The Moor

by Sam Haysom

  January 14th, 2014

  Partials: One (recurring).

  Complete: One (recurring).

  The first is the same I’ve been having on and off for years, although last night it was a bit different. Well not different, maybe, but longer.

  I open my eyes in bed and I feel like I need to pee. I lean over to the bedside table and check the time on my phone. It’s around three or four in the morning, I can’t remember exactly.

  It’s as I put my phone back down on the table and sit up that I notice him. George is sat in a chair at the end of the bed. I can’t see his face because the room’s too dark, but I know he’s watching me.

  Normally at this point I realise I’m dreaming and shut my eyes and scream until I wake up, but this time, before I get a chance, he’s saying something to me.

  ‘I was meant to find you, Anne,’ he says. ‘We’ll always be together.’

  That’s all I can remember. I tried to think back this morning and work out if he’s ever spoken to me in the bedroom dream before, but I’ve had it so many times it’s hard to remember. I don’t think so, though.

  Matt paused and took a shaky breath. The mention of Mr Stevens’first name made him feel faintly sick. His stomach rolled, as though some large and twitchy animal had just woken up in there and was moving around, searching for a way out. Matt took another long breath and continued reading.

  The second one’s another I’ve had before, but less often and certainly not for a long time.

  I’m lying on my back in a field on Rutmoor. George is lying next to me. It’s night, and in the distance I can hear the laughter of my friends and the deeper voices of George’s work colleagues, sort of jumbled together. They sound blurred and distant.

  I’m looking up at the stars, and I feel happy. George is holding my hand.

  ‘I love coming here,’ he says. I turn my head so I can see him properly but he’s not looking at me, he’s looking up at the stars. The lights from our campsite in the next field over are reflected in his glasses. He’s got a frown on his face. ‘It’s strange, but I feel closer to home when I’m out here.’

  I reach out and take his hand and ask him where he’s from again. He came down from up north with his colleagues for a weekend trip, I think that’s what he said, but I want to know where he grew up. He doesn’t answer, though, and I don’t think he’s heard me. His eyes are fixed on the night sky.

  At this point the dream kind of skips forward, like when you switch scenes on a DVD player, and it’s still the same night but now we’re further away from the campsite. The sky above us is clear and by the light from the moon and the stars I can just about make out a footpath winding down into a sort of ravine, George leading me by the hand. I feel a bit scared. I try to listen out for the sounds of my friends laughing, but I can’t hear them anymore.

  I’m cold. The stars are spread out above us like diamonds in some vast, black ocean. The wind rushes through the heather on either side of the path as George leads me further down, down this steep winding track, and suddenly I realise his hand’s around my wrist and he’s holding me tight, almost pulling me.

  I try to speak his name, but my mouth won’t work.

  The path winds through some bushes and all of a sudden the ground is harder beneath our feet and we’re in a little clearing. When George stops and looks back at me his glasses are two hard, silver rectangles of light. I can’t see his eyes.

  ‘I love coming here,’ he says again. His voice sounds hollow, dull. He turns away from me again and I realise he’s looking at something. Even though I don’t want to look, my feet are moving forward and the next thing I know I’m standing alongside him, staring into the clearing.

  There’s a huge crack running through the ground.

  It’s like those disaster films after an earthquake’s hit and the earth’s split apart. The crack in the clearing is about eight foot long and three foot across in the middle, at its widest point. It’s like a great, black eye. Looking at it makes my stomach feel sick.

  George starts to move forward. I want to resist, to pull back away from him and the gaping crevice he’s pulling me towards, but my legs won’t let me. I walk forward with him and suddenly we’re standing at the edge of it, and when I look down into the blackness I realise there are stars in there too, there are tiny winking diamonds in that black cut just like there are in the sky. I feel dizzy and disoriented.

  I can hear the wind, even louder now, and it’s almost as if it’s blowing up at me out of the ground, whistling up through that crack. George shuffles forward so his feet are hanging over the edge.

  I don’t remember anything after this point, so that must be the part when the dream ends or I wake up.

  (One final note: it’s funny, but even though I’m standing on the edge with him in this second dream and he’s holding onto me and I’m terrified, I’m also fully aware that he’s not going to pull me into the crevice with him. It’s more like he’s just showing it to me, so I know it’s there.)

  The writing ended a few lines from the bottom of the paper. Matt turned the page with fingers that shook ever so slightly. The next page was blank, and the one after that, and the next. He flicked through the pad, but the first page was the only one with any writing on it.

  Matt could feel his heart hammering in his chest. His fingers were slick with sweat as he reopened the pad on the page with the writing and placed it back on the table, in roughly the same position he’d found it.

  Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked.

  Matt froze. He stood very still, locked in position, and strained his ears. Had that creak come from the staircase? He could no longer hear the sounds of Anne shuffling around on the floor beneath him. He couldn’t hear a thing. From the small window above the desk came the soft sound of rain and wind.

  After several more seconds of silence, Matt let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and continued to scan the desk with his eyes. He leaned over and grabbed the first WHSmith notepad on the pile. He flipped open the top and saw a shopping list. Discarding the pad on the table he grabbed the second one and flipped that open, dimly aware that he was running out of time.

  The second notepad contained a few scribbled numbers and what looked like some calculations that Matt couldn’t make sense of. The borders of the pages were lined with doodles. A tree grew up the right-hand side of one margin, its branches stretching among the scrawled numbers like grasping fingers. In the top left-hand corner of another page a large, dark eye stared out at him. Matt closed the notepad and discarded it.

  He’d flipped the top page of the third notepad open and was about to put it straight down again when he stopped. The writing here was still unmistakably Anne’s but it was harder to read, as if it had been scribbled down very quickly, and at first Matt hadn’t noticed the name at the top of what appeared to be a letter.

  He took a breath and brought the notepad closer to his face. Outside a stronger gust of wind kicked up, howling around the brick house.

  Dear George,

  I don’t remember much, but I remember enough to know I hate you. I really, really fucking hate you. You’ve taken a large chunk of my life and turned it into a black hole.

  I know it’s you. You’re the reason I feel tired all the time, the reason I jump every time the door goes. You’re the reason I have to remember to take pills every day, and the reason I go and see Tricia once a week. You’re the reason my son hardly ever comes to visit.

  I don’t remember much, but I know it’s you. So here’s what I do remember.

  I remember I loved you once. You were kind when we first met, and the years before we were married we had fun together. We went places together, we were a normal couple. I think we were a normal couple. Even though the stuff that comes later is blurry I’m sure I remember most of our first few years together, and I trust myself on that.

  I remember that something changed. I can’t remember exactly when, or how it happened, but s
ome time after our wedding – maybe it was around the time I got pregnant with Tim, or just after he was born – something changed. I think you changed.

  When I think back to that time now it’s funny, because I can’t remember specific arguments or fights or even threats – Tricia believes you were abusive, I know that’s what she thinks even though she’s never said it out loud – but I remember feeling scared. It’s like the anxiety I get in patches now; I remember feeling this constant background churning in my stomach, like something bad was about to happen even though I didn’t know what it was.

  I remember you went away. Not just for a few days, either, although you did that too sometimes, but for whole years. These are the patches I remember most clearly, because they were the times I started to feel better. It was like coming out of a fog; I’d suddenly find myself on my own again, not really sure how I got there, but I’d be aware that you’d gone and I’d be glad about it.

  I’d get on with my life, and I hoped – although I don’t think I ever really believed it – that you were never coming back.

  I remember hating you when you did come back. I think at one point I tried to leave you – although this memory is very patchy and I’m not sure whether or not I invented it – but I think I remember you stopping me, telling me that Tim would be the one that’d end up hurt if I left. Tim would be the one that’d suffer.

  Tricia’s been a big help. I remembered even less when I first came to her. It’s starting to come back now, though, just very slowly.

  I used to feel numb and anxious, but now I feel angry as well as scared. Tricia says that’s good.

  This letter was her idea, actually. She says even if you’re never actually going to give a letter to someone it sometimes helps to write one anyway, that way you can get everything out on paper. Organise all your thoughts. She says some people burn letters like this after they’ve finished writing them, but I don’t think I will.

  I think I’ll keep this one as a reminder. It’s a reminder that the memories are out there, and they’re coming back, and the harder I work the better I’ll—

  A floorboard creaked directly behind him. Matt let out a small cry and dropped the notepad back onto the desk. He spun around and saw Anne standing in the doorway to the study, watching him.

  ‘You didn’t find the DVDs then?’ Anne’s face was a mask.

  Matt stood looking back at her, his skin hot and prickly, not knowing what to say.

  ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘You what? Got the wrong room, did you?’

  Matt’s heart was hammering somewhere up in his neck. He forced himself to take a breath. ‘No, I went into Tim’s room but I couldn’t find the DVDs. I thought they might be in here, so I thought I’d pop in quickly before I came back down. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I know it…’

  Matt trailed off, thinking. Had she seen him reading her notepad? Anne continued to watch him, her face a blank. Matt took another breath, and made a huge effort to keep his voice steady when he next spoke.

  ‘I’m really sorry, I should have shouted for you when I couldn’t find them, I know this looks like I’m snooping.’ He forced himself to grin. ‘I didn’t want to drag you upstairs and cause more of a fuss, though, especially after you’ve been so friendly, so I thought I’d just pop my head around this door on my way down. You know, in case they were here.’

  ‘There’s nothing of Tim’s in here,’ said Anne. Her eyes flicked past Matt to the desk, then back again. ‘The rain’s slowed down a bit. Maybe you’d better make a break for it now, before it picks up again.’

  She turned and stepped from the room back into the hallway. Without waiting to see if she’d glance back at him Matt spun on the spot and gathered the three notepads into a hasty pile, returning them to their stack on the left of the desk.

  Then he left the room and joined Anne in the hallway.

  They didn’t speak as they descended the stairs. Anne waited for Matt to go in front and he could feel her behind him as he walked, her eyes on the back of his head.

  When they were in the downstairs hall and back by the front door, he turned to her. He’d been building up to say something casual, possibly to thank her for the tea, but she cut across him before he had the chance.

  ‘You know, when you knocked at the door earlier I thought you might be someone else.’

  Matt opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. Anne was looking past him, over his shoulder. Her eyes were distant and unfocused.

  Matt thought of the notepads upstairs, and what he’d read in them. He wanted to ask her about them, but he couldn’t.

  ‘Did you think I was Tim?’ he said eventually.

  Anne blinked and looked back at him, as if only just remembering he was there. ‘No. I told you, Tim’s in Edinburgh.’

  Matt nodded and stared down at the floor. He could still hear the rain crashing down outside the front door, but he didn’t mind; suddenly he wanted nothing more than to get out of this house.

  ‘Well, thanks for the tea and everything,’ he said. ‘Sorry for interrupting you, I should have called ahead first to make sure he was in.’

  He smiled at Anne and turned to the front door. He’d just touched the handle when her voice rang out again behind him.

  ‘You should visit my son.’

  He turned back to her. Anne hadn’t moved, but she was standing awkwardly in the hallway with her hands clasped in front of her.

  ‘You should visit Tim,’ she said again. ‘I used to look after him, but I don’t get to so much now he’s away. I’m sure he’d like to see you.’

  Matt smiled at her, nodded his head, then turned and left through the front door. The wind and rain buffeted him the moment he stepped outside.

  As he turned the collar of his coat up and walked down the path to the road, he realised she’d never given him the umbrella.

  *

  Back on the bus and heading in the direction of the train station, Matt tried to collect his thoughts. It wasn’t easy. Going into Mr Stevens’ house he’d felt uncertain, not sure he was doing the right thing. Now he felt even less sure of himself.

  The rain had eased up slightly but it was still falling steadily, hitting the bus window with a soft, constant patter. Matt’s clothes felt damp against his skin.

  He wished he’d thought to take a photo of the dream journal and the letter on his phone. He’d been in a rush, though, and the thought hadn’t occurred at the time. It was sloppy.

  Still, he could remember most of what he’d read. He’d keep it fixed in his mind until he was on the train, and then he’d make some notes on the pad of paper he kept in his bag.

  There were two things in particular that had stuck in his head. The first was a line from the letter Anne had written. Four little words that she’d scrawled somewhere near the beginning.

  I know it’s you.

  Thinking of those words made Matt feel a chill that was nothing to do with his damp skin.

  The second thing he kept thinking of was from Anne’s dream journal. An image from her first dream. Despite the strangeness of the second, longer dream she’d written about, it was the first one Matt found particularly disturbing. It was similar to a nightmare he’d had himself. One that had recurred on and off over the years.

  Lying in bed, unable to move. Looking up and seeing someone sat watching you from across the other side of the room, their face cast in shadow.

  Mr Stevens.

  Matt drummed his fingers across the brown bag in his lap. His skin was turning cold beneath his wet clothes. He fidgeted in his seat, trying to get comfortable.

  Outside, the rain continued to fall against the window in a steady stream.

  Matt (2002)

  1

  The storm hit when they were only halfway to Creek Lane.

  The first five miles had ended up taking them around six hours, because they’d had to skirt around two tors and the terrain in between had been terrible. Matt thought at least one w
hole mile had been nothing but tussocks, with no discernible path. James had fallen and twisted his leg during that stretch, and he’d been walking with a limp ever since.

  As they’d been going around the second tor, James and Matt leading the way with drizzle blowing in their faces and Tramper’s arm slung around Matt’s neck for support, James had begun to cry. He was sobbing under his breath, trying to muffle the sound, but Matt could hear him whimpering below the noise of the wind.

  The sound made him angry.

  As the afternoon grew shorter and their progress became slower and slower, Matt had become convinced that Mr Stevens didn’t know what he was doing. He had all the right equipment and he said all the right things, sure – shit, he even looked like a hiker – but Matt could tell he hadn’t thought their route through at all. It was fucking ridiculous that they’d come this far out into the middle of nowhere, so far from any roads or help, when it was their first time on the moor.

  Matt’s mum and James’ gran might think Mr Stevens was great, but Matt didn’t see it. There was something about him, something in the condescending way he had of looking at people and the strict edge that sometimes crept into his voice, that Matt didn’t like at all. He was like one of those teachers that’s cruel in the classroom but can turn on the charm for parents’ evening.

  And now it was just after seven in the evening, they still had five miles to go, and the wind was picking up.

  Matt had briefly left James half an hour before to go and speak to Mr Stevens. He told him that Tramper was injured and that he was worried they weren’t going to make it to the road tonight, but Mr Stevens had brushed off his concerns with a wave of the hand.

  ‘We’ve come over the hard bit,’ he said, adjusting his glasses and smiling. ‘The next five miles is flat, and there are plenty of paths.’

  Matt thought he was right about the flatness and the paths, but not about the hard bit. Matt thought the hard bit was still to come.