(1989) Dreamer

by Peter James

  She heaved herself up a fraction then fumbled on her bedside table for her watch. She felt the base of a lamp, then the leather strap, and picked up the Rolex, holding it in front of her face, staring at the dials. Eleven-forty.

  That had been the time in the dream. Had it been a dream? She looked around, feeling disorientated. Her head ached, she realised, heaving herself further up, and taking a sip of water. Her back was aching too, from the soft mattress, far too soft. It felt as if the bed had half collapsed under her.

  The pitch of the fan changed slightly, and it began to make a clacking sound. She looked up at the ceiling again, then realised it was coming from the bathroom. She slid out of bed, padded across the soft carpet to the bathroom door and looked in at the massive white bathtub and twin basins. It smelled of soap and cologne and there was a warm damp haze. A huge white towel was lying on the marbled floor, and the bath was wet, as if it had recently been used. Richard’s paisley dressing gown was hanging on a hook on the door. Then she saw the fan, a small extractor on the wall above the lavatory seat. It sounded much louder in here.

  She glanced in the mirror at her face and was shocked how puffy and tired she looked. She switched off the light, and the fan’s motor cut out; the blades hummed, clacked a couple of times then stopped.

  The silence felt strange, uncomfortable. She wrapped a towel around herself and walked across the room, drew the curtains and looked out of the window. Quiet, everything’s so quiet, she thought. She opened the window. It was mild, warm in the sunlight, more like spring than February. She leaned on the sill and stared out at Lake Geneva, at the vast expanse of water that felt more like an ocean than a lake, except it was completely flat, as if the water had been stretched taut between the shores, like a giant canvas. Beyond, through the hazy light, she could see the French Alps, snow-covered, with craggy brown patches. Somewhere over to the right, through the haze, was Lausanne. And beyond, out of sight, at the end of the lake, was Geneva.

  Below her an elderly well-dressed man with a bright cravat was walking a tiny terrier down a wooden pontoon; he stopped to gaze at the speedboats and small yachts that were moored to it, motionless, like toys, then peered down at the water, studying it carefully, as if trying to spot something he had dropped. She smelt a sudden whiff of cigar smoke, then the tang of the lake, almost salty.

  Her head twinged. What time had they arrived? She tried to remember. About three. They’d stood outside ringing the bell until an elderly, grumpy night porter had opened up, and grudgingly carried their bags in.

  A church bell rang twice then faded away into the silence. Peace, she thought. Peace. She watched a boat, a long way out, a smudge moving through the haze.

  They had listened to the BBC news on the car radio as they had driven down through the night, in case, just in case, and there had been nothing up to the last news at midnight. No air disaster. Nothing at all. Chartair Flight CA29 had probably taken off and landed, like any other flight.

  But if she had been on it? What then?

  She turned and looked up at the chandelier and where the fan had been in her dream. So real. God, it had seemed so real. Like all the others . . . she turned back to the lake. Its stillness unsettled her. She heard the rattle of a key and the door opening behind her.

  ‘Hi, Bugs, you’re awake.’

  ‘Just woke up.’

  ‘I’ve arranged a boat,’ he said. ‘This afternoon. I thought we’d go out for a row after lunch.’

  ‘Fine. Nice.’ She noticed the wodge of newspapers under his arm. ‘Are those today’s?’

  ‘Yah.’ He put them down. The Sunday Times and the Mail on Sunday.

  ‘From England already?’

  ‘The Swiss are efficient.’

  She scanned the front page of the Mail, and began to leaf through it.

  ‘There’s nothing, Bugs.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘No air crash. That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?’

  She stared hard, trying to find the traces of satisfaction on his face, so she could shout, get mad at him. But there was no satisfaction. There was nothing but worry in his face. For her.

  38

  The gentle splash of the oars was the only noise that broke the silence on the lake. She leaned back in the tiny boat and trailed her finger over the side through the water. Icy cold. She pulled it out and rubbed it, then looked up at the mountains in the distance towering high above them. Everything seemed huge against the tiny insignificance of the boat.

  It had been warm when they’d started out, almost hot, but the afternoon sun was fast losing its strength and wisps of white mist were rolling over the lake. She shivered, and watched a duck paddling on its own, a few feet from them, as if it was in the middle of a village pond.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Richard said, pulling on the oars.

  ‘OK. Tired.’

  He looked tired too. White. Like a marble bust. Like a waxwork.

  Like a corpse.

  He’d scarcely spoken at lunch; they’d sat like two strangers forced to share a table. She thinking it through her way, Richard thinking it through his way, twitching his nose, lighting his cigarettes, drinking too much; beer, then wine, then cognac. She was surprised he hadn’t gone to sleep, had still wanted to go out on the lake, as if there was some mission in it.

  Maybe he hoped they’d fall in love again out here? Maybe some dream in his mind, some image, lazy days punting on the Cam. Summer. Summer was fine for boating on lakes. Right now it was still high winter. High winter and it was bloody freezing.

  She hunched her arms up around herself, not wanting to break the illusion, not wanting to say, For Chrissakes let’s get back before we die of pneumonia. Not romantic that, not romantic at all. Hell we’re here to give it a chance. Give it your best shot. Heal the wounds. So let’s shiver it out.

  A thin white trail of foam slid past them.

  Like toothpaste.

  You little bitch. Think you’re going to beat me with high tech?

  ‘Are you getting cold, Bugs?’

  ‘A little.’ Somewhere in the distance she could hear a strain of music, Buddy Holly’s ‘Every Day’, as if someone had suddenly turned the volume up on a radio. Then it stopped as abruptly as it had started. The same song had been playing on the radio in the dream lab. She tried to remember whether that had been in her dream, or when she had been awake.

  ‘Want to head back?’

  She stared at the mist. Thickening clouds of it rolling towards them.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her mind churning. ‘Let’s go back.’ She watched Richard rowing in his chunky sweater and his Ray-Ban glasses; trying to look young and trendy. He could never look young. She’d never have loved him if he had looked young. He had always looked middle-aged. Like a father. ‘What time is your meeting tomorrow?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘Will it be long?’

  ‘Just have to sign a few papers.’

  ‘What papers?’

  ‘Just some banking things.’

  ‘What sort of banking things?’

  He grinned slyly. ‘My disappearing act.’

  ‘Disappearing?’

  ‘Yes, I – Andreas is – he’s set up this whole nominee chain. Absolutely brilliant. The money’s being shunted all over the world – from Switzerland to the Dutch Antilles, then to Panama, then Liechtenstein, then back to Switzerland. Goes to a different set of nominees each time.’ He shrugged as he saw her frown. ‘Everyone does it.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Yah. Covers it up. Bloody Fraud Squad couldn’t find who really owned it in a million years – nor could Interpol. No one could.’

  A ball of mist rolled between them, making him hazy, like a shadow. She felt its icy breath.

  Like a ghost.

  She shivered. In the distance she could hear a faint thumping sound, and she turned, peering into the mist that was thickening around them. Row faster, she wanted to say, but she did not want him to see th
at she was scared. ‘When do you think you’ll know about—?’

  He completely disappeared for a second in the mist. ‘They’ve arrested the senior partner of our US affiliate and offered him a reduced sentence if he talks.’

  ‘I meant what I said. I could, you know, support us if—’

  The thumping sound was getting louder, nearer.

  ‘It’s going to be all right, Bugs. It’s really smart, what Andreas has come up with. We’re going to be fine.’

  The mist closed silently around them and she could feel its icy tendrils dampening her hair. Her voice trailed, sounding flat, dead. She felt afraid. Afraid of being in this tiny boat in the mist. Afraid of the thumping.

  Then she heard the rustle of water and the thrashing of an engine; closing on them. Fast.

  ‘Can you hear that?’ she said.

  Richard took his sunglasses off and tucked them into his pocket. He watched the mist with a worried frown.

  ‘Can you row a bit faster?’

  He looked around. ‘I’m not sure of my bearings. This damned mist has come down fast. It’ll probably clear in a minute – it’s only patchy.’

  ‘Row, for Christ’s sake!’ she screamed, half standing up, then fell back in the boat, rocking it wildly, so wildly some water poured in over the gunwale.

  ‘Bugs, be careful, don’t make any sudden movement like that.’

  She felt the icy water soaking her feet. ‘It’s coming at us,’ she said. ‘It’s coming straight at us. Can’t you hear it?’

  ‘Did you dream this too?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell I dream.’

  The thumping roar became louder, and she saw Richard squint through the mist.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said, pulling again on the oars. ‘We’ll just keep going.’

  She turned around, craning her neck, trying to see through the dense white cloud.

  Propeller.

  She shivered again.

  Propeller.

  Not a fan.

  Not a plane’s propeller.

  A boat’s.

  Then she saw the huge black shadow, almost on top of them.

  ‘Hey!’ she yelled. ‘Hey!’

  Water smashed over them, stinging, hurting, hard as bullets, the boat plunged sideways then pitched madly, catapulting her forward off her seat onto the floor. Her face slammed into Richard’s legs. She heard the thumping roar of the engine, the thrashing of the propellers, grinding, churning the water into a mad wild spray, throwing up huge heavy chunks that crashed down onto them, like a waterfall. They rolled crazily.

  We’re going to turn over, she thought.

  Then there was silence.

  It had gone.

  Vanished.

  Complete silence, apart from the slapping of water as the boat rocked in the wake.

  Water was streaming down her face, oily, filthy water that tasted of spent fuel and stung her eyes. Richard’s cavalry twill trousers were sopping wet, and his hair plastered down over his forehead. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  The boat lurched sideways.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘What an arsehole. Going that speed through this.’

  ‘I can’t hear it. Where’s it gone? What was it, Richard? What the hell was it?’ She crawled back onto her knees, then carefully sat back down, wiping the water from her eyes and pushing her hair back.

  ‘Some sort of speed boat.’

  ‘Why can’t we still hear it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s – like – it’s just vanished,’ she said. ‘Into thin air.’ She peered into the swirling whiteness, shaking with cold, with fear. Then she heard the whirring of a starter motor, the sharp boom of a powerful engine close by, like thunder, and the sound of thrashing water.

  A voice called out of the mist. ‘Allo? Ça va? Allo?’

  The engine revved a fraction, then died again. ‘Allo?’

  A massive dark shape appeared behind Richard, then the mist cleared and she could see it was the stern of a large smart powerboat. A man was standing behind the wheel in a tartan jacket and a baseball cap, looking anxiously down. ‘Pardon. Je m’excuse.’

  Behind him was a cabin with smoked glass windows and wide-slatted Venetian blinds, and Sam could see a figure behind the blinds, a man peering at them.

  ‘You fucking loony!’ shouted Richard.

  ‘Je m’excuse – je m’excuse.’ The driver raised his hands. ‘Ça va?’

  Richard waved his hand dismissively. ‘Ça va, allez, allez, ça va.’

  Sam caught the eye of the man behind the blinds, caught the malevolent smirk, caught the features just enough to be almost sure.

  It was Andreas Berensen.

  The driver pushed his gear lever forward with a loud clunk, and as the boat burbled slowly away from them, the mist lifted for a moment and they could see the shore clearly in the distance. Then the mist dropped down again like a stage curtain and the boat and the shoreline were gone.

  ‘Did you see him?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Him? Who?’

  ‘Your friend.’

  ‘My friend?’

  ‘Yes, your friend. Did you see him?’

  ‘What do you mean, Bugs? My friend?’

  ‘Andreas. He was on the boat.’

  ‘Don’t be fucking ridiculous.’

  ‘He was watching us. I saw him in the cabin.’

  ‘You think he’d have just stayed in and not come out? Andreas?’ He laughed. ‘He’d have come out, wouldn’t he? He’s one of my best friends. Christ, Bugs, you’ve really got a thing about him. You don’t like him, do you? There wasn’t anyone else on the boat. It’s your mind playing up again.’

  ‘I didn’t imagine it. There was someone in the cabin. I’m certain it was Andreas.’

  Richard shrugged. ‘You’re being daft, Bugs. I really think that – maybe – when we get back you ought to go and see Bamford.’

  She turned and stared angrily into the mist, and listened to the sound of the boat accelerating off into the distance. As the burble of its engine faded, she could hear another sound, like distant laughter that rolled slowly across the lake as if it had been carried by the wind.

  Except there was no wind.

  39

  The sunlight strobed at them through the fir trees, and she watched the three-pointed star on the end of the bonnet flickering like a dancer in a silent movie. The scenery passed by soundlessly, as if she was in a cocoon. The air inside the car was thick with the smell of new leather and she caressed the soft hide of her seat gently with her fingers, ran them along sensuously.

  The pass dipped sharply down to the right, and there were a series of warning signs – thick, squiggly lines, two arrows, one black, one red, and a large exclamation mark. Richard braked, and she braced her feet in the thick carpeting in the foot-well. Strange, to see him sitting on her left, driving, she thought, trying to remember the reason why they were in this Mercedes and not his own BMW. She stared again at the vivid green colour of the bonnet. Vile. A vile colour for such an expensive car. Yuck.

  They squealed around a hairpin bend, passed a small hut with a sign advertising ice cream and Löwenbrau, then crossed over a narrow stone bridge. A yellow PTT bus passed going the other way.

  ‘Don’t you think the colour of this car is horrible?’ she said.

  ‘Haven’t got time to worry about the colour,’ he said, and accelerated hard, with an angry look on his face. She felt the tyres scrabbling on loose grit, heard them squeal as they bit onto a stretch of fresh tarmac and the Mercedes yawed slightly. The engine bellowed and the car surged up the hill, past a marker post and a row of trees with white rings around them. The trees ended and they hurtled up a section of twisting road with a rock face rising steeply up to the left and an unguarded drop to the right, down into the fast-flowing river that was getting smaller beneath them.

  She looked at him anxiously, unsure why he was driving so fast, too fast for
the road and the size of the car, as they moved over even closer to the edge making space for a massive truck that was thundering down from the opposite direction; she felt the blast of its slipstream rock the Mercedes.

  They squealed around a double hairpin, and to her relief she saw there was now a low stone wall at the edge of the road. A few hundred yards further on the right was a small lay-by, with a sign indicating a panoramic view. She heard the faint blaring of horns. A red Volkswagen came fast down the other way, then a motorbike, its engine revving with a caterwauling howl, followed by a white van.

  She heard the horns again, closer now, vicious, angry blasts, and something made her shiver. She could see the road curving out of sight ahead, and they passed a road sign with a black curving line and a warning 40 KPH underneath.

  Her seat belt seemed to tighten on her, jerking her back into the seat so hard she could not breathe. A juggernaut was hurtling out of the bend on their side of the road, straight at them, its horn blaring, trying desperately to pass another juggernaut on its inside. She heard the screeching of the Mercedes’s braking tyres, saw Richard stare wildly, first at the rock face to their left then at the drop of several hundred feet to their right. The juggernaut was almost on top of them, she could see the driver in the cab wrestling with his wheel, the helplessness on his face as his vehicle began to slew out away from the one it was overtaking. A gap began to open up, and for a moment she thought they might be able to squeeze through it.

  Might.

  Then it swerved crazily back the other way, hit the juggernaut it was overtaking and rebounded straight at them.

  The front of it seemed to rear up towards them, a huge shadow like the mouth of a giant hungry insect, and she tried to duck down under the instrument panel, but her seat belt jerked her up. She heard the thundering of its engine, the piercing banshee of its horn, its hissing squealing brakes, its slithering tyres, all orchestrated into a deafening terrifying cacophony of destruction.

  She saw the three-pointed star flick backwards, then the massive bumper of the juggernaut exploded through the windscreen, and she threw her hands up in front of her face as if she was going to be able to push it away, hold it off with them. She felt herself catapulted up, forwards, and an agonising pain as her head smashed into something hard, sharp.