(1989) Dreamer

by Peter James

  Dreams should be taken far more seriously than they are, claims David Abner, a clinical psychologist at Guy’s Hospital who believes that not only are dreams a rich source of creativity, but they also offer valuable insight into personal and psychological problems, as well as, on occasions, a glimpse into the future.

  Perhaps the most famous of all ‘premonition’ dreams was that of the Biblical Pharaoh, whose dream of seven fat cows being swallowed by seven thin cows enabled Egypt to conserve food over seven good years and stave off potential famine over seven poor succeeding harvests.

  More recent figures, too, have been profoundly affected by their dreams. Hitler was saved by one of his, when as corporal in the First World War, his nightmare of being engulfed by debris caused him to wake up and dash outside, only for a shell to land on his bunker seconds later and kill all the sleeping occupants.

  Dreams have inspired great inventors. Elias Howe invented the sewing machine after he dreamed of natives throwing spears with eye-shaped holes at their tips, and thus solved the problem of where to put the hole in the needle.

  And in religion, leaders have taken the view that God speaks to his prophets through dreams. ‘Many people still believe that today, and I’m sure to some degree it is still true, whatever God is, that dreams can be seen as messages from the universe,’ says Abner. ‘It seems that some people are receiving stations. Jung called it ‘Collective Unconscious’. Whatever the explanation, whether it is ultimately scientific or spiritual, there is no question that in dreams some people seem to tune into a field of insight not open to the waking, conscious mind.’

  In the next few months, Abner and a fellow group of dream therapists are planning to set up a phone-in ‘dreamline’, where people can both instantly have premonitions registered, and discuss their dreams with therapists working through the night.

  In the meantime, people interested in learning more about their dreams can join in a series of dream groups being set up under his auspices. Phone 01–435–0702 for details.

  Sod you, Bamford. Sam picked up the phone. Sod you and your stay away from the hokum guys. Sod you and your damned arrogance, she thought, as she heard the phone ring and a man’s voice answer, a soft, laid-back American accent.

  ‘Dave Abner.’

  ‘I, er—’ She felt foolish and looked around, making sure no one had come into the room. ‘I read an article in – er – about your—’

  There was a silence, followed by a distant ‘Uh-huh’, then a pause, ‘Which article was that?’

  ‘Someone cut it out. I’m not sure where from – about your dream groups.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I remember.’ He sounded bored. ‘This number’s wrong. They shouldn’t have put this number. They should have put Tanya’s.’

  ‘Tanya?’

  ‘Tanya Jacobson. She’s doing the dream group right now. I’ll give you her number.’

  She dialled the new number, and a husky woman’s voice answered, harassed, somewhat breathless. ‘Hallo?’

  ‘Could I speak to Tanya Jacobson, please?’

  ‘Yes, speaking,’ the reply came, somewhat irritable, and for a moment Sam was tempted to drop the receiver back down.

  ‘David Abner gave me your number,’ said Sam nervously. ‘I read an article about your dream groups, and I wondered—’

  ‘You’d like to join our group?’ The woman’s voice had changed, become friendlier. ‘You’ve called at just the right time. This is an amazing coincidence! We’re looking for one woman to complete the group. Listen, we’re starting a new group next Monday night. Is that too soon?’

  ‘No,’ Sam said.

  ‘Wow! Wonderful! You sound wonderful. I get feelings, you know, vibes. You get them too?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sam hesitantly, dubiously. Feelings, Feelings. Everyone seemed to have feelings these days.

  ‘OK, what’s your name?’

  ‘Mrs Curtis.’

  ‘So formal. Wow. What’s your Christian name?’

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘Sam, that’s nice. You’re going to fit in wonderfully. We start at seven-thirty. If you come a little early, you can have coffee, meet everyone. I’ll give you the address. Do you know Hampstead?’

  ‘Hampstead?’

  ‘We’re very near the tube.’

  A chill went through her.

  ‘Tube?’ Sam felt herself shaking. She wanted to hang up, now, hang up and forget it.

  Hampstead.

  The tube.

  ‘Hallo, Sam? You still there?’

  Hampstead. Near the tube. The words banged around inside her head. Hampstead. Near the tube.

  ‘Willoughby Road. Do you know Willoughby Road?’

  ‘I can find it,’ she heard her own voice say, as if spoken by a stranger.

  ‘Off the High Street. You come out of the tube, turn left, and just walk down.’

  ‘I’ll drive,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll be coming by car.’

  She hung up. The room seemed cold, suddenly, and the wind rattled the windows. Rattled them like an angry stranger who was trying to get in. A stranger. Like Richard. Christ, what the hell was wrong with him? She heard the thump of the engines of a large ship heading upstream, then another gust of wind shrieked through the rigging of the moored yachts, rattling the halyards that were loose, and strumming the ones that were tight, tight as guitar strings.

  Tight as her own nerves.

  20

  The rain which had been falling hard all day finally stopped just as she left the office, and in the darkness the roads were streaky kaleidoscopes of reflections of brake lights, indicators, street lamps. Puddles of glinting black water butted up against the gutters, as if left behind by a falling tide, and cars sluiced through them, throwing the water up like bow spray. A Belisha beacon flashed on-off-on-off, its beam sneaking across the road towards her, and she stopped. A man hurried over the crossing holding a broken umbrella.

  Exactly as she had seen in her dream.

  She felt her stomach tensing. Everything. The rain, the darkness, the reflections were exactly as she had seen in her dream. It was unfolding like a replay. She wanted to stop, turn around; go home. Instead she drove on up Avenue Road, biting her lip, drawn by some force she could not stop. Drawn as if the dream insisted on replaying itself to her; as if it had a mind of its own.

  As if it was challenging her.

  She blinked hard, wondering for a moment whether she was awake now.

  Ten past seven.

  She glanced anxiously at the clock and wished she had left more time, but she had sat in her office, reluctant to leave, waiting until the last moment when she had to make the decision to go or forget it. She had to find the place yet, and park. If you come a little early, you can have coffee, meet everyone.

  THE NORTH. M1.

  She drove into the Swiss Cottage one-way system, and a car hooted angrily on her inside. ‘Sod you.’ She swung the Jaguar’s steering wheel, then heard the angry horn of a taxi right beside her. She braked cautiously and blinked, as water splashed onto her windscreen. She switched on the wipers, and everything blurred for a moment. She pulled over into the right-hand lane, and headed up Fitzjohn’s Avenue towards Hampstead. A white Ford Capri sitting up on huge wheels drew up on her inside and a yobbo gave her the thumbs up.

  She shivered. No, she thought. It wasn’t possible. It could not be happening.

  The same white Ford Capri as she had seen in her dream. The same yobbo. Making the same gesture.

  Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. Coincidence. That’s all. She turned away contemptuously, then dropped down into second gear and floored the accelerator. She heard the roar of the engine, felt the tail of the Jaguar snake as the rear wheels spun, then eased off, felt the tyres bite and the surge of power as she accelerated forwards.

  There was a car moving slowly in front, and she pulled right across, overtaking in the oncoming lane. Headlights were coming down the hill towards her and ice-cold fear swept through her.

&n
bsp; No. Please God, no.

  The lorry from the dream. Bearing down.

  She heard her own engine screaming, slammed the gear lever forward and there was a fierce clacking and the stick kicked violently in her hand. The car began to slow down, the headlights almost on top of her now. She stabbed the gear lever forward again, and jerked the wheel hard to the left. The lorry passed her, inches away, shaking her with its vibration and slipstream.

  Shit.

  She saw the police car coming down the hill, slowing, as if it was looking for somewhere to turn and come after her, and she felt a cold hand around her forehead, tightening like a vice.

  The dream. It was the dream. Exactly, everything. She wanted to stop, turn around, go back. She turned right, drove down the street that could have been the one she had driven down in her dream, but might not have been, and then left into Hampstead High Street. On her right, almost immediately, she saw the same tree-lined street from her dream, no doubting this one, and found herself turning automatically, as if it was drawing her into it.

  Willoughby Road.

  It was the street she wanted.

  She stared, disbelieving, at the sign, then heard the toot of a horn behind her and drove forward, peering through the side window, trying to read the numbers. There was a gap in the line of parked cars halfway down the street; exactly where she had parked in her dream. She stopped the Jaguar and reversed into it, then got out and looked around. A droplet of water hit her on the forehead, and she put up her hand in surprise. The dark evening had a stillness to it that she found eerie, as if all was not quite right, as if something was about to happen and the night was waiting.

  Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself as she looked at the doorways, trying to read the numbers. Then she smiled wryly as if she had discovered some private joke: she was parked right outside the address she had been, given. Number 56.

  She went in through the open gateway and down the faded mosaic steps to the basement. At the bottom were a couple of dustbins, several empty cardboard packing boxes, and a cluster of empty milk bottles. There was a small plastic push-button with an illuminated plastic panel beside it which read ‘Dream Studies Centre.’

  She stared at the button, unable to push it. She wanted to turn and run back to the car and drive away. Something had drawn her here that did not feel good. Something that was making her tremble and feel sick and scared. She shuddered. Her stomach felt as if it was being wound through a mangle.

  What would Bamford say? Perhaps it was all to do with fear of the dream group. The similarities in the drive here had been coincidence, and her fear of going down the tube steps was really her fear of coming down these steps, into the unknown.

  She raised her finger and pushed the button gently, so gently she hoped it might not ring. It rasped back at her, inches from her face, piercing, shrill, as if it was angry it had been disturbed.

  ‘Hi. You must be Sam.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You found us?’

  ‘Yes. Fine. It was easy.’

  ‘Terrific. Wow! Wonderful. I’m Tanya Jacobson.’ A small plump bundle of energy in a shapeless brown smock and black woollen leggings, with a wild frizz of hair and a scrubbed, earnest-looking face that was definitely a make-up free zone. A lump of crystal hung from a cord around her neck and her pudgy fingers were covered in chunky rings with large, gaudy stones. She gave Sam’s hand a short friendly shake. ‘Come in.’

  Sam followed her down a dingy corridor and into a small room with battered chairs lined around the walls and a bare pine coffee table in the middle.

  ‘Have a seat, Sam. I just want to have a quick talk before we go in.’ The woman sat down, tucked her feet under her chair and rested her head on her hands, fixing her gaze on Sam.

  ‘Nice face, Sam. I should think you’re a really kind person. Am I right?’

  Sam blushed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Have you been in a dream group before?’

  ‘No.’

  Tanya Jacobson nodded her head up and down in a straight line. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does your husband know you’re here?’

  ‘No.’

  Tanya Jacobson looked mildly surprised. ‘OK. Fine. That’s fine.’ She raised her head off her chin then lowered it back down again. ‘What do you do, Sam?’

  ‘I work for a company that makes television commercials.’

  The woman smiled. ‘Right. Wow. So you’re the one that’s to blame?’

  Sam smiled back, thinly.

  ‘Tell me, why do you want to join a dream group?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know much about it. I’ve been having some very strange dreams which seem to keep coming true. I read the article and I thought I’d give you a call.’

  ‘You think you’re having premonitions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The woman sat up eagerly, like a puppy wanting to please, thought Sam. ‘Good! You can tell the group. Now tonight you can see how you feel, how you resonate with everyone. If you feel good then we hope you’ll join us permanently.’

  ‘Permanently?’

  ‘For the life of the group. Normally about two years. We meet every Monday, and it’s—’ She looked embarrassed – ‘nine pounds a session. Do you think you can live with that?’

  ‘Two years seems a long time.’

  ‘Dreams take a long time to work through, Sam. We have to get the dynamics going. You’ll understand. I think you’re really going to be good.’ She patted Sam’s hand. ‘You have a slight disadvantage, because the rest of the group has been together for some weeks, and they’re resonating nicely. It’s going to take you time to resonate.’

  ‘Does . . . does everyone here have premonitions?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Well, we’re a group, Sam. I’m a psychotherapist, OK? A psychologist. What we do is work our dreams through. Premonitions, precognitions . . . that’s all a little bit—’ She tilted her head from side to side – ‘a little bit fringe, OK? We’re trying here to really connect with our dreams, go with them, free associate, get some good dynamics going. OK? Shall we go through?’

  Sam followed her out down the short corridor. She did not like the answer she had been given, the string of heavy jargon. The paper had said they were studying premonitions, but this woman, Tanya Jacobson, seemed to be dismissing them.

  They went into a large square room that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and old furniture, except there was hardly any furniture in the room. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling. There were no chairs, but old, battered cushions, bean bags and poufs were spread around the floor in a large circle. Several people were lying sprawled out on them, leaning against the walls, their feet stretched out across the threadbare carpet. She felt hostility at her presence. She wanted to turn and walk out.

  ‘OK, this is Sam, everyone. We’ll go round in turn. This is Barry – he leads the group with me. Barry, this is Sam.’

  A lanky man lay stretched out in a shiny black karate suit, his feet bare, his limp, shiny black hair brushed forward in a Beatle fringe over his eyebrows. His eyes were closed and he was muttering intently to himself. He raised an arm like an Indian chieftain, without opening his eyes. ‘Good to meet you, Sam,’ he mumbled, then continued with his private muttering.

  ‘And this is Anthea.’

  A woman in her fifties was coiled up in a corner, staring at her, blinking slowly like a basking snake. She was wearing a homemade jumper and grimy jeans, and had long red hair that hung down to her waist, and which covered her arms and her chest like a rug. The woman gave her the faintest acknowledgement, then gazed up at the ceiling with a puzzled look, as if she had just felt a drop of rainwater.

  ‘Hi, I’m Gail.’ A pretty blonde-haired girl introduced herself in a New England accent. She looked smart and elegant, and rich in her white silk blouse, velvet headband and Cartier wristwatch.

  ‘Hallo.’

  She smiled gently, sympathetically at Sam. �
�It’s pretty difficult, huh, the first time?’

  Sam smiled and nodded.

  A voice in a flat northern accent said ‘Clive,’ and an aggressive-looking man in his late thirties, with short, tousled, prematurely greying hair stood up and shook her hand grimly, as if it was a duty to be got over with like having an injection, then sat down again and hunched up inside his baggy jumper.

  ‘Find yourself some space that feels good, Sam. Would you like some tea? We have camomile or dandelion, or there’s coffee – Hag or Nescafé.’

  ‘Nescafé, please.’ said Sam.

  ‘Do you take milk, sugar?’

  ‘Milk please. No sugar.’

  The basking snake uncoiled a little, and the man in the baggy jumper leaned back and stretched his arms. Keep away, they were saying, Keep out!

  Sam sat down well away from them on an empty stretch of cushions near the door. ‘We’re just waiting for one more – Sadie – then we’ll be complete for tonight,’ Tanya called out. ‘Roger’s rung to say he has flu, so he won’t be making it. I told him we’d be keeping mental space for him.’

  Sam looked around the room. There was a frosted glass curtainless window high off the ground, a wall-mounted convector heater, a small table with a telephone on top of an answering machine, and a pine dresser that was being used as a bookcase and dumping ground for coffee mugs and full ashtrays.

  The walls were painted in faded white Artex, and there was a closed off serving hatch with a dusty red Buddha, that looked like a half-melted candle, on the ledge in front. There was one solitary picture on the walls, a framed print of a languid eighteenth-century boy reclining on a bed and gazing at an ornament he was holding.

  Tanya Jacobson came back into the room, and handed Sam a scalding mug.

  ‘Keeping your distance, are you, Sam? Keeping your space?’

  Sam was uncertain whether she had done something wrong or given away some important clue about her personality. She felt awkward, uncomfortable; and unwanted. She heard the clatter of an electric heater, and the click of the door closing.