Sleepwalkers (14 page)

And then I notice the security guard watching me. I hold his eye for a moment too long and now he’s interested in me. I turn and walk as slowly as I can to the loos, but when I get there I feel overloaded by fear and end up hiding in a cubicle. I’m sweating, imagining eyes watching me, seeing computers in cash machines which wait to track and expose me. I feel like I have a sign on me which says ‘Other. Stranger. Danger.’
Like some sort of zoo animal. I try to control myself, shake my hands and take some deep breaths. Finally, I step out of the cubicle. No one’s looking at me, of course they’re not. No one looks at anyone in a public toilet. Get a grip.

The guard outside has gone, interested in someone else. All around me, people mill about doing their own, normal, average thing and I’m jealous of every one of them. I wander around the car park and find a small bank of grass on the far side. From here I can watch Adrian’s car and make sure they leave without me. They’re not right for me. Or I for them.

They wait for ages, bless ’em. They sit bored in the car park, then argue. After a while, Fred comes looking for me. When he’s gone, I see Adrian and Imogen steal a furtive kiss. That Adrian will go far.

Fred finally returns and after some waving arms and pointing at watches, the three wearily head off. They look a bit glum. I wish them well.

I walk over to a second, bigger car park, clogged up with trucks. It doesn’t take long for me to find a driver who agrees to take me further on my journey. We set off half an hour later and my mind soon drifts back to those three kids. I imagine their bovine summer, laughing crazily at jokes they won’t remember.

*

I zig-zag my way towards the coast. I don’t go anywhere in a straight line. But when I finally get there, and stand on the beach, I feel a thumping sense of disappointment. I had hoped for more from Stockton-on-Sea. Not glamour – I mean fair play, I chose this place because it was neither so small I’d be noticed, nor attractive enough to be touristy and expensive. But this
place, with its shallow pebble beach and grubby fish and chip shop (which now only seems to sell kebabs) seems, well, knackered. There are a few drab houses that look out to sea. and further back, a sad high street with all the usual shop chains. There’s litter trapped amongst the sharp pebbles, and the water is worryingly brown, with huge splatters of foam that make me think of detergent. There are no swimmers out there. The locals are clearly no fools.

Sitting down on a low wall that serves no real purpose, I look out at the fading sun. If you close your eyes and listen to the gentle rhythm of the waves, you could be anywhere. I wonder why this place got left behind. Maybe its time will come, but the floating beer can that’s being knocked about on the pebbles makes me think otherwise.

I am wearing a slightly-too-trendy suede jacket that I stole the night before. It fits well, but I feel uncomfortable in it. Mutton and lamb and all that. I tap the stolen wallet in my pocket and feel a surge of guilt.

I’d watched him for over an hour as he chatted and boasted to his mates in a bar, having thrown his jacket so casually over a nearby chair. I waited and waited till they were drunk and inattentive, then grabbed the jacket as I passed without anyone noticing a thing. It didn’t even feel risky. I feel as though I’ve done things like this before. It’s that other part of me, the one that can run and fight. At least this time no one got hurt.

I feel lonely and tired. I stare out to sea and want to reach out and touch Carrie’s hand, find her here – staring out at the sea herself, smiling that way she does. I try to remind myself of her lies, but it never works.

The next few hours I spend walking around the outside of hotels, but decide not to enter any of them. It’s not that there are so many, it’s that the five that I’ve found feel wrong. They have impressive views of the sea, and while their prices aren’t huge, I fear that they’re bustling with friendly, eager, intrusive staff who will ask me about my day, my business, the length of my stay. Maybe coming here was a mistake.

I stuff a kebab down my throat a bit too quickly and wander further back into the town, past the shops and the small car park. I notice a house on the end of the street with cracked render and flaking paintwork. A fading sign mentions Bed and Breakfast, but the lettering’s almost invisible so I doubt if it still applies. I look at the house, at the grimy windows and the sad location. Stuck away, forgotten about. I suppose before the car park was built the house looked straight out onto the sea.

I ring the bell and am surprised that it works perfectly well. It’s a while before the door is unlocked (three locks and chain) and an old man drags the door across the doormat.

‘Yes?’ His voice is forty cigarettes a day for forty years.

‘I’m looking for a room,’ I say, all friendly and polite. He looks at me with a wry smile.

‘A room?’

‘Are you not …? There was a sign …’

‘The other places full, are they?’

‘Er … Yes.’

This seems a satisfactory answer, I think, because he lets me in. I have a small bag with me (I’d guessed that someone at reception would ask about bags), but it has little to nothing in it. The old man doesn’t seem interested and we trudge inside. There’s a small booth near the front door which used
to pass as reception, but it’s clearly seen little use for years.

‘Any idea how long you want to stay?’ he says, as though the answer will be an irritation.

‘Nope,’ I reply with a smile. The gruffer he is, the better I feel. He doesn’t seem bothered by my answer. Instead he fiddles with a small metal box, mounted on the wall, struggling with the small key until he flips it open. He reaches in and pulls out two keys. Two rooms. He looks at me, eyeing me up, deciding which room I deserve. Then he holds out one, and somehow I don’t think I’ve done so well.

My fears are confirmed soon after. The room has a small window which looks out onto a brick wall. It smells musty and stale. Only one of the two standard lamps either side of the lumpy bed works. The old man looks around at the place. Nods. ‘So?’

So? It’s depressing. A dive. Carrie would have a fit.

‘Okay.’

He nods. Good. He turns to walk out, then pauses, remembering his duties.

‘Need anything?’

‘No. Thank you.’

‘Name?’

‘Ben.’

‘Surname?’

‘I don’t know your name.’

‘Edward. You in trouble?’

I should say no. But I don’t speak.

He frowns, his whole face crinkles. ‘Hm.’ He fiddles with his belt as he considers me. ‘I quite like trouble. Police after you?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is that going to be your answer to everything?’

I manage to smile before I reply ‘I don’t know.’ Edward seems to like this. He looks at my small bag and nods.

‘Breakfast’s at … the morning.’ He turns and walks away. As he reaches the door, a pipe starts to bang in the corner of the room. He swears something about plumbing and stalks off into the dark corridors.

I sit on the bed. The mattress creaks and sags so badly under my weight that I nearly slide onto the floor. I pull back the cover and find that there are no sheets.

I fold up my clothes as carefully as I can, then wrap myself up in the bed cover and prepare to sleep. I lie there and try to dispel all the usual thoughts that come chasing after me; Carrie, the kids, the sound of that man squealing outside his house in the dark.

But then a sound interrupts. The low bam-bam-bam of a stereo bass. Someone’s having a party. I listen to it for a bit. And then it dawns on me that the music is coming from inside the house. I throw my clothes back on and slip along the musty passages, following the music. I stop outside a door: the music is blasting. Elvis Presley. I’m too nosy not to push the door open as quietly as I can.

The living room is large but empty. Once it must have been a smart room, filled with armchairs, sofas and coffee tables. You can easily picture a grandfather clock, thick rugs, an open window’s curtains billowing gently from the sea breeze. But now the room is damp and stuffy. There are marks on the
carpet and a brown stain running down one wall, the wallpaper rippled and scratched. All that remains is a boxy stereo on the floor. An old boxy stereo and an old man who is engaged in a very strange but energetic dance in the middle of the room. Edward shuffles and shakes, cackles and snorts as though he’s dancing with an invisible partner. I stand watching him, but if he knows I’m there he pays me no attention. He dances with glinting eyes, a sweaty brow and a gleeful laugh. His fingers click, his hands wave in the air, his knees buckle and there’s a drunken grin on his face. He’s miles away. Maybe years away. Wherever it is, it sure seems fun.

‘That’s it, that’s the way,’ he grunts and laughs. He spins on his toes with a grace I hadn’t believed possible. I slip away, slowly shutting the door. I don’t want to interrupt his mad magic. I walk back to my bedroom and shut the door. Then I lock it. I collapse onto the rickety bed. He’s crazy. I like that. Who’ll come looking for me here? I’m tired, but I’m not scared, and that’s a first. The music thumps on below as I let my eyes flicker shut.

Toby, quiet and sullen, sat next to his mother as she drove him to school, He stared out of the rain-smeared windows, avoiding her anxious glances. He’d become more and more introverted as the days had passed and the bullying had continued unchecked. He knew the boys would be waiting for him when he got there and he had no way of stopping them. He felt pathetic.

‘I’m sorry it’s so awful. I didn’t like school much myself,’ his mother said. He grunted back to her but nothing more. What else was there to say?

‘But even so, Toby—’

‘I know. You’ve told me. I know the rules.’

‘They’re for you, to protect you. We worry so much.’

‘Sure.’ He shifted in his seat, rubbed his nose, and they fell back into silence. He could see the school ahead and watched the other kids marching happily in while his mother fretted about where to park. Ahead was a spot and she lurched for it. After a couple of failed attempts she was finally able to turn the key and silence the engine.

‘Look, darling. Your father is … your father. You know?’

He had an idea of what she was trying to say, but he didn’t feel like indulging her. He was still thinking about the camera, about Miss Price and how she’d let him down. He was all alone.

‘I’ll talk to him,’ she said. But still he wouldn’t look at her. ‘Oh, I hate this! It’s just school, for goodness sake, you’re a boy, you’re meant to be happy!’

He glanced at her, not sure about this unusual outburst.

‘That’s it. You’re not going in.’

What? This was not at all like his mum.

‘Bugger the rules,’ she said, stunning him even more with such a casual swear word. ‘If you hate school, I hate it too. What do you say?’

‘Er, okay.’

‘You just want to be a normal boy, don’t you?’ Toby nodded, smiling – it was all he wanted.

‘That’s all I want too. And you never mean to hurt me, do you?’

‘Never!’

Laura pulled him into an embrace. He felt overwhelmed.

‘Why does it happen, Mum?’

‘I think … I think maybe we spend too much time worrying about it. Right now you just need to stop worrying and worrying about us worrying and …’ she gasped, threw her hands in the air.

Toby laughed, exhilarated.

‘I know!’ she grabbed his hands. ‘Isn’t tomorrow the school disco? Why don’t we go into town and buy you an outfit? Something to make the girls swoon.’

Toby looked down, smiling, bashful.

‘I don’t know …’

‘Let them see how special you are. They just don’t get you.’

Toby was warming to this.

‘Well? Toby?’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

‘OKAY! Yes! Okay!’

Laura laughed. She turned the key in the ignition again and drove off, this time much faster. Toby stared back at his disappearing school, amazed.

*

Anna left school at the end of the day. She’d noted Toby’s absence and had worried about it. So, instead of heading home she drove in the opposite direction. She parked her car in as visible a spot as she could find, worried about it for a while, then walked on. She could see her destination ahead – three ugly tower blocks which sat miserably in the centre of a rundown estate. Flimsy balconies were littered with junk, wheelless bikes and broken machinery. Thin curtains fluttered through half-opened windows. The architecture was made up of cold, sharp lines. Litter was picked up by the wind and blown into waterless eddies. Graffiti on the walls was tired and old as though vandalism had turned its back on the area and looked for something more interesting. Anna eyed it all warily and walked on as quickly as she could.

Ahead of her was a bunch of teenage boys who were sitting on pushbikes, hoods up, looking bored. They were always here, so it felt. They watched her with cold eyes, like animals might do on the plains – discerning whether she was prey or predator. She ignored them and walked on, her shoes click-clacking
on the concrete and echoing against the rough walls. She didn’t understand the looks they gave her, couldn’t read the emotions. She knew that drugs were for sale, but little more than this, and was glad to reach the stairwell. She glanced back and watched as one of the boys – they could be no more than fifteen, any of them – spat on the floor. He did it without thought or care and then dropped his chin onto the cold metal of his handlebars, settling in for more hours of waiting and watching. He seemed half asleep. Anna turned away and hurried inside.

In the lobby she stared warily at the battered elevator doors as she heard the shrieking lift slowly descending. The metal scraped and then stopped. She waited, but it seemed the lift had died somewhere above her, probably between floors. She decided to take the stairs.

Anna reached the top floor some time later. Her legs were hot and heavy from the climb but she didn’t wait and rang the doorbell of a grimy flat, number 617. Paint was peeling from the front door and the numbers weren’t evenly spaced. The bell gave off a buzz rather than a ring. It was eventually opened by Mary, an overweight woman with a face naturally set to ‘scowl’. She was somewhere between late twenties and mid-forties. Her hair, that day, was blond.