Sleepless

by Louise Mumford

  Ethan remained silent but gently moved her hand away from her temple. She’d been scratching at the disc and the skin around it felt sore.

  ‘Don’t you just want to get these bloody things off sometimes?’ she said.

  Ethan tapped his torch against his hand thoughtfully. ‘You know, a week or so ago, I’d have said yes. If you’d left then, I’d have gone with you. But today? After the night I’ve had. The sleep. I feel … God, I can’t explain it. I just don’t want to go back to how it was.’

  ‘Yeah. I know.’ Thea sighed. Then, in a smaller voice: ‘What if I’m wrong about this place? What if no one’s here? It’s just me, isn’t it? I’m the only one who saw anything.’

  He took a moment to stop and look at her, so intently it made Thea shift her feet uncomfortably. But, finally, he said, ‘I believe you.’

  That made two people at least. The problem was Thea wasn’t sure if she believed herself anymore.

  ‘There’s no one here, miss,’ Len said to her, while around her the rest of the security team assembled in the courtyard, blinking in the daylight. ‘We’ve scoured the whole place and there are drones currently mapping the rest of the island.’

  Thea was acutely aware of everyone looking at her, these men in their black combat gear, the expressions on their faces, all of them thinking that she’d wasted their time. The hysterical woman, can’t even trust her own eyes, making a drama out of nothing, out of an accident. Stupid, hysterical woman.

  ‘It was worth checking though, Thea.’ Ethan was being supportive, which was worse in a way, because perhaps he didn’t believe her now either; he just liked her enough to not want to make her feel bad.

  Her cheeks grew hot.

  ‘What about the lighthouse?’ Thea asked.

  Had they checked that? Someone could have run there quite easily.

  Something like annoyance flickered across Len’s stony face and he took a deep breath. His men shuffled their feet and muttered quietly to one another.

  ‘Look, Miss Mackenzie, you’ve led us a merry dance all morning. The drones will map the lighthouse. Right now though, that’s not our main concern. See that vicious-looking patch of sky there? I’ve got orders to get us all back before that bitch hits. So, if you wouldn’t mind?’

  There were a few sniggers.

  Thea had a choice then. After all, she was used to it. She had been the good little girl for her entire life so she could do it again: behave and do what the sensible man said.

  Or …

  They hadn’t checked the lighthouse. She caught Ethan’s eye and a muscle twitched in his jaw. He nodded ever so slightly.

  Her cheeks continued to burn but she didn’t have any dignity left to lose. ‘Well, I’ll go and check on my own.’

  Len rubbed the bridge of his nose. He sighed. Thea held his gaze. She might not be crazy, not just yet, that face in the monastery window might still be real and the lighthouse might be all the proof she needed. She was going there.

  ‘I’m afraid I have orders,’ he said, reaching into the back of his waistband.

  It had never happened to Thea before and it all happened so quickly her brain didn’t have a chance to tell the rest of her body what to do. One minute Len was reaching behind him and Ethan was standing next to her, then suddenly Ethan had thrown himself at Len, knocking the older man to the ground, where the two of them grappled for control of what was now, very definitely, a gun.

  ‘Run!’ Ethan yelled as the other men closed in.

  Fight or flight, it was called. Thea had hoped that, in such a situation, she would fight, that she wouldn’t just stand there and gawp, feeling as if her body were a very long way away. She wouldn’t freeze up, or roll over. She would instead, for example – try and grab the gun.

  Fight or flight. The world moved very slowly. She may have hoped for fight but there, in the moment, she found out her first instinct. Ethan yelled at her again. ‘Run!’

  So she did. She scrambled back onto the path and then barrelled straight across it into woodland, moving without really thinking, knowing she couldn’t outrun any of those men, if they came after her.

  But she could hide.

  Chapter 23

  It was her mother Thea thought about as she hid in the wood.

  What she thought about most was her living room.

  The other women all called it “HQ”. It was the hub of everything they did: their marches, protests, talks, meetings, charity plans. They ate there, sloppy bowls of pasta or noodles, whatever the choice of the person whose turn it was to cook. And tea, so much tea was made, endless cups of it, weird concoctions of bark and roots that made the room smell as earthy as a burrow.

  One whole wall had been shelved out years ago and was filled with books and whatever else her mother didn’t know what to do with: the odd pebble, a corn dolly, some photos of Thea in school uniform, a piece of stained glass shaped like a peacock feather, a kaleidoscope. There were books on shamanism, philosophy, talking to the dead and making a living from selling on eBay. Trashy horror novels in Seventies’ binding with yellowing pages were jammed up next to a row of pristine Harry Potters, a The Joy of Sex and a copy of The Tiger Who Came to Tea. There was no arrangement in any of it, no alphabetizing, no grouping by genre, or topic. As a child, Thea used to close her eyes and jab her finger randomly at the shelves. Mostly her mother had let her read whatever she found that way. It had made for some interesting conversations with teachers at parents’ evening.

  The room was always dimly lit, usually by candles, but only as long as they were beeswax because the women worried about toxins. They worried about a lot: about the overuse of plastic, about the effects of social media on young girls, injustices in far-flung places, bees, abortion laws, the closing of libraries and opening of too many fast food restaurants. They turned that worry into plotting and planning, running web chatrooms and designing placards on newspaper on the floor.

  The warmth wasn’t just from the candles though. It was the women, mostly in their sixties and early seventies, who refused to fade quietly into old age like their mothers had done before them, who wore bright colours and dyed their hair odd shades and dressed how they pleased. They bickered and gossiped, teasing Thea, telling her off, lecturing her, making her one of them because she never really had friends of her own age. However, it didn’t matter because she had that room with those women whenever she wanted, whenever she got a little tired of the quiet in her own house.

  She wanted to see that room again.

  And her mother.

  Blinking back tears, Thea tried not to move. She’d seen enough horror films in her life to know that the heroine always got caught because she dropped something, or slipped, or knocked something, or sneezed. This felt very much like a film. It couldn’t be real life, could it? Her life? Her life didn’t involve running for cover, running so hard her legs felt shaky and her heart seemed huge in her chest.

  She’d found a spot by a tree and some tangled, spiky undergrowth, so she’d crawled her way into it, as far as she could go, her hair caught in thorns, her hands squashing beetles, feeling them pop like bubble wrap as she pushed herself in, knowing she had to get out of sight and then she had to be very still.

  So still.

  A latticework of branches closed over her, like a confessional screen. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Only bugs would be able to offer penance. Her breaths moved a strand of spiderweb that had got caught on her jacket collar and it floated elegantly in time with her breathing.

  She tried not to think. Not of the gun that Len had been reaching for under his jacket, tucked into his belt, at the small of his back. Not of the lighthouse, which they really didn’t want her to see, and what could be waiting there, hiding like her. And finally, she really, really tried not to think of the pale face at the monastery window, mouth stretched wide, a dark O of fury and the sound of bone crunching into stone.

  And then Thea, in her leafy confessional, heard footsteps.


  Quiet, carefully placed footsteps.

  The footsteps of someone who didn’t want to be heard, someone who knew how and where to step gingerly.

  Someone who was searching and didn’t want to startle its prey.

  Someone trained.

  Thea understood then why the heroines in those horror films screamed, throat-straining, long gulping screams. She understood because it was taking every ounce of self-control for her not to scream, to just let out some of the fear, give herself away and get it over with because this was a terrible hiding place and she was going to be found and she couldn’t stand the waiting any longer …

  Her mother’s ridiculous safe phrase floated into her mind as a pair of boots appeared by her head and then she was suddenly being dragged out from her hiding place by her feet, arms flailing uselessly, her screams cut off when her feet were dropped and a hand clamped over her mouth.

  I’m really missing the cat, Mum. I’m really missing the cat.

  Chapter 24

  It was a miserable morning in a forgotten seaside town.

  Vivian had been right. The little red light on her answerphone had been a warning: she had not heard from Thea for over a week.

  ‘I don’t think anyone’s going to show, Viv. You sure Tristan said eight?’ Delia asked, dabbing at the crumbs of cake on her plate.

  Vivian was sure. He had said his contact from Ing Enterprises would be there at 8 a.m. at what looked like the Apocalypse Café where the oilcloth was always sticky, the tomato sauce bottle forever empty and the glass on the chiller cabinets clouded with greasy cataracts.

  ‘Well, maybe they slept late.’ Delia peeled her sleeve away from the table, studying the damage to her coat, though the pattern was such that any stain would have been hard to see. She ran her hand through her hair and sighed, ruffling the underside of it, which was still a light green colour from a recent flirtation with the hair dye aisle. It was part of the deal when you were someone’s oldest friend: occasionally you had to haul your old bones out of bed at ridiculously early hours to go with them to clandestine meetings.

  Well, it was the deal if Vivian was your friend.

  ‘Why would you eat cake at this hour?’ Vivian picked at the chip in the handle of her mug.

  ‘Why wouldn’t you?’ Delia retorted, relaxing back in her chair and folding her hands comfortably over her stomach.

  Fair enough, thought Vivian. She gazed out of the window. It was definitely not the morning for a seaside walk, but she noticed someone was out there on the promenade: a man, muffled in a scarf and woollen hat, who had stopped just outside and leant against the railings. Nothing peculiar in that, Vivian told herself. People often paused for a moment to take in the view. Except, well, they needed to be actually facing the view, didn’t they? He was staring the wrong way, not even looking at the sea. Staring at them.

  Paranoia. Vivian mentally shook herself: she was not paranoid.

  Not completely, anyway.

  On the wall there was a clock the shape of a dinner plate with cutlery for hands. It ticked.

  They ordered more coffee.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Where was the tock? Vivian wondered, resolutely not looking out of the window. That was how it was meant to go: there was meant to be a tock. Tick, tock. Everyone knew that. The clock was clearly defective.

  Who were they waiting for? Vivian had been disappointed with herself when she’d heard their contact was called Alex and immediately thought of them as a man, well, a boy really, some computer nerd in a bad jumper. She had resolved to give her first thoughts a good talking-to. Alex could be a woman. Anyone.

  The man behind the counter slapped a wet cloth along the top of the chiller cabinet.

  Tick, tick.

  ‘Come on, Viv, it’s been an hour. They’re not coming.’

  Maybe the stupid, tockless clock was wrong. She looked at her watch and sighed. ‘You see, I know it’s only been a week and that’s no time, is it? I know I shouldn’t be worried and, if I am, I should go to the police, not sit in dingy little cafés failing to meet complete strangers.’

  She tried to imagine explaining it to an overworked policewoman behind the reception desk: ‘You see, my daughter is on a technology trial and she said she’d phone every day but she hasn’t for over a week now and I’m worried about …’

  About what? That’s where it all fell apart. What was she worried about? Thea had sounded relieved on the phone the last time she’d spoken to her. She’d got better sleep; it was all working. There was nothing to worry about.

  ‘But this is Thea,’ she continued. ‘The girl has always been clockwork. She said she would ring every day.’

  And just like that, she was right back in those hormone-soaked days after Thea had been born when just looking at her sweet solemn little face caused a rush of every emotion she had ever experienced to swell so violently in her throat she thought she might have to scream just to breathe.

  She got up and wrapped her scarf around her.

  ‘Maybe she’s just forgotten?’ said Delia as they heaved on the door, the cold outside air blasting over them.

  ‘When was the last time Thea forgot something?’

  Delia smiled.

  Thea made lists, then she crossed things off when she’d done them and, if the list got too messy, she rewrote it. She kept a calendar and remembered birthdays, put the bins out on time and then reminded Vivian when it was time to put hers out as well.

  ‘Well, maybe Tristan’s contact forgot then – you don’t know.’ Delia stuffed her hands under her armpits.

  ‘That’s the thing, Dels. You’ve hit it on the head,’ Vivian said. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this company, about the trial, about any of it. I don’t like not knowing.’

  On the promenade across from them, the man was still facing the café. Maybe he had a café fetish? That was it. He had a café fetish, definitely – it certainly wasn’t that he was an Ing Enterprises spy sent to watch them. No. Café fetish was much more realistic.

  Vivian didn’t look away this time. She wasn’t able to see if the man was staring right at her from this distance, but she was certain, somewhere in her gut, that he was.

  If he carried on like that, standing there and gazing in, leaning against the railings in that irritatingly relaxed way, then she was going to put her umbrella up, march out of the café porch and stomp right up to him …

  ‘Viv?’ Delia followed her gaze.

  Vivian slumped. ‘I’m going to have to go to the police, aren’t I?’

  In the dark. That was the phrase, wasn’t it? She was in the dark and she hated it and, worse, her little girl was in there somewhere too.

  But that was the thing about the dark.

  All you had to do was strike a match, or flick a switch, and the shapes you’d thought were monsters turned out to be just boxes and bags and old junk piled high.

  It was time to strike a match.

  Chapter 25

  The dragging stopped and, when Thea opened her eyes, she was looking at a face, a concerned face, which was nice, but, nicer still, it was a face she knew.

  Ethan.

  He put a finger to his lips and moved his hand away from her mouth. She gulped in air, still lying on her back where he’d dragged her out, one trainer loose and her jacket rucked up under her shoulder blades.

  He nudged her to get up and pointed off to the right, still gesturing for quiet.

  There was a distant sound of men’s voices, but they weren’t coming closer, and Ethan was already pulling her up and leading her away by the arm, gently but firmly. She got a proper look at him. He was bleeding from the corner of his lip, but apart from that he looked okay, very much not shot, which was a relief. Questions butted their way to the tip of her tongue, but she padded quietly next to him.

  Soon they came out of the wood and found themselves back on the path again, below them the monastery and above them, the route to the lighthouse. Ethan began to run, pull
ing Thea with him, until the path curved around along seal bay and they were hidden from the view of anyone looking up from the monastery.

  Only then did he stop.

  Thea’s lungs were about to explode. She was pretty certain she’d turned bright red in the face and she sank gratefully into the grass at the side of the path. She really should have worked harder in those cardio classes.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, standing with his hands on his hips as he took deep breaths.

  ‘Fab,’ she wheezed. ‘What happened back there?’

  The sky was now an inky wave of trouble about to crash onto them. The seagulls swooped and screamed, possibly telling each other to get in out of the coming snow, unlike those two stupid humans down there on the cliff. Ethan stretched out his shoulders, then touched at his lip, wincing slightly.

  ‘It was only Len who was armed, not the others.’ He showed her the gun, spinning the magazine and checking the bullets. It looked like a film prop to Thea. ‘But I think something’s happened at the Centre. The only reason I got away was because a message came through on their radio. I couldn’t hear it properly but it sounded like there’s been a fire, or something. They were being called back.’

  ‘A fire?’ Thea got to her knees, feeling the cold slush from the previous snowfall seep into the fleecy gym leggings she’d been issued earlier.

  A fire at the Centre was unlikely but not impossible. Thea thought of Rosie first, the rise and fall of her breathing and the beeping machine marking out her life and, in doing so, she remembered Richard being held down, a syringe pushed into his arm. What had Rory told her? Don’t fuck about with REM sleep. The rage had come from Richard like heat. Like fire.

  ‘But we’ve only got a short space of time before they come back out to find us,’ Ethan said, interrupting her thoughts. He wiped at his lip again and grimaced. ‘If you still want to go to the lighthouse, we do it now.’