My heart thumped. Dead?
Singer, musician and songwriter. Adopted the name Cavour in tribute to his hero, the father of Italian unification and independence…
There was little else. I searched more books, but they were just too out of date to provide me with any helpful information. Not that I really knew what I was looking for, anyway.
I asked the librarian if she had any other sources or newspaper archives I could search. She did. Microfiche of a trade music paper from the exact time he died. Surely, somewhere, there would be an obituary with more detail. Maybe even some kind of contact information. Someone I could trace who had known him well and might be able to throw some light on what this man, who must have already been dead, had been doing invading my dreams and speaking in song lyrics.
I discovered from the librarian that the master recording of “Everything” had only been found six months before when his mother was clearing out some of his belongings.
Yet more to ponder.
By now I was convinced there was some sort of bond between us, not that it made any sense. Why me, for heaven’s sake?
I sat in front of the microfiche screen and fiddled with the dials. The machine squeaked a little as page after page flashed up clearly in front of me until I found something.
Around three paragraphs in, I learned he had died alone in a fire at his home in a converted palace on the outskirts of Rome. An investigation was launched into the cause of the blaze, but was shut down within twenty-four hours. No explanation had been forthcoming from the police.
Speculation continues. Cavour enjoyed a life of excess. He epitomized the sex, drugs and rock-and-roll lifestyle he had aspired to as a teenager growing up in the back streets of Naples. A long-term interest in the dark arts led to him proclaiming that his death would not be the end.
Looked like he’d got that right. The next sentence chilled me.
It also made him powerful enemies within the Roman Catholic Church.
The Church held considerable influence in Italy and so much was starting to emerge about dark forces within the Vatican itself. Could that explain why the inquiry was shut down before it had even begun? Maybe people were right to speculate about the cause of that fire.
The library was closing, so I left. That night I couldn’t sleep. Nor the next night.
More than once, John found me nursing a mug of tea at three in the morning. The fourth time it happened, he refused to go back to bed.
“This has become too much of a habit, Jane. I wake up in the middle of the night and you’re not there. You’re washed out. Come on, tell me what’s on your mind.”
Could I tell him? Would he just laugh at me? I had to take the chance.
“It’s that singer—Cavour. I don’t understand how he could have appeared in 1979 as a recurring dream, in a scene so much like one of the videos of that song “Everything”. And it’s not as if the video were made at the time he recorded that song either. They’ve cobbled it together from old footage. They only found the master tape last year. Apparently, it had been lying forgotten in some old trunk of stuff they’d cleaned out of his home and given to his mother. On top of that, I’d never even heard of the man until we watched Top of the Pops, but in some crazy way I feel as if I’ve known him forever.
“I had that same dream for weeks, months even, when things were so bad in Baileyborough. Then, when I left there, the dreams gradually faded away and I haven’t had one for four years or more. I just can’t explain it and it’s bothering me. I can’t help feeling it means something and I need to find out what that is.”
John poured himself a glass of milk and sat back down with me.
“I think it’s just an incredible coincidence. Really. I can’t think of any other explanation. Serendipity or whatever.”
Yes, I thought. Serendipity.
Then, one evening, she appeared.
A lovely, sultry June evening had given way to a velvety night. John and I sat outside on the patio, drinking chilled white wine and gazing up at the stars. The slightest breeze ruffled the leaves on the sycamore tree and every muscle in my body relaxed.
John stretched his legs. “I love evenings like this. Makes you glad to be alive.”
“Mm.” The light from the living room window illuminated the garden, but cast shadows in the far corner by the rhododendron bush. Its branches moved.
“I think next door’s cat just paid us a visit,” John said. “What’s his name?”
“Sooty,” I said and then lowered my voice, “not very imaginative, considering he’s jet black.”
I wish to God it had been Sooty.
“What the hell?” John sprang to his feet and stepped back. His chair toppled onto the ground.
She was there. In the shadows, but her white face was clearly visible. Not only that, John could see her too.
I joined him. “Why are you here?”
The dark mouth opened. It has been a long time, Jane.
John stared at me. “You know…that?”
I nodded. How the hell would I explain her? “I’ve known her since I was a child.”
The angel moved closer. Into the light.
John gasped and backed farther away. “Who are you? What do you want?”
She ignored him, but I had to know. “Why can John see you?”
We have an arrangement to conclude, Jane.
I’d known apprehension around her before. I knew what she was capable of, after all. I must tread carefully. I couldn’t risk her wrath.
I moistened my parched lips. “I’m happy now. There’s no one to add to your ledger. Please, there’s no need—”
“What ledger?” John grabbed my hand. I flinched from the anger and fear I read in his eyes. “Who…what…is she?”
I couldn’t think of a single sane word of explanation.
He shook me. “Jane!”
I wrenched myself free. Tears streamed down my cheeks. He’d leave me now for sure. In a few seconds, my near-perfect life would crumble. I had to make her go away.
I turned to her. “Please. Don’t do this.”
The black eyes stared at me. The dark lips set in a firm line. Even in the dim light cast by the garden lamps, I could make out the undulations beneath her cloak.
John cried out. “For God’s sake, Jane. Make her stop.”
I screamed as he collapsed to his knees, his hands crammed to his head, his face a tortured grimace.
I pleaded with my angel, “Don’t hurt him!”
John roared in pain. “God help me!”
I tried to hold him, but he pushed me away. He turned his eyes toward me—crazed with broken blood vessels. “She’s killing me. The noise.”
I couldn’t stand it any longer. “I’ll give you what you want. Just let him go. Don’t hurt him anymore.”
John collapsed on the grass, panting and choking.
I looked from him back up to my angel. Her ledger was open. She was writing in it.
Panic. “Not him. You can’t have him. He’s done nothing to me.”
It is done. Her voice had echoed and faded, as she herself disappeared.
John struggled to his feet. His eyes, at least, had returned to normal. “What the hell was that? What did she do to me?”
I took a deep breath. It had to happen one day. Might as well be now.
“She’s been a part of my life since I was a child. I used to think she protected me, but now, after tonight…” I couldn’t finish my sentence.
What had she written in her ledger? Surely she wouldn’t write John’s name? She had only ever written the names of those I judged to have done me serious harm. So she must have written another name. But whose? Mine? For not giving her that third name?
John’s hands shook, and the wine bottle he was pouring from clunked against the glass. He do
wned it in one and then poured one for me.
I sipped mine more slowly.
“Well, who is she?” he said. “What is she?”
I shook my head. “I wish I could answer your questions, but I don’t really know. I call her my angel.”
His stare made me uncomfortable. “Please, John. I’m sure she means you no harm.”
“Really? Then why do I feel as if she’s just raped my mind?”
“What?”
He shuddered. “It’s the only way I can describe it. Haven’t you felt like that?”
“No. Never.”
“She sent something into my head.” He screwed his face up at the memory. “Hundreds of creatures. I don’t know what they were. I could see them. Behind my eyes. Clawing at me. Scratching. And the noise. Screaming. Bellowing. Like a Bosch painting come alive. It— God, Jane. I can’t explain it. If I believed in heaven and hell and all that stuff, I would swear I’d just seen hell.”
He shook his head and set his empty glass down. “I’ve got to get out of here. I can’t stay. I’m sorry.”
He nearly fell over the chair in his hurry to leave.
I watched him, horrified. “John, please. Don’t go. Please.”
I heard the front door slam.
Chapter Twelve
He rang me just as I sat down at my desk.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and sounded it. “I still don’t know what happened. Forgive me?”
I tried to make light of it. “Nothing to forgive. You had a fright. Not surprising, really. She’s not the sort of thing you see every day.”
“What she did to me was… Well, I can’t explain it, not even after a whole night trying to work it out. I’m done in today.”
“Me too. Where did you stay in the end?”
“Just a mate’s house. I’d like to come home, though.”
“I’ll cook steak and salad.” Well, he’d have the steak. I’d just have the salad.
“I’ll be home around seven. Got a meeting at five thirty.”
That night I had the dream again.
This time, I stood on the dusty road with the sun beating down on me. I should have worn a hat, I thought, as I touched my burning head. Must get out of the sun. Into some shade, if I can find any.
Up ahead, the hotel shimmered white against the vivid-blue sky. I squinted at it and set off toward it. From somewhere to my left, I could hear waves crashing on the shore, but all I could see was arid scrubland, where dry bushes of gorse and cacti jockeyed for position.
The scene changed and I stood in front of the double glass doors. They slowly opened and there he stood, tuxedoed and smiling. I couldn’t speak as he took my arm and led me through reception, into the ballroom where, as before, I looked down and found the shorts and T-shirt had been replaced by the gorgeous, white gown.
The band struck up and this time I recognized “Everything”.
The man drew me closer to him as we danced. Not a waltz this time. Just in time with the rousing beat. He bent close to my ear and whispered, “You can have anything you want. Everything.”
“But I don’t understand. How?”
Now the room was empty. I stood alone. But not for long.
A rumble like thunder or the pounding of hooves. Coming closer.
Danger.
I had to get away. I tried to push myself out of the dream, but the rumbling grew louder and louder.
Then an alarm sounded.
I woke up, sweat pouring off me and shaking uncontrollably. “Thank God! I’m back. I’m safe.”
John switched off the alarm, glanced over to me and frowned. He touched my forehead. “You’re going nowhere today. Come on, lie back down. I’ll phone in to work for you.”
“I had that dream again.”
“Dreams don’t generally make your face red.” He felt my forehead. “Or give you a raging temperature. I think I should call the doctor. You may have come down with something. Your head’s really hot.”
A wave of nausea sent me diving off to the bathroom. I just made it in time before I threw up in the toilet. My head throbbed.
As I rinsed a washcloth in cold water to soothe my burning face, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked as if I’d stayed out in the blazing sun for hours, and when I touched the top of my head, it stung and burned. A quick inspection revealed a vivid-red scalp.
“How can you get sunburn in a dream?” I said as I climbed back into bed, glad of the cool sheet.
“You can’t. I’ve just phoned in for both of us. I’m staying at home to look after you. And I’m phoning the doctor at eight thirty. I’ll get you a home visit. I don’t think you’re in any fit state to go there and we don’t know what it is. Might be infectious.”
I wanted to protest, but my head banged relentlessly and I still felt as if I could be sick at any moment. Whatever was wrong with me needed to be diagnosed and treated. Right now, I wanted to die.
The doctor arrived around eleven. I’d slept fitfully and my head still banged, but at least after the fourth trip to the bathroom, I didn’t feel quite as nauseous.
“Sunstroke,” the doctor said as she wrote a prescription. “This is for some lotion for the sunburn. Meanwhile, drink plenty of liquids and keep cool. Remember, sitting outside in the sunshine is all very well, but it can be dangerous. You should sit in the shade or cover up. And always use sunscreen.”
“I haven’t been sitting outside in the sun. Not at all.”
The doctor looked from me to John.
“She’s telling the truth,” he said. “It’s a mystery how she could have contracted sunstroke. When she went to bed last night, she was her usual pale self. Now…” He pointed at me.
The doctor shook her head and closed her bag. “Well, I’ve never heard of anyone contracting sunstroke from staying indoors, but that’s what she has. I recommend you stay at home until you feel better. In your case, two or three days or so will probably see you right. It’s only a mild case, fortunately, or else we’d be stretchering you off to hospital.” She hesitated. “Have you been weighed recently?”
I shook my head. “Why do you ask?”
“I wondered if you had been experiencing any sudden weight loss. You’re not on a diet, are you?”
John got there before I did. “Well, as a matter of fact—”
“No,” I said.
The doctor looked from one to the other of us. “Are you eating normally?”
“Yes,” I said.
“No sickness or diarrhea?”
Again John got there a split second ahead of me. “Well, she does—”
“No. Not at all,” I said.
The doctor looked again from one to the other of us and gave another almost-imperceptible shake of her head. “You are almost certainly underweight, Jane. I would prefer it if you could make an appointment to see me. Just to be on the safe side.”
“Okay,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t.
“She thinks we’re lying about the sunstroke,” I said, when John returned from seeing the doctor out.
He waved his hand. “Let her. We know the truth.”
“Do we? I don’t. Not anymore.” My banging head pounded relentlessly and I leaned back against the cool pillows. I didn’t feel any urge to make myself sick, though. This was no migraine.
“Go to sleep now,” John said, his voice gentle and soothing. He seemed to have forgotten all about his own traumatic experience.
This time, when I slept, my dreams were peaceful. I just hoped John’s were.
I started reading about out-of-body experiences, case studies of people who, just like me, had thought they were dreaming when, in fact—so they asserted—their spirit was leaving their body and traveling off to another plane. It all sounded crazy and outlandish. Previously I would have discounted every word
I now absorbed.
Many of them reported feeling a tugging sensation and then a snap, like an elastic band, when they returned to their bodies. All described feeling the elements around them. They could hear, smell, touch and taste their temporary world. I remembered the tasteless food and champagne of earlier years. In the latest dream, I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything. If I did so now, would I experience those vivid flavors others seemed to have enjoyed?
Two nights later, recovered from my sunstroke, except for peeling skin, I returned to my dream.
This time, I was already in the ballroom and the man I now wanted to call Carlo handed me a tall flute of ice-cold champagne. I sniffed it. Bubbles spattered my nose and Carlo laughed as I shook my head. I put the glass to my lips and took a sip.
The cold, crisp flavor flooded my taste buds.
“You like this champagne?”
I nodded and set the glass down on the table in front of me. All around us, couples were dancing, others gathered in small groups. No one paid us any attention, for which I was grateful.
“Who are you?” I said. “Please tell me. Are you Carlo Castiglione?”
A broad smile became a laugh. Now people turned to see what the hilarity was all about. They all started to laugh and it was as before. Everyone laughing at me.
I stood up and crammed my hands to my ears to try and shut out the cacophony, but it just grew louder, more raucous. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Stop it! Why are you doing this? Why?”
The laughter stopped. I opened my eyes.
The room was empty.
Except, this time, the rumbling of heavy hooves came from much closer. The chandeliers swayed and the crystal tinkled.
I picked up my skirt and ran out through an open door, straight into a field that had nothing to do with the hotel. I’d stepped into another dream.
Now I wore blue jeans and a white cotton shirt. For some reason I was barefoot, but on a lovely warm day, with soft grass under my feet, it felt good. All around me, young people lay around eating packed lunches, chatting. Birds twittered and bees hummed.
Something drew my attention. To my left stood a white, wooden one-story building with a porch. Standing there, still dressed in his tuxedo, stood a man. I didn’t have to wonder who—Carlo smiled and tipped an imaginary hat to me. Just as the sun disappeared behind a cloud.
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