Sleepwalkers

by Tom Grieves

  I stop and check the address against a map. Sergeant James MacFarlane lives, if he still does, two roads down. I drive around first and get to know the place. I look for speed cameras, for dead ends, for roundabouts and traffic lights. I keep driving back and forth until I worry I’ll be noticed. I know the fastest way out now. Okay.

  I wait until it starts to get dark, then I park one street down and walk the rest. I gaze into people’s houses as I do so. The roads are identical – a square of semi-detached houses, some well-tended, some neglected. There are net curtains on the windows, but no one looks out. Televisions flicker inside.

  And this is his street, just like the others. And here is his house. A small, tidy, semi-detached home with a varnished wooden gate which I hop over without any noise. I slip down the side entrance and am soon at the back of the house. Out of sight, I take a moment to check out the garden: lights from the back of the house show up the neatly mown lines on the tiny lawn; a small shed with a padlocked door; crazy paving swept clean. I could leap over the back fence and get away fast if I needed to, no problem. I move from the safety of the corner to the back window and glance in. An empty kitchen. A mug on the draining board, upside down. A trickle of water at its base. Someone’s inside, or if not, they were only minutes before.

  And then I see him walk into the kitchen and I nearly jump out of my skin, backing away, nearly tripping over myself as I try to get back into the darkness. But he doesn’t look up and I’m able to stand there, only a few feet from him, watching him. And then, when he does raise his head, I realise that the light inside has turned the glass into a mirror – he’s looking straight into my eyes, but all he’s seeing is his own reflection.

  Jacko. It really is you. But he seems so much older. His hair is thinner and he moves like a pensioner. He scratches his head then rubs his eyes and just, I don’t know, sags. He stands in front of the sink, cleaning the same cup that he’d already cleaned before. I remember him always being tidy, a real stickler for it. I remember the way he’d position his polished boots at the end of the bed, the way he’d puff his pillow. I used to laugh at him for it. But this feels different. He looks crumpled. No – he looks shattered. Jacko, what the hell’s happened to you?

  He walks back out of sight and I stalk towards the back door. I check it – it’s open. I enter and close the door behind me and stand dead still. No noise. I glance back behind me, check the windows of the houses that overlook this one, but there’s no sign of anyone watching. I listen again. Nothing, then the faintest sound – a foot scraping on the floor, maybe. Then a choked cough. He’s sitting in the next room. All I have to do is walk out and say, ‘Hey, Jacko. Long time, buddy.’ I’ve practised it enough bloody times. Fix the smile, say the words. Go on, do it.

  Another cough. He’s doing something, fiddling with something. I close my eyes for a second, try to picture his face as he used to be, just to give myself the confidence to walk in there. I see the guy standing on the bonnet of a military truck, shirtless, his muscles pumped, the eagle tattoo on his shoulder shining with sweat. Laughing.

  I turn and walk into the living room. Jacko’s sitting in an armchair facing a television which is switched off. He’s holding a rifle. Its nozzle is in his mouth, his finger on the trigger. His eyes are red with tears. I stop and stare at him and my mouth flaps open but no words come out.

  He sees me and his eyes widen for a second. Then he pulls his mouth away from the rifle’s end and looks at me properly. But I notice that he leaves the gun pointed at his head.

  ‘You choose your moments, don’t you?’ he says.

  ‘Jacko,’ I croak back.

  ‘Where did you get to? We fucking buried you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, really. You twat. You’ve been alive all this time and … What does it matter? Shit. If you want a cuppa you can make it yourself.’

  ‘Put the gun down will you?’

  ‘You gonna save me?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘It’s hardly a cry for help. Not pills or shit, is it? Then again, I’ve been trying to do this for the last three days, so …’ He lowers the gun. And then a craggy smile forms. ‘You cheeky git. So you’ve been alive all this time. What happened?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. Amnesia, I think.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Mate, until recently I didn’t even know I’d been in the army.’

  ‘What did you think you’d done then? When you’ve got a bloody great army tattoo on your arm: ‘No guts, no glory.’

  I raise the T-shirt that covers my arm – there is no tattoo. His eyes widen.

  ‘Come here, come over here.’ He grabs my arm, stares close at it. Whistles. ‘Wow. Must have cost a bit to get rid of that. Didn’t know they could do that.’

  ‘I had a tattoo?’

  ‘Oh piss off. You’ll be telling me next you don’t remember Sarah.’

  Sarah. Oh shit. Who the hell is Sarah? Jacko sees my confusion and bursts out laughing.

  ‘Really? You monumental turd. She’d kill you all over again if she heard that. Well, she’d have to stand in line, what with you playing around with Jess and Pen at the same time. You were one sly old dog.’

  Come on, brain. Remember. But there’s nothing. Nothing. I sit down on the sofa opposite him and his hand grips the rifle a little harder.

  ‘So what’s this about?’ I point to the rifle as casually as I can.

  ‘Time. Catching up on me. Memories. You know.’ And then he laughs. ‘God, if you don’t … Fuck me. I’ll have what you’re taking. I’d love to wipe the tat from my arm too, wipe it all away. Look at me.’

  I do. He stares at me and I see his hard gaze become confused, then amused – he can tell I’m not the man from before. He shakes his head, amazed, leans back. A long silence. The only noise is his fingers tapping on the rifle.

  ‘You a nice guy now then?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘You remember what you were before?’

  ‘Bits. They come and go. I dream a lot.’

  ‘Dream?’

  ‘Yeah.’ And then I can wait no longer. ‘Jacko. What’s my name?’

  He looks at me then laughs – a big, hearty laugh. ‘Piss off.’

  ‘I remember you. Bits of you. I remember some of my time in the army. Some of the things we did. What I was like. But I don’t know my name.’

  ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘Ben.’

  Another laugh. ‘Ben? Benjamin!’

  ‘Please. Jacko.’

  A pause. He looks at me, his smile fading.

  ‘I’ll tell you your name if you do something for me.’

  I already know what he’s about to say and he can tell because he leans towards me.

  ‘You were my best mate. We stared into the devil’s eyes together, you and me. Your dreams, they give you a clue to the sort of shit you’ve done?’

  ‘Yes.’ Yes, I know what that other part of me is. But I’m keeping the lid closed on that.

  ‘Really? I doubt it. Cos your face, it’s all gawping and sweet. That’s not the Nudger I knew.’

  ‘Nudger?’

  ‘Want to know why we called you that?’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Cos no one ever saw you coming. I wouldn’t call it subtle, but you weren’t the kind who’d chuck a guy off a cliff. No, you’d pally up to them, make them think they were going to be okay and then, then you’d just nudge them into oblivion. Like when we took down those towel heads on that sheep farm. You were one cruel bastard then, eh? Are. Still are, I bet.’

  I don’t remember any of this. But I believe every word.

  ‘The guys were in awe of you. The way you could do those things and then sleep like a baby. Me too. Bet you never knew that.’ And then he bursts out laughing, remembering my memory loss. He shouts it again in case I hadn’t got it.

  ‘Where’s the booze?’ I say, standing. I have to move.

&
nbsp; He points towards the kitchen. ‘Far left, top shelf,’ he says. I get a bottle of cheap, garage-brand whisky and two glasses. I return and sit opposite him.

  ‘Nudge. Mate. Best mate.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please. I’ve been sat here for days. My balls are dripping. I thought it’d be easy. It’s only a trigger, it’s only a tiny, little reflex action with my forefinger. Shot enough before, ain’t I?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He sighs. ‘I was saying – I was in awe of you. Hid it from the boys cos I was meant to be top dog. I was the meanest bastard around, couldn’t lose that crown. But keeping up with you came at a cost. Digger and the boys would piss themselves, but I’m too bloody soft.’

  He runs his hand along the rifle. His eyes are fixed on mine.

  ‘Nudger. Finish me off. You owe me.’

  ‘For what? No, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’

  He smiles. A little warmer, a little sadder.

  ‘What’s the last thing you remember about us?’

  ‘Nothing. Not like that. Just some dreams. Just moments. You thought I was dead?’

  ‘We were attacked – our convoy – about a mile outside Basra. Our truck took a direct hit. Ground to air missile, or, as they used them, ground to truck. I was thrown from the truck, Shakey lost his legs, the rest were brown bread. You were too, we thought.’

  ‘How many died?’

  ‘Five plus you.’

  Five others. They’re probably dead. But maybe one or two, maybe all of them, they could be out there too. Dads. Teachers. Doctors. I don’t know. Forgotten shadows.

  ‘You found the bodies.’

  ‘Course. Six bodies, charred and all sorts of hell. Repatriated. Honours, funerals, the usual shit.’

  ‘What’s my real name?’

  He smiles. Shakes his head. He has something to bargain with. He holds up the gun, go on, but I don’t move.

  ‘I’ll ask you something. If you don’t mind,’ he says.

  ‘Who’s in a hurry?’

  ‘Fair point. You, now, this new, improved super-you. You like it?’

  ‘It has its problems.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Men who want to kill me.’

  ‘Oh. That’s a pisser.’

  ‘Yeah, it can really chaff.’

  ‘Now that’s Nudger!’ he cries, excited. ‘There, that was just like my old mate right there.’ He smiles, points at me. ‘Wotcher, Nudger.’

  ‘Hello, Jacko.’

  ‘Be a mate, blow my head off.’

  ‘Who’s Sarah?’

  ‘I’ll hold a pillow over my head, if you’re worried about splash-back or noise and attention.’

  ‘Jacko.’

  ‘She’s a girl. Your girl for a while. What’s to say?’

  ‘You know where she lives?’

  ‘Alright, so here’s the thing. Your life now seems a bit shitty, what with the men and the guns—’

  ‘Jesus, Jacko, are you really going to spend your last few moments on earth bullshitting?’

  ‘Why change the habit of a lifetime? Anyhow, this isn’t bullshit. This is … fuck, this is almost profound!’ He smiles, nods like he’s a bloody guru all of a sudden.

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Right, so apart from the men and the guns, is your life really that bad?’

  ‘That’s like saying, apart from his curious relationship with women, wasn’t Jack the Ripper really a top bloke?’

  ‘Well, yeah, I’ll give you that, but the point I’m trying to make – and you have to remember, Nudge, I always had a habit of coming to things in a roundabout way – the thing is, are you so sure you want to jump back into your old world? I’m only saying it because, well, if you look at me, who happens to be the only guy I think you know from the good old days – that’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. So, you look at me and think “this fine upstanding ex-sergeant and servant of Her Majesty just happens to be suicidal”. So maybe all’s not entirely rosy in this garden. And maybe there are things from those glorious old adventures that might make you feel … not so rosy too.’

  He has a point.

  ‘What do you want to come back to all this for?’

  ‘Who knows what we did, on duty?’

  ‘No one knows what we did. Not our commanding officers, not even Scrappy.’ He sees the confusion in my eyes. ‘Jesus. Scrappy. David Doolly. Doolly Do. Scooby Do. Scrappy Do. Scrappy. Walked like he had a fucking melon between his legs. Wore his night-vision goggles in bed every night.’ Still no reaction from me. ‘Not a thing? You lucky sod.’

  A pause. He stares at his rifle, while my mind whirrs with new information. He’ll have a computer somewhere upstairs. He’ll have address books. And he won’t care if I take them.

  ‘What was it like, when you woke up, when you first woke up? Where were you?’

  How do you explain that there was no moment? No ‘before’? My earliest memories involve me, four years old, watching our neighbours’ cat cowering up on the kitchen units as our dog barks like bonkers below. And this memory joins perfectly with others, all leading naturally to the moment I met my wife. And onward. There is no army life at any point, no gap where men like Jacko should fit. My life was complete.

  ‘I don’t remember waking up.’

  ‘You married?’

  ‘What’s my name?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘Don’t be a tit.’

  ‘Shoot me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t have it in me.’

  ‘If you’re chasing after yourself, the real you, you’ll learn it again soon enough. You’ll remember what we did and why I can’t sleep. You’ll start crying in the middle of the afternoon. You’ll see faces of the women we … we … you’ll be standing at the bus stop and some nice young lady with a pram will walk past and you’ll start shaking.’ His eyes are brimming with tears again. ‘I deserve it, I don’t think I shouldn’t feel this, I’m trying to take my punishment but I’ve been like this for three years now. Three years and I can’t … it’s too much. I deserve it and I’m so, so sorry but, but enough now.’

  He reaches for the gun. I think seeing me has given him the strength – a reminder of what he needs to leave. And an audience. I jump forward and pull the gun away from him. And I do it easily. He has wasted away. I hold the gun and he falls to his knees.

  ‘Please!’

  ‘What’s my name!?’ I hold the gun above my head like a stick for a dog.

  ‘Yeah, there you are again, Nudger.’

  ‘My name! My fucking name!’ He just grins. ‘Why won’t you tell me? What’s in it for you … not to tell me?’

  Suddenly I imagine the men are at the door. That this has all been a ruse – a way of keeping me here. I turn the gun on him. He smiles. Grateful. No, there is no trick here.

  ‘My name.’

  ‘You know sometimes I thought I loved you so much I must be gay. I could sit in a car with you for hours and hours without either of us speaking. Just driving across that motherfucking desert. As long as I had you at my side I felt calm. Would’ve happily died with you next to me.’

  ‘Jacko—’

  ‘And I still do. Which is why I don’t want to tell you your name.’

  ‘Then you do it yourself.’

  ‘Fine. Give me the rifle. You shouldn’t want to know. You finally got out. Got a free pass. You want to run away from who you are as fast as you bloody well can.’

  ‘Upstairs there will be photos, I bet. You and me. Maybe the regiment. It’ll have my name.’

  ‘Actually, you’ll find a photo of us on the stairs, halfway up. You, me and the boys. It’s got your name, your nice official name and rank. But it won’t mean nothing.’

  ‘It’s who I am.’

  ‘No. No, you silly arse, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.’

  I chuck the rifle across the ro
om and go to the stairs. I hear him scrambling on the floor. Grabbing the gun. I walk up slowly. The stairs groan under my weight.

  ‘If you see any of the boys and they hear how I went, well, tell them I was proud of them. Always proud of them. Just no longer proud of me.’

  There’s the photograph. Three short lines of strong men in green and khaki. Berets tilted. Smiles and thin eyes in bright sunshine. I step up so my eyes are even with the photo.

  ‘You should be grateful!’ the voice cries behind me.

  There I am. One of the boys. Jacko next to me. A fixed grin. I count the names below to find my name, but a call below does the job for me—

  ‘Staff Sergeant Lee Mackenzie! I love you! Remember that I told you to stop. Because you’ll be doing this too, I bet, when you remember the rest.’

  My tanned smile in the photograph gives nothing away.

  The rifle does its job with a brutal, snapped retort. I hear him buckle and hit the floor, see a spray of blood hit the wall and ceiling. But I’m running upstairs to see what else I can find. I give myself five minutes before I must leave.

  Lee Mackenzie is still grinning with his buddies as I slip back down four minutes later, my arms filled with papers and a lap-top computer. I stop, grab the photo too, then rush to the car. I am gone soon after. I hear no ambulance sirens or the glaring lights of a police car. James MacFarlane might well lie there for weeks before anyone finds him. I consider calling it in – a 999 call to stop him from rotting. But I’m worried that this will help them find me. They’ll see the two glasses on the table, the missing papers, computer and photograph. And these will help them know what I plan to do next.

  I’m sorry, my old friend. But we’re all on our own now.

  THIRTEEN

  Diane was right. Carrie never heard from her again. She would still receive calls and visits – regular check-ups from various men and women who were always polite and formal – but she learned nothing more about Diane, about Ben, about anything. At least she still had the kids, but Ben’s absence only made their time together feel hollow. Carrie behaved as she was meant to. She knew what was expected, but she hated waiting for news. The silence rippled around inside her.