Sleepwalkers

by Tom Grieves

I manage to nod. ‘Yeah, fine, thank you. Sorry. You, er, I thought you were someone I knew.’ I’m calming down. I’m not going to do it. I find myself walking away. I hear her door shut. Thank fuck.

  I sit on a quiet bus and stare at my reflection in the dark glass. I’ll be back at Edward’s in an hour or so and am now miles from her. My face is blurred and distorted in the dirty glass. I stare at my wonky reflection, watch it smudge and smear as it stares back at me. It seems to be grinning. I lean in close, whispering to it: Who am I? Who am I? The answer seems to be coughed up from the depths of the engine and the tree branches that scrape the top of the bus, a slow repetitive rhythm that croaks out an answer.

  Follow me and you’ll see. Follow me. You’ll see.

  *

  It’s late and quiet as I walk through the back streets to Edward’s house. You can hear the waves, but the air here is trapped between the buildings and everything smells foul, like it’s all slowly rotting away with the salt and the damp. I’m calmer now, and although I stop regularly and check to see if anyone is following me (they’re not), I do it as a precaution, not through fear. I’m a military man. I try to remind myself. Try to give myself the swagger of the squaddie but find I’m just walking like a man with constipation. I slip into the house. It’s quiet. I was expecting Perry Como. I double-lock the doors behind me, untie my laces and lay my shoes by the door. Then I go looking for Edward.

  He’s asleep in the main room, a near-empty glass on the table by the armchair. I think of leaving him be, but I’m still too twitchy from today. So I sit down, more heavily than I need to in the seat opposite and he wakes immediately. His eyes are glazed and I see he’s lost for a moment. Then his eyes focus on me and he smiles.

  ‘So how was your sleuthing?’

  ‘Interesting.’

  He yawns, nods and stretches, reaches for his whisky glass. He looks at me – want one?

  ‘Why not?’ I nod back, and he goes to the shelf and pours two more meaty helpings.

  ‘Are you holding back on me for dramatic effect?’ he asks. ‘Cos, really, you’ve not got much competition for an audience, sonny.’

  ‘I think I know where he lives.’

  ‘So he’s real.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. You’ll visit him, things will fall into place. Maybe he’ll put you up. Start of your new life.’

  ‘You trying to get rid of me?’

  ‘No, that was my attempt at petulance. It’s as good as I can manage.’ He passes me my drink and settles back in his seat. ‘I was having a funny dream. Something about …’ he tries to remember, his eyes narrowing, ‘something about the kids and a swimming pool and …’ he waves his hand the way he does – forget about it.

  It’s late, but he doesn’t ask the time. He doesn’t wear a watch. He’ll wake when he wakes. He runs his finger around the glass, frowns.

  ‘Something about Tabitha. She was little and grown up all at the same time.’ He lets out a little sigh. ‘Dreams. So your man.’

  ‘Yeah. He’s real. He’s …’ I dig out a piece of paper, hold it up. ‘He lives here, or he did. Probably still does.’

  ‘Soldier?’

  ‘Yeah. We served together.’

  ‘I like that word. You served, did you?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Didn’t feel much like serving to me.’

  ‘I can’t remember how it felt. No, that’s not true. I …’ I falter because there’s this big, imaginary glistening arm across my neck, pulling me backwards – strong, stinking of sweat. I look up at Edward, he’s watching me carefully. ‘I think I enjoyed it all a bit too much to call it service.’

  ‘Damn right,’ he smiles. ‘Best bloody years of my life. Did I just say that? Jesus Christ, I’m a bloody cliché!’ He coughs a rich laugh. ‘But they were. Except when we were being shot at. Or mortared.’ Another glug of booze. ‘Remember hearing that Thomas had been born while I was hiding behind a burntout car in Ulster. I couldn’t have been happier. We were running for our lives and laughing all the way.’

  ‘When my children were born,’ I say, ‘I remember being in the delivery room with Carrie, pacing about, useless, too big, repeating everything the midwife said until Carrie had to scream at me to shut up.’

  He laughs, but I’m quiet. The memory is too strong, too vital to be untrue. I want to get up and rush out of the door, go back to them all right this second.

  ‘Maybe you’re not a soldier after all.’

  ‘Maybe I’m not.’ My glass is refilled. The whisky swirls around the glass.

  ‘What are you like with a gun?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard.’ He gulps his down, pours more in mine. He’s watching me, chewing on a smile, a game up his sleeve.

  ‘I’ve never touched a gun,’ I say, but then there is, somewhere in my mind, a gun, a hand, my hand, my hand holding a handgun. Christ. ‘I’ve … okay … I think I …’

  I try to remember more, but the mist thickens again. It drives me mad.

  ‘If you’re a soldier, then you know your way around a gun.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Shall we find out?’ He pushes himself to his feet with a grunt and leaves the room. I don’t move, I drink more, refill my own glass. It must be ninety degrees in here. I’m groggy from it all, from the day I’ve had. But then he’s back, looming over me, waving an old-fashioned military pistol in the air.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Clean as a whistle. I know how to look after a weapon, young man.’

  ‘And I’m sure you know how to get a perfect crease in your trousers, but will you stop waving that bloody thing around, Jesus!’

  He laughs, and his hands and fingers are twitching again the way they do when he’s excited.

  ‘Shoot something.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  He waves the gun around and I’m wondering just how bloody drunk the old coot is. He points it at a porcelain vase on the mantelpiece with a faded pattern of blue and white flowers.

  ‘Pow,’ he whispers, one eye closed. For a second I thought he was going to shoot the thing then and there. But he just giggles.

  ‘It’s loaded?’

  ‘Course it’s bloody loaded.’ And to prove it, he spins on his toes – with remarkable nimbleness – and shoots the bloody vase to pieces. The noise from the gun is unbelievable. I’m on my feet before I know what’s happened, screaming. But Edward’s just laughing. He looks at me, sees my disbelief, and doubles over with delight. ‘Did you see that?’ he cackles, ‘Did you bloody well see that!?’

  ‘Yeah, great, put it down, on the mantelpiece, there, that’s it, put it down will you?’

  He does a shoe-shuffle dance, the gun held high in the air.

  ‘You’ll bring the bloody police round.’

  ‘No, no,’ he scoffs, but he will bring the police if he carries on like this. And I can feel irritation and fear bubbling up inside me. That rage again.

  ‘Edward. Stop this.’ Please stop, mate, please.

  ‘What? What’s the matter with you? I thought you said you were a soldier,’ he says, and walks over to fetch himself more whisky. He’s a stubborn git. No wonder his family left him. The booze inside me thickens and burns.

  ‘Edward. Put the gun down. I’m asking.’

  ‘Oh, you’re asking?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  And my tone finally gets through his thick skin. He stops. Looks at me. Sees the way I’m standing. And in that moment he’s suddenly a frail old man again. He puts the gun down gently. Nods. There. See? I nod.

  ‘Thank you.’

  We stand apart. He waits for my signal to let him speak in his own home.

  ‘Didn’t recognise you for a bit then,’ he says.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t see it before, but you’ve got a bit more to you. Bit of a tough nut.’

  ‘Yeah. Give it.’

  He nods, grabs the weapon and shuffles quickly over to me. I cou
ld hold it by the nozzle and smash the butt against his chin. I could smash his jawbone, shatter it and leave him to die in this room right now. I take it from him and see him look at me with wary eyes. I take the gun and my hands dismantle and then reassemble the machine. I do it with hard, fast, effective movements. Old memories, hidden within my body. I should be excited or amazed, but this has happened too many times now. And I can feel my old self, too close to the surface, pushing up with closed fists, pushing and tearing his way out.

  ‘You remember doing that before?’ he asks. I don’t reply. I try it again and I do it just the same. Well drilled. I look at him.

  ‘You keep ammo in the house?’

  He stammers a reply. ‘Yes, yes. Upstairs.’

  I point the gun past him – behind him, down the corridor. A blink, a shot and I smash the door handle at the far end. It’s a good shot. Not amazing, not incredible, but better than any amateur would manage. Neither of us speaks. I can feel the heat fading. My head falls, I hand back the gun to him. He takes it and walks out. He comes back some time later. I assume he’s hidden it.

  ‘You scared me.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You ever been like that before, while you’ve been in here?’

  ‘No. Not like that.’

  ‘How about outside?’

  I look up at him and he knows I am ashamed. He puts a tentative hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Ben. I’ve done things that I, that are, you know. We all have.’

  But I don’t remember doing anything bad, not until I got away from that van. I rack my brains as I think back on my time with Carrie and the kids and I only remember good times. No affairs, no drunken fumbles, no fights, no theft, nothing to be ashamed of. I’d assumed this was normal, dull, a safe man’s life. I’d imagined that all of this bad behaviour belonged to the newspapers and television, that it was another world’s fiction. But I am the fairytale. And I am the lie.

  *

  Emma is climbing. Her face is a picture as she grunts and scrambles up the ropes to reach the top of the ladder. Go on girl. Eventually she gets there, to the top of the mast of a purpose-built kids’ pirate ship in the middle of a children’s adventure playground. She turns, thrilled with herself and calls down.

  ‘Mummy! Mummy!’

  Carrie’s below, but she’s distracted, trying to see where Joe has got to. He comes whizzing down a slide, trying to look cool. Calmer, she looks up at her daughter and waves, cheers.

  ‘Look at you!’ she calls back. But when she looks down I see how tired she is. She rubs her hand over her face. If you didn’t know her you’d see a pretty, tidy woman in her forties enjoying a day out with her kids. But if you did, if you were her husband, you’d know that there’s no energy in the way she trails after them. You’d know that smile because she used to give it to you when you came home late and she was tired and worried about something. You’d know – I know, that she’s miserable.

  Joe has made friends with two other kids in matching football kits – they’re daring each other to go higher and faster. Carrie’s glad that he’s got people to keep him happy, but I want to warn him: they’re older than he is and he’ll hurt himself if he tries too hard to keep up.

  But I can only watch. I’m hidden away, lying on my stomach about five hundred yards away, clutching a pair of high-powered binoculars. I’m spying on the people I love but don’t trust.

  Emma slips and hurts herself as she tries to climb down. She’s got a leg stuck and she’s crying and panicking, and Carrie, too big to climb up herself, has to get as close as she can and talk her down, soothe her, be her mum.

  She needs her dad. But I’m lying in the dirt like a fucking thief. All I can do is stare as Emma finally makes it to the bottom and runs to her mum, who scoops her into her arms and covers her in kisses.

  I let the binoculars fall and the lenses hit the dirt. I don’t care, I can’t look again. I thought coming here would give me some answers. I thought maybe I’d see Carrie with another man or with different kids or something. Something. No, I’m lying. I came here because I couldn’t resist. It’s torture, but I have to see them. I thought it would be wonderful, I’ve missed them so badly. But this isn’t anything like that. It’s not sad or melancholy or poignant or whatever the words are. It hurts. It cuts, it stings. I hate it.

  My little girl. My proud boy. My beautiful love. I miss you all so much. And there you all are. Laughing, crying, kissing. There you are.

  TEN

  Anna knew that she was not allowed to ask when Toby would return to school. She knew she had to wait to be told and that the information was kept from her by Mr Benton as a punishment. Terry had stopped returning her calls, but he had a habit of vanishing when it suited him and she wasn’t worried. She continued to teach by day and mark homework by night, ignoring the imprints that the broken television had left on her carpet. The fear had subsided for now.

  One night, as she was writing an encouraging note in one of her pupil’s books, she was startled by the doorbell. She didn’t get many visitors, so she brushed imaginary crumbs from her skirt and went tentatively to the door. She peeked out through the spy-hole and recognised the ageing man who stared glumly at the corridor outside. Her heart sank.

  ‘Dad … Hi.’

  ‘Anna.’ He smiled. His voice was rich and deep – tuned by long nights in oak-panelled rooms with cigars and brandy. Neither moved. ‘Won’t you invite me in?’

  Anna looked at her father. He wore his age well, she thought. He was in his usual dark, well-tailored suit with the requisite shirt and tie. His greying hair was cut just as she always remembered it. His shoes were recently polished. He made her feel small. She gestured for him to enter without enthusiasm and he followed her inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. He removed his heavy coat, but then held it in his hands, unsure where to place it. His eyes took in the small apartment and Anna could see the disappointment in his expression. She resented it and folded her arms, standing between him and the sitting room, barring him entrance.

  ‘You can hang it on the back of the door.’ He hung his coat on top of her mac because there was only one hook. She waited for him to speak, to explain his visit. He never came, not any more.

  ‘I’d love a drink.’

  ‘I don’t have any whisky.’

  ‘Wine, then.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Water, if you can manage it.’

  ‘I’ll have to wash up a glass.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like you. You’re always so tidy.’ Somehow he’d managed to say ‘tidy’ as a barb and his face flickered with annoyance. He pulled at his sleeves and Anna noticed the expensive cufflinks.

  ‘Are you really going to make me stand here, by the door?’

  ‘What do you want, Daddy?’

  ‘Is it so odd that a father would want to see his daughter?’

  ‘Here I am.’

  ‘And you look lovely. Anna, please.’

  She sighed. ‘Come on, then. God.’ She turned and walked away from him. He followed her into the sitting room as she went through into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. She shook her head at him – don’t say a word – and his small laugh in return broke the ice. He took the bottle from her and poured two big glasses.

  ‘How’s school?’

  ‘Same as ever.’

  He looked down at her marking, picked up an essay, but she pulled it off him.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s private.’

  ‘It’s homework.’

  ‘They give it to me, not you.’

  He looked away, gazed about the room. Anna saw him stare at the empty corner where the television had been.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your television.’ They stared together at space.

  ‘Oh. Nothing. Just, I – I don’t need a telly. There’s nothing on these days. Nothing
any good.’

  ‘Well, that’s true.’ He looked at her and she realised she was blushing.

  ‘And it broke.’ She drank the wine to stop herself from talking.

  ‘Are televisions expensive?’

  ‘You’ve got one. You’ve got a whole room set up.’

  ‘Yes, I meant a normal one. Not as indulgent as mine.’

  ‘You mean, can a teacher afford a TV?’

  ‘That was the gist of it, yes.’

  ‘Can my job, which you hate, allow me basic creature comforts?’

  ‘I don’t hate teaching,’ he said. ‘How can anyone hate teaching?’

  ‘You think it’s beneath me.’

  ‘It is. You have a brain the size of a planet and you insist on throwing it away on charitable causes.’

  ‘You think—’

  ‘Can we not …? Can we not argue every time we see each other? We used to laugh all the time.’

  Somewhere deep in her mind, hidden under many layers, Anna remembered herself curled up on his lap, laughing. They both drank again.

  ‘Are you happy?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You seem …’ he trailed off, trying to find the right word. It came so much later that it almost felt detached from the previous sentence. ‘Alone.’

  ‘Well, I’m not.’ She said it quietly, without defiance. And as she said it, she wondered if it were true. She wondered about Toby and Terry and that hateful policeman who had scared her so. She considered telling her father about these things, but when she looked into those well-informed, well-educated, well-heeled eyes, something inside her snapped shut. ‘I am happy.’

  ‘Good. It’s all I want. You know they say a father is only as happy as his unhappiest child. So we’re index-linked. That’s meant to be a joke, but I don’t really get it either.’ His hands fiddled with the stem of the wine glass. ‘I suppose it’s a chemical thing, but I worry about you when I don’t see you. I’m willing to accept that our relationship has changed, I can accept that. But I can’t carry on with my stuffy life if you’re … if there’s anything that … I …’ He put out a hand onto the table. ‘You’re my little girl.’

  ‘I’m not little. Not any more.’

  ‘No.’ His hand stretched across the table and he ran a tentative finger over the back of her hand. Slowly, she pulled away from his reach. His hand remained on the table.