(1989) Dreamer

by Peter James

  ‘I’ll put that little bastard in if he comes in here.’

  ‘Shall I get the door, Mrs Curtis?’

  ‘Thank you, Helen.’ She looked back at Richard. ‘Have you put the gun away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s your mother doing?’

  ‘She wants to know when we’re having lunch. Bloody daft bringing her here.’

  ‘It is her grandson’s birthday.’

  ‘You’d better remind her.’

  ‘She’s not completely gaga. She did buy him a present, and a nice card.’

  ‘I wanna go home,’ Edgar bawled.

  ‘Hi Sam!’ a voice called. Sam went back into the hall.

  ‘Vicki!’ She dashed over. ‘Come in.’

  ‘I’ve got to collect Peter from sailing.’

  ‘Hallo, Willie.’ Sam looked down at the slightly lost-looking child.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ she heard Nicky whisper, holding another brightly coloured package.

  ‘Rowie!’ Nicky’s godmother.

  ‘Sam! Mmmn!’ Their cheeks collided and they each blew kisses out into the air.

  ‘How are you, darling?’

  ‘Fine. Great.’ Sam tousled the hair of Rowie’s stern little boy.

  ‘Hallo, Justin.’

  ‘Hallo, Auntie Sam.’

  ‘This is daft, Sam. We live a mile away from each other in London, almost in the next-door village down here, and the only time we see each other is at kids’ parties! How about lunch this week – Tuesday any good?’

  ‘Sure. Why don’t we have lunch at the club? A swim and a sauna? They have a good salad bar now.’

  Another car was pulling up. Chaos; she felt bewildered for a moment. Then she saw the Punch and Judy man come down the stairs and walk through into the drawing room, quietly, meekly, gliding. Like a ghost, she thought.

  14

  ‘Sausage, Celia?’

  The little girl raised her pig-tailed head. ‘I don’t eat sausages. My mummy says they’re common.’

  Sam stared at her, flummoxed for a moment, then moved on down the table with the heavy tray, listening to the babble. ‘Sausage, Willie?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘I always have prawns at my parties,’ said Celia loudly, to no one in particular.

  Richard followed, with a tray of hot quiche.

  ‘I don’t eat quiche,’ she heard Celia say.

  ‘You’ll get spots if you don’t eat quiche,’ he said.

  She puffed up haughtily in her pink frock. ‘My mummy says I’m going to be very beautiful. I’m going to be a model.’

  ‘Are we having a film? Are we having a film?’ said an excited voice Sam did not recognise. She stared at Nicky at the head of the table, in an orange paper crown, fists sunk into a half-eaten burger, ketchup, and relish oozing out the sides of it, his face and new jumper streaked in the stuff, like a Jackson Pollock painting.

  ‘What film? What film?’

  She looked at her watch. Just past four.

  Babble. A child blew a plastic bugle. Another blew a low-pitched whistle, from which a strip of coloured paper uncurled. A little girl ran excitedly into the room, sat down and began whispering to her friend, who then rushed out. Sam saw the Punch and Judy man standing in the doorway, and she nodded at him.

  ‘OK, everyone! Punch and Judy time!’

  There were excited squeals, and a couple of groans.

  ‘Can we all go next door, please.’

  She herded them through into the drawing room and tried to get them seated on the floor in front of the candy-striped Punch and Judy stand. It was wobbling a bit and she could see the side move every few moments as the man shuffled around inside, sorting his things out. She watched it warily for a moment, traces of last night’s dream echoing around her head as she listened to the babble. Helen wandered through the kids, dishing out lollipops.

  ‘There’s a real man inside there.’

  ‘’Course there isn’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I looked.’

  ‘How could you look? You’re not tall enough.’

  ‘I bet I am.’

  ‘I bet you’re not.’

  One small girl sat on her own, slightly away from the rest, with her hands over her eyes.

  Sam went out into the kitchen. Her mother-in-law was staring into her compact mirror, caking more make-up onto her nose, a thin thread of smoke rising from a mound of lipstick-covered butts in the ashtray beside her.

  ‘Joan,’ Sam said, ‘the Punch and Judy’s about to start. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Punch and Judy, dear?’ She frowned. ‘No, I think I’d prefer to stay in here. My lipstick’s a bit smudged.’

  ‘It looks very nice. I’m sure Nicky would like it if you came in.’

  Her mother-in-law began to rummage in her bag again, the dog scratching through the earth for its bone.

  There was a ripple of laughter from the drawing room. ‘See you in a minute.’ She walked across the hall, and paused in the doorway of the drawing room. The Art Deco clock on the mantelpiece caught her eye. Coming up to four-fifteen.

  The time seemed familiar for some reason.

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

  ‘Oh no I’m not!’ squawked Punch, his soft pointed hat and hooked nose appearing over the top of the tiny stage.

  ‘Oobie, joobie, joobie! Naughty, naughty, naughty!’

  The words sent a prickle of anxiety through her.

  ‘Oh no I’m not!’

  ‘Oh yes you are!’ shrieked Mrs Punch, dancing up and down in her gaudy frock.

  ‘Oh no I’m not!’

  ‘Oh yes you are!’

  ‘Come on children, I’m not naughty am I?’

  ‘Oh yes he is!’

  Sam looked over the sea of faces, some grinning, some with lollipop sticks poking out of their lips. The girls in their party frocks, the boys in their shirts, mostly grubby already, and short trousers slightly dishevelled from the games. What sort of people would they become when they grew up? You could tell the meek and the assertive, the bullies and thinkers. Christ, they all had a long way to go before – before what? Before they could begin to understand? Look at me – I’m a grown up – thirty-two – and I don’t even begin to understand. Maybe life wasn’t about understanding at all? Maybe there was something else. We all charged through, looking in the wrong cupboards and missed the point. Would these children one day become old and baffled and still be opening and shutting cupboards? Rummaging through handbags for – cigarettes? For – the key to life? Like Richard’s mother in the kitchen? No, not any more. We’re entering the Age of Aquarius. It’ll all make SENSE. The new UNDERSTANDING.

  ‘’Ere, children, help me. If you think I’m not naughty, shout out with me, all right? OH NO I’M NOT!’

  ‘Oh no you’re not!’ There was a faltering chorus, uncertain, slightly embarrassed.

  ‘Don’t listen to him!’ shrieked Mrs Punch. ‘Say, “OH YES YOU ARE!”’

  She stared at Nicky, sitting there, rapt. He was a nice chap, she thought; he cared, even now; he’d grow up to be a caring person.

  ‘OH YES YOU ARE!’

  She was vaguely conscious of the door opening at the far end of the room.

  ‘That wasn’t very loud!’

  ‘OH YES YOU ARE!’

  Something wasn’t right.

  Something was making her feel very frightened.

  ‘Come on, louder!’

  ‘OH YES YOU ARE!’

  She saw the smile on his face first, forty feet across the room, the smile of a demon, not a small child. In an instant it was gone, and instead there was a laughing boy, a greedy little boy who has got his way and is happy, for a fleeting moment, until he becomes bored again. He was laughing, laughing to himself, laughing while the blood stopped flowing inside her and was turning to ice.

  ‘Edgar,’ she said, mouthing the word. ‘Edgar!’ she shouted against the sea o
f voices that were rooting for Mrs Punch.

  ‘Edgar!’ she shouted again, against the sea of voices that were now rooting for Mr Punch. ‘Put it down! For God’s sake put it down!’

  It couldn’t be loaded. Impossible. Richard was careful. He couldn’t be that foolish.

  ‘Edgar!’

  He stood by the door, staggering under the weight of the shotgun like a drunken miniature gunfighter.

  The finger.

  Curling in the night.

  4.15.

  The clock. In the bedroom. When she had woken up.

  4.15.

  The clock on the mantelpiece.

  4.15.

  The finger on the trigger.

  Oobie, joobie, joobie.

  ‘Edgar!’ She took a step forward.

  The gun swept wildly across the backs of the children, up at her, up at the ceiling, then down at the children again.

  ‘I’m going to shoot pigeons now.’ She heard the words clearly, across the room, through all the noise, as clearly as if he was standing next to her.

  The barrel was swinging up towards her.

  ‘Edgar, be careful! Put it down!’

  Pointing straight at her.

  ‘OH NO I’M NOT!’

  ‘OH YES YOU ARE!’

  ‘EDGAR PUT IT DOWN.’

  She could see straight into them, straight down both barrels, even from here.

  ‘OH NO I’M NOT!’

  Shut up. For God’s sake shut up, you fool. Can’t you see? Haven’t you got peep holes in your damned box?

  ‘Whack whack, ouch!’

  ‘You hit me and I’ll hit you.’

  ‘DOWN, EDGAR, DOWN, PUT IT DOWN.’

  ‘Oh no you won’t.’

  ‘Oh yes I will!’

  She heard a solitary giggle.

  His finger closed around the trigger.

  ‘EDGAR!’

  She stared down desperately at Nicky, tried to walk towards him, to get Nicky out of the way, to stop Edgar.

  Whack.

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Where’s he gone? Where’s he gone?’

  ‘HE’S BEHIND YOU!’

  Mrs Punch spun round. ‘Oh no he isn’t!’

  ‘OH YES HE IS!’

  She spun round again. ‘Oh no he isn’t!’

  ‘OH YES HE IS!’

  Sam saw the spurt of flame from the barrel, and dived for the floor. Saw Edgar catapult backwards; the puzzled look on his face. Saw the gun in slow motion float upwards then drop silently to the ground, slowly, fluttering like a huge feather.

  She spun around and saw what looked like snow suspended in the air all around the striped stand. Something hurtled along the floor, rattling loudly, bounced off the skirting board and stopped by her feet. Punch’s head. It lay, grinning at her imbecilically, with one eye and part of its cheek missing.

  Then the bang reached her, rippled through her like a shock wave, throwing her sideways, deafening her, like hands clapped over her ears so all she could hear was a faint ringing.

  She saw the laughter fall from the faces, like masks that had dropped off. She scanned the room frantically. Nicky sat with his mouth open, holding his lollipop in his hand. She scrambled to her feet and stepped through the motionless children that were frozen like ornaments, and knelt down, flinging her arms around Nicky, hugging him. ‘OK, Tiger! You OK?’

  She looked around wildly as he nodded. ‘Richard,’ she said. ‘Richard!’ Conscious of saying the word, but unable to hear it. But he was already there, wading across the room as if someone had pushed the slow button on a video.

  She could smell the acrid cordite now. Her ears cleared, and she heard a child sobbing. Nicky was still staring up at the stage, with its ripped-open canopy and the shreds of cloth that were floating down from it, as if he was waiting for Punch to pop back up and grin.

  The candy-striped box shook once, then again, then moved several inches to the left. Then it moved again, drunkenly.

  Oh God no, she thought.

  Then it stopped moving and the Punch and Judy man came out, bewildered, his face sheet white, and staggered around the room with his arms outstretched in front of him. ‘Police,’ he said. ‘Please fetch the police.’ Then he staggered out into the hall.

  Richard marched grimly across the room, holding his shotgun in his hand. Another child began to cry, then another.

  Sam stood up and rushed out after the Punch and Judy man. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Police,’ he said. ‘Police! Fetch the police! The police!’ He windmilled his arms.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He stamped his foot like a child. ‘I want the police!’

  ‘I’ll – I’ll call them,’ Sam said, backing away slowly. She felt Richard’s cautioning hand on her arm, and he nodded for her to go back into the room.

  ‘Shall we – play a game – everyone?’ she heard Helen say, as she walked into the sea of shocked faces and the babble of tears, and through to the rear of the room. Edgar was sitting on the floor in the doorway, screaming, and she knelt down.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she said.

  He carried on screaming.

  She waited until he subsided. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘My arm hurts.’ Then he screamed again. ‘It hurts!’

  ‘Let me have a look at it.’

  He shook his head and she grabbed his arm, furious. ‘Let me see it.’

  He looked up at her startled, and stopped screaming. Sullenly he held it out. She tested it carefully. ‘It’s fine. You’ve just bashed it, that’s all. Maybe that’ll teach you not to play with guns.’

  He stayed on the floor and glowered at her, as she walked back into the drawing room, looking down at the children, then again at the ripped canopy. There was a nasty peppered area on the new wallpaper, and she saw the edge of one curtain had also been damaged. She gazed around the rest of the room, at the clock on the mantelpiece. Twenty past four.

  Oobie, joobie, joobie.

  The pink curling finger.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping this too was a dream and that she could wake up and nothing had happened.

  ‘Musical bumps!’ said Helen. ‘We’ll play musical bumps!’

  She opened her eyes. Helen was trying, trying so hard. ‘Musical bumps,’ Sam echoed. ‘Good idea!’ Trying to smile, trying to beam and look cheerful, staring down into the blank numbness and suspicion and fear, and she knew even without the cold silence that greeted her that you couldn’t fool children with a cheery smile. Dragons did not die and people did not live happily ever after. But you had to try, because perhaps, sometimes, life was about trying.

  Good idea!’ she repeated. ‘We’ll play musical bumps!’

  15

  ‘Hi – Vivien, isn’t it? Sorry, Virginia – of course! Look, I’m terribly sorry – Simon’s a bit upset. We’ve had a bit of an . . . nobody’s hurt, it’s all right . . . accident with a – one of the children got hold of my husband’s – but it’s fine. Really—’ Simon’s mother’s face had gone seasick white. ‘Fine, really. He’s OK – fine—’

  Simon shuffled out of the house, his hair limp like his face, holding a silver foil balloon with the words ‘THANKS FOR COMING TO NICKY’S PARTY!’ printed on it in mauve letters, which bobbed above his head as he walked.

  I had a dream about it, you know; yes! This is the second time actually. Last time was a little worse – 163 people snuffed it.

  Stop looking like that, you snotty cow. I’m not loopy.

  I’m not a crank.

  So I dreamed it? What did you want me to do? Cancel the party? Sorry Tiger, no more parties. Mummy has nasty dreams?

  Anyhow, I didn’t think it was a premonition – precognition – what d’you call it? Seeing-the-future dream because a chunk of plaster came down and hit me on the face. So that’s what I thought had caused the dream. I thought that after the aircraft dream, then Slider in the taxi, I was all spooked up. I just thought – hell �
�� that was a weird dream. The dream book tells you that guns are phalluses – yup, schlonkers, and shooting is sexual aggression.

  So I worked it all out . . . you see Richard and I aren’t exactly what you’d call—

  Thoughts shovelled through her mind as she walked across Covent Garden. It was a fine, sharp, cold Monday morning, and the fresh air was waking her up. She’d felt too tired to go for her early swim and was regretting it now. Her head was muzzy, sore with tossing in bed through the night watching an endless movie of threatening images: of Punch and guns and Slider grinning and people coming out of doorways and popping out of lift hatches, all wearing black hoods, and eggshell cracks rippling across ceilings, and roofs coming down, smothering her, burying her in a dark void, burying her and Slider together, him on top of her, with the eyeless socket staring at her, laughing at her.

  She pushed open the Art Deco door and went into the office. She felt disoriented. There were girls all around, on the sofas, on the chairs, and others standing. They had shoulder bags and clutch bags and big leatherette portfolios, and were dressed in battered macs or flak jackets or great puffy coats like eiderdowns wrapped around them over the tops of their jeans and boots; smoking, chewing, hair-tossing girls who looked hopefully at her as if she was a magician that had come to free them from the wicked witch.

  Shit. Casting session.

  Need that this morning like a hole in the head.

  Midnight Sun.

  Kapow!

  For-hair-that-comes-alive-after-dark.

  Boom!

  Midnight Sun.

  For-people-who-come-alive-after-dark.

  Zap! Biff! Klap-klap-klap!

  Midnight Sun.

  Very-special-shampoo-for-very-special-hair.

  Midnight Sun.

  Very special shampoo.

  For very special people.

  ‘Morning Lucy. Ken in?’

  ‘Gosh – ah – yah.’

  ‘Anyone from the agency here yet?’

  ‘Gosh – ah – no.’

  Lucy looked as though she had been to a children’s tea party, too, and had got ketchup and relish over her face and in her hair, except it was dye in her hair and make-up on her face, blodged, smudged and much too much.

  ‘Good weekend?’