Midnight (9 page)

‘Are you ready to talk with me, Jack?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you tell your teachers about the dreams?’

There was a tense moment, and then Jack’s voice, firm and decisive: ‘No! I never told them anything.’ He remembered something, though. ‘Once, when we had a drawing lesson, I made a picture of my nightmare. The teacher was angry with me. She made me stand up in class, while she showed my picture to the other children. She said my picture was nonsense, that I had not been listening to her, and that I would have to stay behind and draw another picture – one that made sense. The other children teased me about that – but not Libby. She was my friend.

‘Jack?’

‘Yes?’

‘What else did your teacher say about the drawing?’

‘She said I had bad things in my head. She tore the drawing up, and the children laughed at me.’

‘So . . . the teacher asked you to draw a particular thing, and you drew your nightmare instead. Why did you do that, Jack? Were you really asking for her help, do you think?’

‘I wanted her to see, that’s all. But she called my mother in and made a big fuss.’ As he went deeper into the past, Jack’s voice became more childlike.

‘In what way did she make a fuss?’

‘She said the drawing was disturbing, and that I was disobedient.’ He gave a knowing smile. ‘I think my drawing frightened her.’

‘And what did your mother say?’

‘She said I ought to listen to the teacher in future, and not draw rubbish stuff.’

‘Did you ever draw like that again, either at school or at home?’

‘Never!’

‘So, what else did your mother say . . . about the drawing you did, and why the teacher was so very angry?’

‘When we got home, she kept asking me what the drawing was. When I said I didn’t know, she got into a rage, yelling and screaming, demanding to know what it was that I’d drawn, why I had drawn it, and if it really was like the teacher said. She demanded to know where I had seen such a place as the teacher described. She said I’d better get these bad things out of my head, or they might have to put me in a home.’

‘Did she tell your father?’

‘I think so, ’cause later on I had to see the school psychologist. But I never told him the truth.’

‘Did you ever talk to anyone else about the nightmares?’

‘Only Libby, just once. She said I should just forget about it, that it wasn’t real.’

‘Was that a hard thing to do, Jack? Keeping it to yourself?’

‘Very hard, yes.’

‘Tell me about Libby.’

‘She lived near us on Bower Street.’ Jack’s face broke into a smile. ‘She was very pretty, and she was good-natured. All the boys liked her but she wasn’t interested in them. She preferred to hang out with me. She was a tomboy. I think that’s why everyone liked her. She could play football, and run like the wind. She climbed trees and swung from the branches, like a monkey.’

He gave a small chuckle, ‘Libby was fun. She made me laugh. Sometimes, she even made me forget the bad things.’

‘But you never again spoke to her about the bad things?’

‘She didn’t want me to.’

‘And you never told anyone else?’

‘Never!’

‘Was that because you thought they wouldn’t believe you?’

‘I didn’t want the other kids to think I was weird.’

Mr Howard opened the top drawer of the desk, from where he collected a larger writing-pad.

‘You’re doing very, very well, Jack,’ he said, his voice warm and encouraging. ‘Now, just let yourself go back, to when you were inside the dream. My voice will go with you. I’ll be with you, every step of the way . . . Now, Jack, I want you to tell me how you feel . . . what you see. Describe the scene Jack.’

Jack let the other man’s voice lap over him, invasive yet hypnotic, and incredibly comforting. ‘Tell me where you are back there, Jack,’ the voice continued. ‘When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting to bring you home. But first, you need to tell me
everything
.’

For a long moment the silence was palpable. There, in that dim, quiet room, nothing else existed for Jack except what was happening in his mind at that moment. He felt his arms grow heavy, sensed himself going even further back in time, before his school-days, back to the source of his fear. Yet this time, he was not so afraid. This time, he had someone with him. This time, they would see. They would know what he knew.

Still in his boyish tones, he described his surroundings. ‘There’s a window, high up. I can’t reach.’ He raised an arm to indicate the window. ‘The skies are black. There’s a big, golden moon, but there’s no light. It just hangs there, like a shiny ball.’ He caught his breath in fear. ‘Oh, look! Something else is here.’ Pressing into the chair, he curled up and began to cry. ‘Go away! Leave me alone!’

‘Who else is there, Jack?’ Mr Howard was drawing feverishly, his voice was calm, authoritative but ready to call a halt if need be.

‘They’re looking at me
!’ His voice shook with terror.
‘They’re looking at me
!’

Like a child in pain, he called out, over and over: ‘
Mummy
!’ He was trapped here . . . there was no way out. ‘
I want my mummy
!’ The eyes had seen him. They had seen him – and now his cries heightened to hysteria.

‘Jack!’ The voice was firmer now, insistent. ‘I’m going to count from three to one, and when I reach one, you’ll be back in this room with me, safe and sound. So here we go: three . . . two . . . one. Now open your eyes.’

Jack clung onto the hand that now reached out. But the shock, the fear, was like a living thing inside him.

It took a while for Jack to realise he was back. Even when he opened his eyes and saw that he was safe, the relief was not instant. He felt heavy inside, as though someone, or something, was holding him back.

‘It’s all right, Jack.’ The same easy voice that had brought him back spoke again. ‘Take another minute now, Jack. Just relax.’

The curtains were opened to let in more light, as Jack told Mr Howard about the eyes watching him. And the awful feeling that he was in danger.

The two doctors listened intently as he explained where he had been and the things he had witnessed. ‘Same as always,’ he told them. ‘It was like before, but today I felt as if there was someone else there – someone gentle who did not wish me harm . . .’ He then fell silent, and Mr Howard wisely did not press him further.

After a while, because he thought Jack had endured enough for today, Mr Howard rang his assistant for some coffee and biscuits. A few moments later, while the other two men enjoyed the refreshments, Jack himself had no appetite. All he wanted was to get as far away from there as possible.

‘You did well, Jack.’ His GP had been fascinated by the session, although at times he felt out of his depth.

His colleague was satisfied with the way things had progressed. ‘It was an excellent beginning,’ he declared, sipping his coffee.

Drained and nervous, Jack listened to what he had to say.

Mr Howard began pacing the floor. ‘Fascinating!’ He said it twice. ‘A first session is usually a probing experiment, but this one was very graphic. Very telling.’

‘In what way?’ Jack was sceptical, yet in the strangest way, he believed Mr Howard understood.

‘You gave an amazingly vivid indication of what you were actually feeling. Now, Jack, I’m going to ask you a very important question. Think before you answer.’

Jack was instantly afraid. ‘What kind of “question”?’

‘During any of your nightmares, can you ever remember calling out for your mother?’

Jack was surprised by the question. ‘No, never!’ He was certain of it. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because today, in the midst of describing what you saw, you became extremely distressed and you called out for your mother. You began to panic and cried out for “Mummy”, just as a very young child in trouble would do. Are you sure you don’t recall ever doing that before?’

Intrigued, Jack cast his mind back. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember thinking about my mother. All I ever wanted was to be out of there.’ He was struggling to understand the other man’s thinking. ‘What does it all mean, exactly? What are you getting at?’

‘I’m not saying this
is
the case,’ Howard cautioned, ‘but there is a distinct possibility that this time, you regressed back to when this all began. You told me beforehand that you could not be certain when it all started, but that you had suffered the nightmares for as long as you could remember.’

The psychiatrist started to pace around the small room as he outlined his thoughts. ‘It’s early days yet, and we must not get ahead of ourselves. By the same token, we also need to consider every possibility if we’re to help rid you of these distressing images. Now, let us suppose that a traumatic event
really did
happen to you, in your early infancy – that, as I am beginning to suspect, your nightmares are
not
a figment of the imagin ation, but result from an
actual experience
.’

‘What?! How can that be?’ Jack could not accept such a shocking idea. ‘It’s too awful! If something like that had actually happened to me, I would remember it, surely?’

‘Not if you were a small child. Not if the shock was too traumatic for you to cope with. I understand your anxiety, Jack, and as I mentioned before, I could be wrong, so now, let’s take time to clearly analyse the facts as we have them.’

Unlike Jack, he was convinced that he had hit on a shocking truth. ‘Firstly, you described the images, which appear to be consistent in every case. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘In each and every case, you’re trapped and afraid. Eyes are watching you. Someone is there – you can sense their presence. You desperately need to get out of that place, but you are physically unable to do it – am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, maybe the reason you can’t get out is because you’re too small and helpless.’

‘We don’t know that! I mean – I didn’t
feel
like a small child.’

‘But you were desperate to get out, and for some reason you couldn’t. All right, let’s look at it another way. Were you aware of your hands being tied? Or of being secured to anything, in any way?’

Jack had never dwelt on anything like that before, but he now concentrated his mind. ‘I’m reaching up and shifting about, so no – I don’t feel as though I’m restricted.’ Unwillingly, he felt himself drifting back. ‘But I can’t get away.
I can’t get out!
’

‘Jack, can you give some quiet thought to what I’m saying? I believe we can assume that at least one of the reasons why you could not get yourself out of that place, was that you were a small child. Maybe you were too little to find your way back to safety. So you did the one thing you were able to do. You cried out, calling for your mummy to help you. The fact that you were able to speak suggests you were at least two years old, maybe three.’

Jack had to admit that the explanations made sense. Yet he was deeply disturbed by these new revelations. If he had been a small child at the time, what on earth was he doing in that hellish place?

There had been someone else there – he knew that now. So who was it? Did they help him? He couldn’t remember. The idea that someone, for whatever reason might have taken him to such a terrifying place was too shocking.

‘I don’t understand!’ He clambered out of the chair. ‘No one would put a small child in such a position. I can’t believe that!’

When his confusion threatened to erupt into anger, Mr Howard spoke calmly. ‘Like I said, Jack, this is just one suggestion. Nothing can be ruled in or out at this stage. But we have to discuss every aspect as we go along. Only that way, can we uncover the truth.’

Jack took a moment to digest what had been said. ‘So, what you’re saying is, these nightmares could be happening for any number of reasons. The idea of me being a child in a real situation is just one possibility. On the other hand, they may simply be a figment of my imagination.’

‘That’s exactly right. Our understanding of dreams is very limited. They are, in the main, a condition of the subconscious. The reasons for regular nightmares such as your own are many, and what we’re doing with you now is simply delving. Searching for the source of your own particular torment. Pausing, he then continued sincerely, ‘Like it or not, we owe it to you to consider the possibility that your nightmare could stem from a real episode.’

Jack had a question: ‘If I can remember everything else, why can’t I remember calling out for my mother?’

‘Mmm.’ Mr Howard weighed his words carefully as he went on: ‘Maybe the stronger memories, such as the images, and the terror you experienced, shut out everything else. The cry for help was as natural as the images were unnatural. All these years, you retained the memories of actual images, the physical impact on your senses, such as the darkness and the watchful eyes. These were the source of your torment. Your cry for help, however, was intuitive. You felt no need to retain it within yourself.’

‘So, what happens next?’ Jack felt tired. Beaten. More than that, he was afraid of the unknown. Especially now.

In truth, he was already regretting having agreed to come here, and now all he wanted was to get away and never come back.

Molly was wrong. This had not helped. All it had done was to shatter his confidence even more.

A short time later, having said his goodbyes, Jack hurried off in the direction of the car park, while behind in the office, Mr Howard examined the drawings he’d made. And the more he studied that dark, intimidating place, the more he began to fear Jack’s sanity.

On passing a builders’ skip, Jack paused to take the new appointment card from his jacket pocket, tore it into small pieces, and threw it into the skip. ‘I won’t be needing
that
!’ he muttered. In spite of the doctors reassurances it was impossible for him to accept even the remotest possibility that the nightmares might not be a dream after all, but based on a
real
experience.

Now, because of the confusion in his mind, and the awful implications of what the psychiatrist had said, he was deeply insecure, and his fears were tenfold.