Before I Wake

by C. L. Taylor

  I returned home yesterday and found a message on my answering machine from the bed people, saying that due to a problem with supply, they wouldn’t be able to deliver my new bed until after the new year! James and I had already chucked my bed and mattress out before Christmas so, when he came around with my presents on the 28th, we ended up sleeping on blankets on the floor.

  The next morning, I got up to make us coffee and a fried breakfast and James puttered about, flicking through my magazines and picking through my vinyl. He honed in on my sewing machine table. It’s an antique, 100 percent oak and beautifully made. He ran a finger over the polished wood.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “My parents gave it to me for my 21st.”

  “Lovely.”

  He carried on along the wall, running his hand over the few pieces of furniture I’ve got.

  “And this?” He stopped at my writing desk.

  “I picked it up in a flea market. It was only £30.”

  “Nice.”

  I froze as his fingers strummed on the wood. If he opened it, he’d find—

  “What’s this?” He held the gray rabbit soft toy by one ear, dangling it from his fingers. “You’ve never struck me as the cuddly toy sort.”

  “It’s…it was…a…a present from Hels.”

  “A female friend bought you a soft toy?” My cheeks grew hot as he scrutinized my face. “That’s a little unusual. Are you sure it’s not from an old boyfriend?”

  “Of course not,” I said lightly. “Hels, um, bought it for me as a joke. She used to call me Bunny when we worked together because, um, because I wouldn’t sit still. I was always bouncing excitedly all over the room.”

  “Bunny?” He raised an eyebrow. “You?”

  “Yes.” The name and the description were true, but Hels wasn’t the one who’d given me the nickname or the toy. It was Nathan. I’d grown attached to that little rabbit while we were together and held onto it, as well as a couple of other things he’d given me, after we split up.

  “Why are you sweating, Suzy-Sue?” James took a step toward me, the rabbit outstretched. “You’re not lying to me, are you?”

  “No, of course not.” I ran the back of my hand over my damp brow. “It’s these eggs.” I jabbed at the burnt offering in the frying pan. “They’re spitting like mad.”

  My voice had taken on a strange singsong character that sounded foreign to my ears. I bent down, ostensibly to check the bacon but actually to avoid James’s eyes, then squealed as he wrapped a hand around my waist and pulled me into him, pressing my buttocks into his crotch.

  “You scared me.” I set the grill pan on the side and, still with his arms wrapped around me, spooned the bacon and eggs onto two plates.

  “And you scare me,” James whispered in my ear. “Because sometimes I wonder how in love with me you really are.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Blood pounded in my ears. “You know how much I love you.”

  “Really? Because I’d be very hurt if I found out that you were lying to me, Suzy. If you were secretly keeping love tokens from past boyfriends when you know how much that sort of thing hurts me.”

  I reached into the cupboard for the ketchup. “The bunny is from Hels. I told you.”

  “And she’d verify that if I called her up, would she?”

  “Of course she would. Ring her now if you like.” I inclined my head toward the phone on the other side of the room, desperately hoping he wouldn’t see through my bluff.

  He laughed loudly. “As if I’d talk to that boring cow about a teddy!” He turned me to face him, pressed the soft toy against my cheek. “You don’t have feelings toward this stupid thing, do you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good,” he said then launched the toy into the air. It flew in an arc across the room, sailed out of the open window, and landed in the road outside.

  He kissed me on the lips. “Is breakfast ready? I could eat a horse.”

  Two hours later, after he’d gone, I went through everything I owned and threw away everything that reminded me of or that I’d ever been given by an ex-boyfriend—photos, letters, postcards, jewelry, books, and vinyl. I even sold the vintage Chanel handbag that Nathan bought me for Christmas one year.

  Then I’d never have to lie to James again.

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  My hotel room is sandwiched between a stag party and a school trip, but the noise doesn’t bother me. It’s almost reassuring, hearing the low ho-ho-ho of male laughter and the hysterical squeal of thirteen-year-olds at play against a soundtrack of blaring televisions and the low bass rumble of dance music.

  I move my finger over the track pad of Brian’s laptop and click the Start button, then Programs, and then pause. The only program I recognize is Microsoft Office. What’s a FileZilla? A Photoshop? A Skype? I reach for my handbag.

  Oliver answers on the second ring. “Sue? Everything okay with Charlotte?”

  “She’s fine. I was just wondering if you could give me some technical help.”

  “Of course.”

  “What software would Charlotte use to chat to her friends on the Internet?”

  “I don’t know,” he says after a minute or so. “Me and my friends use Facebook chat or MSN Messenger. Maybe Skype. God knows about Charlotte. Why do you need to know?”

  I double click a folder that says Documents, but it’s just Brian’s work stuff. “Someone told me she had a conversation with a friend using software on Dad’s laptop and I’ve got a hunch it might be important.”

  “Hmm.” I can almost hear Oli thinking. “Chances are you’re not going to find anything, not unless you know the application she was using. And even then you’d need to know her username and password. She was using Dad’s laptop, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I could be wrong but I’m pretty certain he uses MSN Messenger to have online chats with his constituents once a week and he logs the conversations so he can’t be sued for giving improper advice or making false promises or whatever. If Charlotte didn’t change the settings and that’s what she used, then her conversation should be logged too.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Do you want me to talk you through how to find the Messenger logs? Actually,” he pauses, “shouldn’t you be asking Dad this?”

  “I…” I’m not sure how best to handle this. I don’t want Oli to know that his dad has moved out. He might be nineteen, but the news would still upset him and he’s slap bang in the middle of some of the most important exams of his career. “I haven’t been able to get through to him today. Some tedious select committee meeting that goes on all day, I think, and it’s really urgent that I access these messages. If there are any.”

  “Okay, no worries.” He seems reassured by my explanation. “Right, this is what you need to do…”

  I concentrate hard as he tells me, step by step, where to click and what to open until, finally, we’re there, in a folder called “My Chat Logs.”

  “There are loads,” I say as I scroll through the filenames. “Hundreds of the things. How am I supposed to know which one is Charlotte?”

  “You’re not. And if she noticed that Dad had the ‘save conversation’ box checked and unchecked it, there won’t be any record of her conversation.”

  “Oh god.” I keep my finger on the mouse and watch in horror as filename after filename flicks by. It’s going to take me a while to go through them all.

  “Need any more help?”

  “No, no. I’m fine. Thanks so much, Oli.”

  We say our good-byes and I open the first message log. It’s a conversation between Brian and a parishioner about school catchment areas. I close it and open the second message. This time someone wants to draw his attention to “the immigration problem.” Third message—a moan about
benefits. Fourth message—a request for help renovating a local children’s park. Fifth message—abuse, calling Brian “an ineffective pretend politician from a party more concerned with planting trees than economic success.” And there are more messages. More and more and more. They never end. It’s fascinating and frustrating at the same time. I never quite realized how many small-minded, selfish people Brian has to deal with on a daily basis. I open half a dozen more messages and still there are hundreds more. Where’s Charlotte’s conversation? I begin clicking randomly, on this conversation and that, hoping to hit the jackpot. Instead I read about allotment battles, property wars, care home scandals, and the death of the high street. Everyone is unhappy about something, it seems, and Brian is the… I stop clicking to reread the line that’s just flashed up on the screen.

  Charliethecat15: Soz, lappy crashed. Back now.

  Charliethecat15. Could that be Charlotte? I read the entire message, my heart beating frantically in my chest.

  Charliethecat15: Soz, lappy crashed. Back now.

  Ellsbells: Like I give a shit.

  Charliethecat15: Don’t be like that, Els.

  Ellsbells: I don’t know why you’re even bothering to contact me. Our friendship is OVER.

  Charliethecat15: Fine, but we need to get our stories straight.

  Ellsbells: Why don’t you get your story straight with Keisha seeing as you and her are SO CLOSE.

  Charliethecat15: This isn’t about Keisha and you know it.

  Ellsbells: Isn’t it?

  Charliethecat15: No. Look Ella, I know I pissed you off and that’s fine, we don’t ever have to talk to each other again but if we don’t cover for each other and Mr. E finds out he’ll kill us.

  Ellsbells: Fuck Mr. E, he’s a prick.

  Charliethecat15: I know, right.

  Charliethecat15: You still there, Ella?

  Charliethecat15: Ella?

  Ellsbells: What?

  Charliethecat15: Will you still cover for me? I will for you.

  Ellsbells: Fine. Just don’t ever contact me again.

  Charliethecat15: Fine. I won’t. Just wanted to clear that up.

  Ellsbells: Whatever.

  I read it again. And a third time. And I still have no idea what they’re talking about. Why do they need to cover for each other, and who is Mr. E? I glance at my watch. 2:45 p.m. I’m going to have to hurry if I want to catch Ella before school kicks out for the day.

  I glance at Milly, who looks at me hopefully.

  “Okay.” I grab her lead. “You can come too.”

  Chapter

  Sixteen

  It feels strange, standing outside the school gates. I haven’t picked Charlotte up from school since she was twelve, and when I see Ella strolling out of the main doors, her books clasped to her chest, her blazer thrown over one arm, I half expect to see my daughter walking alongside her, knocking elbows and laughing at each other’s jokes.

  “Ella?” I reach out a hand and touch her elbow as she draws close. “Could I have a word?”

  She glances around to check the reaction of her classmates, but they don’t seem to have noticed me as they stream out of the gates, laughing, chatting, and pulling faces at each other. Or if they have, they don’t care.

  “Ella, please, it’s important.”

  “Okay, okay.” She waves a hand to signal that we should move away from the gates, glances over her shoulder—to check for what I’m not sure—and then looks back at me. “What about?”

  “About you and Charlotte covering for each other?”

  Her defiant expression fades ever so slightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  I could pretend that I know everything, but if she realizes I’m lying, that I’m clutching at straws, there’s no need for her to continue talking to me. “I read the conversation the two of you had on MSN Messenger. It was saved onto one of our home computers.”

  Ella’s eyes grow large as she searches my face. She’s trying to work out if she’s in trouble or not. I need to go carefully.

  “Who’s Mr. E, Ella?”

  She glances away, toward the school, then back at me.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Jackson.”

  “Mr. E. In the conversation you and Charlotte had on Messenger, Charlotte said that if Mr. E found out what you’d done, he’d kill you both.”

  She shrugs. “I think you’ve mixed me up with someone else.”

  “Ellsbells,” I say. “That was the username of the person Charlotte was talking to. I know it was you.”

  She shrugs again, purses her lips into a half smile, half pout, and turns to go. She knows there was nothing in that conversation to incriminate her and I can’t do a thing to persuade her otherwise. How can she be so callous when her best friend is in a coma she might never wake up from?

  “Ella, please.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t care what you and Charlotte did or why you had to get your stories straight. I won’t be angry and I won’t tell your mum. Just please tell me who Mr. E is.”

  “I told you.” She shakes my hand from her shoulder. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

  She turns to walk away but I grab her again. “Is he someone’s dad, this Mr. E? Or a teacher? Is he one of your—” The expression on Ella’s face changes from anger to something else. “He’s a teacher, isn’t he?” I can’t keep the jubilation out of my voice. “What’s his name, Ella?”

  “Get your fucking hands off me!”

  Now the other kids are staring at us. The stream of bodies passing by has stopped, and I’m surrounded on all sides by staring, surprised faces. Conversations fade and laughter turns to embarrassed giggles. “Who is she?” I hear someone ask, then, “Oh my god, it’s Charlotte Jackson’s mum.” “Shit, yeah! Total nut job. Apparently she wouldn’t let Charlotte have a bath or shower for a month because she thought someone had put acid in the water!”

  Ella notices the commotion around us too. The base of her throat blushes red, but she flicks back her hair defiantly. I know I should remove my hand from her shoulder, but I’m terrified that if I let her go, I’ll never see her again.

  I keep my voice soft. “Ella, there’s no need to cause a scene. Just tell me Mr. E’s full name and I promise I’ll never bother you again.”

  The girl smiles, and for a second, I think that this awful, awkward moment is about to end, but then the smile disappears and is replaced by an ugly, curled lip.

  “Help!” She tosses back her head and screams, “Someone help! Help! Help!”

  I let go of her but it’s too late. I’m shoved to one side as someone bowls through the crowd and stands between us.

  “Mrs. Jackson?” There’s an astonished expression on the face of the woman standing in front of me. It’s Clara Cooper, Charlotte’s English teacher.

  “She hurt me. I thought she was going to pull my arm off.”

  Miss Cooper turns to look at Ella. A group of girls have appeared around her, forming a protective arc of patting hands, murmured reassurances, and raised eyebrows.

  “Mrs. Jackson hurt you?”

  “Yes, Miss. I was just going for the school bus when she grabbed me and wouldn’t let me go.”

  “Yeah,” says one of the girls behind her. “Yeah, she did.”

  “I thought she was going to hit me.” Ella’s face is the epitome of wide-eyed innocence. “I was really scared.”

  Miss Cooper turns back to me and raises her eyebrows.

  I feel hot, faint, and terribly dry-mouthed. I can’t believe this is really happening. I just want to go home. I want to crawl into bed, go to sleep, and wake up to find that all of this—Charlotte’s accident, James’s presents, the argument with Brian, and this—were all just a dream. “I tapped her on the shoulder,” I say. �
�That’s all. I just wanted to talk to her.”

  Miss Cooper gives me a searching look then turns back to the crowd. “You lot, go home. Show’s over. Ella, go and stand by the gates. I’ll have a word with you in a second.”

  Ella pulls a face. “But Miss—”

  “Go.”

  She pouts, puts her palms out as though she’s about to object, then seems to think the better of it and makes her way through the crowd. They disperse slowly, grumbling with disappointment that the spectacle is over.

  Miss Cooper waits until there are no children within earshot and then looks at me. The frown has left her forehead now that we no longer have an audience. “How are you, Mrs. Jackson?”

  The word “fine” is on the tip of my tongue, but there’s something about the softness of her tone and the gentle concern in her eyes that makes me say “tired” instead.

  “I’m not surprised.” She touches me lightly on the arm and then her hand falls away. “How is Charlotte? She’s very much missed.”

  “There’s no change,” I say, “but thank you for asking.”

  Miss Cooper smiles sadly then glances over her shoulder. Ella is leaning against the gate. She has one foot on the ground, the other kicking the metal fencing beside the entrance.

  Clang-clang-clang.

  “Ella!”

  She stops the second the teacher says her name and shoots a sulky look in my direction. Clara looks back at me.

  “What’s going on there? With Ella?”

  I explain about the MSN Messenger conversation and tell her I’m concerned that this “Mr. E” might be some kind of threat to the girls.

  “And you think he might be a parent or teacher?”

  I explain about Ella’s reaction when I suggested that Mr. E might be a teacher and Miss Cooper looks thoughtful.