The Wannabes

by F. R. Jameson

  She swayed above him, her round, creamy breasts pleased to see him. Sleep still heavy in his eyes, he grabbed her pert backside and tried to pull her on to him. Teasingly, she held firm, arms locked straight. She had slim arms and long, toned and slender legs. Although every inch of her was gorgeous, she reserved most pride for her tiny ballerina’s feet.

  Even though he still had the taste of her fresh on his lips, he yearned for another opportunity. He knew she knew this. He knew that she understood precisely the effect of her smile, of her body – particularly on him. And the fact she had this knowledge made him love her even more.

  He raised his hand and squeezed her breast, wanting her to lean down and kiss him. But then he blinked. Just a blink. And in that flash of darkness he saw the back of Raymond’s head with bits of brain oozing out. Clay gasped.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” she asked.

  “I had a bad dream.”

  “A bad dream? What happened?”

  “I dreamt I went around to Raymond’s house and killed him. I murdered him in his kitchen.”

  “You what?”

  “Yeah, just...” His words stuttered out to nothing, tears flooded over his cheeks. “Bloody hell!” he said. “I just feel so weird. My head feels like it’s been spun round. It’s like my arms and legs ache.”

  She pressed herself against him, her hands moving soothingly around his neck. “You’ve been sleeping so peacefully,” she said, “you really have. You’ve barely murmured all night long, Clay. It doesn’t make sense that you could have such a nightmare.”

  He placed his hand to the small of her back and tried to concentrate on not feeling sick. “I read once that dreams only ever take place in that last three seconds before consciousness,” he said. “You know, in that brief moment when you’re not asleep, but waking. But I don’t know. That dream was so detailed, so precise – I can’t see how I got all that in three seconds.”

  Her lips leant into his neck and she reached her hands across his chest. “You held me all night,” she whispered. “You were so gentle and calm.”

  “Was I? It’s just–” He stopped again and wiped his eyes.

  “Relax.” She moved her hands over his chest, lowering him back into the softness of the mattress. She kissed the whole way down him, nibbling at his shoulder, his nipples, his stomach, his navel.

  He tried to relax, tried to enjoy her attentions.

  “You know,” he said, “I don’t remember the last time I actually dreamt, I really don’t. I can’t even remember what my last dream was about. Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s why it looked real. I’m so used to not having them that whatever I dreamt seemed lifelike as a consequence. What do you think? Do you think that’s why?”

  She looked up. “It’s just a dream. That’s all, honey. The last dream I had – the last vivid dream I had – was about you. We were, well... And I woke up and was so disappointed that it wasn’t real, that you weren’t there. It was just a dream. But now you are here, now you’re with me and it is real. We’re together now, in real life not dreams, and you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right.”

  He stroked gently through her hair, wanting to lose himself in its smoothness. He wanted to concentrate on how happy he was, how lucky he was to be with her, back in her bed, back in her arms. But all he could see was Raymond’s blood-splattered face as he lay on the kitchen floor. Clay saw himself turning the corpse over, making sure the glasses were straight on his friend’s bruised and broken face. They’d flown off as Raymond’s knees buckled and his skull jerked, and Clay had picked them up and put them back on – with Raymond’s dead eyes staring up at him.

  He sat up quickly and nearly knocked Belinda to the green carpet, only just catching her in time. She gave a little scream and then a pout. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got to go over there.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Raymond’s.”

  “You can’t!” she said. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just want to see the house again. I want to see him again. I know it’s only a dream, but I don’t think I’m going to get any peace unless I do this. It’ll be like an exorcism. Once I see it and know that everything is okay, then I guess it’ll go.”

  She pulled her head back a little meanly. “Don’t leave me. Please. Of course everything is all right, there’s no need for you to actually go down to South London and check on anything. Stay here with me, please.”

  “I can’t, Belinda.”

  “Clay – I’m asking you!” She glared at him with eyes so strong and furious that his gaze retreated to the duvet. He swung his legs to the floor. He had to do what he wanted and he knew that she hated him when he did that.

  She sat with her back to him on the bed, her spine curved so that every muscle seemed to be shunning him, yet at the same time her sex appeal was on window display. It was one of her poses, something she’d practised, a move she’d maybe learnt in a play once upon a time.

  “Two years I’ve waited for you, Clay,” she said. “Two years and all you can give me is one fucking night? Is that it? Have you become the girl in every port type now? Have you? Am I your Soho piece of skirt? Here just to shag you, feed you, then weep when you say goodbye in the morning? Is that it?”

  “You know it isn’t.” He attempted to stroke his hand across to soothe her shoulders, but she gave him a shrug so cold it was nearly an ice-burn. “Look, I’ll be freaked out all day if I don’t do this. I won’t be good company.”

  “I can’t believe you’re going to leave me to see that bastard Raymond Jones!”

  “I won’t be long. Look, Belinda, I love you. I’ve never known anyone who I’ve wanted to be with so much, but I have to go – I honesty won’t be able to close my eyes again if I don’t.”

  “Promise me you’ll come back.”

  “What?”

  “Promise – no matter what you see, what you find, what he says, that you’ll come back here today.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and she yielded, running her fingers along his forearms.

  “Of course I will,” he said. “I’ll just go there, look at it and come straight back.”

  She leant her head back and they kissed.

  “Do you want to make love?” she asked.

  “If we make love, I’ll never go.”

  “Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”

  He kissed her again. “I have to do this. I don’t think I could sleep tonight if I had these thoughts unanswered in my brain.”

  She pushed herself away and sat forward with her knees brought up tight to her. “You better hurry and get going then, hadn’t you?”

  He got up from the bed. “Where are my clothes?”

  “They’re in the laundry basket,” she flung at him, back hunched. “Have a look in the second wardrobe. Lots of your old clothes are still there. I always hoped you might come back...”

  She made a muffled sob and he felt an old suspicion that both sob and muffling were part of a performance, but he was affected anyway. “I’ll be quick,” he said.

  “Just go.”

  He found his old black suit and shirt. Once dressed, he looked at himself in the bedroom mirror. He was sleek and handsome in black – the world’s funkiest undertaker.

  Belinda put on her bathrobe, thin material with green flowers, and accompanied him down the yellow hallway. He grabbed her behind and pulled her up to him, kissing her hard.

  She wrapped arms around his neck and kissed hard back.

  And they stood there for a minute, playing a game of concrete kisses.

  “Do you really think I’d go for good?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “Sooner or later you’d have to come back.”

  “That’s right.” He opened the door. “And when I do, I’ll be armed with roses.”

  “I’d love some, thank you.”

  He smiled then stepped
into the outdoor sunlight. Just before he closed the door he heard Abigail – Belinda’s flatmate – ask: “Where’s he going?”

  “He had a bad dream last night,” Belinda replied.

  He shut the door with a click.

  CHAPTER THREE

  John Clay – the returned hero, the prodigal wanderer – was tall, wide and good looking. A six foot four natural athlete with curly blond hair, he had chiselled cheek bones, strong chin and slightly lost blue eyes. His eyes were warm and gentle, and led people to underestimate him, to believe he was a little behind the pace, to think that he’d get the point eventually rather than straight away.

  He had a smile he could never really hide. If he was happy in that moment, he didn’t just feel it inwardly, he showed it with a smile that played around the corners of his lips and resembled an idiot smirk. His real smile was beautiful, it glowed on his face, while his laugh was powerful and real. It was those moments of calm though that brought out his inadvertent smile that was as much a purr as a physical attribute – a sign to the people around him that he was content.

  He didn’t feel or look like smiling this morning though, and the expression of agitation didn’t really suit his features. His aspect was nervous and afraid; his cheeks drawn; his blue eyes appeared more confused than they’d ever been before.

  It didn’t take him long to get from Soho to Brockley. He just sliced through the centre of town and down to Charing Cross Station; from there it was an overland train to the lovely South East – where there was scarcely a tube station or a fashionable district.

  Raymond always seemed on a mission to sell Greenwich, as if the one half-decent area was enough to make up for the Deptfords, the Catfords, the Bermondseys, the Rotherhithes. He wanted his friends to come to Greenwich rather than stagnating in Soho, but they’d argue that there were too many dumb tourists, that that kind of prettiness was the worst English chocolate box cliché, that it was too far and really not worth the effort – when in truth they were all so stagnated in Soho that they couldn’t move even if the West End was burning down. Raymond wasn’t deterred though and never lost his passion for that part of town, no matter what fresh insult they offered.

  Unlike the others, Clay always liked it. Greenwich he enjoyed in the sunshine and the few times he’d been to Brockley he was impressed. A nice green suburban district in Zone 2; just the place for Raymond and his new lawyer wife Lizzie to settle down.

  Clay got off the train at Brockley and made his way through the gate, out onto the main road. It was 11:30 and the sun powered down and made every pore feel like it was being individually suffocated. He crossed the main road and turned left, walking up the hill towards Raymond’s house.

  The tension evaporated as he walked; it became more of a saunter than a walk. He already felt too hot, but was able to hold his hands behind his back and stroll up and pretend that he was enjoying the sun.

  He looked forward to seeing Raymond again. He’d always liked him, always considered him a good friend. He thought back to the last time he’d climbed that hill, the last time he’d actually visited – as opposed to meeting in a pub. It was maybe a year before he went away. It had been too long, he’d been too neglectful. He was looking forward to shaking Raymond’s hand and telling him he’d missed him.

  Breathing in summer’s air, he felt free of his dark dream already. Everything looked different in daylight – the street was different, the houses were different. The dream was fading, it was no longer as violent or as gruesome – just an unpleasant hint of memory which would soon fritter away to nothing. He walked up the street and hummed to himself and though he tried to recollect where he’d last heard the tune, he couldn’t quite catch it.

  Halfway up, Clay could just catch a glimpse of Raymond’s house. At the doorstep was a policeman – a young bobby standing guard, his hands tight behind his back, his posture straight and correct. The bobby wore short sleeves, but was clearly still uncomfortable in the summer heat.

  Clay nearly stumbled. It was only his concentrated momentum that kept his legs moving forward. He stared at the policeman – wishing him gone, wishing the man was fantasy, wishing he himself wasn’t here.

  When he was about six houses away, he didn’t want to go any further, didn’t want to see any more – but there was nowhere he could go. He couldn’t turn around now. He couldn’t close his eyes and dash back down the street – the bobby would know something was wrong if he did. That flatfoot would radio his superiors and Clay would be a hunted man – and even though he’d been with Belinda last night, he couldn’t explain running away, he couldn’t explain his dream. He had to keep walking, even though he trembled with every step. He had to be strong, but all he could feel were his nerves banging against his stomach like a marching band’s drum.

  The policeman noticed Clay and they stared at each other. There was something wrong about the bobby’s appearance – yes, he looked too warm in his uniform and the sweat had flooded his brow, but he was pale rather than flushed. In this heat his face should have been an uncomfortable crimson or maybe, if he was lucky, an assured tan – but this policeman’s face was ashen. Why was it so pale? It was a hot summer’s day so he shouldn’t have been quite so washed-out and white.

  Clay stared at the policeman and the policeman stared back. Was it something the bobby had seen? Was whatever crime he was investigating not a petty piece of vandalism or burglary – was it brutal bloody murder? Was it a homicide so dreadful this poor young constable had had his nerves shredded and a deathly pallor had spread over his skin?

  He stared at the policeman and the policeman stared back.

  Clay tried to walk in a straight line; he didn’t want to stagger.

  He was nearing the house and his gaze left the bobby. He stared with bulging eyes. It appeared to be the standard crime scene – the type he’d seen repeatedly on TV – except it was given a fresh twist by the fact that this was his friend’s home. The front door was open and there was the tape stuck across announcing police business; officers behind the tape chatted – maybe about the case, maybe just gossip – and from the first floor the brick and window-frame showed the unmistakable signs of fire and smoke damage.

  Now he was right outside and the policeman still stared at him, a stare which – because of its proximity – seemed to tip from polite curiosity into active suspicion. Clay wanted to stop and peer over the bobby’s shoulder into the house, but his legs, having shaken so much getting up the hill, now wanted to go on and on. They didn’t want him to stop and look, they wanted to march – and he heeded their suggestion and kept moving. His gaze lowered to the cracked paving stones and he gave not a glance back to the bobby. He just charged until he reached the top of the road.

  Flashes of the dream returned – the blood running down the back of Raymond’s neck and dripping off his shoulders; Raymond’s battered face visible through the glass of the oven door. And now, the next day, there’d been a blaze but it hadn’t just been fire engines called out. There were definitely more policemen than would ever show up for a domestic flare-up. At the top of the street, well out of sight of Raymond’s house, Clay threw up.

  He buckled and vomited across the pavement, against the garden wall of a bungalow, a thick red liquid – last night’s rich food and Californian wine – spewed from his nose and mouth. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped his mouth and chin but couldn’t get rid of the awful smell. He staggered a little and felt light-headed. He needed to sit down and grab some fresh air and figure out what was happening. But he didn’t want to sit down near his own sick and so crossed the road.

  He leaned back against the wall of the opposite bungalow and hoped no home-owner would tell him to go away. Sitting here, he had a different view back down the street, a different angle. He couldn’t quite see Raymond’s house, but the police cars were there and the whole upsetting palaver.

  Clay knew this was no dream.

  What had happened? How had he dreamt reality? It hadn’
t been him, he knew that. If he’d come to Brockley last night to murder Raymond (and what possible reason would he have to come to Brockley to murder Raymond?) then Belinda would have noticed. She’d have said, “Where did you go last night? You left me alone. You walked out on me.” If she’d said that, he’d have turned himself in straightaway. But she’d said no such thing. As far as she was concerned, he’d slept peacefully right the way through. He was spoken for, he had an alibi.

  Perhaps it was coincidence – but what the hell type of coincidence was it? He had a dream where his friend was murdered and then set alight, and now the next day the place was burnt and a dozen peelers were milling around? No, that was more than coincidence, that was Second Sight.

  Maybe that was it. Maybe he was talented. Blessed. Cursed? Maybe last night was an out-of-body experience that let him see what happened to Raymond, took him there and made him watch the full horror of it. But why? He’d never experienced anything like that before. He couldn’t understand it, didn’t know what was going on. His head ached and he would have thrown up again if he hadn’t already done such a thorough job of emptying his stomach.

  There was a pub at the end of the street – Ye Olde Burnt Parchment. A nice old boozer they’d go to sometimes if Raymond enticed him to that part of London. He wanted a drink now, a healthy strong jar of alcohol. Unfortunately, the pub was at the bottom of the hill, and the only way to get there was to walk back down Raymond’s street. He’d have to pass the house and pass the suspicious policeman. He’d have to pretend he hadn’t just walked up and then turned around and walked back down, like something out of a nursery rhyme.