Sleepwalkers (13 page)

I trudge and run for miles. I see an empty barn where I could rest till the morning, but decide it’s too dangerous. The barn has been placed here by them. It’s a trap. No, stop, think, you need to rest. But it might be a trap. It can’t be. But it might. My fevered brain argues with itself, and I march on without direction.

I slip again and fall heavily on my shoulder, winded. Once again I think about Carrie and the kids. I see them at home:
hot chocolate in mugs, hot skin from their bath, waiting for me to come home. Wide, confused eyes. What am I doing?

I can’t see because of the rain. My eyes sting and my head hangs low.

I love you
.

Carrie. She beckons to me through the darkness. Get into the truck.

March, boy, march until you are ordered otherwise. Got it?

There is a wide, dark river ahead. It’s hard to tell how fast the current is moving, but there’s no obvious way across. I decide to swim, and start to take off the boots. Then stop. A moment’s sanity tells me I’m being stupid. As I stand there, the moon breaks through the clouds like a helicopter’s spotlight. I’m done for.

My knees give way and I slip to the ground. I’m overcome by exhaustion.

Don’t sleep. Who said you could sleep?!

Carrie, my love, my beautiful love.

An animal shrieks in the darkness.

My head falls against the soft earth. It’s like a pillow.

I hear the snort of the man I’ve hit.

The anger’s there again and I pound my fists into the wet earth, over and over.

You bastards, you bastards.

My love.

The moon vanishes then suddenly it’s back.

Let me sleep. Just ten minutes. Ten minutes and then I’ll cross the river.

But they’re coming.

Yellow eyes in the darkness.

My little boy. My darling daughter.

Just ten minutes.

I’ll be strong in ten minutes.

My eyes flicker.

Just ten.

*

I wake up and I’m frozen stiff. I sit up, shaking, see my boots next to me and pull them on in a hurry. My head’s just clearing from a dream. Something about a gun. It’s the morning, I think. Well, it’s light, anyhow. It’s stopped raining, but it’s a cold, dull day and my clothes are soaked through. I get up and look at the river in front of me. In the daylight it seems much less formidable. I’m cross with myself. My body’s caked in mud, my clothes even more so. If I let myself go mad like that again, I’ll end up killing myself.

And then I remember the man I attacked and I feel sick to my stomach with shame. I want to go back, I want to see if he’s okay, I want to do something. But I don’t know where I’ve come from, not really. And I’m too scared that if I did go back they’d be waiting for me. I put my head between my knees and squeeze my eyes shut. Where did it come from, that rage? It felt comfortable, a part of me, but now in the light I can’t believe I’m capable of any of it. Yet there is a part of me that wants more. I make a quiet promise to myself that I will stop it and shut it down. I know, even now in the calm daylight, that this will be a hard promise to keep.

I stand up straight, roll my shoulders over. I put my hand into my back pocket and take out the few remaining soggy notes and count them. I can live for two days on this. Two days, and then what? Maybe I don’t even have two days, maybe
they’re waiting, somewhere across the water. But then, if they knew where I was they’d have picked me up. I must have been asleep here for four or five hours, but no one has come. I am safe for now. I have time to stop, to think.

I look at the swirling river and follow a broken branch which spins slowly around as it’s pulled along and away. I wonder about my dream and the gun. I know that I need to think about all my dreams now. There are answers there, buried in code.

The dark waters drift and drag, slip and slide. I watch the river with a strange admiration. There’s such strength in the water. A slow, low-gear, bullish drive. I think about its long journey to the sea and decide that I’ll do the same. I’ll go and hide somewhere by the sea. I don’t know why, but it seems as a good a plan as any, for a madman.

*

‘Come on, have a tug, it’s good for you. I promise,’ teases Imogen as she passes the joint towards me. We share the back seats of a beaten-up car, along with bags and rubbish which cramp our foot space. I’m a guest, a hitchhiker who she and her mates picked up a couple of hours ago. And right now I’m Imogen’s plaything. She’s in her late teens (early twenties maybe) with long brown hair, and a pretty face made more attractive by her cheek and sparkle. Her bare feet are on my lap and she wears a tiny pair of tight, jean shorts and a skimpy T-shirt which reveals her small breasts and the pale, freckled skin on her arms and neck.

‘Put him down, Imo,’ says Fred from the front, who takes the joint from me with a grin and inhales hard. Fred’s a thickset man, twenty-something, with short hair and a square jaw. Apparently his real name’s Alistair, but everyone calls him Fred
after the caveman cartoon. Next to him, driving, is Adrian – same age, blond, quiet, wearing sunglasses. Imogen stares at me with a crooked smile and tries to make me blush.

‘You work out, Ben?’

‘Jesus, Imogen,’ groans Fred.

‘I’m just being polite. We’re giving him a lift, what do you want me to do, ignore him?’

‘Just don’t fuck him on the back seat is all I’m asking.’

‘Fuck you, potty mouth. Ben. Mister. You work out?’

‘No.’

‘So how come you’ve got biceps the size of my thighs?’ She runs a wide-eyed hand over her thighs, just so I’m sure to know what she’s talking about.

A growl from Fred up front and I realise (God, I’m dumb) that he’s in love with her.

‘You got kids, Ben?’ Fred asks, and I smile, relieved.

‘Yes, two. Boy and a girl.’

They all nod politely. They’ve got no interest in this; grownups, family vehicles, pot bellies, receding hairlines. They’re too cool for that shit. For the first time in an hour, Imogen glances past me out of the window. We’re on the motorway, travelling fast. It’s a sunny day and the fading autumn sun still has enough heat to make the car stuffy. My shirt is sticking to the back of the seat.

‘You got any family, Imogen?’ I ask and I see Fred smirk.

‘Kid brother who’s an idiot. And Mum.’ She drops sunglasses over her eyes.

‘What about Brian?’ taunts Fred, mock-innocent, and I realise I’ve trodden in something.

‘Shut the fuck up, Fred.’

We’re quiet for a while. Fred passes the joint back to Imogen and her taking it seems to imply some sort of peace. She offers it to me again, but once again I decline. She shifts her position and I notice the small yin-yang tattoo on her ankle.

‘Ben?’ she says, playfully. (I decided to go with my own name. I thought of calling myself Angus or something, but then I thought that I’d only catch myself out.) ‘How come you’re hitchhiking?’

‘Just mind your own business. Christ!’ grunts Fred.

‘No, come on dude, we’re all like – hey, it’s cool, having an old guy on board. But you’re not exactly classic hitchhiker material, are ya?’

That’s true enough. I think back to the hours before they saw me in that lay-by: changing into the new set of clothes I stole from the recycling bank, tying a bandage over the jagged cut on my thigh (thank you, barbed wire) and hoping the wound won’t open up and draw attention. I have thought up a story – a family on holiday with in-laws, a broken car, a lost wallet. It feels suitably boring. But her naked feet on my crotch make me want to sound less like a loser.

‘Oh, it’s … stuff’s happened, forget about it.’

She looks at me with intrigue and I regret my pride instantly.

‘What stuff? Fred, look at him, he’s gone all shifty. Hey! Are you … what are you? You’re on the run, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. I’m armed and dangerous, Imogen. How did you guess?’

She looks disappointed. Maybe I am just a boring old forty-something-dull-guy after all. Fred lowers the window and out goes the burnt-out joint. He stretches, taking a slurp from a can, then glances at me, wondering if I’m worth any bother.

‘Ben … come on …’ she pines with a baby voice. ‘Tell me something …’

Fred has given up and digs out a music magazine with earnest young men on its cover. The Next Big Thing, the cover declares in big red letters.

‘Where’s your wife? How come you’re not travelling together? How come you can’t afford a train, or a bus or a decent car?’ She kicks the back of the driver’s seat to make a point but Adrian drives on, oblivious. When we were introduced he shook my hand with his eyes on the road. ‘Don’t mind him,’ Fred had said, ‘he’s a lawyer,’ as if this explained everything.

I feel a poke in my ribs. Imogen’s waiting for answers. Where’s my wife? What a question. My face must have betrayed some emotion because the poke suddenly turns into a gentle hand on my arm.

‘Just tell me to shut up, I won’t mind,’ she says, her eyes sad and empathetic. ‘I talk too much.’

‘No shit,’ chimes in Fred.

‘It’s none of my business,’ she says, cowed. Her hand rests on my arm. I can feel its heat. Her hair is frizzled and hangs loose around her shoulders and she smells of soap. Suddenly she bursts out laughing. It’s self-conscious, embarrassed, but she doesn’t remove her hand.

‘Hey, remember Danny?’ says Adrian, completely out of the blue. The name gets an instant reaction from the other two. A cry of excitement – Danny!

‘He does, doesn’t he?’ says Fred and laughs. I’m confused.

‘You remind them of a guy we met last year,’ explains Imogen.

‘He was cool, don’t fret, man,’ says Adrian. ‘He was the dude who ran the local bar. Turned up in town first week of May,
closed shop end of September. Made enough money to piss off to Thailand for the rest of the year. Man, he was wild.’

‘Bloke never slept,’ adds Fred. ‘Fucking legend he was. Think he’ll still be there?’

‘Absolutely,’ smiles Adrian.

Earlier, Imogen told me that they were heading down to Cornwall for a ‘final fling’ as she called it. An extended weekend. They’d called in sick from work and would drive back early on Monday morning.

‘So what are you all going to do down there?’ I ask.

‘Do?’ Adrian considers this. ‘We’re not going to do anything.’

Fred laughs at my baffled reaction.

‘We’ll surf, we’ll smoke, drink … you know,’ says Imogen, a little closer each time she speaks.

‘It’s the last weekend before everything closes down,’ continues Adrian. ‘The last bit of good stuff before winter.’

‘Oh God, winter,’ says Fred, and his shoulders hunch up.

Winter to them is work, I gather. The end of the party. But it’s worse than that, it’s like a forced hibernation, the way they talk about it.

‘Work, eat, sleep, repeat till May.’ It’s like there is no life for them when they’re not partying.

‘But not this weekend. This weekend we’re getting blasted. One final, fantastic fuck-off to the world!’

Imogen laughs. It sounds so shallow. But kind of brilliant too. And this is what they did all summer.

We pass a long line of trees and the dappled light strobes the car as we speed past. I can see them in a club, stoned, dancing to the rhythm of the sunlight. Imogen’s hand still rests on my arm and I feel drowsy.

‘Wanna come with us?’ she whispers in my ear, and I smile through glazed eyes. What an offer – anonymous and carefree, sharing a sweaty bed with Imogen, burying my memories in her freckled skin. ‘It’s gonna be so out there.’ I can feel the heat of her breath. I look at her, she’s smiling, her eyes glittering with promise.

‘You’re teasing me,’ I say. ‘An old man, cramping your style.’

‘Hey, you’re thinking about it, though.’

I am. But … ‘There are things I need to do.’

They’re so bloody chilled, they’d drive this car off a cliff and they’d still be chatting about some rock band on the way down. They don’t seem cool any more.

‘Big plans, Ben?’ scoffs Adrian.

And again the car is silent. I learn later that ‘Brian’ is Imogen’s stepfather. The way she avoided the subject makes me think he’s at best unwelcome in her life and at worst abusive. I understand her flirtation and the need to drive fast and far away. Adrian describes himself as a ‘glorified photocopier’ and it’s weird how disconnected he seems from his work. They all do. All the things I thought were real and important just feel like dull tasks to them. I remember being excited and desperate to be cool, just like them. But I wanted adventures. I don’t understand what they want.

Adrian moves into the slow lane; we’re stopping at a service station (‘piss stop!’ he screamed gleefully) and I feel the tension creeping up in me again. Other people, strangers, maybe police. Maybe the men who are after me. He turns off the ignition and I’m trying to think of a reason why I’d stay in the car that wouldn’t sound strange and suspicious.

‘Coke and chocolate,’ beams Imogen. ‘You coming?’

I think I’ll stand out if I hang out with them. A guy my age is much more anonymous on his own. ‘I need a coffee,’ I reply.

‘Coffee? Jesus, that stuff’s so bad for you. I’d do coke, whisky, smack even. But coffee, no way, José.’

She laughs, slipping her arm into Fred’s as they skip off towards the shops. I hang back and follow a little more slowly. My eyes track everything around me: couples, commuters, businessmen, a group of lads on some kind of sports tour (football, I think). They all trudge around with the same bored expressions. Not sad, not hungry, just sort of empty. I’d never noticed this before. I guess I was always one of them. But now I’ve been shoved outside and I’m looking in and everyone else seems different. I know it’s me, I’m the one who’s changed, but it looks like everyone else.

I get inside and drop my head, grab a baseball cap from my back pocket and shove it on because there are cameras everywhere. Bloody everywhere. One behind in the coffee shop, one in the chemist’s, one by the loos, one by every exit. Again, I never noticed this before. Why do they need so many? I don’t understand. I see Imogen queuing for a magazine and there’s a camera staring down at her and she doesn’t give a shit. Okay, she’s got nothing to hide, but still … she doesn’t give a flying fuck about anything.