The Sleeper Lies

by Andrea Mara

  Surely Ray wasn’t falling for all this?

  My new friend Keeley sidled over to take away my empty glass of water, her expertly lined eyes dancing with conspiracy.

  “They’re gas!” she whispered. “This is the most fun I’ve had in here since I started. D’ya want another one?”

  “I’m okay, thanks. He hardly believes all the stories though? He’ll sober up tomorrow and see his notes and realise it was all made up.”

  “He’ll have some headache tomorrow, that’s for sure.” She hesitated, then I guess decided I was in the gang. “John’s putting a double shot of whiskey into every pint the writer guy is having – he’s plastered!”

  “Ah hang on, that’s dangerous – he shouldn’t be doing that,” I said, getting up from my seat.

  Her face changed – I wasn’t in the gang after all.

  “It’s just a bit of fun. Anyway it was Alan’s idea, John’s only doing what the customer asked.” She flounced off, less sure of herself now.

  Stuffing my book in my bag, I walked over to Ray, throwing Alan a look.

  “Hey, should we get you back to your hotel?”

  Bleary eyes met mine.

  “Marianne, you’re here!”

  Alan sat back on his barstool, arms folded, smirking.

  “I am, but I need to head home now. My car is in the hotel car park – I’ll walk you back.”

  “But we didn’t get to have our drink!” He turned to wave at John who was busy cleaning an already clean glass.

  “I think John’s done enough pouring for tonight – come on, let’s get you back.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder to steady himself as he got off the stool, and together we walked towards the door.

  “Safe home now, you two!” Alan called after us.

  I shook my head but couldn’t find a suitable retort.

  Outside, cool night air seemed to sober Ray a little, but he kept one hand on my shoulder all the way to the hotel. Inside, we went straight to the stairs, ignoring looks from the man behind reception. Ray couldn’t get the key to work, so I took over and opened the door to a room that was bigger and more modern than I’d expected. A laptop sat on the desk in the corner, a neat stack of notebooks beside it. Not a typewriter after all.

  “Would you like to stay for a drink?” Ray asked, swaying in front of me.

  Before I could answer, he put his hand to his mouth, but it was too late. He threw up, all over the floor, and all over my shoes.

  That was our first date. It should have been an omen.

  CHAPTER 11

  The knock came mid-morning on Saturday, saving me from an unappealing return trip to the attic. Ray looked surprisingly good for someone who had been comatose on his hotel bed when I left him – maybe there was a tinge of grey pallor under the tan, but his eyes were bright, his smile cheekier than ever.

  I fixed him a coffee and we sat side by side on the couch. It felt awkward, but not bad awkward.

  “So I guess your pal Alan wasn’t okay with my gas-station error after all – that’s some grudge he’s got,” Ray said, propping one ankle across his other knee. “I mean, it was an honest mistake.”

  “Yeah. And I’m sure it’s illegal to spike someone’s drink – like if he did it to a girl, there’d be murder. You could probably go to the guards?”

  “The what?”

  “Guards – gardaí – it’s what we call police in Ireland. You could report him. He was getting John the barman to put a double shot of whiskey into every pint. It doesn’t surprise me either – John’s a bit of a dick.”

  Ray uncrossed his legs and sat forward.

  “Water under the bridge. No point in making a fuss, especially now I’ve decided to stay.”

  He turned to look at me, and there was something in his expression, but I couldn’t tell what.

  “You’re staying?”

  “Yep. I’m going to take a room in the hotel for the next three months – I’ll be like those artists who used to live Chateau Marmont in LA, except not so much of the drugs and debauchery.”

  I nodded, though I’d never heard of Chateau Marmont.

  “Perhaps we can try again for a drink, since the first time didn’t work out,” he continued. “I don’t even remember seeing you come in. I must have been drunk from the get-go.”

  “Yeah, I slipped in and sat on my own for a bit, but if I’d realised what was going on, I’d have said something.”

  He held up his hands. “Not your fault. I’m sorry you had to see me like that. I didn’t . . . do anything I shouldn’t have, did I?”

  “God no,” I said, going red. “More coffee?”

  He nodded yes and I made my escape, cheeks still burning.

  When I came back, he was looking at the photo of my parents.

  “Your mom and dad?”

  I nodded.

  “Your mom was beautiful.” He turned to look at me, then back to the photo. “Your dad was one lucky guy.”

  “It’s okay, you can say it – he knew he was punching above his weight. I don’t think he ever got his head around it – what someone like Hanne saw in a very ordinary man like him.”

  “She really was stunning. You look a little like her. You must miss her terribly.”

  “She’s been gone a long time. I don’t actually remember her at all – it’s pretty much always been my dad and me.”

  “I guess you had a very close relationship with your dad,” he said, his voice softening.

  “Yeah, I did.” I picked at the fringe of the throw. “And now I can’t stop thinking if I’d been living here, I’d have seen more of him while he was still alive.”

  He reached out a hand and covered mine, jolting me with the intimacy.

  “But you had to live your life too. Kids grow up and move out – it’s the natural order of things. If you’d stayed, who knows, maybe you’d have been on top of each other, falling out, right?”

  I nodded but wasn’t convinced.

  “Also, you work in IT, and I don’t see a whole heap of IT firms here in Carrickderg. Don’t beat yourself up, you just did what anyone your age would do.”

  I nodded again. That part at least was true. But still. If I’d been here, maybe I’d have gone with him for the walk by the lake, and maybe I could have pulled him out. Or we’d have both stayed home, safe inside.

  Ray finished his coffee, apologised again, and suggested we grab a glass of wine Sunday night. I was due back in work Monday morning, but told him I’d meet for one quick drink.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to do anything about Alan – Geraldine in the Garda Station is a bit nosy but she’s no-nonsense – she’d have a word with him?”

  “I’m sure. And I guess in a small town like this I’m going to see him around over the next three months. I don’t want any bad feeling.”

  He stood up and I walked with him to the door.

  “Oh yeah, what made you decide to stay?” I asked, as he said goodbye from the doorstep.

  “The book. Everything just clicked into place. I need to stay here and write the story.”

  He waved and walked down the drive towards his car, a shiny rental in much better shape than my old banger, and I wondered where it might go, this one drink we’d have on Sunday night, and if after that I’d ever see him again.

  CHAPTER 12

  1990

  Ms Brown was pretty. She had long, wavy brown hair and brown eyes, just like her name. She was only there for a bit though, when Mrs Mulligan was in hospital. I wished she could be there all the time. She was much nicer than crabby old Mrs Mulligan. The only thing was, she didn’t know our stories. So when she asked us all to make Mother’s Day cards, I was stuck, and I didn’t know how to tell her.

  Linda looked over at me, and put up her hand.

  “Teacher, Marianne doesn’t have a mammy.”

  Ms Brown’s mouth made an O shape and her cheeks went pink.

  “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise. Well, why d
on’t you make a card for your daddy instead?”

  I nodded, still not sure what to say. Linda spoke again.

  “Her mammy went to Denmark for a holiday and she died when she was there. She died in her sleep.”

  I let out a breath, and picked up a colouring pencil. But Nigel Stock, who was always worrying, and a complete cry-baby, jumped in.

  “You can’t die in your sleep, can you?” His voice wobbled. “Is my mammy going to die if she goes to sleep?”

  I looked up at Ms Brown.

  “Oh no, Nigel pet, not at all – it’s very, very rare. Maybe we should focus on our colouring now.”

  “But then how did it happen to Marianne’s mammy? How do you know it isn’t going to happen to somebody else?”

  Ms Brown’s mouth went into an O shape again and I think she was wishing Mrs Mulligan was back from hospital.

  Sorcha Riordan joined in. “Actually, my dad says you can’t die in your sleep – there’s no such thing. It’s just something people say when they don’t want to explain.” She folded her arms and looked at me out of the corner of her eye.

  “Well, you can, but it’s usually because of something going wrong, like . . . like someone’s heart stopping,” Ms Brown said, picking up chalk from her desk then putting it down again.

  “But, Teacher, you said that it doesn’t really happen?” wailed Nigel Stock, tears in his eyes.

  “It doesn’t happen often, I said. Look, we’d really better make these cards, the day is nearly over – I’ll put on some nice music now to help you all concentrate, will I?”

  As the sound of whale song filled the classroom, we set about making our cards and Ms Brown flopped down on her chair, shaking her head.

  Linda nudged me. “Sorcha will be going on the Blacklist if she’s not careful,” she whispered.

  I giggled. The Blacklist was where we put people who bothered us – Mrs Mulligan got put on there when she rapped me on the knuckles with her ruler for accidentally dropping my pencil on the floor, and Nigel was on it for telling on us when we faked a collision in yard to get out of P.E. The Blacklist was serious – once you were on it, you couldn’t get off. It wasn’t just in our heads either – there was an actual written-down list in a notebook we kept hidden in our den in my garden. Linda and Jamie were worried about mice and rats eating the notebook and the biscuits we sometimes kept there too, but I told them as long as we kept everything in a tin box, they’d be okay. We had wool and candles and a big scissors in there too, from the time we were thinking of making voodoo dolls. We decided not to in the end – the den was supposed to be a good place. Linda said she wished she lived in an old cottage like mine, with a big garden and a den, but sometimes I was jealous of her smart shiny house in the new housing estate on the way into the village.

  Anyway, the Blacklist wasn’t quite black – the notebook we used was dark purple – but it was as real as it could be. We weren’t going to do anything to the people on the list, not in real life, but on bad days it was fun imagining. Like today.

  At home that evening, when my dad was reading the paper after dinner, I sat down beside him on the couch and picked up the photo of my mum and him. When he saw what was in my hand, he put down the paper. He didn’t like talking about my mum, but I needed to know.

  “Dad, in school today people were saying you can’t die in your sleep. Is that what happened though?”

  At first he didn’t answer. Then he took my hand in his.

  “That’s what happened, love. Your mother fell asleep one night on her holidays in Denmark, and she didn’t wake up.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to decide if this was good or not good.

  “But it’s very, very unusual,” he said. “It almost never happens. Your mother was very unlucky.” His voice cracked in a funny way as he said the last bit. He cleared his throat. “Now, let’s have a look at those spellings, will we? Test tomorrow?”

  Later that night, long after my dad had turned out my light, I switched off my torch and closed my book. I needed a drink of water, but Dad would know I’d been reading under the covers if he caught me. Maybe he was already in bed. I looked at the crack between my bedroom door and the living room – no chink of light. Quietly, I opened my bedroom door. But something stopped me. A sound, coming from my father’s bedroom. Worried now, I tiptoed across the living room to his door and put my hand on the handle. I stopped to listen. At first I couldn’t work out what it was. Then I knew. He was crying. My dad was in his bedroom, crying. I stood for a moment, wondering if I should go in. But I didn’t know what to say. So I tiptoed back across the floor to my own bedroom and climbed under the covers, wondering about Denmark and dying in your sleep.

  CHAPTER 13

  2018

  I looked at the window, fresh black sacks tightly pinned, and wondered if I’d hear him. I don’t want to hear him. I glanced at the shotgun, leaning against the wardrobe. There was no way I’d use it. But if he tried to get into the house, I’d have something to scare him off. In theory. The idea of actually picking it up and facing him made me feel shivery and sick.

  The heating was on full blast but even with two blankets over my knees, it was still cold. I considered getting into bed for warmth – but then I might fall asleep. The chair, an old pintuck reading chair my granddad used to own, was just uncomfortable enough to keep me awake.

  I turned back to my book, my eyes flitting uneasily over the words on my Kindle screen. A book on the Green River Killer – not the best choice for a night-time vigil.

  At midnight, I felt myself nodding off and got up to make coffee. The kitchen was quiet and shadowy, the glow of the snow casting an eerie pink dusk through the window. I reached to close the old roller blind, creaky from lack of use. The coffee machine took an age to heat up and, when I pressed the button to fill my cup, the volume of noise made me jump. It never sounded so loud during the day. I willed it to hurry, as the sound drowned out everything else – everything that was probably nothing, I reassured myself.

  Back in my bedroom, I tucked my feet under me and started to read again, the hot coffee welcome and unfamiliar at this time of night. The black sack over the window rustled, and my head snapped up. It rustled again – just a breeze sneaking through the old window frame. I got up to pin it tighter, and sat back down to scroll through my Kindle for something – anything – that wasn’t about serial killers. But everything I’d bought recently was true crime – the Boston Strangler, the Zodiac Killer, and a particularly gruesome book on the BTK Killer. Why do you read such awful books? Ray used to say, I can recommend dozens of wonderful novels to you, and yet you’re stuck on this trash.

  By “wonderful”, he meant novels like his; his early self-deprecation soon exposed itself as faux humility. With Ray, there was no room for grey – it was all black or white. You either liked good books, or trashy books – almost everything to him was in the latter category. Right now, I could have done with one of his so-called good books or indeed a trashy book – something upbeat that didn’t involve decapitation and dismemberment. I searched for a book Linda had been talking about last time we spoke – something touching about a single woman who lived on her own and never saw anyone at the weekend, Linda said, and I had wondered if she was referring to my own status. I had found the book and bought it.

  Two chapters in, my eyelids began to droop. Falling, falling, snapping open. Over and over. A little sleep might be okay. Eyes closed, staying closed this time. Seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into I don’t know how long. That’s when it came. Jolting me awake.

  Firm, deliberate, loud in the silence. And far too close to where I sat.

  A knock on the glass. He was at my bedroom window.

  CHAPTER 14

  My eyes snapped open, wide awake now. I sat up, straight as a pitchfork, white noise roaring in my ears. Staring at the window. Rigid. Paralysed. Fuck. Fuck.

  Silence.

  Did I imagine it?

  As soon as the though
t formed, it came again.

  Three times. Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Slow.

  Deliberate.

  Not banging, not urgent. This was no neighbour calling for help, no driver of a broken-down car. This was for me.

  On the other side of the room, the shotgun leaned against the wardrobe, mocking me. What had I thought I was I going to do – pick it up and walk outside and challenge whoever was there? I could hardly breathe, let alone move. I stayed in the chair, staring at the window. Forcing myself to listen. Waiting. For a million years. Then a rustling. A crunch. The crunch of snow underfoot. Footsteps through snow, walking away.

  Please let him be walking away.

  No noise now for the longest time, but still I couldn’t move. My hands frozen to the sides of the chair. My eyes fixed on the window. At some point, my Kindle slipped off my knee and skated along the blanket, down to the bedroom floor, the clatter loud in the otherwise silence. Still I didn’t move.

  Shards of grey filtered through the side of the window, prodding me awake. It took a moment to understand why I was asleep upright in a chair, then with a sick feeling I remembered the vigil. And the knocking.

  Pushing the blankets off my legs, I stood, my knees and shoulders stiff and sore. At the window, my hand shaking, I reached out to undo the thumbtacks holding my makeshift cover in place, but stopped. Daylight now and he was long gone. He wouldn’t be there. He couldn’t be. But still. What if he was?

  I stepped back and walked through to the living-room window instead, and pushed the curtain a fraction of an inch to one side. Nobody. I stepped away and let out a long breath. Could I have imagined the knocking – had I fallen asleep and dreamed it, my head full of footprints and stalkers and the Green River Killer?