Sleepwalkers Read online

  There’s a young lad lying on the floor. He’s no more than fifteen and he’s been beaten badly. Some of his dark hair is stuck to the congealed blood on his face. He stares up at me, starts to beg in a language I don’t understand. And I start laughing. Stamp my boots onto his delicate fingers. I hear the crunch as a bone breaks—

  And I wake up.

  Carrie’s asleep next to me and Joe’s sneaked in on the other side. Neither wakes. I don’t move. I just lie there. But this time I don’t try to think the dream away. Because I have dreamed this before. Not the same dream, but earlier, when I led this poor boy into the room, told him he’d be okay. Before I smashed his face in. I raise my hand up in the darkened room. Clench it into a fist. Try to imagine hitting him. The dream tells me I can. My head disagrees.

  I slip my hand back under the covers. Joe sighs. A dream of his own.

  *

  Maybe I should see someone.

  I’m sitting in the tiny upstairs boxroom where I sort the bills and stuff. We’ve got an old computer on a three-legged table while the rest of the room is stuffed full with junk. A red bill sits in front of me. I ignore it, and instead type ‘dreams’ into google. But there are too many sites, and nothing seems to relate to me.

  Carrie pops her head around the door, comes in and starts to massage my shoulders, distracts me. Normally I love it.

  ‘I think I should see a doctor.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘My nightmares.’

  ‘Oh, hon.’

  Her fingers continue to push and probe.

  ‘Or maybe a psychiatrist. You know, all that stuff about—’

  ‘Wanting to fuck your mother?’

  ‘No I don’t, I … be serious.’

  ‘I am.’

  A thumb digs around my collar bone.

  ‘If my brain is, you know, so busy with all this shit then maybe it needs sorting out.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And I’m fed up with them. I keep waking and it’s spooking me out and … can you get off a sec?!’

  She withdraws, stung. ‘You want to be alone?’

  ‘No. Yeah. I don’t know, I just … I don’t know.’

  She looks at me, confused. Her eyes stare into mine, trying to understand what she’s done wrong.

  ‘I just want you to take this seriously.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘No, you’re sympathetic, but this is really … it’s a mess, my head and I … I … it feels like it’s getting worse.’

  ‘Okay. Well, we’ll go to the doctor. I’ll go with you.’

  ‘No, no, you don’t need—’

  ‘I’m taking you seriously.’

  ‘I’m not … Jesus, I just meant …’

  I don’t know what I meant, but I know I should be doing this alone. Somehow. Carrie shrugs – suit yourself – and leaves. I feel guilty now, but I don’t rush to stop her. I turn back to the computer, click on the internet again. But it won’t connect. The computer’s gone slow. I wait for a moment but it’s like the fucker’s on strike.

  Irritated, I go out onto the landing. We have this wall where we hang our favourite pictures in gaudy frames. There must be nearly a hundred now. Carrie calls it our Wonder Wall. I stare at them – stare at a collage of my life. In every photograph, we are smiling.

  Carrie is there again. She looks at me – waiting for it.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Not enough.

  ‘I’m a tit. But I’m not sleeping so I’m a tired tit and that’s … that’s my excuse.’

  She can’t help but let a little laugh slip out. I put my arm around her.

  ‘I’ll book an appointment with the doctor and you come if you’d like. I don’t mean, like you shouldn’t or couldn’t or anything, I just …’

  ‘You’re just a tired tit.’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘It’s almost poetic.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got hidden depths.’

  We walk back to the bedroom. She has an arm around me, almost guiding me to sleep.

  *

  Work’s been a pisser so I’ve had to cancel my doctor’s appointment twice now and the woman on the phone was a bit shirty. But I’ve been sleeping better recently and now I think maybe I made too much of it. I’m a bit embarrassed I made such a fuss, to tell you the truth.

  Right now, I’m watching Joe play a footy game at his school. It’s the middle of the afternoon so there’s only one other dad. The rest are all mums who know each other well. They stand in a group further down, chatting and cheering happily. The other dad and I share a smile, but that’s as far as our contact gets. I prefer it like this. I’ve always been a bit of a loner. I like people, for sure, but – I don’t know – I guess I’m a bit shy and I don’t mind being alone.

  Joe’s a spindly lad, a streak of piss, and he stands awkwardly away from the action, cold and unhappy. The ref is also the games teacher and he shouts over at him: get stuck in!

  Joe runs towards the ball, but it’s gone before he gets near it and he stops, looks around, rubs his hands on his shorts. He glances at me. I give him a cheery smile and a thumbsup. Even I feel a bit pathetic. He shuffles on towards the action.

  ‘That your boy?’ It’s the other dad. A gruff, shortish man. His jeans are paint-splattered from work. I nod, a little ruefully. A smile.

  ‘He’s shit, eh?’

  I look at him. He’s got a way about him that tells me he likes rubbing people up. I look back at the game. Gruff Man starts screaming encouragement to his son. I watch the boy for a moment – he’s annoyingly good.

  ‘Come on, Joe, you’re doing great, mate,’ I shout out across the grass.

  ‘If you say so,’ comes the wry reply next to me. I can feel the snide smile but keep my eyes fixed on my son. Joe slips and doesn’t bother to get up. A wind sweeps across the pitch. Man, is it cold.

  Gruff Man shouts more encouragement for his boy and a couple of the other kids. There are three or four boys who like the game and are good at it. Another bunch who are less talented but try hard. And then a few, Joe included, who are there because they’re told to be. I hate this. It reminds me of my childhood. My hands too cold to unlace my boots and the noise of studs on concrete.

  I watch my boy pick himself up, hug himself against the cold and trudge into position as one of his team-mates implores him to make more of an effort. Joe nods, trying to please, but really trying not to be noticed.

  I feel guilty.

  Gruff Man barks away next to me. His son scores a goal. Everyone’s delighted. I join in the applause, but do everything I can not to look at the crowing idiot.

  A whistle blows and I can see the relief on Joe’s face. He wanders around, shaking hands with the opposition with the same bored look that he had during the game.

  The teams head back to the changing rooms. The mothers have knit themselves into a tighter huddle and are laughing like drains. I’m stuck with Gruff Man. I pat my pockets, swear quietly to myself and walk off to the car under the pretence I’ve left my phone there.

  Joe comes out a bit later, showered but still with muddy knees. I laugh and he gives me a grin. I put my arm around him as we walk to the car.

  ‘Football’s a shit game,’ I say as lightly as I can.

  ‘You’re not allowed to swear.’

  ‘Fifty pence in the swearbox. Remind me when we get home. But it is.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s alright, maybe.’

  He’s groaning under the weight of his school bags and I offer to take one but he shakes his head. I notice all the other kids are carrying theirs as well. Fair enough. I walk a little more slowly to the car.

  Inside, I whack the heating up and hand him a chocolate bar. He munches on it gratefully. I want to chat to him, but he’s happy just to be taken home, doesn’t want an inquisition, so I drive off. We pass Gruff with his son. Gruff’s talking animatedly, angry about something. The boy has his head down, not listening. This cheers me up.

  We drive
on in silence for a while. Traffic slows us.

  ‘I hated football when I was your age. Then I grew, and it got easier. I was quite good when I was a bit older.’

  If the encouragement seeps through, Joe doesn’t show it.

  ‘You’re just like me, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve said.’

  I glance at him, see he’s smiling.

  ‘I thought I might buy us a goal, put it in the garden. We could play after school.’

  ‘You’ll break a window.’

  ‘Yeah. Probably trash all the flowers as well.’

  ‘Mum said you’re totally mental about keeping the grass all tidy.’

  ‘I am. Screw it, we’ll ruin the lawn. Who cares?’

  Joe looks at me as though I’ve just crashed the car.

  ‘Yeah, and we’ll wreck the flowers, break windows and probably get mad old Mrs Moore next door foaming at the mouth. And your Mum will kill us. What do you say?’

  A pause. Then a huge grin spreads across his face.

  ‘Yeah. Let’s do it.’

  He laughs, thrilled with his cheek. It’s a laugh that comes from deep in his belly. As we drive home we punch each other when we think the other won’t notice it. He’s laughing so hard at one point I’m worried he’s going to puke the chocolate back up. My boy.

  *

  We’re all singing Happy Birthday. Emma’s dressed in a pink fairy outfit with gigantic wings that make it almost impossible for her to sit at the table. She’s grinning like a good ’un, with chocolate smeared around her mouth. Carrie places the birthday cake down in front of her and our little girl blows all the candles out after four attempts. Then we have to relight them because Joe blew a couple out and Emma started to get teary.

  I hold Joe back so he can’t blow them back again and even though he knows he mustn’t, he leans forward, unable to stop himself. We play a gentle, happy wrestling game to keep him back while Emma huffs and puffs.

  Finally the candles are out. I release Joe who immediately snatches a candle and tries to light it with the box of matches. It’s relentless but it’s funny too. His face is alive with mischief, his eyes wide and excited.

  ‘Come on, get ready,’ says Carrie as she holds the knife above the cake. As the blade cuts through the chocolate we all scream as loud as we can until the knife touches the plate below. To let the Devil out. It’s an old ritual from Carrie’s side of the family. Emma carries on screaming because it’s funny and it’s her birthday. Joe shouts at her to shut up, but they’re both laughing.

  I hide the matches while Joe’s distracted, running my hand along the edge of the countertop. The floor is covered in wrapping paper. While they were at school, I hung up a cheap and rather tacky Happy Birthday sign with sellotape which won’t hold for much longer (and Carrie thinks the sign’s rubbish so I bet she’ll give it a sharp tug when I’m not looking). My hand touches a piece of masking tape which hides the moment when Joe and Emma got ‘creative’ with the cutlery. On one wall is a set of plates with painted baby feet to mark their arrivals. The room’s cramped and the table wobbles unless you stick some cardboard under one of the legs. There are stains on the ceiling from splashy playtimes in the bath.

  Carrie hands me a paper plate with a slice of birthday cake on it.

  ‘Happy Birthday to you, you smell like a poo.’

  ‘Joe,’ we say at the same time, with the same voice.

  And then the phone rings. It’s right next to Carrie, but she seems busy tidying up.

  ‘You want to get that?’ she says, her hands full of wrapping paper.

  ‘It’ll only be your mum, wanting to talk to Emma.’

  ‘So pick it up.’

  I don’t like Carrie’s mum, but since I barely ever see her I can’t really tell you why. So I answer the phone. There’s a pause. Maybe she’s dropped the phone.

  ‘Hello?’ I say. And there’s a voice on the other end that I don’t recognise but for some reason I like. That’s odd. He’s asking me questions and I can’t stop myself from smiling and …

  *

  It’s easy to break into a hotel. There are cameras all over the place, of course, but a hood and a screwdriver are all you need. I slip inside with barely a pause. The room I need is on the fourth floor, but I take the stairs rather than risk the lift.

  The corridor is deserted. It’s an expensive hotel. There are large bouquets of flowers on tables and a scent of lilies in the air. I walk along to the right number: 406. Check my watch, Then pat my back pockets. They’re there. I know they’re there but I pat my pockets to be sure.

  I knock on the door and take a step back.

  I wait, then hear bare feet pad upon carpet towards the door. Then silence. She’s checking through the spyhole right now. Another silence. Then the door opens. Dumb fuck. They always do it, but dumb fuck all the same.

  I move fast. One hand hits her straight in the neck. Shuts her up and knocks her back into the room. The white hotel dressing gown rises up as she falls; she’s naked underneath. We’re inside in a blink and I push the door shut – not too hard, don’t want the door to slam, but firm enough to hear the lock click.

  The woman sits up as I reach behind and pull a small hammer from my back pocket. I slam it hard. Not even a yelp. I’d use the hammer again but I don’t want any blood on the carpet. Those are the orders.

  Her eyes pop open, bulging, staring at me with confusion and panic, as my hands grab her neck. Won’t be much longer.

  She scratches at my hands. Her nails sink deep and draw blood, but it makes no difference. Her legs kick and her thin body writhes. I like her for trying.

  Soon it is over. I wait, check her pulse. Wait another five minutes and check her pulse again to be sure. Done. Then I stand. I must have done it too quickly because it gives me a slight head-rush. I shake it off, go to the door, open it. My man is waiting for me outside.

  We head back in. Time to get her out of here.

  But then my body starts to shake, as though someone has grabbed me by my shoulders. I turn to look at him but he’s just staring down at her on the floor. My whole body shakes and convulses. I feel a moment’s panic. I’m shaking and shaking and …

  *

  I wake up with a jolt. Emma and Joe are shaking me, laughing and screaming. Daylight’s coming in through the window. Although Emma’s in her pyjamas, she’s still got her fairy wings on. She starts bouncing up and down on the bed and, still halfasleep, I imagine she’s flying. I see her blonde hair lit by the sun as it floats and bounces. It’s beautiful.

  And then the pain hits me. Jesus Christ, I feel fucking awful. My head’s crushed, my shoulders ache and my back … oh Lordy, I’m a wreck.

  ‘Oh man …’ I croak.

  And that only excites the kids more. Joe and Emma are jumping and jumping and the cheap, thin mattress isn’t holding out.

  ‘Guys, come on, give an old man a break will you?’

  But they’re just laughing even more. Joe bounces high and hard, then crashes, bottom-first, onto me. Emma screams with laughter. Joe’s wiggling his bum and I know he’s trying to do a fart on my head. Emma’s screaming at him to do it. Do it! I manage to push him off and sit up.

  Christ, my hands …

  I look down at them. They’re scratched. Badly scratched and sore. And I’ve absolutely no idea how this happened.

  And then Joe and Emma come flying on top of me again. I feel my daughter’s soft skin as she wraps her arms around my neck. It’s more of a cuddle than a wrestle, but she wants to be part of the game. Joe’s jumping on me, using his knees to get some sort of reaction. Little bugger.

  A shout from their mother stops them in their tracks. I look up – she’s dressed, a smile on her face despite an attempt at disapproval.

  ‘Come on, you two – breakfast. And you, lazybones, shift your chubby arse.’

  Emma frowns. ‘Is arse a swearword?’

  ‘Not when your mother uses it. Go on downstairs, give your Dad a chance to w
ake up.’

  They scuttle off, obedient as ever. Bloody miracle when I think of some of our friends’ kids. Carrie comes and sits on the bed. She puts a hand on my cheek.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘So, guess where I found you last night?’

  This doesn’t sound good.

  ‘Downstairs, asleep on the sofa, dribble all down your shirt, sat bold upright with Ian Botham’s greatest moments on the DVD.’

  ‘No … oh no …’

  ‘Tragic, fat man. Bloody completely embarrassingly tragic.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  I look back at my hands.

  ‘Hey, you want to play rugby and risk those baby-boy looks, it’s your lookout. I’ve told you enough times.’

  Rugby. Yes, of course! Slugging it out in the mud last night with the guys. Beers afterwards. Gav banging on about his new satnav. Trevor insisting that lager’s full of chemicals and he never gets a hangover with real ale. So he drinks ten pints to prove it and makes us all do the same. And now my head feels as though it’s in a vice. Cheers, Trev.

  ‘Seriously, hon, you need to get up, you’ll be late.’

  ‘I know, I just … I’m knackered. Totally grounded.’

  ‘Pull a sicky.’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘You’re a bit green, babe.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I look at my hands again. The scratches are so fine. They don’t look like stud marks. More like fingernails. I look up. Carrie’s watching me.

  ‘Shift your arse, mister.’

  I sink back into the sheets. They’ve never felt warmer or softer. I peek out at Carrie. The raised eyebrow says it all.

  ‘Okay, I’ll get up in a sec. I will! I’m like a—

  ‘Coiled spring,’ she says, just as I do. We know each other too well. She shakes her head and turns for the door. Then suddenly turns back, grabs the sheets and rips them off the bed. Cold air sweeps over me. I hear her cackle as she canters down the stairs.

  ‘That’s not funny!’

  I sit up, try to shake my head clear. Then look back down at my hands again. I feel stressed about something. My chest’s tight. But I can’t work out why.