The Dream Catcher Diaries

by Alexander Patrick

  She disliked us all intensely – but me in particular – and I hated her with the passion reserved only for those with no power towards those with all the power. She took every opportunity to bully and intimidate me, and, had it not been for my vigilant mother, would have made my life a misery.

  She insisted on a full white wedding in a church and was then horrified when Robert chose Daniel as his best man. ‘But, but he’s a Jew!’ she protested. Robert shrugged his shoulders. ‘He’s not even English,’ she said.

  Robert laughed. ‘I have news for you, Julie, neither am I.’

  ‘It’s not the same. I mean he’s Israeli, and he’s gay.’

  ‘He’s my best friend,’ said Robert. ‘That makes him my best man.’

  Julie shut up.

  My most dominant memory of the wedding is the toilet in the hotel where the reception was held. That toilet staged one of the most terrifying experiences of my young life.

  We were sitting around dressed in our suited best. I was with Davey who at one point signed me to say he wanted to go to the toilet. He had hardly spoken since he had lost his sight but he hand signed well. We both did. So I took him to the toilet. I led him through the crowds of people, most of whom I had never met before, found the toilets and took Davey inside.

  Davey had done his bit – and so had I, just to keep him company – when the door opened and cousin Paul walked in. Paul of the right hook. Paul: tall, overweight and full of himself. The very Paul that Robert had said he never wanted to see again. He swaggered into the toilet, and I knew that there was going to be trouble and that I had absolutely no idea how to leave this place without us both getting very hurt indeed.

  Paul knew it. There were two of us and one of him, but somehow the odds still seemed stacked against us. I was half his size and Davey hadn’t even realised that Paul had walked into the toilet. Davey was quietly zipping up and signing for me to take him to the washstand. I stood frozen and scared. I didn’t want to get hurt but I had no idea how to avoid it.

  ‘How sweet, holding hands,’ sneered Paul, moving towards us.

  I had hold of Davey’s hand and signed him to duck, which he did, narrowly avoiding the sweep of Paul’s lump-of-a-fist.

  Paul lost his balance and I hit him on the back of the head. It made little impact; it was a pathetic blow and only served to enrage him further.

  He roared some obscenity and leaped up off the floor at me. I jumped out of the way, but not until he had grabbed hold of my waist and pulled me down onto my back and jumped on top of me. He sat on my thighs and pummelled me hard in the stomach, using his knees to hold my arms. I was just not strong enough. He had all the strength, all the malice and the desire to hurt. I was a child who had no idea how to fight someone this big and strong. I was only five years old and skinny. He was twice my age, fat and vicious.

  Meanwhile, realising that something was wrong, Davey kicked out his feet and hit something: Paul’s back. He kicked again. Paul turned around giving me one last ferocious stab in the stomach and turned his attention to Davey. Davey kicked again even harder and caught Paul in the chest and then across his face. His feet flew everywhere, fast and furious. Paul screamed in rage and landed on top of him, striking out as he did so. I rolled over and began beating his back with my fists. He roared and lashed out at both of us. I was flung across the floor as his fist caught my face, and Davey cried out in pain as he too was knocked back with a blow to the head.

  We were both howling in pain and fury, with Paul whirling at us like a demon, when Ian walked in. He leapt forward and quickly pulled Paul off Davey. He dragged him and threw him across the floor and then knelt beside the still-flailing Davey. ‘Alexander, come and speak to Davey,’ he shouted.

  I was on my feet and swiftly made contact. Davey knew my touch instantly and stopped his wild kicking. Ian was full of contained fury. He moved towards Paul. ‘Get off me, you faggot, or I’ll tell my mum!’ screamed Paul.

  Ian paused and stared at him. He was a big man and strong. He had broad shoulders and large hands. His hair was cropped short; he had a small goatee beard and thick dark eyebrows that met in the middle as a single stroke. Years ago someone had broken his nose for him, the result of an encounter with a man at a bar who took exception to being picked up by a gay man. Yet he knew how to handle himself. He had spent too much of his youth in seedy nightclubs not to be able to watch his back and handle his fists. As well as this, he had spent time as an amateur in the ring. He had been good too. He was sorely tempted now to use his much-experienced fists on Paul.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll speak to your mother,’ he snarled. ‘You’ll not be welcome in this family again.’

  Paul rose to his feet. ‘Good! Who’d be friends with faggots and freaks?’ he looked across at me. ‘As for you, Matrix, watch your back; one of us will get you one day; you’re dead.’

  He marched out. His dignified exit only slightly marred when he slipped on the wet floor by the door, twisting his ankle. That hurt him more than anything Davey or I had done to him. We were both left with black eyes and, for me, a lingering fear: the knowledge that we were vulnerable to the bullies of the world in a way that no able-bodied child ever was. We were a target. The two freaks who lived on the hill: Matrix and the deafblind boy. Paul was right; fate had marked us out. We were as good as dead. One day someone would find us, and Ian wouldn’t always be there to rescue us.

  Chapter 6

  DCI Skinner had chosen the dirtiest, smelliest, coldest interview room. It was freezing cold despite being June; the sun never touched its damp walls. He chose it and had left his subject in it for most of the night. He was a great believer in sleep deprivation bringing out full confessions. He intended to have a full confession. He may not have caught the first prize but he had taken the second prize and he was well satisfied.

  He stood smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of strong black coffee. He leaned forward, stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles. It was time. Dawn was breaking. He knew from a degree course he had taken part time at home that this is when we are at our weakest – and that’s just how he wanted him: no sleep, tired, hungry, vulnerable. That’s what you did with terrorists. They were animals and that’s how you treated them. DCI Skinner knew all about terrorists. He had once worked at Belmont prison, notorious for its political prisoners, a place full of evil men, where the Koran could be heard being muttered from cells housing mad men. The joke was that if they weren’t mad when they arrived, they soon would be. Sensory deprivation made men mad; that’s something else he had learned on his degree course and it was something he had had confirmed at Belmont. It was true; it took away your sanity – completely, permanently. On many occasions he had personally supervised men, seemingly normal men, dark skinned men with suspicious dark eyes, and he’d watched as that most precious thing was taken from them: who they were, what they were – their minds.

  Skinner was not a tall man but he was broad. He worked out at the gym; keeping in shape was important to him. His receding hairline had left him with so little hair that he had shaved off completely any that remained. Known as ‘baldy’ behind his back, he was definitely ‘Sir’ to his face. People treated him with respect, even caution, and that included those senior to him. He knew how to hurt in many different ways. His time at Belmont had not been wasted.

  He didn’t so much walk as strut, pushing his chin out, compressing his thin lips and narrowing his dark, hooded eyes. He was non-descript; he had the kind of face easily forgotten. Unless, of course, you had the misfortune to be interrogated by him; then you never forgot him, his soft London voice and his cracking knuckles. These were things you never forgot. I should know, I knew him at Belmont. He had interrogated me. Now he was looking forward to ‘interviewing’ one of my closest friends. The General was waiting for him.

  The door to interview room six opened and DCI Skinner walked in with his assistant, Sergeant Newman. Both men watched the man they had arrested earlier, both men held their b
reath slightly in anticipation of the violence to come, both men welcomed and looked forward eagerly to that violence – after all, that was why they had joined the police.

  Skinner dragged out a chair opposite the General. The chair’s legs scraped the floor in protest. He sat down heavily and, for the sake of the cameras, announced his presence and that of Newman.

  The General leaned forward and rested his elbows on the filthy table in front of him. He looked tired and haggard. He looked like a man who had lost everything. At that point he may have believed that he had. Skinner smiled. He was going to enjoy this; he was going to break this man. No one else had managed it yet but then no one else had his experience. He was going to break him if it took weeks. He had arrested him under the Terrorist Act. That meant no lawyer need be present and he could keep him locked up for up to ninety days and have that repeated. Time was on his side. Nights of no sleep and little food and water were just the start.

  ‘Look who we have here! Only the very General of Bràithreachas,’ he paused. ‘Or, for the Sassenachs amongst us, the Brotherhood and, for those who are civilized, a terrorist organisation, responsible for death, torture and God knows what else. Bràithreachas who think they rule the world through a bunch of substrata misfits, perverts and freaks – Matrix being all three. By the way ...’ he paused again. ‘Where is Matrix?’

  The General shrugged his shoulders. ‘As far as I know he’s on holiday in France with his family.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  The General said nothing. He traced his finger along a scratch on the table, slowly, gently.

  ‘Just tell me where he is.’

  The General looked up. He had cold blue eyes, the eyes of a killer. ‘Now, Mr Skinner, you know that’s classified information. You want the answer to that, you ask the Prime Minister.’

  Skinner nodded to Newman. Newman aimed a sharp fist into the General’s kidneys. The General grunted in pain and fell forward, gasping for breath. Newman grabbed his ponytail and pulled his head back sharply, aiming a swift blow to the skull. He slammed the General’s face down onto the table, onto that scratch he had, just a moment before, been tracing with his grubby finger. Blood trickled down from his nose and his head.

  Throughout, Skinner had not moved. He leaned in close to the General. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I will. I knew him at Belmont. I broke him there; I’ll have him back and I’ll break him again.’

  ‘Find him first,’ said the General with a smile full of blood.

  ‘What happened last night?’

  The General looked up at the camera poised on the ceiling. ‘I want to confess to everything,’ he said. He turned to Skinner. ‘I killed the Ross brothers and Whitely. I killed them all and I did it in self-defence.’ The General wiped the blood from his mouth. ‘They killed Azrael. They were going to kill me as well. I had no choice.’ He lifted up his arms. ‘Take my statement; I’ll tell you everything.’ He paused meaningfully. ‘But I won’t tell you where Matrix is because I don’t know. As far as I know, he’s on holiday. You want more, you talk to number 10.’

  ***********************

  My father had a sister. Her name was Hannah and she was, by all accounts, a most remarkable creature. She was clever, funny and charming. He adored her, everyone did, but she died when she was just sixteen years old and he was thirteen. It devastated the whole family in the way that only the death of a beloved child can do. I should know.

  There was no doubt that the favourite child had died. My father was made to feel it and he was never forgiven by either of his parents for being the one to survive. His father changed after Hannah’s death. He became morose; he had once had a beautiful, talented daughter and he had been left with a lazy son with strange eyes. He began to drink and became violent, particularly towards my father.

  I’ve no idea exactly how the guilt and lack of love at that early stage in his life affected my father, but I have no doubt it made a difference. He was a stern, taciturn man who struggled to show any emotions; he was taught to be that way by a violent and abusive father.

  Two years after Hannah died; my grandfather did us all a favour: he drank a bottle of whisky and cut his wrists.

  To escape a home of sadness and death – and because he loved animals – my father helped out at an animal rescue centre. He started working there when he was thirteen. It was to become his salvation. It gave him the desire to do more, and that was when he decided to be a vet.

  He was a natural with animals. They knew instinctively to trust him. Most vets engender fear in their patients – it’s something about the way they smell, I guess – but not my father. They just knew. This natural talent, his love of the profession and a deep understanding resulted in his being a most exceptional and unusual vet.

  My father’s early life was not one devoid of love. There were people in his life who loved and appreciated him. The main influence in his early life was the Kendricks. Miles Kendrick was my father’s best, and in fact only, friend at school. When life became too hard at home, my father always had a place to stay with Miles. They saw him through many a bitter battle.

  My father and Miles remained close, despite events in their lives that would have destroyed a weaker bond. They were at university together and they were best men at each other’s weddings. Miles became a powerful and successful advocate and later a judge. When my father was put in prison, Miles bailed him out and proved his innocence. When my father married the unbalanced, whisky-soaked Sarah, Miles became her lover for many years. It was a mark of their friendship that, when finally his adultery became public, destroyed his marriage and almost threatened his career, only one person remained true to him: my father. And that probably says a great deal about how little he thought of Sarah.

  Chapter 7

  I was living my nightmare in isolation. I was vaguely aware of being on a fast-moving motorbike; my hands were lashed together around someone’s waist. The rain beat down and the noise of the engines and something else – something inside me – filled my head. At last we stopped. I leaned against the biker and waited. Someone was approaching. He moved carefully but with confidence. The bikers had dismounted; they stood waiting in the rain.

  A figure loomed close. He took my chin and lifted up my face so he could see me more clearly. I opened my eyes. My sight was poor and was not improving as the night progressed. I tried to see who it was. The face moved closer. I didn’t react. I was ceasing to care.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me, for Christ’s sake?’ said the figure.

  I tried to smile but I wasn’t sure my face was doing what I wanted it to.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Alexander, how do you manage to get yourself into such scrapes!’ said the voice in exasperation as he held me close. An embrace had never felt so good. ‘Time to get you home, my friend!’ he whispered in my ear.

  I managed a nod. Crompton held me close for a moment longer then stepped back. ‘Right, you fuckers, this is Matrix here. Get him home now!’

  The bikes revved up and we were gone.

  ***********************

  When Robert was nineteen, he came home from university one weekend and persuaded my father to divorce Sarah. My father was convinced and mentioned it to her straight away. Surprisingly, she agreed. That night, she made them tea before bed and all seemed well. My father drank his even though it tasted bitter – he was famous for his lack of taste buds – but Robert threw his away, which was just as well: Sarah had slipped a powerful sleeping draught in both.

  As my father lay in a drug-induced sleep, she crept up on him and slashed him with a carving knife. She tore his face apart and most of the right side of his body. He would almost certainly have died that night if Robert had not been there.

  As my father was recovering in hospital, Sarah paid a visit to the police and claimed that my father had, for years, been systematically abusing her and that, unable to take any more brutality, she had lashed out in self-defence. She even had bruises to prove it. The police
chose to believe a beautiful, charming woman over my father, and he was arrested.

  His time in prison, as he awaited trial, was one of abuse and torture. When Miles eventually got him out he was a changed man. It destroyed him. He refused to testify against the police officers who had beaten him to within an inch of his life. He refused, but one of the other prisoners did not. He was Trent Temple, a leading light in the bikers’ gang, Satan’s Children. He gave testimony against various police and prison officers and incidentally swore allegiance to the silent, solitary man who was my father.

  My father left prison, broken, discredited and without a job. His partner – and friend had sold him out of the practice whilst he had been in prison, and he was receiving hate mail. Most people chose to believe the mad Sarah, and my father was hounded out of his job, his life, his city and his country.

  He had only left Scotland once in his entire life and that was to take Robert down to Cambridge. He struggled to find another position. He interviewed badly, and his looks went against him.

  In the end, he secured a position in a small practice in Devon. Within the same island, he could hardly have been further from his beloved Scotland if he had tried.

  Chapter 8

  Someone walked into interview room six carrying a piece of paper. He handed it to Skinner. Skinner was standing by the window looking out. He couldn’t see anything. The window was filthy but, even if it had been clean, it faced a tall, dark brick wall that prevented light or heat from entering the room.

  The General had been talking for over two hours. Skinner had made him repeat his story again and again and he couldn’t fault it. He had been attacked and had killed in self-defence; Skinner knew that this story had been fully corroborated. But something was wrong. He didn’t believe that Matrix had not been there for the killing. Matrix would have wanted to be there. More than anyone else, he had a reason to kill these people.