Someone Else's Dream

by Colin Griffiths

  There was no longer the fear she felt when she saw her ex-husband in the garden with the flowers, the thought of wanting to call the police. Now, it was the fear she may lose the man she was going to marry. The tears were all cried out and the man she once loved, she feared no more. All she could think of was to get even and now Dale had given her the time to do just that.

  She thought about the first time Matt had struck her. They were just about to visit Aimee at the hospital. It was during the early diagnosis of Aimee’s illness and there were some positive vibes coming from the consultant that her illness could be beaten. At the time, Hayleigh wanted to be positive and not think about the possibility she may not pull through. She wanted Matt to think the same and share her hope, but he had slipped into depression and had grown angry. He was showing a temper that she had never seen before and had taken to drinking quite heavily.

  He was in a really foul mood that morning when they were preparing to visit their daughter. Hayleigh had commented he needed to pull himself together; she didn’t want Aimee seeing her father like that. The resulting smack in the face caused her to fall to the floor, her lip cut and bleeding.

  The next time he’d hit her was about a week later, which was when she’d walked out. They’d watched her daughter deteriorate separately. As much as she loved him, Hayleigh found it impossible to forgive him. She understood he was ill with grief at the time, but she needed him then and he wasn’t there. She thought she had forgiven him, and for a brief moment when they’d made love again, she even thought she still loved him. Now she realised she hated him, not just for trying to stop her forthcoming marriage, but she realised now he had destroyed the last months of her daughter’s life, and hers along with it.

  She showered and got dressed. Although it was still early afternoon, she fancied a stroll to the Bluebell pub. She hadn’t been there for a while, not since she had split with Matt. She’d heard the barmaid, the one who was screwing her ex-husband was back at work today. It would be nice to catch up.

  * * *

  Marcia healed quickly, her swollen lip had gone right down with the cut barely visible. The bruises were easily hidden by the make-up she applied. Matt had been a true gentleman and for the next two days popped in from time to time to make sure she ate properly. Nothing seemed too much trouble for him. He encouraged her to go back to work, telling her the best way to come to terms with what happened was to step right back into the life she’d previously led.

  “Don’t let this ruin your life,” he had told her. She thought at the time it was a bit of a strange thing to say. She certainly wasn’t going to let it ruin her life though it did scare her someone would want to do that to her. Her only conclusion was what Matt had told her.

  “It was probably a case of mistaken identity,” he’d told her, “Who could possibly want to hurt you, Marcia?” She wanted to believe that, but there was something niggling at her. Something was telling her it was far more than a case of mistaken identity. The police had appeared to have lost interest, so Marcia thought the best thing she could do was to get on with the rest of her life and hope somehow the memories would eventually fade; though she did think that may take longer than her injuries. One thing she had decided to do was there would be no more short-cuts home. She didn’t think she could ever walk down that alley again.

  It was agreed she would run the bar in the afternoons until she felt confident enough to work nights. Even when she went back to night work, the landlady promised to ensure she was either driven or somebody would walk her home. That made her feel heaps better and it made her feel humble that her employers cared so much about her.

  It was only four days after the attack that she returned to work at eleven am. Tears had come to her eyes on her return. There were five bunches of flowers and twenty-three get-well cards waiting for her from her regulars. It was the first time in a long time that she had felt truly valued and that people cared about her way more than she’d realised.

  There was an old man sat in the corner of the bar drinking a half of bitter, his eyes focussed on the TV which was showing the news channel. There were two young lads playing pool and that was the total sum of customers she had to tend to. The old man had bought his drink over an hour ago and it still remained half full. The two lads had bought pints of lager. Marcia had collected the empty glasses and they had made no attempt to buy more. She wondered why the pub bothered to open in the afternoons if it remained this quiet. She looked at the clock on the wall and realised it was only coming up to twelve-thirty. It felt like she’d been there for hours already. She guessed the lunchtime drinkers would not be in just yet. She was looking through her cards once more when her fourth customer strolled through the doors.

  She recognised Hayleigh straight away. She used to be a regular with her ex-husband before tragedy struck the family and they split. As soon as Marcia saw Hayleigh she became immediately riddled with guilt, not for the recent antics she had got up to with Matt, as they were both single and entitled. Her guilt went back three years when she’d first slept with the woman’s husband, now walking towards her.

  Marcia stood at the bar looking at the raven-haired beauty stood before her, dressed in tight jeans and a blouse that showed off all her curves and assets. Such simple clothing, but such a strong statement. They exchanged smiles before they spoke.

  “White wine and soda please,” asked Hayleigh.

  Marcia, whose job it was not to judge, successfully hid the surprise from her expression. It wasn’t her business if a pregnant woman wanted to drink alcohol. Her job was just to serve it. She poured her drink, thanked her and took the money. Hayleigh sat on a stool at the bar. It felt like an invitation to start a conversation, so Marcia did just that.

  “Haven’t seen you in here for ages,” Marcia commented.

  Hayleigh smiled and took a swig of her wine. She set the wine glass down, her hand still holding the stem. With her finger and thumb, she caressed the stem. “Haven’t been in here since me and Matt split up. It’s been a few years; surprised not to see him in here!”

  Her words took Marcia by surprise. It felt like she had come in looking for Matt. Her curiosity was well and truly aroused. “Don’t think he comes in much in the afternoons. If I see him shall I tell him you were looking for him?”

  Hayleigh didn’t flinch, she still twirled the glass. Marcia instantly recognised this was a game Hayleigh was playing, but her next words took her by surprise. “I’m actually not looking for him, it’s you I have come to see,” Hayleigh could see the shock written on Marcia’s face. “Don’t worry, I come in peace,” she smiled, taking her hands off the glass and raising them momentarily.

  “What can I do for you?” Marcia proffered, becoming more curious than she was letting on.

  “It’s more of what can I do for you?” said Hayleigh.

  Marcia raised her eyebrows.

  “I hear you’ve been seeing Matt?” she asked,

  “We’re not a couple or anything, but yeah we’ve been out a couple of times.” It dawned on Marcia then that in fact they had never been out. They had just had sex. Hayleigh knew what she meant and that Matt was just fucking her. She felt sorry for Marcia.

  “Did he do that?” Hayleigh enquired, pointing to Marcia’s face.

  Marcia immediately put her hand to her face as if to hide it. “Of course not,” she retorted angrily.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, I’m bloody sure, what are you trying to get at Hayleigh? You’ve been divorced for years, what is your problem?”

  Hayleigh sniggered at that, she wasn’t the one who had the problem. She hadn’t realised quite how naive this girl really was.

  “Well he hit me a few times, that’s why I left him.”

  The words pierced Marcia and she involuntarily shivered. “Matt has been wonderful since it happened, I don’t know how I would have coped without him.”

  Hayleigh emptied her glass and placed it on the bar, putting her hand on it,
indicating she didn’t want a refill. “That’s what he does,” Hayleigh retorted as she got off her stool and started to leave.

  “What do you mean?” asked Marcia.

  Hayleigh turned back around and took the few steps to the bar. “Just asked him who he was screwing only last week, and don’t worry, my husband knows.” Hayleigh paused, looking at the expression on Marcia’s face, “Matt made sure he found out.” Hayleigh turned around and left, leaving Marcia speechless. When Hayleigh got outside she realised she was actually sweating. She guessed Marcia was bound to tell him of their conversation and she was interested to see how Matt would react. Only this time, she hoped, she would be ready for him.

  The fact that Matt had slept with his wife when it appeared that he was also sleeping with her didn’t affect Marcia as much as Hayleigh had thought it would. They weren’t together and they weren’t a couple. In some ways, Marcia found it helpful in confirming that. But what was digging at her were the comments Hayleigh had made regarding hitting her and, more importantly, suggesting Matt may have attacked her.

  Later that afternoon she’d decided she wouldn’t tell Matt about the conversation. They were two single people and she sure didn’t want to get involved in some domestic war. He had been a good friend and a good lover. If some ex-wife wanted to be jealous of that, then that was her problem. The pub soon filled and it momentarily went to the back of her mind, but she knew for certain it would surface again.

  * * *

  Matt Connor woke up in a cold sweat and realised he was shaking as he awakened from the dream. He went to the bathroom and swilled his face with cold water. He guessed the shakes were the withdrawal symptoms from the tablets he had chosen to stop taking. As he looked in the mirror at his haggard and drained face, he thought about taking one; thankful he hadn’t put them in the bin, as he was originally going to. He took the bottle of anti-depressants in his hand and stared at them for a little while. They just cloud my judgement and fuck up my brain. Setting the bottle back down, without opening it, he thought; it will be over soon, I need to be the real me.

  It was the dream that worried him more than the shakes. He was chasing someone; it was a girl, and it was the author of ‘Charlotte’s Dream’. She was just in front of him, almost within grabbing distance, but it felt like they were both running on the spot and no matter how hard he tried to grab her, she was always just one grasp away.

  Then his dream had changed; he was on a beach. It wasn’t an exotic beach but he could clearly remember the rocks and the beach house that stood before him. There was a six-foot high retaining wall holding the raised garden. He could see the veranda and the outside decking from where he stood and in his dream he was shaking as he stared at the beach house; his right hand slightly raised to eye level. In that hand, he held a knife. The knife wasn’t just covered in blood, the knife itself was bleeding and the blood was running down his hand soaking his shirt. He recalled seeing his own expression in his dream; the look on his face was one of satisfied horror. Scared and fearful, but knowing whatever it was he had just done, had to be done, for the sake of his own sanity.

  He looked in the mirror, his face still sweating and he could still see the fear in his eyes. He remembered the last part of his dream, just before he had woken up, sweating and shaking. The knife he held was not a knife anymore, it was an umbrella. In his dream he opened the umbrella, still looking at the beach house. It wasn’t raining but still he could hear the drops splashing down onto the umbrella and the crimson liquid falling from the umbrella, reddening the sands he stood on.

  He showered vigorously as if washing the blood from his body. He stood for a while looking at the water swirling down the plughole. It was pure and clear, the only blood was in his dreams, but now it was set deep in his mind, where at one time it usually resurfaced. The shower freshened him up and before drying himself down, he stood and looked at himself naked in the mirror. He was relieved to see there was no fear etched on his face, no blood on his body and he was not holding any implements of death. He admired his own nakedness for a while before dressing and making his way down the stairs to greet the new day.

  He ate his cornflakes and banana, whilst loading up his laptop. Within minutes, his whole mood had changed as he found out that the author Carla Reid had accepted his friend request on Facebook and was also following him on Twitter. He looked at her pictures on Facebook. She really was beautiful. We are so going to get on when we eventually meet, he told himself. He had to make contact, reach out to her in some way. He guessed that, so would everybody else. Searching his pictures, he found one he felt showed him off at his best. No bare chest, just a handsome young man with his daughter. With the picture attached, he started to write a message.

  Hi, I’m Matt, I just thought I would reach out, hoping we could connect, I have just written my first novel and was hoping we could share experiences. I live in Doncaster, am a widower currently looking after my five-year-old daughter, Aimee...

  When he was satisfied he hit send.

  That would do, for now. He just had to sit and wait for her to respond, which he was sure she would.

  How could she not? He told himself. He popped out to the Garden Centre and informed them he would be unable to work for them anymore. This was greeted with some remorse, as he had been a good worker, popular, and helpful with the customers. He was told there would always be a position there for him. This cheered him up immensely though he could never see himself returning. He didn’t need the money; his savings and disability allowance was more than enough to see him through and besides the potential earnings of himself and Carla Reid, combined, was enormous. He could see them writing a collaboration in the not too distant future.

  Now, he had one more thing to do, one more thing to plan. He felt someone close to him had been having a bit of a rough time lately and maybe a break away for the weekend could be just what she needed. Okay, it wasn’t Paris; she wasn’t a Paris type of girl. The likes of Carla Reid were Paris girls. A weekend in the holiday resort of Porthcawl in South Wales would suit Marcia down to the ground. It would be right up her street.

  He went back home and booted up his laptop. There were still plenty of caravans available for the weekend. He booked a six-berth, luxury caravan, overlooking the sea at Trecco Bay, within a mile of a beach house where a certain author lived. It was now four-thirty, Marcia didn’t finish until five. Iit was time for a pint and to offer the treat to the girl behind the bar.

  Marcia saw him come in. She was half expecting him to come in earlier, as he always seemed to frequent the place when she was working. When she saw him, Hayleigh came to her mind, not so much that they had slept together, but the fact that she had told her about the times Matt had struck her. She didn’t want to believe it; he had been so kind to her since she had been attacked. He walked to the bar with a smile on his face. Marcia poured him a pint without the need for him to ask. He took a long sip as Marcia put the money in the till, emptying half the glass, before licking his lips and taking a much smaller sip.

  “Can you get away for the weekend?” Matt asked

  Marcia's face showed her surprise, but Lucinda, the landlady, heard the question, as she was behind the bar with Marcia, “Of course she can; it’s just what she needs,” Lucinda responded. She smiled at Marcia and went to serve another customer. Marcia smiled back, but she wasn’t sure whether she appreciated the comment or not. She stood there and stared at Matt, a look of confusion on her face.

  “It’s only a caravan in Porthcawl Marcia. It’s a six-berth, luxury, overlooking the sea and I could do with a break. Just wondered if you fancied it; everything paid for, won’t cost you a penny,” Matt added, enthusiastically.

  “That would be lovely,” she finally responded. Whilst the chance of a weekend away did appeal to her, she somehow thought she had no choice in the matter.

  Matt finished his drink. “Pick you up Friday morning and don’t worry about anything. I’ll sort it all,” before heading out
of the bar.

  Lucinda came over, “He’s really into you isn’t he?” she said and really, that’s what was bugging Marcia. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to be into her at all.

  * * *

  Dale Simpson was sitting in the bar of the Nags Head, in Carlshon, a rather unsavoury suburb of Barnsley. It was early evening and in a way, he was glad of that. There were already a couple of dozen punters in the pub, all huddled in groups of three or more. He had previously gone to wait outside with his pint of bitter, but, the smell of cannabis was so strong he thought he was going to pass out. Now he was sitting alone, thankful of the smoking ban though he somehow thought if someone did light up then nothing would have been said.

  He found himself scanning the bar looking for smokers. It wasn’t quite sawdust on the floor but as Dale looked around he could see the attraction of the place to your everyday pot-smoking, non-law-abiding, citizen. It looked just the right sort of place where you could go and get yourself a deal, or get a job done; after all, that’s why he was there. He was glad at that stage his chosen trade was to defend people and not prosecute though he was really hoping he wouldn’t bump into someone he had defended unsuccessfully.