was here all of a sudden, with nothing particular preceding that in my mind.
Definitely not how this usually unfolds.
I blink and we’re no longer by the pool but sitting on the beige furniture in the small lounge of the annexe. Iris is on the sofa and I’m on a facing armchair. I look down and see my feet and ankles are no longer bare. They’re encased in a chunky pair of black army boots, topped by faded jeans and a red polo shirt. Iris’s trouser legs are no longer rolled up either and she’s wearing black leather shoes.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ I ask her. ‘We were outside by the pool a second ago, weren’t we?’
‘Try not to worry,’ she says.
But I do, not least because the weather has changed too. The sun we were basking in just now is nowhere to be seen through the patio doors. Instead, it looks dull and gloomy outside.
The vagueness of Iris’s response reminds me that she never answered my earlier question about how I got here. When I put it to her again, she asks: ‘You can’t remember?’
‘No, genuinely. It’s like I appeared out of nowhere.’
‘That’s interesting,’ she replies, resting her chin on her hand and looking pensive. ‘What’s the last thing you recall before being here?’
‘Good question,’ I say. ‘I’m racking my brains for the answer, Iris, but I’m not getting anywhere. My memories seem to be, um, muddled. I can’t sort them into any kind of logical order. What’s wrong with me?’
I stare outside into the garden, looking for some kind of inspiration, I suppose. But when I look back at Iris, I get a nasty shock. She’s gone, and in her place – still dressed in Iris’s clothes – is my mother’s frozen corpse, icicles hanging from her nose and ears; hair coated in snow; eyes open and rolled back like she’s trying to view her own forehead.
I gasp. Cry out in shock. Squeeze my eyes shut to block out the awful, ghastly image and cover my face with my hands.
Then Iris’s voice asks me what’s wrong. Gingerly, I peek through the tiniest gap between my fingers, relieved to see her face back where it belongs.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asks me. ‘You look like you saw a—’
‘Please, don’t finish that sentence,’ I beg. ‘I don’t even know what that means any more. I don’t know who or what you are; I’m utterly confused about what I’m doing here and where here even is. Nothing makes sense. And I’m not even going to try to explain what I saw, because it scared the bejesus out of me.’
Iris scratches her head and twists her mouth to one side. ‘I’m not sure what to suggest.’
An idea comes to me, so, telling Iris I’ll be back in a minute, I get up and walk into the bland corridor of this weird little flat within a flat. Passing by and ignoring the usual two unoccupied bedrooms, I head towards the door at the end. I figure it should lead to the main flat, where this dream traditionally begins; hopefully, I might find some answers waiting for me there.
I walk up to the door, which can vary in appearance from dream to dream. On this occasion, it’s solid wood without any glazing, painted in white gloss. I reach out and grab the silver handle, turning it decisively, heart pounding at the thought of what I might find on the other side, only for nothing to happen.
Locked. Dammit.
I look around to see if there’s a key anywhere nearby, but I can’t spot one.
For some reason, I then knock on the door. I’m not sure who I’m expecting to answer, since the person usually on the other side is me.
I’m about to return to the lounge, planning to ask Iris if she knows where to find the key, when I’m startled by a knocking sound from the other side of the door.
‘Hello? Is someone there?’
There’s a pause for a long moment and then comes a reply.
‘Hello? Is someone there?’
The voice speaking to me from the other side is my own, as if what I said was recorded and played back to me.
What? Just when I thought this experience couldn’t get any stranger.
I kneel down and put my eye to the keyhole, only to jump away from the door at what I see on the other side: another eye, the same light blue colour as my own, watching me.
‘Who is that?’ I ask.
‘Who is that?’ comes the reply shortly afterwards.
‘Is there a key on your side?’
The only response I get, which I’m expecting now, is my question fired back at me.
Frustrated, I storm off down the corridor to where I came from; to my confusion and dismay, the lounge and kitchen are empty. Peering out through the patio doors, there’s no sign of Iris in the garden either. Brilliant.
I call her name at the top of my lungs. ‘Iris, where are you? I need your help.’
Apparently, she’s no longer here to offer it, so I start rooting around in the kitchen drawers and cupboards, hoping to find what I’m looking for. They’re mainly empty, apart from some white crockery, a few pieces of cutlery and two pans, but eventually I come across a set of six keys of various shapes and sizes on one ring.
This has to be it.
I grab the keys and head straight back to the locked door. After pausing for a moment, fearing another spine-chilling apparition of Mum or Dad might await me on the other side, I throw caution to the wind and shove the first of the keys into the lock. It slides in but doesn’t turn at all. Not the right one, apparently. The second key I try doesn’t even fit.
Third time lucky?
Well, it goes in and turns, if that counts. Lucky, I’m not so sure about, considering all that’s happened so far in this eerie dream.
I take a deep breath and turn the door handle, at which point things go from weird to off-the-scale freakish.
I’m looking a mirror-version of myself in the eye. And instead of the main flat I was expecting to see on the other side of the door, I’m facing an inverse replica of the corridor I’ve just walked up.
My doppelgänger is dressed exactly as I am: red polo shirt, faded jeans, black army boots. The only visual difference between us, as far as I can see, is that he has a jagged scar across one cheek. This reminds me of someone else, although I can’t put my finger on who.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ I ask. ‘Who are you?’
Copying my words and tone of voice exactly, he repeats them back at me. Then a huge, creepy grin erupts across his face, which he holds for a long moment while eyeballing me, before throwing his head back and starting to laugh, shoulders jumping up and down, in a maniacal frenzy.
‘Where’s the main flat?’ I demand, only for him to say the same thing in reply, but this time in a high-pitched, whiny voice, obviously intended to wind me up. Once he’s said it, he returns to laughing.
I try to pull the door shut again, to close him off from me, but it won’t budge even the slightest bit; when I look down, I see he has one of his boots jammed against it.
‘Get lost!’ I say, unsurprised when the words get fired back at me in the same grating tone as before.
Unexpectedly, he reaches forward and shoves me. I’m forced back a couple of steps and want to do the same to him in retaliation, when I notice blood on my hands. They’re covered in the stuff; it’s dripping off them on to the floor, although I can’t tell where it’s coming from, as I don’t feel any pain and there are no visible wounds on myself.
Is it mine, his, or someone else’s blood?
‘Who are you?’ I ask, almost screaming. ‘What have you done?’
I’m so busy watching my hands that I don’t see how he responds. However, when for the first time he doesn’t repeat what I’ve said, I look up at him, only to find someone else staring back at me, their face screwed up, oozing hatred.
‘You’re a dead man,’ the skinny young guy growls. I know him. What’s his name? He’s wearing a black donkey jacket and red bobble hat. He has the same scar on his cheek as my doppelgänger did. But that’s the last of my concerns when I see the bloodied knife in his hands.
Shit.
I spin on my heel and tear down the corridor as fast as I can. ‘Iris!’ I cry out. ‘There’s a guy with a knife. Wherever you are, get the hell out of here.’
To my horror, she appears from the doorway I’m racing towards, shoots me a look of panic and lets out one hell of a blood-curdling scream.
‘Run for your life, Iris!’ I shout.
Then there’s a sharp pain in the back of my legs and I’m sprawling forward, heading for the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut and tense all of my muscles, readying myself for the impact.
My eyes snap open and I gasp for air.
I’m back in the real world. I know this immediately, although it takes me a little while to get my bearings, to remember where I am and why, and what really happened.
It’s dark everywhere, which doesn’t help. But once my eyes acclimatise and my breathing steadies, the panic in my chest starts to ease, allowing rational thoughts to return. I recognise my surroundings: suspended ceiling tiles, cubicle curtains, beds on wheels, LED lights, and mysterious medical equipment hanging from the walls.
I’m on the six-patient hospital ward where I was admitted after having my injuries from the knife attack treated. I check the time on the old phone Meg brought me as a temporary replacement for the one that bastard stole. It’s 11.43 p.m., so still Tuesday night for another quarter of an hour or so. Hard to believe it was only yesterday that Moxie tried to kill me. It feels like it happened much longer ago.
I hold my bandaged hands and forearms up in front of me and move them slightly to see how much they hurt. Quite a lot, as it turns out, causing me to grimace and groan, triggering yet more pain in my bruised, grazed face and where I bit my tongue. My body aches and throbs all over, particularly when I shift around in bed, although a lot of that is bruising and muscle strain. I could press my button to call a nurse over and ask for some more painkillers, but I don’t want to at the moment. I suspect the various meds they’ve given me already may have contributed to my bewildering, trippy dream, which I’d rather not experience again. Plus part of me doesn’t mind feeling the pain, because it serves as a reminder that I’m still here – roughly in one piece – alive rather than dead.
There were several times during my horrendous ordeal when I actually thought I was a goner. The terror and helplessness I felt while in Moxie’s drug-fuelled, deranged hands was so much worse than my last near-death experience under the collapsed scaffolding. I’ve never encountered fear like he put me through – and I never want to again.
How many times over the past day have I been told how lucky I am to have escaped with the injuries I have? A lot, that’s for sure, by various members of the amazing medical team who’ve helped me: from the paramedics who tended to me on the street, to the doctors and nurses who checked me over and tended to my wounds. I think some of the police who’ve spoken to me have said so too.
I’m not sure I feel as lucky as I ought to: it’s hard with all this pain. However, considering I was attacked by a man on the edge, who was armed with a blade he wasn’t afraid to use, I am lucky. My wounds might be sore at the moment, but they’re defensive, as in I suffered them while fending off potentially far worse injuries. We’re talking incisions and lacerations, rather than puncture wounds, which is very much a good thing … As good as any knife wounds are ever going to be, anyway.
Put simply, Moxie didn’t manage to stab me, but I’m not going to be cutting anyone’s hair for a while. Again, the doctors say I’ve been extremely lucky. No bones are broken and there doesn’t appear to be any tendon or nerve damage. It looks like I’ll make a full and relatively speedy recovery – at least in terms of my physical injuries.
Mentally, who knows? Counselling has been mentioned, since post-traumatic stress could be an issue. Despite pooh-poohing Meg when she suggested this after I survived the scaffolding collapse, now I’m coming around to the idea. Objectively, trying to manage such things by myself in the past – mainly due to pride, shame and stubbornness – hasn’t worked out too well for me.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Moxie’s face, knotted with anger and hatred as he tried to finish me off. I don’t understand how someone I knew so little could harbour such resentment for me. Ironically, this would never have happened if I hadn’t tried to do something nice for him and other homeless folk.
It’s hard not to question my attempts to change – to become a better person – considering where that journey has landed me. Optimism and good intentions returned me to hospital, in a worse state than last time. And if I hadn’t been so lucky, they could easily have killed me. Maybe I was better off as I used to be: looking after number one and viewing things with a wary eye.
At least Moxie’s not around any more to do further harm to me or anyone else. I can still picture the wide-eyed look of disbelief on my cousin’s face when she visited earlier today and I filled her in on the gory details. Meg was in tears when she first clapped eyes on me, my hands and arms all bandaged up, plus the various cuts and bruises on my face.
‘Oh my God,’ she said, gasping and holding her hand up to cover her open mouth. ‘You look dreadful.’
‘Thanks. That’s good to know. It’s not as bad as it appears, honestly. I’ll be fine once everything’s healed.’
‘Sorry, Luke. I feel awful. If only I’d been there to help. Now you’re back in hospital and I can’t stop thinking it’s my fault. You should never have been left alone.’
‘I wasn’t alone until right at the end of the night. Rita was with me for the whole session. This was afterwards. It could have happened on any day. I’m usually alone at work, remember? You’ve really nothing to feel bad about.’
‘I do, though. How could I not when I see you like this? Are you in a lot of pain, you poor thing? Is it okay if I give you a hug?’
I spread my arms wide. ‘Of course it is, Meg, as long as you’re gentle with me.’
It did hurt a bit, although I didn’t let on. I was too glad of the warm, calming sensation of being embraced by someone I love and trust. Comforted by my family.
She wanted to know every little detail of what had happened to me; I told her, even though it pained me to do so. I’d already been through the story several times with the police, but that didn’t make it any easier to relive.
When I got to the part where I’d broken free and then Moxie had caught up with me and sent me sprawling on to the pavement, I noticed Meg’s hands gripping the metal bar on the side of my bed, her knuckles white with exertion.
‘And?’ she asked, her eyes stretched like CDs, hanging on my every word. ‘How did you escape? How did he end up—’
‘Well, I didn’t,’ I continued. ‘Not straight away. He launched himself at me, raging, and I really thought he was going to kill me. In that moment, believing it could be my last, I found some kind of inner strength: a sort of survival instinct, I guess. I fought him with everything I had. I headbutted him in the nose, but even that wasn’t enough.
‘He was like a man possessed, on top of me, screaming and shouting, trying to use the knife on me. And then we were rolling around on the pavement and I was kicking and punching and biting and scratching. Doing everything I could to save myself. The only thing going through my head was that I couldn’t let him kill me. It seemed to go on forever. And then, out of nowhere, I was surrounded by flashing lights and sirens, and he was gone.’
‘How do you mean, gone?’ Meg asked, her features screwed up in concentration.
‘He pulled away from me, got to his feet and ran. One minute he was there; the next he wasn’t. I lay on the ground, dazed, believing at first that I’d somehow managed to avoid being hurt at all. Then, as paramedics rushed to help me, I realised there was blood everywhere, particularly on my hands and arms. I think I might have passed out a few times. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest.
‘The only part I remember distinctly is what happened next: the screech of a vehicle braking suddenly, followed by the loud thump of it hitting someth
ing. There was a pause before this awful screaming sound started. It was so high-pitched and deafening, like the kind of shriek you’d hear in an old slasher movie, and it seemed to go on and on. It was a woman, I think. I can only assume she witnessed what happened, although maybe she was the one driving. I really don’t know. I’m glad I didn’t see it. I’d have taken no pleasure from that, despite what that man put me through.’
Meg shook her head, slowly running her hands down her face. ‘I’m struggling to take all of this in,’ she said. ‘What you’re telling me is jaw-dropping, even though I had a rough idea already. It’s the sort of thing that happens in cop shows on TV, not real life. And I can’t get my head around why this bloke – Moxie or whatever his real name is – had it in for you. I remember him from when he came to get his hair cut and got into that argument. I tried to calm him down. He didn’t seem very nice, but … I had no idea.’
I explained that, based on what the police had been able to tell me so far, he was a troubled man dealing with significant mental health issues, who was already known to them. His real name was Jonathan Moxford.
‘And the sound you heard, that was him being hit by—’
‘A bus, yeah, on the busy main road that runs across where he attacked me. He raced out in front of it, they say. Whether that was by accident, because he was so desperate to get away, or on purpose, who can say? It killed him, though. That’s for sure.’
‘Good riddance,’ Meg said, steely-eyed.
Part of me wanted to agree with her, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do so. ‘Well, as I say, it seems that he had psychological issues, so—’
‘It sounds to me like he was pure evil. Honestly, after what he put you through, the world must be a better place without him.’
CHAPTER 26
They wake you up early in the morning in hospital – before seven o’clock. You might be lying in a bed all day, but that doesn’t mean you get to sleep in. Mornings are all about sudden bright lights and an array of different people visiting patients’ bedsides with medication, brews, breakfast, bed pans, washing bowls and fresh sheets.
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