“I’d rather you came in,” I say, but I’m not sure why. Maybe something to do with wanting someone I know to have more detailed insight on me. Not just the comfortable prejudices and assumptions my friendships exist on. And it might as well be him, seeing as he’s here and being supportive, and sat for an hour just now with nothing but Health & Safety notices to look at while I was in the scanner.
“Hello, Lara. Have a seat,” Mr. Katana greets me. “I met Connor as well, not a little while ago - I popped down while you were having your scan for a quick look. It was a good sleep for you, then?”
“Just catching up,” I admit.
“Right, well - the short-term tests show nothing chemical in your system, so at least that’s nothing to be worried about. There’s no visible damage to speak of in your scan that would cause that kind of anomaly - just evidence of previous surgical interventions in the facial bones and skull. Some evidence of hairline fracture self-repair in the posterior and lateral skull, but nothing recent. From what you’ve given in your medical history and the paramedic’s report, my gut instinct is to suggest that what you experienced is neuropathic. Possibly due to your body fighting to stay awake. The nerves send a message to the brain that your physical body is ready to shut down to sleep, often in an inappropriate setting, without the event occurring. The brain reacts to the neural messages as if it’s something else it can logically interpret from its alert state, like an assault or muscular restraint over which you have no control. Similar to phantom pain or phantom pregnancy - the body isn’t doing anything, but the symptoms are recorded in the brain by a confused nervous system sending messages without actual stimuli attached.”
“Okay,” I nod. “Makes sense. I think I was just tired and hung over, and ate more than usual today. Including more junk food.”
“Is it likely to recur?” Connor wants to know, worrying his thumbnail like earlier.
“There is a possibility of it being caused by stress and pattern-matching,” Mr. Katana says. “There are other tests, but more in the field of psychology - monitoring the brain’s activity under interview or when looking at certain images. But it could be a long and convoluted process. Unless you can connect something definitive between the two incidences, or recall other incidents similar which may have occurred during sleep disturbance while alone - feelings of struggling, being restrained, or sat on, or strangulation, suffocation - these are all part of a neuropathic sleep disturbance where the body and mind are in conflict over waking up or staying asleep - usually that the alert mind wants to wake, but the body is shut down in deep sleep, and the nervous system informs the brain that the body is incapable of movement. The brain translates this as ‘invisible restraint’ and leads to nightmares or night terrors. Sound familiar at all?”
I just nod. I have definitely experienced that in the past - probably on more occasions than I’d want to admit to. But I’d always put it down to an old unremembered childhood nightmare about ghosts or something, and never understood why it still happened as an adult. If I’d thought it was a problem, I’d already have wasted hours of my life trying to analyse it.
“Yeah, she’s done that when I’m there as well,” Connor interjects, unexpectedly. “Jumped awake for no reason.”
“Once a neural pathway is established, the more exercise it gets, the higher likelihood of it recurring,” he says. “My advice is, get regular sleep, get a good amount of sleep, and match your sleep to natural hours. Daylight and darkness all affect sleep hormones, and rest and repair times, so if you go against nature’s clock, your brain is more easily confused, stressed and depleted. Higher likelihood of hallucination, more easily suggestible, less able to concentrate. Try to limit caffeine as a means to stretch your waking hours, and take naps instead.”
He smiles at me encouragingly and sympathetically, but as I glance from him to Connor, Connor’s face is still serious.
“Are there any other tests that a scan might not show?” he asks. “Any other disease or disorder which might cause it?”
“We’re checking for low thyroxin levels, and a pregnancy test was negative,” Mr. Katana replies. “Diabetes test was also negative, so it wasn’t a diabetic seizure. If any other symptoms appear, or it happens again, come straight back here to Casualty, we’ll do all the possible epilepsy checks, and we’ll go through the Medical Encyclopaedia together. Basically, in the meantime - go home, get lots of sleep, find ways to cut down on stress - and start looking for a day job.”
Connor takes my hand as we head back out into the car-park. Strange, because at this precise moment, I don’t even know if it’s the first time he’s held my hand.
“Where do you want to go?” he asks me. “Do you want to stay over at mine, or would you feel better catching up on sleep at home?”
“I’d feel better at home,” I reply. “No offence, I like your company, it’s just - familiar is better.”
“I’m staying anyway,” he tells me. “You don’t get that much say in it.”
I look at him and he smiles at me. A little bit of reassurance manages to break through my preconceptions about him.
Chapter 35: Fish Out Of Water
I have the weirdest dream ever. About how my work colleagues and the bar staff figure out why I’m always single, and so elusive and mysterious. Apparently their conclusion is that it’s because I’m a mermaid.
In the dream I go to a huge after-club party at someone’s house I don’t know, and this rumour reaches me, so I sit in their ornamental garden with my feet paddling in their fountain, trying to prove them wrong and that I’m human. But instead, I grow a Shubunkin’s tail.
It’s quite a fantasy. And as I drift awake, I wonder how my subconscious personalities came up with that as their excuse, out of the blue. Not the kind of thing other people would construct in the current social climate in reality. Such as vampire, succubus, even the truth as hit-man, or just closet lesbian - hopefully with a leather fetish. Maybe it just proves that underneath all of the adult découpage of limited experience and personality disorders stuck to me with dubious permanency, I am still the shallow childhood reflection of a mutable-identity Barbie doll, who believes in fairies and stuff.
But it is the most undisturbed and thorough sleep I’ve had for a long time, and I wake up feeling ready for the day, instead of ready to stay in bed another nine hours.
“You got a call from D.J. Crank, and a voice message,” Connor tells me, putting a cup of tea down in the clutter on my tiny bedside drawer surface. “Says can you meet him outside Lighthouse Mall at two. I texted back to say OK. How are you feeling?”
I look at my bedside clock, which reads 11:47 a.m.
“Good,” I reply, stretching, and frown as my memory of last night returns in random pieces. “Oh, God - I have to drive to Phantasia tonight. It’s going to be dancers on stilts throwing glitter, and girls dangling from the ceiling on bits of ribbon like Cirque du Weirdo.”
“Sounds like fun,” Connor smirks, and sits on the end of the bed with his own cup of coffee, leaning on the sliding wardrobe door that my divan is wedged up against. “I’m not going to fall into this cupboard if I put any weight on it, am I?”
“You could try,” I suggest. “Your fall would be broken by shoeboxes on the other side.”
“Probably end up puncturing a lung on some kinky stiletto,” he jokes, and shifts his position tentatively. “I’ll have a chat with head office about your living arrangements. I have a feeling a couple of interesting options just cleared on their requisition books.”
“I don’t mind looking,” I say at last, relenting. “But definitely no gay bachelor pads in the East end of town, and no houseboats on the Marina. Nothing says Hollywood hit-man more than a poncey penthouse flat in the red-light district, or a flashy eccentric refurbishment.”
“Easy,” Connor grins. “Don’t worry, I’m way ahead of you. Do you think my gatehouse is gay or eccentric, then?”
“Hard to say, considering it’s not yours,” I point out. “Ac
tually no, I think it suits you.”
“In what way?”
“It’s unexpected,” I reply, and he nods, apparently quite comfortable with that as his summary.
“I like my personal space,” he says. “With a privacy radius of at least twenty miles related to my day job, a bit like you. But you could use more space indoors for you and your daughter. You couldn’t swing a cat in here.”
“That’s why he lives outdoors,” I agree. “Still good as Pest Control though. The only pests I get are green parakeets on my elderberry tree every autumn.”
“You’d be surprised, there’s a lot more to wildlife than you see,” he remarks. “If it wasn’t for the food chain there’d be rats and bunnies and foxes everywhere.”
“What’s above foxes?” I ask. “Apart from bored rich people breaking the law, driving four-wheel-drive like maniacs along country lanes, with their half-starved beagles on steroids?”
“Never mind,” Connor grins. I wonder again if he’s hiding a werewolf psychosis. One day it’ll all come out, I think. Toothy bloodthirsty imaginary beasts and their underground-music-fan generation, with their fetish club parties and money-spinning moonlight hunts. Even Martha, whose ancestors wielded hereditary sickles and told people when to sow and when to harvest, scoffs at the fashion victims of fiction.
Connor leaves for work, after first checking what I pretty much expected him to – am I taking my tablets, am I going to keep my phone on me, and quite honestly, that I’m not wearing anything revealing on my trip into town to meet up with Crank. I show him my daily jeans-and-t-shirt collection, and how it outnumbers anything in my wardrobe remotely low-cut or mini-skirted. Once he’s gone to catch his lift back into town with a uniform patrol, I get under the shower and watch my feet closely for any signs of a fish-tail appearance, and am quite satisfied. If only a little disappointed that I still seem to be virtually all human, despite the alternative concepts of the brain.
Oh well, I think, reminded of a quote from Buckminster Fuller, geodesic dome engineering architect, who I read about for one of Junior’s schoolwork projects: There’s nothing in a caterpillar that says it will become a butterfly, or words to that effect. I’ll surprise myself yet. Wake up one day able to disappear into the foreground, like a chameleon. That would be cool.
I find myself deliberately vague on any recall of what happened when we got back to my house last night. There were probably cups of tea and a bit of conversation, and I remember asking Connor how his day went at Forensics, and he didn’t seem to think it was anything important. Just that I got the impression he felt justified in having been concerned about my sleeping before now, and he mentioned he wished he had some sleeping pills on him to knock me out with. Nice approach, if that was any other guy on a date, early in the relationship.
But he wasn’t in a teasing mood for once, and after that, I just remember going to bed to sleep. My brain doesn’t seem to want to analyse anything related to it, and the focus of my attention slides off the memory and onto more immediate distractions, like the toothpaste and shower gel running out, and I should write a shopping list before I go into town. Maybe that’s what getting adequate sleep does for you. Means you can step off the obsessive Wurlitzer of analysis, and just buy toothpaste.
As I drive into town, I recall the mermaid dream was probably linked to Ryan and Olivia’s engagement party pub-crawl, where I ended up sporting the Little Mermaid outfit in public. Could be that the part of my psychosis which used to believe people only went out dressed as themselves for the night on Halloween once a year, managed to convince the dreaming part of me that everyone else drew their conclusions about me in the same delusional way.
“We’re giving you a bit of a different job today,” head office greet me when I answer, just as I was wondering for the first time since yesterday why there’s no music in the car, and what Yuri has disconnected and hooked up instead. “Thought we’d get you to hang around the hospital for your own convenience.”
“Oh, cheers,” I say, finding the front stereo panel not quite locked and clicking it into place, initiating the CD player. Yuri’s probably not so keen on a Ministry backing track while he’s working. When I open the glove-box, White Zombie and Paradise Lost have gone, so I’m guessing they were his. “Is it Adam Grayson’s day off or something?”
“Not like that,” they reply, as I notice the stereo now has a second USB port - one for music and one for remote control, I think. Hope they’re interchangeable like on a laptop. I try to imagine what’s on Yuri’s MyTunes memory stick. The Moscow opera or something like that, if he was a Hollywood Russian stereotype Cold War hit-man. And Paradise Lost. Hmmm. Not so stereotyped. “You can pop in and say hello to Terry Dyer - his son’s visiting as well, should be a nice little reunion. Make sure Ian’s happy, let us know of any work concerns if you pick them up from him - and you’re also doing a bit of Social Work for us. Dingo Boy is going home today. You’re his security escort back to Mr. Harte’s house.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Just report to the Maternity unit when you get there, and you’ll meet up with W.P.C. Drury. You two can then conference your conclusions about Scarecrow Dorothy from yesterday and give us your feedback. She’s still doing the round of the coffee shops like Rowling, working on her Opus Dei, by the look of things.”
“Magnum Opus,” I correct them, laughing. “Her great work. Not work of God.”
“Same thing, according to her,” they remark. “By the way, suggest to D.J. Crank that he asks about a winner’s Security Screening upgrade for any marketing publicity - official product placement and shots for the sponsors, venues and organisers only. Means they’ll make sure his private party times stay private, if you know what I mean. Otherwise he’s giving them twenty-four-hour access. If they’re allowed, they’ll just exploit his every move, good or bad, to get publicity for their poker and casino venue websites. But if he specifies a certain level of privacy they’ll respect it for the same reasons - more winning high-rollers who like their privacy will come their way for business.”
“Supposing he likes a bit of twenty-four-hour drama?” I ask.
“We reckon there’s enough in his past he’d like to keep out of the tabloids,” they chuckle. “It’s not just the footballers who play away - sometimes the WAGs do as well.”
After they hang up, I wonder how D.C. Alby Flynn’s WAG is doing with her current away games, and whether she’s managed to bluff her way back into his good books yet.
D.J. Crank’s real name is Colin Willard. Colin Dennis Willard, to be exact, on his passport, as he gives his details in the booking office at the travel agents. He confides in me that his friends and family all call him ‘Wilf’ for short.
“I’ve heard of MILF, on a Britney t-shirt,” I tell him. “I dread to think what they make out of WILF.”
“I used to have big sideburns, like Wolverine,” he says wryly. “So it used to be Wolfman I’d Like To… etc. Nowadays the best I get is Wanker.”
“They’re just jealous,” I grin at him.
The travel agent, a sturdy Oriental girl I can’t guess the background of by the name Susie Smart on her name badge, double-checks both of our I.D.s and passports as she enters the details.
“We have two seats in First Class for Sunday,” she confirms, after taking Crank’s preferred travel dates. “And I can book your V.I.P. hotel transfers from the airport in Las Vegas… the hotel has a suite in reserve for you. I have a copy here of the email from them confirming your request for this week’s availability. They would like to have a photographer join you for publicity purposes, there is a check-box on the form for your consent to have your image used in marketing material required - full copyright release and V.I.P. access permission including radio interview and newspapers, or limited to documenting your stay in Las Vegas in online and print format through local nightlife magazine coverage, or limited to official shareholder product placement photography in publication of this month’s online tourn
ament winner results?”
She turns the screen for Crank to read the small print better.
“I’ve looked at previous winners on the net, and I think the option with the most privacy is fine,” says Crank, without needing my advice. “Ten or so years ago I was more of a party animal, now I’m quite happy just wearing the t-shirt for a promo shot. Besides, wouldn’t do anything to embarrass my lady friend here. Specially seeing as she’s going to be looking after my money.”
Susie the travel agent smiles, and checks the third option, giving me an approving nod.
“We can arrange your transfer to the airport here as well, unless you already have arrangements?” she says.
“I’ve got that covered,” Crank tells her. “Less fuss before we get there, the better.”
I stop off at Cobbler’s Shoes on the way back to my car, which I’ve left in Elaine’s spare space outside Crypto, abusing my old staff permit. I find the red Mary Jane stiletto platforms are already in the final reductions, another 70% off since yesterday. So I buy the last pair in my size for a fraction less than it would cost me to park in Lighthouse Mall multi-storey for three hours. They’ll make good Vegas foot fodder for the mileage, at that price.
As I sling the Cobbler’s retail bag into the storage space under the rear seats, I notice that I’m slightly aware by the added weight, of the new Zombie shoes matching Connor’s t-shirt that I liked and have bought as well. But my mind is otherwise blanking their existence as I lock the seat down again, hiding them from view.
Feels a bit too stalkery, buying incidentally co-ordinated accessories. I have to remind myself repeatedly that I’d have bought them soon as I saw them yesterday, if we hadn’t already met. But it feels wrong, as if I’m doing some sort of telepathic control thing, a psychic persuasion of the type delusional erotomaniacs do when they’re not in a relationship. Accessorizing themselves to match their fantasy before the object of their desire even knows they exist.
Miss Haversham went through an American phase, when a retired U.S. Air Force officer bought a house in the village. Suddenly she knew the best way to make Sweet Potato Pie, bought Hollywood toothpaste instead of her original Pearl Drops, and had acquired a slight Southern drawl, copied directly from Vivienne Leigh in Gone With The Wind, over her clipped Raffia Mafia village English. She then tried to persuade the W.I. that they should do a re-make of ‘The Bayeux Tapestry’ commemorating the American contribution to the War efforts, inviting said officer to give them his insights. She went off him as soon he took a shine to her friend Beryl the tea-lady, over their common love of Miniature Poodles. As the tapestry was made, Miss Haversham withdrew from the main production and only did the borders, with the less artistic women who liked to discuss local gossip and celebrities. Which is when she developed a thing for inventing gossip based on the storylines of her Mills & Boon collection.
Death & the City Book Two Page 28