Darkness falls on her, a shadow.
“Who are ye? How did ye get in here?”
Her eyes snap open. Dark - everything is spinning and she feels dizzy and sick.
She gives herself a moment to get her breath back and re-orientate herself. No garden, no cemetery, just her room, her bed.
A dream, nothing more.
She slides out from under the duvet and wobbles to the bathroom on elastic legs, draws herself a glass of water and watches the ghastly image in the mirror as it does what she does.
The pupils in the eyes staring back at her are huge, sockets plunged into deep shadow in a face washed of colour, rendered pale to the point of translucence by the overhead fluorescent light. The halo of pillow hair, awry and tinged with blue, gives the look of someone who has just had a mighty scare.
The vision was so real. The solidity of the stone, the smell of the flowers, the warmth of the sun, the insects and birds … all blown away with such suddenness that she couldn’t keep up with it as it sent her into a vertiginous tailspin. She feels nausea rise again and takes another sip of water.
And that voice.
Who the hell was that?
She takes a deep drink of the water, rinses out the glass and staggers back to bed. Like she used to do when she was a little girl, to scare away the monsters, she’s left the bathroom light on.
Grace lies there, staring at the ceiling.
A dream, that’s all it was. She’d fallen asleep with Mal’s idea swimming about inside her head, fuelled by chips, booze and marijuana, and she’d had a dream.
Intense, vivid, but a dream nonetheless – the garden, the graveyard, the headstones – obviously all dragged up from something already buried deep inside, long forgotten memories of childhood perhaps.
She’d probably seen stones like those on a school trip. Perhaps she’d even made one of those rubbings with a sheet of paper and a stubby Crayola. Yes. That was it. She could almost smell the wax. There are no monsters, only memories.
But where had the voice come from? The dream had been quite pleasant until that raucous interruption spoiled it. Not a monster’s roar. A man’s voice.
She checks the clock – 03:17 a.m. Still time to get back to sleep. She turns over, plumps the pillow, and she’s almost made it back into the Land of Nod when she is jerked wide awake again.
“Who are ye? How did ye get in here?”
She flips herself onto her back. “Breathe, Grace. Go to sleep. Relax. Count back. One hundred … ninety nine…”
“Who are ye?”
04:10 a.m, and she gets up to stagger back to the bathroom, grumbling all the way. The water and beer have worked their way through her and she needs to pee.
Once again she falls back onto the bed, batters the pillow some more, and bangs her head into the pounded hollow.
“Got. To. Sleep.”
There’s that smell again – lavender and rosemary, and heat grows on her face.
“How did ye get in here?”
“Go away!” she cries, startling herself with the volume of her own voice, and opens her eyes to a shaft of sunlight forcing itself through a gap in the curtains and touching her cheek.
A tap on her bedroom door. “You okay, chick?”
Alec must have heard her yelling out.
“Absolutely fine,” she says with forced cheeriness, following it up with a jaw cracking yawn.
“You want a cuppa?”
She runs her tongue over the roof of her mouth. Dry and claggy. “Please.”
“Kettle’s on.”
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
What time is it now? 07:12. She crawls from the bed, wraps herself in her dressing gown and slops barefooted into the kitchen, clambering onto the stool beside Denny at the breakfast bar, leaning over and planting a kiss on his cheek as she steals a piece of his toast.
“Morning babe.”
“Hey!” A kiss in return. “Good morning to you too, my lovely.”
Alec puts a mug of fresh tea in front of her. “Lovely? You must be joking. Good God, woman, you’ve got a set of bags there that Louis Vuitton would be proud of. Right colour too. Purple and black. Bad night?”
She sips from the mug and nods.
“Wasn’t us, was it?” asks Denny. “I know we can get a bit carried away –”
“Not this time,” she says. “I had a … strange dream.”
“Strange how?”
“I don’t know. Intense. Disturbing.”
“Well whatever it was, try not to have it again. You look like death on a cracker.”
“Thanks very much.”
“Want to tell me about it?” asks Denny.
Grace yawns and rolls her neck. “Nah. It’s gone now. I’m sure it won’t come back.”
“Does it have something to do with your –” He mouths ‘therapy’, as if it’s a secret not to be overheard.
“Maybe,” she says. “And you can say it out loud, Den. The-ra-pee. It’s not a dirty word and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Harsh. She pats his knee. “Sorry babe.”
Chapter 6
Alone in the flat in the quiet of the afternoon, an exhausted Grace drops onto the sofa.
“Just a little nap. Forty winks and I’ll feel much better.”
No sooner has she closed her eyes than she is back in the same garden, walking the same path, coming to the same stone slab in the sunlight. Déjà vu all over again, except this time if the voice comes, she’ll be ready for it.
Warm sunshine, the gentle twitter of birds and the scent of honeysuckle heavy in the air all have a soporific effect, lulling her to more than half way asleep.
“I asked ye who ye are and how ye got in here. Speak will ye?”
The strong Scots voice jolts her wide awake again and she squeals. “Wha’?”
A dark man-shaped shadow is standing menacingly over her, blocking out the sun’s light and heat.
“Well?”
The line of questioning is unbroken, as if she’s never been away. “I’m Grace, and I came in through the gate in the wall,” she says.
“Did ye now? And who gave ye permission ta do so?”
“I don’t need anybody’s permission.”
“Is that so? This is private property and wi’oot permission, ye’re trespassing. Ye have ta leave, so away wi ye.”
She’s puzzled. How can she be trespassing? This is her place. She made it. It’s all in her head. She owns it and she can’t trespass on her own property can she?
“I’m not going anywhere and you’re blocking my sun. Please move.”
“Did ye no’ hear me? I said –”
“I heard you fine, and I’m staying put until I’m good and ready to leave.”
A scowl hoods his eyes. “I think no’. Ye canna be here.”
“I beg to differ. I can be wherever I like!”
And before she can ask herself why on Earth she is arguing with someone who isn’t really there at all, he has taken her by the elbow, his fingertips digging into her flesh, trying to force her from her seat.
“No, ye can’t!” he barks. “Allow me ta escort ye back ta the gate and ye can be oan yer way.”
“Hey! That hurts!” She prises his fingers from her. “There’s no need to get physical.” Once they are separated, she rises of her own accord. “If anyone’s entitled to be here, it’s me,” she says, cupping her painful elbow. “And while we are on the subject of who belongs where, who, pray tell, might you be, mister?”
“None of yer business.”
He takes a step back, widening the gap between them, and she can see him better now without the sun in her eyes – tall and lean, with a strong lined face, tanned from outdoor work, a pale scar running from his chin and down his neck, under the kerchief he has tied there. A mop of curly brown hair pokes out from under his cap, its peak shading large deep set eyes the colour of dark oak. Quick eyes that won’t meet hers.
“It is very much my business if I decide to repor
t you for grabbing hold of me and manhandling me like I was a sack of tatties,” she says.
Report to whom, you silly cow. He’s not real!
“I’m sorry, but ye have ta leave. I need ta be alone here,” he says, his voice turned quiet, pleading almost.
The sudden change in him only piques her curiosity. “Why is it so important I leave? I’m not doing any harm.”
He looks down to the table-like slab. “I canna tell ye. Ye have ta go.”
Why won’t he look at me? Is he embarrassed for grabbing me? No, it’s more than that. I’ve seen that look before. He’s scared of something. Not me though. Surely not.
“Alright I’ll go, for now,” she says. “But I’d like to come back and have a proper look around. Some of these stones look very old and I’m interested in history. Maybe I can come when you’re not here so I won’t bother you?”
“I’m al’ays here.”
“Is there someone else I can ask for permission then?”
“No.”
“Are you saying you own this place?”
Because you’re a liar if you do.
“No. I …” He puckers his mouth and frowns. “Ye have ta go now. Please.”
At last, eye contact. It lasts for no more than a heartbeat, but in it she sees how ill at ease he is with her presence.
“Then you may escort me to the gate,” she says.
They walk in silence through the hedge arches and along the gravel path, until they reach the boundary wall.
As she trails behind him she notices the way he employs a peculiar rolling gait which involves the throwing of the knees and the slightest limp, all indicators of the fact that walking is difficult for him and is giving him some pain.
He holds open the gate for her and when she is through, closes it firmly, separating them with the ironwork.
“I’m sorry,” he says through it. “It’s nothing personal, but it’s for the best.”
He has already started to leave when she calls to him. “Wait a minute!”
The slightest hesitation, a stiffening of his shoulders, and he turns back. “Yes, Miss?”
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
The scared look is back in his eyes. “Nae reason why I should.”
“I’d like to know.”
“Colin,” he murmurs, as if he’s ashamed of it. “Colin McLeod.”
“I’m Grace, but I already told you that. My full name’s Grace Dove.”
“Grace Dove? That’s nice. Very… peaceful,” he says, with the faintest twitch of a smile.
Before she can stop herself Grace stretches her hand through the bars, inviting him to share a gesture of introduction and goodwill. “It’s very nice to meet you Colin.”
It’ll be okay, you’re just being polite. He’s not real. You won’t feel anything.
He wipes his dirt smeared hand down the front of his trousers, takes hers, and the touch is very real.
Warm soft skin, not the leathery coarseness she would expect of an outdoor worker. A firm yet brief grip with, disturbingly, the trace of a tremor.
“Thank you, Miss,” he says, taking back his hand and thrusting it behind his back.
She can see in the brief eye contact he allows that he’s as surprised as she is at the substance of the contact, as if he too was not expecting it.
“I’ve .. .um … got ta …”
He touches the peak of his cap and bobs his head in a tiny respectful bow, the merest suggestion of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth again.
“Goodbye, Miss.”
He turns and trudges his way back to wherever it is he needs to be, and she watches him on his way until he vanishes out of sight through the arch in the hedge.
She feels slightly befuddled when she wakes, curled on the couch in Alec’s flat, a beam of late afternoon sun warming her feet, the vision of the garden and its rumpled reserved custodian still with her, every detail still fresh.
It felt so real, and she would swear she had actually been there, even though common sense tells her this cannot possibly be true. She gets up to make herself a cup of tea and ponder on what she thinks might be a rational explanation - a phenomenon called lucid dreaming.
She’d read somewhere, Wikipedia probably, about how the dreamer is aware they are dreaming and may experience sounds and smells, maybe even have an orgasm in their sleep.
The more she thinks about it, the more plausible it sounds, and could account for everything that just happened to her.
Grace jots down her idea on her notepad, and makes the decision to ask Dr Mal about it at her appointment the next afternoon.
Chapter 7
“How are you getting on?”
Dr Mal takes a mouthful of coffee, pulls a face, tips in a spoonful of sugar and worries it with a spoon.
“Different brand,” he says by way of explanation. “Budget cuts. You were saying.”
“Fine, I think,” Grace says.
“Problems?”
“I don’t know. What can you tell me about lucid dreaming?”
“A strange topic to start with.”
“It might be relevant.”
“Okay.” Mal settles his teaspoon in his saucer. “In lucid dreaming the dreamer may be able to exert some degree of control over their participation within the dream state, or be able to manipulate their imaginary experiences in the dream environment. Lucid dreams can be realistic and vivid, and quite often the dreamer wakes in a state of confusion, not quite knowing what is real and what isn’t. Clear?”
Silence.
“Do you think you might be experiencing lucid dreams, Grace?”
She holds her cup with both hands and lets its warmth leach into her fingers, cold despite the ambient temperature of the room, and studies the bubbles on the surface of the coffee.
“Possibly. I don’t know. It’s all very strange. In fact, it might not be a dream at all.” She takes a mouthful of the coffee, holds it, swallows. “I’m confused, Mal.”
“Then tell me everything and let me see what we can sort out for you, okay?”
“Okay.”
Another thoughtful sip.
“This imaginary friend I’m supposed to… make up,” she says. “What … what would you say if I told you I didn’t have to … because he was already there … and he made himself known to me first?”
Mal raises a quizzical eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
And grins. “Then I’d say … tell me more.”
And so she tells him everything – the stone wall covered in ivy and brambles, the gate, the garden, the cemetery, the gravestone with the list of children’s names. And then she describes Colin McLeod, right down to the hole in the knee of his trousers, and Mal’s attention on her is rapt, eyes unblinking, mouth hanging open like an empty sock.
“Fascinating,” he says, when she’s finished. “Absolutely fascinating. I never for one minute thought it would work so well.”
“So what do you think, because I think it’s a bit creepy?” she says. “I can see the symbolic associations – the garden represents life and the cemetery death, and Colin, by forcing me out of the cemetery is trying to keep me from death. Perhaps he’s acting as a sort of … guardian? Why he forced me out of the garden too, and I mean right outside, all the way through the gate, I have no idea, but I intend to find out.”
Mal puts up a hand. “Now slow down, speedy. You can be reading things too literally. A garden and a cemetery can be just that, a garden and a cemetery. Mental scene setting, pure and simple.”
“But what about Colin himself? I hadn’t got so far as creating a persona yet, let alone giving him a name. I hadn’t even decided if I wanted it to be a man or a woman. He just … turned up and started shouting at me. I was enjoying the peace and quiet and the sunshine, not thinking about anything, when he appeared out of nowhere and told me to leave. He wanted rid of me, and quick. He made it perfectly clear I wasn’t welcome there and I should leave immediate
ly. Before I knew what was happening he had me by the elbow and we were on our way back to the gate.”
Mal leans forward in slack jawed fascination, keen to hear more. “Interesting.” He rubs his brow. “Let’s, for ease of reference and just for a minute, pretend that you did create this Colin. Why do you think he was so keen for you to leave? Why do you think he got physical with you?”
Grace takes another sip of her coffee. “I did, hypothetically, just for a minute, wonder if it was the negative part of my mind telling the positive side that this talking business was a stupid idea and I should just dismiss it, walk away and forget about it. Does that make any sense?”
He nods. “Yes. I can see that … but?”
“But having had time to think about it, I’m not so sure.”
The keen look is back in his eyes. “Go on.”
“The one overall impression I did get from him, from Colin, was … fear. My being there made him very nervous and he was desperate for me to go away and leave him alone. He was petrified, I could see it in his eyes, like a frightened rabbit, and when we shook hands, his were trembling.”
“And how did it make you feel? Being forced out?”
“The truth? At first, angry, and then … sad … for him. What does it mean, Mal? It’s been dwelling on my mind since yesterday and I can’t seem to get past it. Was it a lucid dream or not?”
He sits back in his chair. “To be honest, Grace, I have no idea. You seem to have created a whole new category of … something.”
“And I bet you’re just tickled to death with the prospect of writing a paper on this brand new discovery, aren’t you?”
He narrows his eyes at her. “You do realise you just said that out loud, don’t you?”
She feigns innocence. “Did I? Hmmm.”
A silence hangs between them during which Mal removes his spectacles, huffs on one of the lenses, misting it, and then wipes it clean on a handkerchief taken from his pocket.
“Here’s what I want you to try and do, Grace.” He refits his glasses. “I want you to try and go back to the garden, to the cemetery, try to find Colin again, and this time, try and talk to him, engage him in conversation. See if you can find out why he’s there, why he’s sad and frightened and so desperate to be left alone.”
In The Garden Of Stones Page 5