(1989) Dreamer

by Peter James

‘No – he’s—’ He hesitated – ‘actually, he’s – ah – quite cautious. He’s a director of a bank. Quite a substantial outfit.’ He scratched the back of his head awkwardly. ‘Why are you—?’

  ‘I just thought he was a bit odd, that’s all.’

  ‘The Swiss tend to be a bit cold.’

  ‘How was the shoot?’ she asked.

  ‘Good bag.’ He looked relieved that she had changed the subject. ‘Hundred and eighty pheasants. Brought some back. Think I’m going to build a proper game larder.’

  She began to turn the winder of her watch carefully, backwards and forwards; it had been years since she’d wound a watch, she realised.

  ‘You’ve got the Punch and Judy organized, haven’t you, Bugs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time’s kick-off?’

  ‘Three o’clock. You’d better get the projector set up. You won’t have much time tomorrow, since you’ve got to fetch your mother.’

  ‘The old goat.’ He took another large pull on his drink. ‘She’s getting past her sell-by date.’

  ‘Nicky might say that about you and I one day.’

  ‘Probably will.’

  ‘Doesn’t that bother you?’

  He shrugged. ‘No.’

  She kissed him again on his cheek. ‘I’ll go and tell Nicky his story.’ She went out of the room and closed the door, blew her nose and wiped her own tears away. She climbed the stairs slowly, turning her mind back to the story of the man who killed the dragon and the dragon came back to life, except this time it turned into two dragons, and the man killed both of them and then it turned into four and he killed them too. Killed them dead.

  12

  ‘Oobie, joobie, joobie! Who’s a naughty girl, then?’

  Sam stared at the candy-striped stand; Punch swivelled around in his pointed hat, with his great hooked nose, rapped his baton down hard on his tiny stage and screeched:

  ‘Naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty. Who’s been a naughty girl, then?’

  One of the children shouted out, ‘Nicky’s mummy has!’

  Punch swaggered up and down along the stage, repeating to himself, ‘Nicky’s mummy’s been naughty, has she? Nicky’s mummy’s been naughty, has she? We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?’

  ‘Yeah!’ came the chorus.

  ‘Ooobie, joobie, joobie, who’s been a naughty girl, then?’ He swivelled and stared directly at Sam, leaning forward over the stage and curling and uncurling his index finger at her; it was a long finger, out of proportion with the size of the puppet, and the action unsettled her.

  ‘Oobie, joobie, joobie,’ he repeated over and over, curling and uncurling, leaning closer; the children were silent now, sensing an atmosphere. ‘I think she ought to be punished, don’t you, children?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  Punch stood upright and rapped the stage with his baton again. ‘Who thought she was on an aeroplane?’ He cackled with laughter.

  Sam smarted with anger, with bafflement.

  ‘Naughty! Naughty! Naughty!’

  The baton came down. Whack, whack, whack. Harder, this time with real menace.

  ‘Who’s going to have to be punished then?’

  ‘Nicky’s mummy!’ came the chorus.

  Stop this. I want to stop this. Get him out of there. He’s mad.

  ‘We could beat her with a stick!’ he screeched, then ducked down out of sight. ‘Or we could . . .’

  He reappeared.

  But now he was wearing a black hood with slits cut into it.

  Sam tried to back away, tried pushing herself on the carpet, but she was wedged against something, something hard, soft; the sofa, she realised.

  She could see his lips smiling through the hood, then he winked, and his left eyeball shot out, hit the floor and rolled across the carpet, rattled onto the bare floorboards, bouncing against the skirting board and carrying on rolling, rattling like a cannonball.

  The children shrieked with laughter.

  He lifted something shiny, metallic up over the floor of the stage.

  She shivered.

  Shotgun.

  He raised it up swiftly and aimed at her.

  ‘No!’ she screamed.

  She saw the spurts of flame from the barrel and felt a sharp sting on her cheek.

  The lights went out, and for a moment she was covered in darkness, sticky, cloying blackness that pressed against her eyes, her ears, forced its way into her mouth. Then a row of red digits appeared above her, and she blinked, startled by their brightness.

  0415.

  The darkness was becoming tinged with red, as if the light was bleeding into it. She heard a sharp snort beside her, a gurgling sound and several more snorts. Then Richard’s voice.

  ‘Wassermarrer?’

  She felt a chill breeze. Dream, she thought. Dream.

  0416.

  Light poured out of the clock like blood into a bath. She heard Richard’s voice again. ‘What the fuck was that?’ Heard the sound of his arm sliding through the bedclothes, a loud clank, the sound of water spilling, ‘Shit’, then the click of the light, which blinded her for a moment.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said.

  He was staring up at the ceiling. Cracks ran out in all directions across it, like veins in an old woman’s hand.

  Like glass that had been hit by a bullet. She shivered.

  Right above her head, a small chunk of plaster was missing completely. Her cheek was hurting like hell, she realised. Gingerly, she put her finger to her face, and felt the hard, flaky plaster crumble between her fingers as she touched it.

  Richard leapt out of bed, horrified. ‘It’s fucking coming down. Get out of here!’ He struggled into his dressing gown and she climbed out of bed too, and pulled her own dressing gown on. The ceiling seemed to be moving, breathing, sagging, cracking more as she looked at it. It looked like eggshell now, like a hard-boiled egg that had been dropped and the shell had cracked all around it.

  ‘It’s the water that got in after the fucking hurricane,’ Richard said as she followed him out into the corridor. ‘The survey said the roof had been leaking and the loft above our room had damp. The central heating’s drying it out and the joists are warping.’

  They ran down the corridor and checked Nicky’s room, and then Helen’s room, snapping their lights on, saying ‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ then snapping the lights off again and closing the doors.

  ‘Are their rooms safe, Richard?’

  ‘They look fine. The roof was badly holed above our room – ours is probably the worst.’

  There were no beds in the spare rooms yet, so they lugged sheets and blankets downstairs and made makeshift beds up on the two sofas in the drawing room. Richard stoked up the fire, got it going and piled logs onto it, and she lay on the sofa, snugly wrapped up now, her heart not thumping quite so badly, and watched the leaping flickering flames. Watched them as they slowly faded and died and dawn began to break outside.

  13

  The frost scrunched under her feet, and she rubbed her hands together against the icy air. The sun hung low in the sky over the Downs, pale, weak, as if it had been left on all night. The river slid past below her, dark brown, silent, like the fear that was sliding through her.

  She touched the graze on her cheek gingerly and looked down at the mark on her finger which had now almost gone. There was a muffled pop, like the bursting of a paper bag, then another; she turned and saw Nicky running flat out across the lawn towards a small grey ball of fluff that was rolling about, flapping.

  ‘It’s not dead, Daddy! It’s not dead!’

  She saw him poke a hand forward nervously, then jump back, watched Richard striding over, gun crooked under his arm. Teaching him to shoot, already. Promised him a gun for his ninth birthday. Guns. Killing things. Hunting. Would the world ever change if children were taught to follow old instincts? Or was it foolish to ignore them, to try to pretend they no longer existed? Choices. So many choices to make in bringing up a
child. So many decisions that could change or forever affect them. Decisions. Who the hell was equipped to make them?

  She glanced at her Rolex. It was five past one. ‘Richard,’ she called out, ‘we’d better have lunch.’ She sighed. Her few moments of respite were over. The five minutes she had managed to grab for herself in the midst of the preparations. The rest of the day was going to be chaos. She yawned. Her back ached slightly, but nothing much. It had been OK on the sofa. It would have been even more OK if she could have had another twelve hours of sleep.

  Oobie, joobie, joobie.

  The weird taunt echoed in her head, and Punch’s finger curled out towards her, curled, uncurled.

  Oobie joobie joobie. The taunt seemed to hang in the air around her, then dissolve.

  The whole damned ceiling could have come down.

  Did that trigger the dream? she wondered. In that split second that the plaster struck? Was that how dreams worked? Did they all happen in a fraction of a second?

  ‘Mummy! We shot a pigeon.’

  ‘Very clever, darling.’ She glanced down at the litter of wrapping paper on the kitchen floor, at the remote controlled car, already with a bit broken off. The BMX was in the garden, lying on its side. ‘Don’t you like your bike?’

  His eyes lit up. ‘Yeah!’

  ‘It’s not going to do it much good lying out in the garden. The grass is wet.’

  ‘I’m going to use it again this afternoon. I am.’

  ‘You shouldn’t let it stay wet.’

  ‘I’ll dry it, I promise.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘I will. I promise I will.’

  ‘Promises are important, Tiger. Never make a promise you can’t keep. OK?’

  He looked away. ‘Yes,’ he mouthed silently. ‘Richard!’ she called. ‘Come on, lunch!’ She could hear him on the telephone.

  ‘Yah!’ he shouted. ‘Just a sec.’

  She dug the ladle into the stew, and tipped a small portion onto Nicky’s plate.

  Richard came in.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘Oh. Andreas. Just a—’ He picked up the wine bottle which Sam had already uncorked. ‘Are you having some wine, Mummy?’ Richard hovered over his mother with the bottle.

  Sam stared at her mother-in-law’s thin wrinkled face, with her make-up too thick and her hair elegantly coiffed, too black. She always dressed well in expensive clothes that were now slightly frayed, not because she could not afford new ones, or to have them mended, but because she simply wasn’t aware. It always seemed strange, his calling her Mummy. She wondered if Nicky would still be calling her Mummy when she was old like that.

  ‘Wine, Mummy? Would you like some wine?’ Richard repeated, louder.

  ‘Coffee, I think,’ she said. ‘Do you do espresso?’

  ‘We’re going to have lunch first,’ said Richard patiently, more patiently than usual.

  His mother turned towards him. ‘Your father’ll have some wine, I expect. He’s late.’ She opened her handbag and scrabbled about in it, slowly, deliberately, warily, like a dog scratching away the earth over a hidden bone. She pulled out a compact, clicked it open, and examined her lips. She took out a lipstick, and twisted the stem.

  Sam and Richard exchanged a glance. His father had been dead for eight years.

  ‘Would you like some stew, Mummy?’

  ‘I’ll have a cigarette now, I think, darling.’

  ‘We’re going to eat first, Joan,’ Sam said, kindly but firmly.

  Her mother-in-law frowned, puzzled.

  ‘Have you thanked Granny for your present?’ asked Sam.

  Nicky looked forlornly at her. ‘I only got handkerchiefs.’

  ‘Handkerchiefs are jolly useful,’ said Helen.

  ‘Granny,’ said Nicky, turning to her. ‘We shot a pigeon.’

  She rolled her tongue over her lips, then carefully put the lipstick back into the bag. She pulled out her cigarettes, and extricated one from the pack.

  ‘Mummy, we’re still eating,’ said Richard, irritated.

  ‘When’s his birthday?’ she said. ‘Sometime soon, isn’t it?’

  ‘Today,’ Sam said. ‘It’s today.’

  Her mother-in-law frowned again and looked at her watch. ‘Usually home by now.’ She looked up at Richard. ‘Probably in a meeting.’

  ‘I’m sure he won’t mind if you start without him,’ said Sam. ‘Why don’t you have some stew?’

  ‘Pigeons are naughty. Daddy’s going to give me a gun when I’m – er – when I’m nine.’

  ‘Elbows off, Tiger.’ She turned to Richard. ‘Do you think we should call the Punch and Judy man? He should have been here by now. Said he’d be here by one.’

  ‘Looking forward to your party, Nicky?’ asked Helen.

  ‘Umm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Yes.’

  They heard the sound of a car and Sam looked out of the window. A small, elderly Ford pulled up. ‘Thank God,’ she said, hurrying out of the room, as if she was afraid he might change his mind and go away.

  He stood apologetically on the front doorstep, an unassuming little man in a drab suit and a thick mackintosh, with two huge suitcases.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘So terribly sorry.’ He smiled, exposing a row of crooked rotting teeth, yellow and brown, and his breath was foul, as if he had been smoking a pipe. ‘My wife’s not well, I had to wait for the doctor.’ He looked afraid. There was fear in his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you. It’s one of those—’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m here to be cheerful, to make the party go.’ He smiled again and she could see he had been crying.

  She felt a tug on her pullover and saw Nicky standing there.

  ‘This is the Punch and Judy man, Tiger.’

  ‘Hallo, young man. Happy birthday.’

  Nicky looked suspiciously up at him.

  ‘Say hallo, Tiger.’ But Nicky said nothing. The man was thin and pale, with a slightly translucent skin; his head was almost bald on top, with a few strands pulled over and plastered down. He looked like a forgotten toy. ‘Do you want a hand with your bags?’

  ‘No, no, oh no, no, I can manage, thank you.’ He picked up the two enormous cases and staggered forward, breathing hard. Sam saw tiny beads of sweat on his forehead, and she shivered suddenly. He made her feel uncomfortable. This little man who could make children laugh and scream and cry, this little man with his sick wife and his suitcases full of puppets.

  What a life, she thought, what a life, to turn up every day on strangers’ doorsteps. Did he love children? Or was he weird? As she stared at him she felt afraid, as if the man was carrying death into her house, carrying it in his two big heavy suitcases.

  Nicky was looking at her anxiously. He stretched up towards her and spoke in a quiet, conspiratorial voice. ‘Mummy, he doesn’t look like Punch and Judy.’

  ‘I’m sorry we’re a bit early.’

  ‘No, that’s fine, really.’ Sam smiled, staring at the woman, trying to think of her name. The wife of a City friend of Richard’s. They owned a stately pile somewhere near here.

  ‘It was very nice of you to invite Edgar.’

  Sam looked down dubiously at the scowling child. A brat. It was stamped all over his face. ‘Delighted,’ she said.

  ‘I trod in cow shit this morning,’ Edgar said.

  ‘Darling!’ said his mother. ‘I don’t think Mrs Curtis wants to know about that.’

  ‘I’ll just get Nicky.’ Sam looked around. ‘Tiger! Come and meet your first guest!’

  Helen appeared, holding Nicky gently by the arm, coaxing him along.

  ‘This is Edgar,’ said Sam.

  ‘Give him his present.’

  Edgar thrust out a small package. ‘I trod in cow shit this morning.’

  ‘Edgar!’ said his mother.

  ‘What do you say, Nicky?’

  Nicky went bright red. ‘Umm. Thank you very much. We sh
ot a pigeon this morning,’ he added.

  ‘Shall we open that later, Nicky?’ said Helen, lifting the package. ‘We’ll put them all together so we don’t get in a muddle.’

  ‘Why don’t you show Edgar your presents, Tiger?’ said Sam. She smiled at his mother. ‘Would you like to come in!’

  ‘Thanks, no. Have to dash. Be back at six?’

  ‘OK. Bye.’ Sam closed the door.

  ‘I want to shoot a pigeon,’ Edgar said.

  ‘We’re having a party now, Edgar,’ she said. ‘You can come back one day and go shooting with Nicky and his father if you like.’

  ‘I want to shoot one now.’

  ‘Nicky has got a radio controlled car. Would you like to see that?’

  The child stamped his foot. ‘Pigeon,’ he said. ‘Eeeeee, urrrrr, grrrmmmm.’ He sprinted off across the hall, then stopped and glared through the kitchen doorway. He marched in and across to Richard, who was reading a paper. ‘Urrr.’ He said. ‘Grrremmmm.’

  Richard carried on reading.

  ‘Urrrr. Grrremmmmm.’

  Richard glanced over the top of his paper. ‘Sod off,’ he said.

  ‘Urrrrr,’ said the child, screwing up his face. ‘Urrrr, urrrr. I want to shoot a pigeon.’

  ‘Ask her, she’ll take you.’ Richard nodded at his mother, who was studying her face in her compact through a stream of cigarette smoke, and carried on reading.

  Edgar put up his hand and tugged the paper down sharply, ripping it. ‘I want to shoot a pigeon.’ He stamped his foot.

  Richard shot out his hand and grabbed the boy’s ear.

  ‘Ow!’

  Shoving the paper aside, he stood up, twisting his ear harder, and marched him out of the kitchen.

  ‘Owwwww! Arrrrrrr!’

  He gave one final tweak for good measure.

  ‘Richard, what are you doing?’

  ‘Little bastard,’ he said.

  Edgar stood in the hallway, bawling, as Richard walked back into the kitchen. Sam stormed in after him. ‘What have you done to that child?’

  ‘Little bastard tore my paper.’

  ‘Did you hit him?’

  ‘No, but I will do next time.’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Three o’clock, it’s meant to start. Why are they all coming early? Can you shove the sausages in the oven? The bottom right-hand.’