Touchstone Season One- Complete Box Set

by Andy Conway

  A dream, she thought. I was in his unconscious mind.

  “I was walking out of the Kingsway and I noticed you sitting at the window table of the cafeteria on the Parade. You were talking to this young girl.”

  “Describe her.”

  “Well, she had short, dark hair, and she was wearing a bright orange check jacket.”

  It was real, she thought. There was no way he would know that. Something about it had been real.

  “I don’t remember too much about her. I was so surprised to see you there. Surprised and delighted. You rushed out and we talked and you said something about being a fantasy, a dream. Oh, you were so very sad. I remember that clearly. You said you might as well be a ghost, and I said you were as real as taxation. That made you laugh.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, it all became rather strange. The girl you were with ran out of the cafeteria and we chased her to the station. You were convinced she was going to throw herself in front of the train.”

  “And did she?”

  “I’m not sure. I woke up. But you said the strangest thing.”

  “What?”

  “You said you thought you were losing it. And you begged me not to give up on you.”

  It was all a dream. But it had happened.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For not giving up on me.”

  “I don’t think I could if I tried,” he said.

  “You know, when you last saw me, in 1966, that afternoon?”

  “It’s all right,” he said.

  “No. You need to know. I wanted to stay. I really wanted to stay. But I just... I can’t control it. I found myself back in the present. My present. The future. I tried to get back to you, but it just wouldn’t work.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “It’s not all right, Charlie. I hate it. I was ready to stay with you then. I was ready to forget about ever getting my life back. I want you to know that. If I could have stayed, I would have. But it was like the gods decided to pull me away.”

  He sipped at his whisky and nodded. “I’m glad. That you wanted to stay. Not that the gods took you away.”

  They said nothing for a while, just drank their whiskey, then he suggested she go to bed and sleep with Lorna, keep her warm.

  She kissed him on the cheek and snuggled in beside Lorna, who was sleeping like a baby, placing a protective arm around her.

  The last thing she heard before she fell into a deep sleep was Charlie pushing the armchair down the corridor and collapsing into it just outside their door.

  She knew he was going to sit there all night and guard the door.

  She knew he had his service revolver in his hand.

  — 27 —

  IN HER DREAM THE VILLAGE girls danced around the fire, its glow a tiny circle of protection from that vast, dark plain. She pushed through, eager to see the three guitarists. The girls, in their embroidered folk dresses, pushed her towards the fire where she was surprised to find not three guitarists but only one. A lone man clad in indigo horse herdsman’s robes and a black tricorn hat, bent over a battered acoustic, his fingers a blur on the fretboard, somehow playing all three melodies at once. She knew he must be the village elder. A wise man with a special message for her. When he raised his face to her, still playing, she could see his drooping moustache and weather-beaten face.

  The villagers were chanting a single word.

  Délibáb, Délibáb, Délibáb...

  His keen eyes, lit by the glow of the fire, probed her soul. He opened his mouth and said, “You must decide. Be a simple village girl. Or be a goddess.”

  And she realized his fingers were now only picking out the simplest and slowest melody.

  “Where the hell are we?”

  She woke up.

  Lorna was sitting up next to her, staring at the room in confusion.

  “We’re at Charlie’s place,” she said. “It’s across the road from my flat, in Moseley.”

  “But...”

  “You were sleepwalking. I found you in the street. I knocked Charlie’s door and he put us up for the night. It seemed easier than walking you back to mine.”

  Lorna was shaking her head, but doubt had infected her. She would believe whatever Rachel told her, if it was delivered with enough authority.

  “Have you sleepwalked before? It was a bit scary.”

  “Well, yes. But... we were at my house. In Winson Green.”

  “No,” said Rachel, frowning. “You stayed at mine last night.”

  “Really? I took you to Winson Green. We watched Top of the Pops. You had dinner with my mum. We played records all night.”

  “No. We stayed at my place in Moseley. Don’t you remember?”

  “I was on the bridge, in the rain.”

  “You were dreaming.”

  She would get up and see the mud on her legs, but Rachel knew she could persuade her that it was from walking across the road.

  “Come on. We’d best get back.”

  She got out of bed and stomped across the room, hoping to wake Charlie. If Lorna saw him sitting outside with a gun...

  She coughed as she opened the door. He wasn’t there. She could hear him in the kitchen. The smell of coffee.

  He was pressing down the plunger on a cafetière. He looked up and gazed at her for a long time. He looked older in the daylight. His face wrinkled, as if he’d shrunk a size and his skin had stayed the same. It was beginning to sag around his neck. His hair was grey and thinning. Liver spots mottled his hands.

  He smiled. “Good afternoon.”

  “Is it that late?”

  “You had a busy night.”

  “It’s really good to see you,” she said.

  He winced and nodded, embarrassed, fussed with the coffee cups. Two slices of hot bread popped up from the toaster and she jumped with fear.

  Lorna sauntered in, hugging herself, awkward, shy.

  “This is Charlie, my neighbour, who took us in while you were sleepwalking last night. My neighbour and my great uncle.”

  Lorna stepped forward and shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she said. “Thank you for helping us.”

  “This is Lorna. My... friend.”

  Charlie shook her hand and smiled and nodded, and Rachel knew he was seeing the resemblance between them.

  “Somnambulism is a very strange thing,” said Charlie, taking a rack of toast to the dining table in the lounge. “Had a colleague who did it in the war. He never ever remembered a thing he’d done in the night. Do sit down.”

  “It hasn’t happened for years,” said Lorna. “I find it really scary. That you can be so out of control.”

  They took seats and helped themselves to toast while Charlie poured the coffees.

  “Not to worry,” he said. “No one ever died from it.”

  Rachel forced a fake smile and thought of Deirdre waking alone. Would she be safe? They wouldn’t do anything to her. There was no point. Only Lorna could affect Rachel’s future now. Deirdre would probably wake and leave for work and not realize the girls had disappeared. It might all come out that they had spent the night in Winson Green and Lorna would realize her lie. But it would be too late. As long as she got Lorna together with Martyn tonight, that would be all she needed.

  Charlie joined them at the table and chatted away about his sleepwalking friend in the war and the terrible weather last night, flooding reported all over the Midlands. Lorna devoured breakfast and slipped into normality again. Once she’d glanced out of the window and seen Moseley village out there, she seemed to accept that she couldn’t possibly have been on the other side of the city in Winson Green when she fell asleep.

  Rachel ate her toast and drank her coffee and felt a buzz of contentment. She didn’t want this breakfast to end. She was with Charlie again.

  “You’re the man Rachel talked about,” said Lorna. “You know Martyn as well.”

  Charlie looked at Rachel, u
nsure of what he was supposed to say.

  “I was telling Lorna how you’re my great uncle and it turned out we have a mutual friend. Martyn Hines?”

  “Ah,” said Charlie. “Little Martyn. Known him since he was in short trousers.”

  “He liked your sports car,” said Lorna.

  “Not seen him in years,” said Charlie, and he was lost in thought for a moment.

  Rachel realized what it was. He’d only befriended her ancestors on her behalf, made them his friends, and since Rachel had disappeared from his life, perhaps he’d given up on them; thought he would never be useful to her again.

  She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

  He flinched from his thoughts and smiled, absurdly pleased.

  They finished breakfast and there was an awkward silence.

  “I suppose we’d best get back across the road,” said Rachel. She was conscious now that she must keep Lorna with her; persuade her not to go home; keep her close by till they went to the gig tonight.

  Charlie nodded and couldn’t disguise his sadness. “It’s been so good seeing you again.”

  “Don’t you see each other all the time?” asked Lorna. “You live across the road from each other.”

  Charlie looked at Rachel.

  “I’ve been away for a while,” she said. “Got back the other night with my suitcase, remember?”

  “I’ll get you some slippers for your feet,” said Charlie. “You can’t walk back barefoot.”

  He went to his bedroom. Rachel followed and nipped into the other bedroom, collecting Lorna’s nightdress from the radiator. Dry.

  Her clothes. They would go to Rachel’s flat and Lorna would wonder where her clothes were. She’d ask why she only seemed to have a nightdress.

  Rachel thought of the canal house, reached inside herself, and concentrated on space, not time, though she chanted under her breath, Now, now, now.

  A rush of air around her, as if the room had turned inside out, blinding her for a moment, and she was in the front room of the canal house.

  Movement from the other side of the house, in the kitchen. She crept through the dining room. Were Danny and Kath still here.

  Someone humming a tune. No. Too carefree.

  “Lorna! I’m going!”

  Deirdre came through and stopped short, surprised to see Rachel standing there.

  “Oh, you’re up.”

  She frowned at Rachel’s striped pyjamas but didn’t ask why she’d brought them with her last night.

  “Lorna’s still sleeping,” Rachel said.

  “The canal’s flooded. It’s going to be a right palaver getting to the high street.”

  Rachel looked down at Deirdre’s feet. Red wellington boots.

  “Be careful,” Deirdre said, as she scooted out of the door, stomping round the side of the house, her wellies slopping rain.

  Rachel grabbed the coats off the back of the kitchen door and ran upstairs to the back bedroom. The records scattered around. No sign of the struggle last night. She reached for Lorna’s pile of clothes, which she’d thrown on the chair, and her own clothes, and stuffed them in her handbag, clutching it to her chest.

  She closed her eyes and thought of the flat, Mrs Hudson’s flat, praying this would work, trying to be calm and let it happen. Now, now, now.

  And she was standing in the back room of the Moseley flat, above Mrs Hudson’s shop.

  She tossed Lorna’s clothes around the room, rushed to the front bedroom, threw the coats and her handbag in there and looked out of the window to Charlie’s flat on the corner.

  One more time. Back, back, back.

  Exhausted and dizzy, she was back in Charlie’s spare room. She staggered and fell against the wardrobe, slumping to the floor and landing with a bump. Her heart was beating like mad, her head swimming and she wondered if she was going to pass out, a hot, uneasy qualm spreading over her skull.

  She breathed slowly and fixed her gaze on the door. I am here and now, I am here and now, I am here and now.

  The nausea passed and she got to her feet, walking to the door like an old lady. Three spatial flits in as many minutes had punched her guts out.

  Charlie met her in the corridor holding up two pairs of slippers and said, “What are you going to do?”

  “It’s tonight. She has to meet Martyn tonight.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  She shook her head. She wished there was, but she was disappearing from his life again.

  She lunged forward and kissed him on the lips.

  “Thank you. I’m glad it was you I came to.”

  Lorna appeared. They both stepped into the slippers, too big for them.

  “They’ll get you across the road,” said Charlie.

  “Come on then,” said Rachel, too brightly, trying to stop the tears springing to her eyes. “Let’s get back.”

  Lorna hugged Charlie. “Thank you for your help. Rachel’s so lucky to have you. Me too. Last night, anyway.”

  He nodded and smiled and waved them down the stairs. Lorna stepped out into the yard. Rachel looked back at him standing there, watching over her.

  She blew him a kiss.

  He smiled, caught it and pressed it to his heart.

  Then she was gone from his life and wondering if she’d ever see him again.

  — 28 —

  THEY WALKED ACROSS the village crossroads in their striped pyjamas and no one noticed much. Once back in the flat across the road, Lorna saw her clothes in the back bedroom and had to accept Rachel and Charlie’s version of last night. Somehow, they hadn’t gone to Winson Green at all; they had stayed here and she’d had her sleepwalking incident.

  Lorna made no move to go home. She seemed to meekly accept that she should stay with Rachel all day again. Rachel thought it might be the shock of having sleepwalked. It had knocked her for six; made her doubt herself. She felt terribly guilty, tricking her into believing that, but it was better than telling her the truth. The truth would be much harder on her.

  They hung around the flat all afternoon, listening to the radio, and at one point Lorna looked at her and said, “Do you mind me staying? We could just go straight to the gig tonight.”

  “Of course not!” Rachel cried. “I think that’s a great idea.”

  “I don’t feel like going home,” she said.

  There was something sad and forlorn about the way she’d said it, and Rachel wondered if she was afraid to go home, in case her dream was true. She wondered how much of last night she’d remembered.

  Her own dream came back to her.

  Who was the man at the camp fire? It was a dream of Hungary. An ancient Hungary. The old world. But she’d never been there. She didn’t know what the Great Plain looked like at night, but in the dream it was as if she’d always known. It felt real, as if it was a memory, not a dream.

  The man’s face was familiar. She had a choice, he’d said. She could be the village girl or the goddess.

  She shivered.

  She didn’t want that choice. She pushed it away. It was a dream she’d concocted. Henry had told her she was Délibáb, and the old Jewish man at the social club in 1934 had told her about the old Hungarian myths. Her conscious mind had taken that and cooked up a dream. There was nothing to say that the Great Plain looked anything at all like that, or that Hungarian village girls wore those patterned dresses and head scarves, and wise, old village elders wore indigo smocks with black, felt tricorned hats. She could look it up, but they didn’t have Google in 1980.

  She suggested they make each other up and Lorna beamed at the idea.

  They ran down to Boots and raided the cosmetics counter and spent a couple of hours painting each other’s faces.

  She had only two dresses in her case. Her 1940s suit and the Katherine Hamnett parachute silk dress.

  “You should wear this tonight,” she said.

  Lorna gasped. “Really? It’s beautiful.”

  “I wore it the other
night. Can’t wear it tonight.”

  “If you think?”

  “You’ve got to. It’ll look great on you. You can’t wear your night dress. Or Charlie’s pyjamas.”

  “I so would,” she laughed. She slipped it on and smoothed it over her hips. “It’s lovely, though.”

  “Made for you,” Rachel smiled.

  It was all falling into place. Lorna would be wearing the dress, she would be at the gig, Martyn would be there, they would kiss as the band played Hiroshima, Mon Amour, they would become a couple and have a daughter called Rachel. Nothing could stop it.

  Now that it was about to happen, she felt scared. There was a tight knot of dread in her belly. It was as if she were going to her death, rather than her birth.

  She realized what it was, as they put the finishing touches to their look, throwing on the fake leopardskin coat, and descended the iron steps and caught the bus into town.

  She realized it could be her death.

  There was something that could stop it: Danny and Kath. They would be there. They would attack Lorna again. They would try to make sure it was Esther Parker who kissed Martyn, not Lorna. And if they didn’t succeed tonight, they would try again some other time. They could attack Rachel’s timeline at any point they chose, if they really wanted to. And it seemed they did.

  So there was nothing else for it. She had to make sure they never could come back for her. She had to find a way to fix it permanently.

  They got off the bus in town and walked the long subway route to Constitution Hill. There were others walking the same route.

  When they came to the shabby entrance on the corner, a small queue was filing in.

  “Look,” said Lorna. “It’s those boys.”

  The schoolboys who’d bought their tickets that same morning. Was it only yesterday? thought Rachel. It seemed an age ago.

  They had dressed up but it hadn’t made them look much older, and they were nervous, hunched up and trying to make themselves as unobtrusive as possible.

  “Hi, boys,” said Lorna.

  They flinched, surprised, thinking they were going to be dragged out of the queue and laughed at.

  “It’s only us,” said Rachel. “We bought our tickets the same time as you.”