Sleepwalkers Read online

  CONTENTS

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  Also Available

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by

  Quercus

  55 Baker Street

  7th Floor, South Block

  London W1U 8EW

  Copyright © 2012 Tom Grieves

  The moral right of Tom Grieves to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  EBOOK ISBN 978 0 85738 982 4

  HB ISBN 978 0 85738 980 0

  TPB ISBN 978 0 85738 981 7

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  You can find this and many other great books at:

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Tom Grieves has worked in television as a script editor, producer and executive producer, as well as a writer. Sleepwalkers is his first novel. He lives in Sussex.

  For Ceetah. Always Ceetah

  ONE

  Blink. Keep your eyes open. Blink. That’s it, don’t go back to sleep, not yet.

  I’m staring up at the ceiling in the middle of the night cos I’ve just had a nightmare. I get them all the time, to be honest, but they can really get to me and I know that if I try to go to sleep now then I’ll just let the bloody thing back in. So I need to stay awake, just remind myself where I am, distract my brain, get the nightmare out of the system and then I’ll be okay.

  A car passes outside and the noise is rough and reassuring. I roll over and look at Carrie who’s fast asleep. Her mouth’s open and she’s snoring. It makes me smile. But then the boy in my head cries out again.

  In my dream there was this boy, you see. They’d tied him down to a bed and he was struggling, trying to get up, screaming louder and louder.

  I sit up. Stop thinking about it, you idiot, it’s always like this. I’ve learned to shove the memories away and I know this one will go too, in a bit, but right now it’s so fresh. The way he looked at me, the way his eyes pleaded, like I was the only one who could help him.

  I pull the covers off, making sure I don’t wake Carrie, and slip out of the bed. She rolls over with a groan but she’s gone, I can tell. I pad out of the bedroom. My clothes are just where I left them, grubby jeans on the battered armchair (ripped to shreds by the old cat) and pants and the rest on the floor by the door. I walk past them into the passage, past the stain where Carrie dropped the bottle of red wine when she was off her face. Fuck me, that was funny. Keep on walking. I feel better now I’m up.

  Next to us is Joe’s room. Our first. He’s asleep inside and I can hear his short, quick breaths. A nightlight glows gentle greens and blues and a leg dangles out from under the sheets. There are toys scattered all over the floor. Next door to him is Emma. Her tiny face is buried in a pillow and the dummy she needs to get her to sleep has fallen under her chin. I go and sit on the edge of the bed. I could watch her forever, sit here all night, the way some people will stare into a fire. At the end of her bed is a shed-load of stuffed animals. Right now it’s a camel that’s her favourite. She’s named him Dooley and he’s clutched tight under her arm.

  That boy. Screaming and panicking.

  ‘It’s alright, son, it’s alright,’ I said, trying to calm him down. But I was scared too. I was scared because I thought the way he was acting would cause trouble. ‘Just close your eyes and it’ll all go away.’ Why would I say that? And then I remember that I was tied down too. I was in the bed next to him, tied down, and I was as scared as he was. ‘Please, kid, shut up,’ I begged him. And then I could hear people walking towards us and I looked up and the lighting was so bright and—

  Stop thinking about it, you moron. Look at your gorgeous four-soon-to-be-five-year-old daughter. Look at where you are.

  For some reason I check my wrists where the restraints were – well, would have been. Of course there’s nothing, but I needed to check. I told you, these nightmares get to me. I budge along the bed and get close up to Emma and slip my index finger into her closed hand and she instinctively grips it tightly. I stroke her blonde locks with my other hand and then gently pull myself away. I go into Joe’s room, slip his leg back under the covers and then head back for our bed. But as I come into the passage I see that I’ve woken Carrie, and now she’s standing by our bedroom door, crumpled, hair all over the place, looking at me with her wonderful ‘what the fuck?’ face on.

  ‘Nightmare,’ I say.

  She nods, used to it. She holds out a hand – come back to bed – and I take it. We snuggle back into each other, the covers pulled right over our heads, and soon Carrie’s breathing deeply again. She falls asleep so easily, always. Once, I was trying to explain something – can’t remember what – about being stressed or something. Anyway, I was saying to her about that feeling when you get into bed and you know you won’t be able to get to sleep no matter what, and she looked at me as though I’d been down the pub with the boys again. And I pushed her about this and she said she just gets into bed, puts her head on the pillow and goes to sleep. Always.

  Isn’t that incredible? I can toss and turn for half the bloody night. Lucky cow.

  Soon it’s too hot and airless and I have to pull the covers back down from over our faces. She’s snoring again – really light, nothing gross – and I laugh quietly, half hoping I’m going to wake her, but she’s so deep in it now it’d take an army. For a moment my brain lets the boy back in so I have to stare at the ceiling and push him away. I think back to the time when Carrie first led me in here, pulling me by the hand, so excited. There was a crack in the ceiling and the window sills were rotting but she couldn’t be talked down. It’s perfect. She squeezed my hand tight with her tiny fingers, trying not to let the estate agent see just how keen she was and whispered in my ear, ‘We’ll make babies in here. I know it. We will, we will.’

  How could I deny her? Suddenly I was a part of something grown-up, something real and permanent. A family. It’s something you imagine, but when it becomes real it’s … it’s … I don’t know. I’m no good with words. Too simple. But we bought it and now there is no crack in the bedroom ceiling. And the colour swabs that she painted in neat, organised squares are gone too. And now the kids are growing and the house is fraying in places and life is good.

  Carrie rolls over and throws an arm over me, holding me down. Just like she did when we were in Greece that time, ages ago, long before all of this. We went to sleep in the sun, drunk on t
he wine in the middle of the day, and woke up shivering and burnt. We spent the next three days holed up in our tiny villa, scared of the sun. I remember finally opening the shuttered windows – a lizard sped away – and we looked out together at that fantastic view. Below was a small harbour, white fishing boats moored in the bay and a sea so blue and calm. She had laid her head against my chest.

  ‘Let’s come back here every year,’ she said. ‘Make it a tradition. I want us to have loads and loads of traditions.’

  We never did go back, but that’s not so bad. We’re happy and the memory feels special for it. I remember the way the leaves moved in the breeze and when I moaned about my sunburn she laughed at me and slapped me so hard on my arm I thought the bloody skin would peel off right then and there.

  ‘Wanna see my marks?’ she said, and suddenly she was doing this crazy striptease on the bed, her legs all wobbly on the uneven mattress. She was singing that pop tune that was on the radio all summer and she was singing it so badly and we were both laughing. Red skin, pink knickers.

  She fell asleep afterwards, her hot arm pinning me down, just the same as now, and she dribbled on my shoulder. I realise that the boy in my dream has gone and I can close my eyes. Pink knickers and dribble. What a girl.

  *

  Joe’s always had his mother’s balls and attitude, which makes me laugh and drives her up the wall. He’s just got ants in his pants, that’s the thing. It never bothers me really, but keeping him still or getting him to concentrate on anything for more than five seconds can do your head in. Right now, I’m having to push him back against the wall, hold him by the shoulders so he’s in place. Stand still. I pull the pencil from behind my ear and draw a line against the wall. He turns, excited, sees how much he’s grown.

  ‘Mate, if you’d eaten your broccoli, you’d be a giant by now,’ I tell him.

  ‘Yeah, like if you eat carrots, you can see in the dark. Nice one, Dad.’ Eight years old and he’s already a teenager.

  Now it’s Emma’s turn. She’s only grown the tiniest bit, so I fake it on the board and she rewards me with a sneaky grin. I look at the wall, see the uneven chart of my children’s growth. Different colours, different times. I see one, Joe – three years before – remember him trying to stand on tiptoe to cheat the height. We had four different pencil lines in one day. Chose the smallest one as a jokey punishment. Laughing, I remind him of this.

  ‘I don’t remember that.’

  ‘Sure you do. It was hilarious. Your mum had tears down her face. You were stood just there, all grumpy, arms crossed.’

  He stares at me with a James Dean sneer. ‘How old was I?’

  ‘Five’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Yeah, you were five; it’s this one here.’ I point to the mark. ‘And then you went upstairs in a hissy fit and came down in your footy boots cos you thought the studs would make you taller.’

  He just shrugs. Does he really not remember at all? I try to remember other details to spark it for him. But nothing comes. The memory feels isolated from everything else. The kids stare at me as I stumble for something more. I’m trying to pull something from the back of my mind, but now everything’s gone and got confused. The kids are staring at me like I’m mental but there’s something, there’s something I can’t … just … can’t …

  ‘Hi, honey.’ Carrie hurries into the kitchen just as the phone rings. I answer it and someone’s talking in my ear, someone I don’t know but someone I like. I’m thinking this is odd, why do I like them when I don’t know who it is? I’m wondering about this but I answer the questions anyway and now I’m a bit hazy. Everything feels so warm and happy and it’s like this cloud’s coming down and …

  *

  I wake up with the feeling I’m late for something. A bit of a start, a jolt. I sit up and wince because my back’s so stiff. I’m sure I’ve got scratches down it, I can’t really see them properly but it hurts like hell. It’s like that all day. Work at the garage was a nightmare. I seemed to be bumping into things all the time and now I’m home I just want a hot bath and a long sleep. Carrie says I’m being a drama queen. It was rugby training last night, season starts in two weeks and I’m always like this, she says. I guess she’s right. The ground’s still hard from the summer and you always get a bit scuffed up before the autumn sets in properly. I’m part of a veterans’ team and we’re all trying to pretend we’re still twenty by training too hard. Half the blokes are really posh but they’re alright, as it goes.

  The papers didn’t turn up and I was going to pop around to the late-night supermarket to get one, but she talked me out of it. I’m so pooped, I could hardly be bothered anyway. And it’s not just my body. Sometimes, like today, my head feels like a fog. There are figures moving about, just beyond reach, and whenever I go towards them, they’re gone.

  I slump onto the sofa and look down at my arm. Bruises are starting to colour under the swelling. I switch on the TV. The news is on, but the volume’s down to zero for some reason. As I turn it up, Carrie comes behind me, kisses me and whips the remote from my hand, turning it off.

  ‘I’m going to give up the rugby,’ I tell her. ‘I’m bloody aching all over.’

  ‘But you love it. You’re always moaning at the start of the season, but in a couple of weeks you’ll be doing all those stupid strong-man poses and talking about – what was it last year? – pop passes, and showing them the inside and all that shit.’

  ‘Right.’ I try to remember. There’s that fog again. Something tells me she’s probably right.

  ‘And you’ve got your mates there. You won’t feel like you’ve deserved ten pints and a fat burger unless you’ve sweated and grunted with Mac and Jonno.’

  Mac and Jonno. Two laughing faces spring into my mind. I seem to have played rugby with those two forever. But oddly I can’t remember them as younger men. Only as they are now.

  Carrie must have seen my frown; she flicks my ear playfully.

  ‘Oi! That hurts!’

  ‘Maybe you should give up the rugby. I mean, if you can get your arse whipped by a girl, then you’re no use to your mates.’

  ‘You? Whip my arse?’

  ‘Come on, big man, show me what you’re made of.’

  And suddenly we’re racing to the bedroom, laughing. She’s pulling off her clothes as she runs. I’m up on my feet – God, my bloody back – hurrying after her with a low, happy growl. As we run, we pass the kitchen and I see the lines I drew to show the kids’ height, and there’s something about this that slows me for a second. I stop. Something I’m meant to remember.

  ‘Oi, fatty! Are you out of breath already or did you stop for some chocolate?’

  Cheeky cow. I run upstairs and the sound of my heavy feet on the stairs has her screaming and laughing.

  ‘Watch out, honey. Here I come, ten tonnes of fun!’

  *

  When I was five years old, my mother decided to teach me the piano. Not seriously, not like some Chinese prodigy, and my hands were too small anyhow, but she wanted me to be good at music. Said it was important, a ‘life skill’. Those were the words. So she would sit me down on the piano stool next to her and she’d play a scale with my hand on top of hers so I could feel her fingers pressing down on each key. And also it’d look like it was me that was playing. I remember being scared that I’d fall backwards, so she’d snuggle up tight and wrap an arm around me, nuzzling her soft cheek against mine. We’d do it again and again and then she’d tell me to try it myself, showing me how to slip my thumb under my third finger to complete the scale. We’d do it over and over, and in the end I could do it properly. She kissed me and clapped, and I felt like a prince.

  We’ve got a piano. It sits, lid down, near the back door. We thought it would go in the lounge but the passage was too narrow and we couldn’t get it in. I got home a little earlier than planned today – work at the garage sometimes pans out that way. Anyhow, I get home, and normally I’d go straight upstairs and have a shower to ge
t the grease and dirt off me, but coming in I see the piano and I remember my mum. She’s dead now, long gone. And I’m looking at the piano and the house is well quiet. It’s weird actually because normally our place is like Beirut. I lift the lid and look down at the keys, then place my heavy fingers on the notes, trying to play a scale. But the notes won’t obey my fingers and I’m too clumsy. I try to play a simple tune that we learned together, but can’t get anywhere near it. It all sounds awful. What a dick I am. I’ve thrown away a talent. Mum’d be furious.

  I’m about to sit down and have a real proper go when the family pours in through the back door, a bundle of shiny coats, wellies and shopping bags. Joe’s screaming because Emma’s scratching at him, red-faced with fury about something. I run to them, pull them apart, listen to their contradictory accusations as Carrie staggers in with the last of the shopping.

  Once I’ve calmed down the kids by putting on the telly, I look back at the piano. The house is too noisy now and I feel bashful. I shut the piano lid. I should just stick to the things I’m good at, I guess. Maybe I could practise when no one’s around, make a surprise of it for Carrie. Learn a tune then sing and play it for her birthday.

  I like this, and the idea makes me turn to look at Carrie. I’m surprised to see that she’s watching me. I smile. She smiles back. But I find myself turning away from her, as though there is a secret in me that I need to protect. And somewhere deep inside me a man shouts something that I can’t hear, but I know that it’s important. The shout echoes inside me like it’s bouncing off white stone cavernous walls, and I imagine sand and sun and a glaring blue sky. I look back and Carrie’s now elbow-deep in shopping bags, emptying their contents onto the counter-top. Jesus, no wonder she calls me ‘Dream Boy’ sometimes. I walk over, grab the bleach and put it in the cupboard where it should be, put everything in the right place.

  *

  ‘If you hold his head under for long enough, he’ll soon start blabbing. Just make sure you don’t kill him cos that’s a real shitter.’ We both laugh. ‘Go on,’ he encourages me. I look at his arm – see the tattoo of an eagle wrapped in flames. ‘Go on.’ His voice is harder now. ‘Don’t be a pussy.’