Inheritance

by Thomas Wymark

Abi rang me the next day to see how I was. I recognised the number and let it go to answerphone. I couldn’t face speaking to her so soon. She left a lovely message.

  I rang her the day after that.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Abs. It must have been the booze and the painkillers, you know? Is Josie OK?’

  ‘She’s fine, Chris. We’re all just so worried about you.’

  She started crying, which surprised me. I started too, which didn’t. I didn’t mention the dreams. Or that Josie had been some kind of trigger.

  Abi was a star. She made me feel better, made me laugh and made me think there was nothing to worry about. She made me feel good about Neil, and we both laughed about his culinary skills at the barbecue. She said how wonderful the evening had been and how sorry she was that I had been “unwell”. Bless her.

  The dreams and visions started coming every day. Sometimes several times a day. I spent my days twitching at every gust and breeze, and my nights awake in bed shifting from one position to another, and then back again. My eyes became dark holes with painted red rims.

  I was a zombie around the house. Neil and the kids made every excuse they could not to be with me. The kid’s homework must have been at an all time high. And if Neil went to bed any earlier I’d have had to wake him up for his dinner.

  The dreams weren’t always complete. Sometimes just brief snatches or sensations. A whiff of something on the air would make me turn my head to see who was there. No one, of course. Or I would just pick up a noise. Distant, but definite.

  I was taking more and more days off work. I wanted desperately to go in, mostly because I missed the routine of real life. But also to make sure Matthew wasn’t getting in with Margaret. From somewhere within me, a competitive streak had emerged and it now seemed vaguely important to beat Matthew to a job I had never really wanted in the first place.

  When Neil and I did come together, his eyes would dart everywhere but straight at mine.

  He was full of helpful comments though.

  ‘Chris, I think you should maybe visit a doctor.’

  I knew that he meant it for the best, but it pissed me off. Did he mean for my mind or for the pain in my leg? Or was he just exasperated? Maybe he meant it for my drinking.

  ‘What for?’ I said. I was in the mood for being moody.

  At last he looked me square in the eye. No hesitation.

  ‘Because of these dreams — and the sensations that come with them.’ He folded his arms. ‘You keep smelling things; you hear and feel things, things like the wind and the rustling of branches. You are having day dreams when you’re not even asleep. Something is wrong Chris, from when you got attacked; where you hit your head. Something is wrong at the moment. I’m sure the doctor will know what it is, you know, a loose connection or whatever. But I think you should go and I think you should tell him everything that’s happened.’

  That pissed me off even more, mainly because I knew he was right.

  But even the thought of going to the doctor made me have butterflies. I didn’t want him to find anything badly wrong inside my head. And I couldn’t face telling anyone else about the things I was dreaming about. I was a school teacher — at a Primary school. It wouldn’t look good.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Neil said. ‘If you want me to?’

  By now I was writing so often in my diary, my hand ached. But no matter how much I wrote, I still couldn’t make sense of what was happening to me. I wanted to ring Dad and talk to him about it, but him and Mum had been so upset about the attack, and I didn’t want to add to their worry.

  Dad had always had a way of making things seem better than I thought they were. It was more than perspective. He somehow managed to make things softer. More cushioned.

  Neil was more of a “let’s get on with it” kind of man. Solid and reliable, but very little softness. When I needed a hard-man, Neil was there. But I didn’t think I needed that, not yet.

  Eventually I caved in and drove to their house to see them.

  ‘I think maybe you should go to the doctor,’ Dad said.

  Inside I felt disappointed. The only outward sign was an involuntary expulsion of breath. It wasn’t the cushioning I had been hoping for.

  ‘If I go to see the doctor, it’s like admitting that there’s a problem.’

  Dad looked at Mum. That was the only answer I needed. So much for “Dad always making things better”. He didn’t even point me in the direction of a diary.

  Mum rubbed her eyes. If she started blubbing I knew it would set me off too.

  ‘They’re being great about it at school,’ I said. ‘Margaret says she’s fine with me having days off here and there. They just want me to get better. We all just want it to get better.’

  I hadn’t mentioned the dreams to Mum and Dad. Mum was too close to the edge anyway. I didn’t want to push her all the way over. I thought about getting Dad alone and just talking to him. He would be OK with that. I held the thought in reserve, just in case. I was sure that “cushion” was still in there somewhere.

  ‘I’ll come with you if you like?’ Dad said. ‘To the doc’s.’

  I shook my head, while my heart screamed out ‘YES’.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad.’ I said. ‘I’ll sort out an appointment. I’ll be fine.’

  He looked at Mum again, and smiled. She forced one too.

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