The Stuff of Nightmares

by Malorie Blackman

  Horrified and shaking, I thought back. Apart from the first three dreams, which I’d inhabited before Rachel arrived in the carriage, the only two dreams where Rachel hadn’t joined me were Naima’s and Kendra’s. I got it now. As far as Rachel was concerned there was no point in visiting either. Naima’s dream didn’t feature Death because Naima was dead already. And no one died in Kendra’s dream because Mrs Guy was already a ghost. Rachel had obviously been able to sense whether or not her presence was required in each nightmare.

  ‘Kyle, Rachel was counting on you not wanting to confront one of your biggest fears,’ Dad told me.

  ‘Seeing you again …’ I understood now. ‘I thought that if I somehow ever saw you again, you’d blame me for your death.’

  My fear of ghosts and shadows was all tied up with seeing Dad again.

  ‘You thought worse than that,’ said Dad quietly.

  Yes, I did. Dad was right. In my deepest, wildest dreams, when I dared to imagine seeing my dad again, I always thought he’d either blame me for his death – or, even worse, thank me for it. He loved my mum. After she left I was convinced he didn’t love me. I felt like I ceased to exist for him. I’d never felt so alone in all my life.

  ‘I made a mistake, son,’ said Dad. ‘The biggest mistake of my life – because not only did it cost me my life, but it cost me you. I won’t rest – I can’t – until you believe that …’

  ‘Dad, I—’

  ‘This is all very moving but Kyle still has to come with me,’ said Rachel.

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Shush,’ Dad admonished. He turned to Rachel. ‘My son isn’t dead. You know the rules.’

  ‘Don’t quote the rules back at me. I know I don’t get his soul until he’s dead, but he would’ve been by now if you hadn’t interfered,’ Rachel hissed at him.

  What did that mean?

  ‘Dad …?’

  I followed Dad’s gaze to look up at the broken window above us. The helicopter was still hovering beneath a sky that was now more blue than grey. The rain had finally moved on.

  ‘I tried to escape out of there,’ I told Dad.

  Even now a part of me wondered if I hadn’t made a mistake by not going for it. But even if I had made the wrong choice, I wasn’t sorry. At least by staying, I’d seen my dad.

  ‘D’you want to know what tomorrow’s news story would’ve been if you had tried to leave this train?’ asked Dad.

  I wasn’t sure I did, but I nodded at the intense look on his face. He held out his empty hand. As I watched, a folded newspaper materialized in it. He handed it to me. I opened it and was stunned to see my last school photograph covering at least a quarter of the front page. Beneath my photo, I read:

  Kyle Fitzwilliam, aged fourteen, died while trying to escape from the second carriage of the upturned train in yesterday’s train crash. Helicopter TV coverage dramatically caught the moment when the schoolboy clambered out onto the side of the train but, unable to keep his grip, slipped and fell to the pavement three storeys below. Kyle was killed instantly …

  The newspaper print, then the newspaper itself, faded and disappeared from my hands. Shocked, I looked at Dad. He nodded.

  My blood ran cold … I’d never really appreciated what that phrase meant before. But I knew now.

  ‘Enough of this. Kyle, you’re coming with me,’ said Rachel.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Dad argued.

  ‘Let’s see about that, shall we?’ She laughed.

  Right before my eyes, Rachel became less real, more insubstantial. She was now the ghost and Dad was the real thing. They’d swapped places. And inexplicably, the more shadowy she became, the easier it was to believe in her.

  ‘Dad, what’s she …?’

  Dad was staring at Rachel, a puzzled look on his face. I don’t think he even heard me. But suddenly he turned to me, his brown eyes dark and wide with dismay. He grabbed hold of one of my hands with both of his, pulling me round to face him and away from Rachel. It was the first time since he’d arrived that he’d touched me. His hands were surprisingly warm.

  ‘Kyle, don’t look at her. Whatever you do, don’t look at her—’

  Dad didn’t get any further. There came a whooshing sound, like all the winds of the world were suddenly howling around the carriage. A dense, icy mist surrounded my head, suffocating me with the stench of the dead and dying. I couldn’t get any air into my lungs and my heart was jack-hammering inside me. It felt like my whole head was burning up, but not from heat, from the intense cold. I tried to turn and look at Rachel. One of Dad’s hands came out to turn my head back to him, but his hand passed straight through me. He couldn’t stop me from turning round, but how I wished he had.

  Death stood behind me and it was everything I’d ever imagined, every nightmare I’d ever had all rolled into one. This was a vision of Death worse than anything I’d ever imagined. A grey mist swirled around her … it, with a life of its own. I heard someone scream, a gut-wrenching sound of pure terror. It took a second or two to realize that it was me.

  ‘I love you, Kyle. And I’ll never leave you. Ever.’ Dad’s voice was light-years away. I couldn’t turn my horror-stricken gaze away from Death.

  ‘Kyle, I’ll always be with you … No matter what she says or does, you mustn’t …’

  I heard nothing else. The icy-cold, swirling mist surrounding Death shot into my mouth and up my nose and through my eyes and into my ears. Screaming in agony, I scrunched my eyes shut and, pulling my hand away from Dad’s, tried to cover my ears. My whole head was being crushed in a vice and I’ve never felt pain like it.

  ‘Let’s take a look at your worst nightmare …’ Rachel’s voice echoed in my head.

  I fell to my knees, knowing I was a fraction of a moment away from dying.

  29

  THE VERY NEXT moment all the noise and the cold and the pain stopped. My heart howled in my chest. The memories of what I’d just been through echoed within me, but strangely that’s all it was, an echo. I opened my eyes slowly.

  What on earth …?

  I was back in my house, in my bedroom, lying on my bed. I sat up slowly, still disorientated. What was I doing back here? And how did I get here? Where was Dad? What was that mist which invaded my body and burned my insides like poisonous gas? Why was I back home? Swinging my legs off the bed, I stood up. Even though I recognized my bedroom at once, it still took more than a few seconds to get a handle on what was happening. I was definitely back home, that much was obvious. Back home and back in my room. That could only mean one thing. Dad must’ve battled Rachel for me. And he’d won. I was safe.

  Safe.

  … safe?

  ‘Mum?’ I left my room and headed for Mum and Dad’s … for Mum’s bedroom. She wasn’t there. I paused in the doorway. I hadn’t been in this room since Dad died. Not once. But for some inexplicable reason I wanted to go in now. One slow step followed another until I was in the centre of the room. I looked at the bed, which was neatly made with hardly a wrinkle in the duvet. After Mum left and while Dad was … around, it was never made, unless I did it. I turned towards the dressing table. It was covered with Mum’s skin-rejuvenating lotions and anti-wrinkle potions. The room smelled faintly of her floral perfume. There was nothing left of Dad. No aftershave, no men’s deodorant, not even his comb. I couldn’t see him in this room at all any more.

  But I could see Mum.

  It was strange but at that moment, standing in Mum’s bedroom, I could see Mum more clearly than I had for the past year. I realized that I’d stopped seeing her from the moment I stopped looking for her, on my birthday. I shook my head as I remembered Dad’s eager face, asking to see the card, the message, the anything I’d received from Mum. I’d hated myself for disappointing him – but I’d hated her more. The day of my birthday changed so many things. When Mum walked out, buried deep down inside me was the hope against hope that she’d come back by my birthday, maybe even come back for my birthday. I have to admit that, like Dad,
I thought she’d be back, even if it was just for my sake. Every morning when I woke up and every afternoon when I came home from school, I looked for her.

  The day after my birthday I stopped looking.

  When Dad died, Steve’s mum and dad let me stay with them. I would’ve been happy to stay with them for good but Mum came home three days later. I hated her for that. If Dad meant nothing to her alive, why should his death bring her running back?

  But I understood a lot more now.

  ‘Mum?’ I called out again, louder than before.

  I checked through the whole house. She wasn’t there. The house was empty.

  I stood still and listened, just to make sure. No pipes gurgling, no tumble dryer vibrating, no dishwasher running – nothing. It was so quiet. A sudden thought occurred to me. I turned to the hall clock. The second hand moved with silent deliberation. I know this will sound silly but it was kind of a relief to see it. Time was moving as normal. I was back home and out of harm’s way, out of Death’s way. She’d just been messing with my head, that’s all. Patting my jacket pocket to make sure I had my front-door keys, I headed out of the house. The neighbours’ cars sat outside their houses. The road, like the air, was still. There wasn’t even a breeze.

  Suddenly ravenous, I decided to take a trip up to the local deli rather than search through our fridge for something to cook. The day was warm and bright. I strolled to the top of my road, enjoying the peace. I walked past the roundabout, along the street, then over the usually busy junction to the high street. I say ‘usually busy’ because today it wasn’t. In fact, I didn’t even have to push the button and wait for the lights to change before I could cross. There were no cars on the street. Not one.

  There were no people around either.

  By the time I made it to the deli, which was the first in the local parade of shops, I was getting twitchy. Surely this couldn’t be right? There was absolutely no one around. Frowning, I entered the deli. The smells of assorted cheeses and sausages and fried onions hit me immediately, making me hungrier. I looked around. The place was empty. Why on earth would the owners leave the shop empty without locking the door? I was getting distinctly nervous about being by myself in an empty shop. I didn’t want the owners coming back and wondering if I’d nicked something. Crisps and snacks from the newsagent’s would have to do. Three shops later I was more than twitchy. I was freaking out. Where was everyone? The newsagent’s was open, but there was no one in there either. What had happened to drive everyone out of their shops? If something had happened, like a suspected gas leak or something, that still didn’t explain where everyone had gone.

  I headed out of the newsagent’s and went into every shop along the street. They were all open for business. They were all empty. And the street was deserted. No cars. No dogs. No birds or planes in the sky. No people. What the hell …?

  Thoughts can creep up on you, or they can hit harder than a wrecking ball.

  Dad didn’t win after all …

  I walked faster, away from my house, away from the local shops. Picking up my pace, I started to trot. Before long I was at a full-out run. My feet seemed to know where to go before my head did. Forty minutes later, bathed in sweat, I was at the shopping centre. Our local shopping centre was vast, with stores which were known nationwide. They were all open, even the jewellers, with light pouring from every display window and out of every open door. Muzak chimed relentlessly around me.

  But no people. Not one.

  ‘Hello …’ I shouted at the top of my lungs. ‘Hello. Is anyone here?’

  Was it my imagination or did the muzak get fractionally louder? Or maybe it was my heartbeat. I went into every shop and shouted, desperate for someone, anyone, to hear me. There was no doubt about it. The realization crept through me as well as hitting me all at once. The shopping centre was completely empty.

  But hang on … That tinny, pipey music had to be coming from somewhere. I wandered from shop to shop and from floor to floor. I even tried the doors marked PRIVATE and STAFF ONLY. I found the security room, with its bank of monitors showing CCTV footage from all over the centre and even the two huge car parks outside. I scanned the monitors, eagerly searching each one for a face. Just one face would do. But there was no movement of any kind.

  Panic, bitter as vomit, began to churn and rise within me, but I fought it back down. This was silly. There had to be a perfectly logical explanation for all this. I sat in front of the monitors for one hour … two … three. Nothing changed. Each time I tried to leave the room, every time I turned my back on the monitors, I whipped round to watch them again. It was like a game of Grandma’s footsteps. Part of me was convinced that whenever I turned away, everyone in the shopping centre was standing in front of the CCTV cameras dancing and having a party, and whenever I turned back, they ducked out of sight. And no matter how many times I told myself off for being stupid, I still found it hard to tear myself away from the monitors. But after three hours I had to face facts. There was no one in the shopping centre, no one in the car parks.

  No one.

  I went down to the electrical discount store on the first floor. It was one of those shops where TVs blasted your retinas with bright lights and fast-moving images. The huge TV at the front of the store was showing a well-known and very funny CGI film, but every other screen in the place was filled with white dancing lines of static.

  I set off for home. At that moment I needed to be at home very, very badly.

  Still no cars. No traffic. No noise. I rang the doorbells and knocked on the doors of every house – and I mean every house – within ten streets of my home. In some the lights were on; in most they were off. But no one answered the door.

  This was all wrong. I couldn’t be the only one … How could that be? It didn’t make any sense. Was I the last one, the only one …? What had happened? Something terrible must’ve happened. But then, why not to me …?

  ‘Get a grip, Kyle,’ I ordered myself.

  I mean, not only was that just plain daft, it was also impossible. There was no way in the world that I could be the only one left in my neighbourhood.

  Please, God, don’t let me be the only one left. I don’t want to be by myself …

  I finally set foot inside my own house.

  ‘Mum?’ I called, my voice croaky and hoarse from all the shouting I’d done that day.

  No reply. Not that I’d been expecting one. But that didn’t stop me shouting for her. After searching through the entire house again, I switched on my TV, hoping to see someone, anyone. Hell! I’d even settle for one of those boring house make-over programmes. There was nothing. The screen was dark. I checked to make sure it was working by grabbing the nearest DVD to hand and putting it in the DVD player. The film started without a hitch. I turned off the player and tried flicking from channel to channel. The screen was still dark. I gave up on that and tried the radio. Sounds like crisp packets being scrunched up filled the airwaves from every station. I gave up on that too. I ran upstairs and flung myself down on my bed, trainers and all. Had something happened to keep everyone indoors or had everyone gathered in one central location because of some threat? Pulling my mobile out of my pocket, I wondered who I could phone for information. Even though I’d probably get a rollicking, I decided to phone the emergency services. I’d forgotten my phone was dead so I went into mum’s room to use the land line extension. The number rang and rang and no one picked up. What could’ve happened to stop the emergency services from answering the phone? And if there were some huge emergency, surely there would still be people on the street – the police or even the army? Where was everyone? Why had everyone disappeared? Where had everyone disappeared to? What the hell was going on? And where was my mum? I tried the emergency number on and off for the next hour but still no one replied. All my questions sprinted round my mind until, exhausted, mentally as well as physically, I fell asleep.

  The next day found me back at the shopping centre, as did the day after that a
nd the day after that. I spent my days eagerly scanning the banks of monitors, searching each one for a face. Just one face would do. But there was no movement of any kind. I sat in front of the monitors for hours. Nothing changed – not even the muzak, which was on a continuous two-hour loop. If I could’ve found that muzak CD, I would’ve smashed it to smithereens. Where was my mum? My friends? The rest of the country?

  After three whole days of solitude, I decided it was time to move on. The silence around me was driving me out of the house and out of the neighbourhood and out of my mind. There was no way I was the only one left in the area. (The country? The planet?) That would’ve been too ridiculous. But I’d have to move further out to find others who were isolated like me, who maybe even thought that they were all alone too. I packed up a large rucksack with some clean clothes, plenty of water, fruit and crisps and headed out. I wasn’t particularly worried about finding food – every supermarket and grocery shop I passed was open and well stocked.

  ‘Strange to close my front door, knowing this is the last time I’m going to be here for a while.

  ‘Bye, house. Bye, Mum … wherever you are.’

  I’d taken to voicing most of my thoughts out loud, just to hear the sound of my own voice; to hear something apart from my own breathing and my heart thumping. I set off down the road, turning back once or twice just in case I was walking away from other people instead of towards them.

  On the second day I reached the motorway. There was nothing on it. Nothing. It was stupid, I know, but I walked in the central lane of the motorway as I headed south. I was so desperate to see someone else that I was prepared to risk getting run over to do it.

  ‘You’ll hear a car coming a mile away,’ I told myself.

  And though I listened hard, I heard nothing but my own footsteps on the tarmac. After a couple of days of walking along the motorway, I got off and made my way via normal roads. The motorway was hard on my feet and harder on my sanity. It was eerily quiet walking along with nothing moving in either direction; it only served to emphasize my loneliness. At least on the ordinary roads I could hope to meet someone else around each new corner. Every so often I’d knock at a succession of doors, ring a few front doorbells, enter a shop or two and shout ‘Hello?’