Night Shade (4 page)

If the policewoman is taken aback at my sudden desire to have visitors, she doesn’t show it in her voice and merely agrees to come by mid-morning. As soon as I replace the receiver, I’m galvanised into action. I’ve been scouring the internet and I can find no trace of anyone experiencing strange, post-mushroom-eating hallucinations in the last month. At least, not from mainstream, supermarket-aisle mushrooms. So either a policeman or paramedic used an airborne or skin-to-skin contact pathogen to make me dream like that or I am going crazy. Frankly, I am more inclined to believe the latter. I may be agoraphobic and extremely paranoid but that doesn’t mean the emergency services of Great Britain are out to get me. I’m not a complete idiot.

Unfortunately, if I
am
going insane, I have no idea how to deal with it. A doctor might want to take me into hospital for evaluation; I might even be locked up in a psychiatric ward. I don’t think that will help me in the slightest.

At the moment, the easiest thing to do is to eliminate the police from my amateur enquiries. Why did the young policeman pop up out of nowhere in my dream? Is my subconscious telling me something? I just wish it would speak a little more clearly.

I dash upstairs and change, ensuring that I wear a long-sleeved shirt along with a pair of jeans. Officer Sex-In-The-Alley touched my arm yesterday and I was wearing a T-shirt, so he’d connected with my bare skin. It was nothing more than a brief brush – and seemed innocuous enough – but I’m not taking any chances. I even hunt through my underwear drawer to find the long-sleeved gloves I bought for a fancy-dress party. It’ll look weird but, let’s face it, I
am
weird.

Once I’m satisfied with my clothing, I close all the upstairs doors and steel myself to open the ground-floor windows. If I’m not nuts and this thing (whatever it is) is airborne, then I need fresh air to keep everything ventilated.

When the doorbell finally rings, I slowly unbolt each lock. Butterflies squirm in my belly but I manage to squash them. It’s not the two police officers standing on my porch, however, it’s the postman. He’s a regular visitor and is well aware of my foibles but there’s something dark and furtive about him. Still, while I wouldn’t say I feel comfortable when he appears, his presence is not frightening. 

‘Hello, Zoe!’ he says, raising his thin eyebrows. ‘You have a parcel.’ He holds it out and I take it awkwardly, shoving it under my arm.

‘There’s no sign of another letter is there?’ I ask. I’ve been waiting for my annual missive from HMRC. There’s nothing like a tax return for someone who appreciates boredom.

He shakes his head. ‘Sorry.’ He looks like he’s about to say something else but he’s interrupted by a car pulling up next to the oak tree.

We both look at the police car and I notice that his body stiffens. When Officer Sex-In-The-Alley raises a hand in my direction, the postman grins.

‘Been a naughty girl, have we?’ He pats me on the shoulder and winks. I’m annoyed but I try not to show it. You should never let some people know that they’ve annoyed you because they’ll do it more often. I think the postman is one of those.

I mutter something inane and barely notice his departure because I’m focused on the policeman. His uniform looks normal and he’s not carrying anything out of the ordinary. His eyes still look kind. I really must be crazy if I think he’s involved in some intricate plot to send me into a drug-induced dream world and throw water on my hair.

‘Ms Lydon,’ he calls out cheerily. ‘I hope you’re alright?’

His concern seems genuine. I force a smile. ‘Yes.’ Sergeant Rawlins joins him on the path. I look from one to the other. ‘Come in.’

They exchange glances as I step aside. I direct them into the living room but don’t invite them to sit. They do anyway.

‘So, Ms Lydon, we’d normally ask you to make a statement down at the police station but...’

‘But because I’m a loon who refuses to step outside you’ve been kind enough to come and do it here instead,’ I say drily. They both look uncomfortable.

‘Indeed.’ Rawlins laughs awkwardly. ‘We just have a few questions.’ She waves a recorder in my direction. ‘Do you mind?’

I examine the device a little too thoroughly before nodding. ‘Sure.’

‘Have you ever seen the man who collapsed at your door before?’

‘No. As I told your colleague,’ I smile pointedly at Officer Sex-In-The-Alley, ‘sorry, I don’t know your name...’

He looks embarrassed. ‘Hartman. Constable Hartman.’

‘As I told your colleague, Constable Hartman,’ I repeat, ‘I’ve no idea who he was.’ I watch their faces carefully. When both their expressions flicker, I suck in a breath. ‘You don’t know who he is either, do you?’

Rawlins seems frustrated. ‘We’ve been to all the neighbouring streets and checked with all the residential homes. No one has seen him before.’

Panic swirls in the pit of my stomach and I’d been doing so well up till now. ‘He was wearing slippers!’

‘He may have driven here. Or someone dropped him off in the area. We are confident we shall establish his identity soon.’

I have no response. I simply stare at them as I try to work through the possibilities.

‘Did he say anything?’ Rawlins probes.

‘He told me not to trust the department.’

‘What department?’

‘I have no idea.’

Rawlins frowns. ‘Can you think of any reason why he’d come to your door in particular? It’s not the easiest to access, after all.’

I rub my forehead. ‘Nothing springs to mind.’ I meet her eyes. ‘Why did he die?’

‘We’re waiting on the post-mortem.’

‘So it may not even have been natural causes? He might have been...?’

‘You are letting your imagination run away with you, Ms Lydon,’ she says, no doubt silently adding ‘crazy lady’ as an epithet at the end of her sentence.

I give up on her and appeal to Hartman instead. ‘This can’t be normal. Elderly people can’t just appear from nowhere.’

He scratches his neck. ‘It does look a little...’

For a moment, Rawlins’ façade slips. ‘Alistair!’

My mouth drops open. ‘Alistair? That’s your name?’

He smiles at me, while Rawlins rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah.’

‘Ally Bear,’ I whisper.

Hartman freezes. ‘What? What did you say?’

I stare at him while he stares at me. Rawlins is beyond confused. ‘I’m not quite sure what’s happening here...’ she begins.

‘Who calls you that?’ I interrupt.

His neck reddens. He doesn’t answer but I can see enough of the answer in his eyes to tell me that someone does.

I feel the walls press in on me. Nothing is making any sense.

* * *

A
fter they leave, I sink into a chair and press the base of my palms against my temples. I was so flabbergasted by Hartman’s reaction to the endearment that I stopped watching his movements so carefully but I don’t think he did anything out of the ordinary.

I toy with the parcel the postman gave me, eventually opening it more out of the need for something to do than real curiosity. It’s a box of chocolates sent express delivery by Jerry to thank me for completing yesterday’s project. In light of everything that’s happened, the website work seems so inconsequential that I barely raise a smile.

It has to be a coincidence, I decide. Perhaps Ally Bear is a common pet name. Or maybe I overheard something yesterday that appeared in my hallucination. It could have happened easily enough; a co-worker at the scene might have called him that sarcastically and I didn’t notice because I was in such a state of shock.

But that doesn’t explain my wet hair or the vividness of the experience.

There’s one way to find out: I will have to let myself hallucinate again and see what happens.

I have no idea, of course, how I happened to hallucinate in the first place. And was it a hallucination or a dream? After my lack of sleep last night I am pretty tired but not ready to drop off just yet. All I have to do is wait till night-time, fall asleep, dream of exactly nothing and forget this ever happened. I twist my fingers in my lap. I’m not sure I can wait that long.

I spring up, jog upstairs and into the bathroom. I fling open the cabinet and rummage around until I find what I need. When my fingers curl round the small white bottle, I give a grim smile. Valium. It was prescribed when my agoraphobia started but after several days it had no visible effects other than helping me fall asleep. It might do the trick now, though.

I check the expiration date; they’re still usable. I fill a glass of water and down the pills. As I head to my bedroom to lie down, it occurs to me that I should try to re-create last night as closely as possible.

I switch direction and tramp downstairs. I pick up the book I’d been reading, find the same paragraph and settle down in the same chair. After I’ve read the paragraph again, I put the book to the side and close my eyes.

‘Bring it on,’ I whisper.

* * *

T
he top of my ears prickle and I open my eyes. I’m immediately disappointed: I’m not in a wet cobbled street but in a room, a strange room filled with old-fashioned furniture and flocked wallpaper. For a moment I wait to be assailed by my own strange terror but when I remain as fine as I did in the puddle-filled street, I relax and walk over to the mantelpiece to examine the array of ornaments. I pick up a tiny glass elephant and frown. It looks like typical tourist tat.

I’m about to replace it when I hear a soft noise from behind. I turn round and where before there was a bare rug, there is now a single white envelope. The handwritten address on the front keeps moving; the words vanish then reappear as I watch.

Something in the corner of my eye flutters and I glance up and see another letter floating down. It moves like a feather, buoyed by invisible currents of air – but there’s no breeze in here. It lands gently next to the first envelope.

I look up at the Artex-covered ceiling. There’s no gap in it but still, as I watch, another envelope magically appears. Then there’s a postcard, followed in rapid succession by a larger brown letter. I’m transfixed so it takes me a moment to notice that I’m no longer alone. Somehow I’m not surprised by who’s with me.

‘Hello,’ I say cautiously.

The postman doesn’t hear me. He walks to the middle of the room, avoiding stepping on the letters on the floor. He looks older, with deep lines and furrows on his face. He nudges one of the letters with his toe before letting out an anguished howl. The noise is so unexpected and so filled with pain that I take an involuntary step backwards.

‘Are you alright?’

He doesn’t react so I move towards him. Nervously I reach out to touch his shoulder in almost the same place where he patted mine earlier today. He scratches at it absently but doesn’t realise that I’m next to him.

Without warning, a sudden flurry of envelopes drop at the postman’s feet. Some of them land on his head or careen through the air and hit his face. Every time one connects, a tiny paper cut appears. I back away, watching in horror. Soon he’s surrounded by a puddle of brown and white paper that reaches his ankles, then his knees.

I catch sight of something in my peripheral vision, realising too late that it’s a sharp-cornered envelope flying in my direction. I duck to avoid it but I don’t move quickly enough. There’s a sharp pain as it strikes my cheek. I lift up my fingers and touch the spot. I’m bleeding.

Despite the pain and blood, I know none of this is real. Everything that’s happening is in my head so even though more and more envelopes start appearing, some whizzing around the room at dangerous speed, I don’t believe I’m in any danger. I know for certain that this is only a dream but it’s an odd experience. I’m out of my comfort zone but I’m not in the least afraid.

Unfortunately the same cannot be said for the postman. The pile of letters keeps growing and he is panicking. He struggles, his arms flailing. It looks like he’s trying to escape but his feet won’t move; he looks like someone stuck in quicksand. I reach out and try to grab his hand to pull him away but every time I get near, he yanks it away, clawing at the air. All the while, the envelopes continue to fall.

When the pile reaches his stomach, his face grows red as if he’s struggling to breathe. The letters swirl around him, fluttering and flying like some strange vortex or cyclone of post. Soon I can only glimpse flashes of him through the thick cloud of paper. I can certainly hear him, however: he’s screaming at the top of his lungs.

‘It’s only a dream!’ I shout. He doesn’t move; he just goes on screaming. ‘Wake up! This isn’t real!’

I can just make out his head turning towards me. I can’t tell if he sees me or not so I rush forward, waving my arms to create a space so I can pull him out. Half a beat later I’m back in my chair, still throwing my arms wildly in front of me. My heart is thrumming a staccato beat in my chest. It’s over.

I force myself to be still. Then I get up and walk over to the mirror. My hair is mussed up. I feel a faint throb in my cheek and lean in for a closer look; there’s a single bead of blood in the very spot where the envelope struck me. I touch it gingerly.

I can’t stop worrying about the postman. Surely he’s alright; it was all in my head, not his. I gnaw my bottom lip and check the clock. It’s 3.00am.

That’s when I really freak out because all the windows on the ground floor are still open and I’ve been unconscious for more than fifteen hours.

* * *

I
t’s comfortingly dark in the wardrobe. The old dresses and even older coats that I’ve not worn in months hang over me like security blankets. The smell is familiar – a tinge of must and flowery fabric softener. In here, I’m safe.

I’ve been counting in my head for hours; when I finally reach ten thousand, I know it must be morning. There’s something I have to do and I can’t do it from in here so I will myself to get up. I picture myself doing it, first standing, then pushing open the door and stepping out. I squeeze my eyes shut as I imagine the movements. It’s only my bedroom. There’s nothing and no one there.

I pinch my fingertips together, circling through each one. Before I know it, I’m standing up and ready to move. I ignore the roar of blood in my ears and take a deep breath. ‘Come on, Zoe,’ I whisper.