Sleepwalkers (12 page)

‘I’M NOT SCARED OF YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME?’ she shouted, and slammed the phone down again. And again it rang. Desperate, Anna ripped the phone line from the socket in the wall. Finally silence. Except for her panicked breathing.

And then, from her bag, she heard her mobile phone start up. Such a jolly ringtone. She stabbed it off. Turned off the phone. Put it in her handbag. Then pulled it out of the bag and ripped off the back, removed the battery and threw the pieces back down again.

Silence. It should have been reassuring. But the door was not locked, the curtains were not drawn …

Anna rushed to the door, pinned the scanty chain across it, locked it, then ran to the windows and pulled the curtains tight shut against … against what …? She stopped and wheeled round and looked at all of the tiny nooks and crannies of her cramped flat. If there was a camera in the television, then there could be more. Anywhere. Eyes watching her right now.

‘I’m going mad,’ she said out loud to herself.

And then there was a knock on the door. A loud, sharp bang.

Oh fuck.

She went to the door and peeked through the tiny spy-hole. But there was no one there.

Fucking fucking fucking …

She backed away from the door. But then something pushed her forward. She found her hands were undoing the locks, removing the safety chain. She watched her fingers reach for the latch and open the door.

Kath staggered into sight on teetering heels. She was holding a bottle of wine and had clearly had one already.

‘WOO-HOO! Anna’s hitting the town tonight! Anna’s hitting the town tonight! Hang on: you’re not going like that? Tell me you’ve got a sexy outfit ready and waiting. Tell me, tell me, tell me …’

Anna was so relieved that she threw her arms around her.

‘Alright love, calm down. No need to get all lezzy on me. Jesus.’

Kath pushed her way inside and stopped when she saw the mess in the living room.

‘What the fuck …?’

‘Yeah, I – er – tried to fix it myself.’

‘You big loon. And what’s wrong with your phone? I kept ringing and it kept cutting out.’

Anna started giggling, unable to stop.

‘Have you been on the sauce already?’

‘Yes!’ she laughed.

‘Good girl! Tonight is going to be SO mental!’

Bloody hell, it’s beautiful out here. From where I’m sitting, the land slips down and away and I can see for miles. There are ants by my feet, tugging away at leaves. I watch them for a bit, but then my eye’s caught by the dew. It’s sparkling on a spider’s web. And the sky is a perfect blue, not a cloud anywhere. The cold is so bitter it makes me blink and I have to shove my hands into my pockets, but I’m not moving. Not yet. I watch the contours of the hills and the clean line of trees on the other side of the valley. Everything is so still, so perfect. Empty fields are divided by thickets and old stone walls. A big bird of prey weaves slow circles in the sky. And as I sit here, a deer – a young doe – clatters through the greenery and stops dead, suddenly aware of me. I don’t move but its big, glassy brown eyes watch me nervously as it wonders whether to bolt. I see the tiny scars on its legs from barbed wire or thorny bushes and admire its fine brown coat. I smile at it, but the creature does not understand. It backs up slowly before turning and jumping easily through the thickets and away. I watch it bounce and bob through
the trees and bushes and I find myself waving a traveller’s goodbye.

I pull my hands out of my pockets and rub them together, blowing on them. Glancing down, I notice the blood. There’s too much to wipe off casually and I’m cross with myself: It will be all over the inside of my pockets now. But then there’s blood splashed across my thighs and ankles, so why should it matter? That’s why the deer ran, of course. It saw what’s behind me.

I’m sitting on the metal footplate at the back of a nondescript black van. It’s new, clean on the outside. The interior has been modified; in the middle is the purpose-built stretcher and the restraints they used to hold me down. In a small suitcase are syringes and drugs. On the walls are various pieces of medical equipment – a defibrillator (that’s what it says on the side), a heart monitor, an oxygen mask and tank. And the three men. They wear similar clothes – dark jeans and dull-coloured T-shirts – practical clothing for rough work. The first man lies on the floor of the van. It’s hard to tell what he looks like cos he’s face down in a pool of his own blood. The second is propped up against the side, his right arm hanging oddly (it’s broken in two places), and if it weren’t for that you might think he was dozing. The third man lies on the stretcher, his neck broken, his eyes open. The flies have found them already.

I stand and stretch. My body is a little sore from the fight but I feel good. I took them down in seconds. I think back to the moment, surprised by the instincts within me. I do not understand myself, do not know my own body. I put my hand on my arm. I don’t lift weights but my biceps feel pumped. I run a finger over my knuckles and remember how they
crunched into the second man’s jaw, how easily I snapped the third man’s neck. About three weeks ago we found a rabbit in the garden. A fox had been at it, but the poor thing was still alive, all wide eyes and fast little breaths. I didn’t know what to do, had to use a spade, egged on by Carrie. But this morning I killed three men. My body has memories that it won’t share with me. I get up and glance down at the steel ridges on the footplate, there to stop feet from slipping. When I look at the metal, I think of a serrated blade. I think of how I can twist it for best effect. And I worry that I think like this.

I have checked every detail of the van, but there is nothing here that can help me. The men have no ID and the phones they carry are new, pay-as-you-go, with no dialled numbers and no calls received. There is no paperwork, no map, no satnav to help me learn where they were heading. Even the medical equipment’s serial numbers have been deleted. The thought, the care and efficiency behind it all scares me. It strikes me that the van will soon be missed. I bet they’ll know where it stopped. Others will be coming for me.

I turn back to the beautiful view. My heart is thumping now, but I don’t want to leave. I love the gentle curves of the earth, the way the crops sway, the grace of the bird that continues to cruise above me. I wonder where the deer has gone.

Time to move. I take clothes that are not too soiled and boots that fit me well enough, and my hands pull things towards me that will be useful.

Suddenly I’m rubbing my face hard with my hands; the weaker emotions have taken charge of me and I’m Ben again. Ben, the dad, the simple mechanic. I feel nauseous at the sight of all this blood and I don’t know how I’ve managed to stay
here so long. The noise of the flies is deafening. They’ll be coming for me again. They’re coming and I’m too weak and too scared to stop them.

I couldn’t tell you the last time I went for a jog. I have a pair of dusty old trainers I put on when I need to do odd jobs around the house, but that’s as active as I get. But I run and run at a steady, even pace and my body accepts it.

*

I stand under an old oak, invisible in the darkness, as my eyes clock the path forward – watching for obstacles, for lights, for any movement in the sky. Everything’s still. I try to think back over the day that’s passed, but I don’t remember much. I was on some sort of autopilot, moving fast, following well-used footpaths to hide my trail, crossing streams without hardly getting wet. With my head down, I’ve become invisible to hikers, bikers, cars and busybodies.

Suddenly I’m starving hungry. I root through my things and find the few notes I was able to steal from the dead men. In the dark I begin to panic that there’s blood on the money and that I’ll be caught out when I try to spend it. I stare at the notes. Something moves near my feet and I nearly shout out with panic. I’m shivering. Even the tough old bastard inside me knows I need fuel and sleep.

Fuel first. I find a small town two miles further on. It’s a dull place, its fine Tudor buildings now shops for the same old brands you see everywhere these days. It’s quiet, except for a bunch of bored teenagers who perch on the edge of a bench playing with their mobile phones. I walk past them, pulling up the collar of my jacket as I get to the petrol station, the only place open at this time of night. There are no cars at the
pumps and a bored Asian lad slouches at the counter, staring into space. I pluck up the courage to go in and grab the first bits of food I can see; a sandwich – I don’t even bother to check what type – milk and crisps. But as I hurry to the counter, I suddenly become aware of all of the cameras. The lad scans my items without interest, but I’m desperate to get out of there. I feel the cameras staring down at me, watching, recording, making notes.

I get around the corner and cram the food into my mouth, gulping down a carton of milk too quickly so that I choke and spit some of it out and onto my clothes. I stand up and try to control my breathing. Everything is quiet. Of course it is. No one’s noticed you. Tomorrow, they’ll erase everything from the cameras and no one will ever know you were here. Calm down. Walk on.

I try to run but the food has swelled in my stomach and I start to cramp, so I’m forced into a bloated stagger towards the darker side streets off the high street where I can find some safety in the shadows. I stand still in the darkness as my body calms down, remembering what Carrie whispered into my ear.
Take off your shoes
.

The shoes were bugged? The shoes had some sort of tracing device in them? What did she mean?

Don’t answer the phone.

The feel of her breath against my ear.

I find I’m nearly crying.
Take off your shoes
. I have, I now wear the second man’s boots. But why should I think that these are any safer? I have this urge to rip off all my clothes.

I love you
.

I’m so angry at everything that’s happened, at the things
that have been done to me. I don’t know where the rage comes from, but it swells up fast, so fast, from deep inside. I want to roar, to smash things, to take it out on something, someone, to tear things apart.

It is his bad luck that a man should step out of his house across the road at that moment and that he should be a similar shape and build to me.

As he lies on the ground, semi-conscious after my attack, he groans and snorts. The noises he makes are more animal than human. They’re anger and fear, sucked in and out of his lungs. Maybe he’ll die if I don’t help him. I can’t see any blood, but the noise is freaking me out. I pull the clothes from his body. He tries to struggle, but his eyes loll up into his head and he falls silent for a few merciful minutes. But then, as I tie the laces to his trainers he begins to snort again. His eyes are screwed shut but the noise is louder. Maybe, oh God, maybe my attack has left him brain-damaged. I stand over him and he must sense that I’m there – this dark monster – because he rolls away from me, into a ball, grunting and squealing. I make a decision and ring the doorbell to his house; hold it down long and hard for ten seconds. Wait. I hear movement in the house. I ring again – a few, short bursts – then turn and run. Maybe no one came. I don’t know. I’m long gone, out of the town and smashing through the trees before any police search can be organised.

I don’t see the branch which knocks me down, the sting and whip ripping into my cheek. I lie on the ground and something patters past, as scared of me as I am of it. My hand is wet and I don’t know if I’ve landed in mud or shit or if this is my own blood.

The fucking noise that man made as he lay on the ground …

Get up.

It starts to rain. A brief shower and a sudden bluster of wind throws leaves and dust at me. I have grit in my eyes, but my hands are too dirty to touch them.

Get up. Don’t stop.

I don’t want to move. I just want to curl up and sleep, but I know that this is stupid. I look up: through a break in the trees I can see a brief glimmer of stars. Then the wind picks up, clouds zoom in again and another short burst of rain pelts against my face. I stand, but now I don’t know which way I’m meant to be heading – or, rather, where I’ve come from. I turn in a slow circle, trying to find traces of the path I must have made to have got this far. My face is stinging. I think I’ve been cut quite badly cos it hurts so much. Another mark on my face to make me more noticeable and easier to find.

My trousers are wet and it’s seeping through to my skin. Rain’s settling in now. Fuck. Walk, you fool. Move. Make a decision.

Stiff, wet and cold, I find a road about an hour later. The rain won’t stop and there are puddles everywhere.

I hear something coming behind me and lights flood the road. A truck. I keep my head down. It passes me and I glance up to see its brake lights. It’s stopping. Shit. I have no option but to walk past it.

As I come to the window a voice shouts down to me.

‘Fuck’s sake, mate, you must be soaked through!’ The man’s voice is cheery, well-meaning. I look up to the driver’s cabin and see a bearded face grinning down at me. ‘Come on, hop
in before you drown.’ He laughs at his own joke, hilarious. He’s wearing only a T-shirt – it’s warm and dry in there. He could drive me miles away.

‘Where are you heading?’ I ask cautiously.

‘What do you care? Have you seen the state of you?’ Another laugh. There’s something about his smile. Too many teeth. Why won’t he tell me where he’s going? ‘Come on, pop on up.’

I hesitate. One hand has reached for the door handle, but my eyes are locked on his smile.

‘Big truck for a small road like this.’

‘Eh?’

‘How come you’re not on the motorway?’

‘Cos my satnav’s shit. You want a lift or not?’

I shake my head. Back away. ‘Wrong direction, mate.’

‘Well, let me drive you a bit, same way as you’re walking. Save you from the elements, eh?’

Too friendly. Liar. Get away from him.

‘I’m good, ta.’

I pull away and then run, can’t help myself. I hear a shout from behind me, but I don’t stop. I’m so wet now, the rain is in my eyes, all of my clothes are soaked. But I run and run – away from the road, back into the darkness.