(1989) Dreamer

by Peter James

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me why you’re here?’

  He scratched his nose with his finger. ‘I expect your husband’ll tell you later, if you ask him nicely.’ He fingered the top of Richard’s desk. ‘Beautiful furniture. Cost a few bob that desk, eh? You people make me sick, Mrs Curtis. Yuppies. You ought to be on the stage, you should. You’d be good playing the indignant wife, you know that? Bet you like spending your husband’s money for him, but your hands wouldn’t be dirty, would they? Bet your nose is clean as a whistle. Bet if I looked up your nostrils there wouldn’t be a bogey in sight. Be like looking up the barrels of a brand new Purdey.’

  ‘Have you rung Bob Storer?’ Sam asked Richard.

  ‘He’s on his way over.’ He shook a cigarette out. ‘Nothing we can do, Bugs. Just got to let them get on with it.’

  She glared back at the Inspector. ‘I don’t care what bits of paper you’ve got with you. You don’t ever speak to me like that again.’ She turned to Richard. ‘Can we have a word in private?’ She walked out of the room.

  Helen was standing in the hallway. ‘It’s Nicky’s bath-time. Do you think it’ll be all right if I bath him?’

  ‘You’d better let them check down the plughole first.’

  Helen nodded, uncertain whether Sam was being funny or serious.

  Sam went outside into the passageway, waited until Richard had joined her, then closed the front door. ‘What’s going on, Richard? What on earth is this all about?’

  There was a clang behind her and she spun round. Ken was standing in the elevator door. ‘OK, Sam? Is everything—’

  ‘It’s fine. Thanks. Fine. I – I’ll see you – er—’

  ‘Thursday.’

  She smiled thinly, watched the door slide shut and heard the clunk and whine of the elevator descending, then looked back at Richard. ‘What is it, Richard?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Really.’

  ‘Nothing? The Fraud Squad crawling all over our flat? You can tell me, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘It’s OK, Bugs.’ He tapped some ash onto the floor. ‘They’re just sniffing around, that’s all.’

  ‘Sniffing around?’ She stared at him. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘The police don’t rip open teddy bears unless they think there’s something inside them.’

  He shrugged. ‘Bit of aggro from the Surveillance Department of the Securities Association. The aftermath of Guinness, I suppose. All that insider dealing stuff. They’re still trawling their nets.’ He looked away evasively.

  ‘Are you mixed up in all that?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ He took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘Everyone’s jittery about insider dealing. I’ve put a few clients into a deal which happened to hit the big time and the Securities boys can’t believe it was luck.’

  ‘There’s more, isn’t there, Richard?’ she said. ‘There’s more to it than that.’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Are you going to be arrested?’

  ‘No.’ His face went bright red. His cigarette was almost down to the filter. He held it between his fingertips like a workman, dragged hard again and inhaled deeply. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  28

  Sunday morning. She lay in bed watching Richard dress, with Nicky, warm, curled up beside her. Nicky who kept waking the last two nights and running into their room, terrified the nasty man with his big knife was going to come back. He’d slept between them, and she’d lain awake mostly, listening to his breathing and his occasional funny little whimpers, and it made her feel safe having him there.

  Bastards.

  Inspector Milton. Milton, like the poet. Come to take your paradise away, lady. Oh yes, I’m one smart bastard, you see. One smart bastard with a great big chip.

  Wisest men

  Have erred, and by bad women been deceived;

  And shall again, pretend they ne’er so wise.

  She glanced at the clock. 7.45.

  Did you ever read him, your namesake, you great frog-eyed bastard? You smug creep who left a little boy terrified. Happy? Happy that my son’s met a real live bogeyman? Who ripped his teddy bear open with a knife? Brave. Oh so brave.

  Smug. Jesus, so smug. Walking out with your cardboard boxes filled with papers, all neatly tied in red ribbon by your gawky friend in his time-warp suit.

  Nicky was awake now; blinking, his eyelids making little scratching sounds against the bedclothes.

  ‘Bye, Bugs.’

  She looked at Richard and felt his anguish. She lifted up her hand and touched his face. ‘Drive safely. When will you be back?’

  ‘’Bout midday,’ he said in a voice so heavy he could scarcely lift it out of his mouth. ‘Bye, Tiger.’ He ran a hand across Nicky’s head.

  ‘Are you going shooting, Daddy?’

  ‘No, Tiger.’

  ‘You said I could come with you today. You said we could go shooting today.’

  ‘We will do. This afternoon, OK?’

  ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘I have to do some business.’

  ‘Can’t I come with you? Where are you going?’

  London Airport. To meet Andreas. To sign some documents.

  She heard the bedroom door open and close, then the front door, the scrunch of gravel, the roar of the BMW’s engine. She looked up at the ceiling, freshly plastered and painted; the builders had got that done fast enough, at least in the bedroom. They’d found rot in all the ceilings and there were ladders, planks, gaping holes, and more scaffolding up outside because they’d had to agree that the roof couldn’t be bodged any more. There’d have to be a new roof and Richard had said the money was fine, all fine. Until Milton (like the poet) had turned up on Friday.

  Nicky was sleeping again and she dozed. A while later Nicky stirred then got out of bed, but she scarcely noticed because now she was slipping into deep, tired sleep and stayed asleep until nearly ten.

  When she opened her eyes and saw full daylight through a chink in the curtains she stared at it blankly, flatly, feeling limp like an old busted tyre that had run flat too long and had finally come off the rim. No energy. Wiped.

  She went down to the kitchen and made some coffee. Helen came in.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Curtis.’

  Sam smiled. ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Yes. So quiet here. It’s like home.’

  ‘Where’s Nicky?’

  ‘He went outside a while ago.’

  She went over to the fridge and poured out some orange juice. She sipped it and it hit her stomach harshly, acidicly, made it twinge.

  ‘Mummy!’

  The scream sounded like the wail of a siren.

  ‘Mum-mee!’

  They flung themselves out of the kitchen through the side door.

  ‘MUM-MEE!’

  They stared around, up, down, across the fields, down towards the river.

  The river?

  Sam started sprinting down towards it.

  ‘MUM-MEE. MUM-MEE. MUM-MEE!’

  She stopped dead and spun round. Above her. Up. On top of the scaffold.

  A dreadful creaking sound.

  Tearing, rending.

  Oh my God Jesus, no. Christ, no. No. No.

  Arms around the new scaffold as if he was hugging it because he loved it and not because he knew that if he let go he would be dead.

  It had come loose from the wall of the house and was swaying like a broken crane, tilting, shrieking and creaking, one way then the other, it bashed against the wall, nearly throwing him free, then swung away again, so far this time she was certain it would topple over, but instead it swung back and smashed against the wall again, harder this time, chipping chunks of brickwork away, clanging, the sound echoing down through the pipes.

  Sam sprinted over to the base, tried to hold it with her hands, Helen stood beside her and tried too but they had no chance of holding it. It tilted even more over, and some of the base lifted up from the groun
d right beside her, then it righted again for a moment, smashing and clanging back against the wall.

  Sam ran around the side, to the old scaffold that was still attached, and began to climb.

  Her hand numbing on the ice cold rusted metal, she hauled herself up, ignoring the ladder up the inside of it, felt the wind blowing as she climbed and the structure vibrating.

  ‘MummyMummyMummy!

  I’m coming. Coming. Coming.

  She felt a muscle pull in her thigh, and her hand cut on something sharp. A slipper fell away from her foot. She heard the creaking, clanging, behind her, turned, saw Nicky now only feet away, then his face was in front of hers, so close she could touch it, then he swung away out of reach. Oh Christ, no, please no . . . so far surely it was going to topple this time, then he swung back towards her.

  ‘Darling, give me your hand . . . here, take it, mine, that’s right, that’s right!’

  She clenched her hand over his, clenched it so hard she was never going to let go again. He started pulling away from her, and she pulled harder, could feel his arm stretching. ‘Hold on, Tiger, just hold on!’

  Stretching more. The pain was unbearable. He was coming loose – careful – be careful – pulling him off it.

  Then she felt herself moving.

  No.

  There was a sharp crack.

  No.

  A splintering sound.

  The scaffolding was bouncing, like a spring.

  Let go, let go, let go.

  Falling.

  She let go his hand in terror, in disbelief.

  The wall was moving away. Nicky moving away, staring at her, his face frozen. Sideways, going over sideways.

  No.

  It was her that was going over.

  The ground was rushing towards her.

  Falling.

  She spun, desperately trying to push back, but it was too late, far too late.

  She felt the inside of her head rotating, then the ground hurtled at her, slammed into her, smashed her stomach up into her spine. She felt a tremendous windedness, heard a click from her jaw, smelt wet grass, mud. There was a strange muffled clanging sound all around her. Like church bells.

  29

  ‘Bugs?’

  The ground was soft.

  It moved underneath her as if it was sprung.

  Bedclothes.

  A dream. It had been a – Richard staring at her, the light was odd, different.

  ‘How are you feeling, Bugs?’

  She frowned. Her head ached like hell. She moved and her arm ached too. Her tongue was stinging; she could taste blood in her mouth.

  ‘Nicky,’ she said. ‘Where’s Nicky?’

  ‘Nicky’s fine. He’s just a bit bruised.’

  Nicky peered down at her, wide open eyes, serious. God he looked so serious sometimes. She put an arm up to stroke him. The movement hurt, and she winced.

  ‘How are you feeling, Mrs Curtis?’

  A stranger’s voice, a man, pleasant, standing over the bed in a white smock with a stethoscope curling out of the pocket, looking intently at her.

  ‘I—’ The room seemed to spin around.

  ‘You’ve got concussion.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You’ve been unconscious for over three hours.’

  Three hours? No, he’d got it wrong. There must have – it had just . . . ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You’re in the Sussex County Hospital, in Brighton.’

  ‘Hospital?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid you had a very nasty fall. We’ve X-rayed you and given you a scan. You’re fine. No bones broken, but I think you’re going to feel a bit jarred and sore.’ He smiled, a pleasant reassuring good-bedside-manners smile. He was young. Younger than her. ‘You’ve been very lucky, I think, the height you fell from. Fortunate we’ve had so much rain, it must have made the ground very soft.’ He smiled again. ‘I’ll come back and see you in a little while.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed, but nothing came out. She felt disoriented. Sunlight was shining into the room, weak winter sunlight and she could see the sky. She had no idea of the time; it felt like afternoon.

  The door closed, then there was a clanking sound. She felt the bed sinking.

  ‘Tiger, don’t do that,’ Richard said. ‘You’re winding Mummy down.’

  She heard footsteps, then Nicky’s voice, excited. ‘I can see the sea!’

  She stared at the white ceiling and the light bulb above her head. She pushed her tongue around inside her mouth. It was sore along the top; she tasted the blood again.

  Scaffold.

  I was on scaffold.

  She looked back at Richard, watched him with damp frightened eyes. He sat down beside her and held her hand.

  ‘I’ll sue those fucking builders.’

  She shook her head, slowly, carefully. ‘It wasn’t – not their fault—’

  ‘It was coming away from the wall. Could have crashed down on anyone. Could have killed anyone underneath it.’

  ‘Nicky shouldn’t have—’

  ‘Scaffolding’s meant for climbing up. That’s what it’s for.’ He sniffed. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘My head hurts.’

  ‘They thought you’d fractured your skull.’

  ‘How did your meeting—?’

  ‘Fine. All going to be fine.’

  She squeezed his hand.

  ‘’S a good hospital,’ he said. ‘They want to keep you in overnight. The doctor said you can leave in the morning.’

  ‘It’s Sunday, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve got a meeting in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll call Ken. The doctor doesn’t want you to go back to work for a day or so.’

  ‘Ken’s away. Could you call Claire? Tell her – or Lucy.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What’s out here, Daddy?’

  ‘The corridor, Tiger. That’s where we came in.’

  Nicky leaned over the bed. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’

  She smiled at him. His eyes were red from crying.

  ‘Give Mummy a kiss.’

  He leaned over and gave her a nervous peck as if he shouldn’t give her a long one in case it hurt. ‘I only went up to see if there was a nest.’

  ‘Did you find one?’

  ‘No. Are you coming home now?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh. Can we stay with you?’

  ‘You stay with Daddy tonight.’

  He slid away from the bed. ‘I’m going exploring.’

  ‘Don’t go out there, Tiger,’ Richard said.

  ‘I won’t go very far.’

  She heard the door open and shut, and felt Richard stroking her hand. He bent towards her a fraction and spoke quietly, as if he did not want to be overheard. ‘I have to go to Switzerland, Bugs, on business – Montreux. I thought maybe you’d like to come. We could go on to Zermatt, have a few days’ skiing.’

  Zermatt. They went to Zermatt the first Christmas they were married.

  ‘I have to go in the next week or so. I thought maybe next weekend.’

  She stared into his anxious eyes. ‘What have you got to do?’

  He glanced around nervously. ‘I’ve got a bit of dosh stashed away in a bank over there. I want to make sure that it’s safe if the going gets rough . . . make sure we can keep paying the mortgage, and Nicky’s school fees.’

  ‘I’ve got my job, if anything—’

  ‘Yes, I know, but there’s no point in—’

  ‘Don’t do anything illegal in Switzerland, will you, Richard?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Andreas has sorted everything out. I just have to move a bit snappily before—’

  ‘Before?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. No one really knows. It’ll take the police a while to sift through everything. They’re raiding people all over the shop. They’ve done Archie as well. It might be several months, but it could only be a couple of weeks.’

  ‘How much trouble are
you really in?’

  He got up from the bed and walked over to the window. ‘’S not serious. Get a fine or something,’ he said evasively.

  ‘That inspector – Milton – kept saying you wouldn’t have such a nice view from a prison cell.’

  ‘Frighteners, that’s all. Talking big. He was all mouth.’

  ‘He was horrible.’

  He came back over and sat down. She felt fully awake now, though her head was aching badly, fully awake and churned as hell. She was sorry for him, really sorry for the first time since she’d arrived back and found the police. Sorry for him and torn up and twisted inside. Christ, it had all been so fine until – the tart? The dream of the aeroplane? Now it all seemed to be collapsing around her.

  Like scaffold.

  ‘Think you could get away?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll have to check my Filofax. At home.’

  ‘Be nice if you came.’

  Richard and Nicky stayed until she’d had supper and the nurse came in to give her a pill to help her sleep.

  ‘I’m whacked,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to need any help sleeping.’ But she took the pill anyway, and it made her feel better, gave her a strange surge of excitement.

  Hope.

  Answers. There were answers. There were answers to why it was all happening. You just had to look in the right place, that was all, find the secret button or maybe some magic code word. Go away, Slider, I command thee. Into thy dungeon, Oh foul beast. Slink away in disgrace and ne’er darken my doorstep again. You foul cursed creature of darkness.

  Out, out, vile jelly.

  What the hell was in the pill? She felt smashed, euphoric. Then a great wave of tiredness picked her up, and she floated along with it until it gently lowered her back down.

  She slept.

  30

  They kept her in hospital until late Monday afternoon, when Richard collected her and drove her to London. She arrived at the office on Tuesday with a dull headache, and Claire looked up as she came in. That was something, she thought, Claire actually looking up; progress.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  She wished Ken was in, that he wasn’t away filming in Spain, that she could go up and tell him, tell him about her antennae, sharp, so sharp. Too damned sharp. She picked up the top letter on the pile on her desk.