Slow Burning Lies (11 page)

20

Patrick fought to keep down the single bite of pizza he’d taken, mesmerized by the coverage of the Japanese train crash.

There was no cause suspected yet, the authorities were too busy dealing with the injured and fatalities even to consider the clearing of the track, let alone investigating possible causes. It was an unprecedented accident, according to the Japanese prime minister, a sad day for a country that always prided itself on the safety and efficiency of its infrastructure.

Then the news programme cut to an industry expert, who sympathized with the prime minister but said that sources close to the investigating team were pretty certain a derailment this severe was no accident.

There were also interviews with relatives of the victims, tearful accounts of how husbands had simply kissed their wives goodbye, saying they’d be home a little late that night; one woman whose daughter had just started work at the university that day, her pride now worthless. There was seemingly endless coverage; more than anyone could want – unless they had a personal involvement – but Patrick had had enough. He switched the TV off, drew a damp towel over his trembling face to dry the tears, and left his apartment again.

He walked along the lakeshore – his usual escape from troubles – and watched people.

The bastards were going about their usual routines, laughing and joking, chatting on their phones, listening to ipods while nodding their heads in time to the beat. Skateboarders whooped in delight at their cool moves, occasionally barking in pain when it all went wrong. Lovers carried on loving, oblivious. Everyone was doing nothing more than taking advantage of warm evenings while they still could.

Perhaps they didn’t know yet? The crash had only happened late that afternoon US time, early morning commuter rush hour in Japan. He had the urge to go up to them all and tell them to go home and watch the news, to show a little respect for the deceased.

He also had another thought. What about the poisoned water supply in Paris?

He turned and raced back to his apartment, almost forgetting to check in at security on the way.

He sat down next to his cold pizza and switched the TV on. He flicked channels, even to the BBC world service, but found no story of problems in Paris.

But which Paris was it? Texas, or France? Paris, Texas might not have hit the national headlines. He flicked to the local news channel, and listened to stories of fairs and rodeos, governor campaigns and weather fronts. But no, Rozita had mentioned the photo taken at EuroDisney. So it had to be France, it just had to be.

He plugged his laptop into the broadband socket, fired it up, then spent a few breathless minutes moaning about the time it was taking to load up.

The hour glass stopped. He was in. Internet browser to World News to Europe to France.

And there it was.

The civil authorities in Paris were warning all residents to drink only bottled water until further notice after an unspecified quantity of industrial grade weedkiller had been introduced into the water supply the previous day in a suspected terrorist sabotage. Many hundreds had been admitted to hospitals and there had been three deaths with a strong link.

He read on, struggling to maintain focus. Sufferers with breathing difficulties and pains in the chest or stomach were being given priority, and those able to travel were being directed to hospitals in the nearby cities of Reims or Rouen. Commentators were sure many more deaths would follow but suspected the French government were denying this in an attempt to play down the situation, which was stretching their health service to breaking point

Patrick left the laptop and spent a few moments pacing his apartment.

What the hell was going on here? Surely the whole thing had been a dream?

He returned to his laptop and double checked the news story on another site. No mistake.

But how could it be true? It was all in his mind.

Rozita, Patrick the physician, the four wholesome kids – they didn’t exist.

Those people were in his mind – in his dream, and Rozita’s dreams were one step removed
again
from reality.

So one of the characters in his dreams was having dreams that…

This was too much.

Patrick slammed his laptop shut, went into the kitchen and grabbed the whisky bottle. There was barely a dribble left and he poured it straight into his arid mouth. He followed it up with a glass of water then splashed more onto his face, to shock him into keeping a grip on reality.

He grabbed a towel and pressed it to his face, holding it there for a minute, well after it had soaked up the water.

And in the darkness of that moment, with Patrick’s mind sifting through his own vile sleeping adventures – and the evil things he had done – the most terrifying aspect of this newest revelation hit him like a bare-fisted punch.

If the nightmares Rozita had had were not mere nightmares but were portals into some alternative reality –
Patrick’s
real world, and if the people she made suffer were actual flesh-and-blood humans with lives and loves and hopes, then what about Patrick’s own victims? Was it not possible – even likely – that they, too, were real people. The old man with lung disease he’d killed, that woman he’d attacked, the hotel explosion victims, the children on that roller coaster he’d tampered with, the Carlinis, and so many more.

Perhaps all of those were real people, just not real people in Patrick’s world.

Sweet Jesus. The idea that the events of his dreams might be real in some way had never occurred to him. And why the hell would it? It was madness.

The towel dropped from Patrick’s face onto the floor and he rushed to the window to look out over the nearby street scene.

No, that out there was the real world.
They
were real people. The people on planet Earth – this planet Earth here and now – they were the only real people. What happened in his dream wasn’t real.

Wait.

Suggestion.

That was it. He’d read about suggestive psychology before. It was the way illusionists and magicians fooled their audiences, feeding information into their subconscious minds, programming their minds to think what the tricksters wanted them to think.

Yes, perhaps that was the explanation, perhaps he’d seen or heard about these stories without them entering his conscious mind, and it was only
after
those thoughts he’d had the dreams. That was it; he was making dreams up based on—

And there he stopped. He checked his watch, then the clock in the kitchen. Who was he trying to kid? He’d definitely had the dream last night, when Rozita had mentioned the train accident, and it had definitely happened at 4pm Chicago time. The news channel and the internet feed had said so.

This time, surely, he was going mad.

For a few minutes he relived his nightmares all over again, the suffering he had caused torturing his own mind.

Then the doorbell went.

21

The sound of the doorbell didn’t register with Patrick at first – his mind was still travelling across universes or through time or wherever the hell it needed to go to reach the scenes of his crimes.

Could those characters he’d so brutally wronged really have been flesh-and-blood humans inhabiting some sort of alternate world?

The second time the bell went, his head jerked towards the hallway.

He didn’t get too many visitors – and that was the way he liked it – his romantic liaisons were pretty much restricted to ‘her place’. Also visitors tended to be put off by the security of the small group of apartments – signing in and out like a prison as one workmate had put it. Again, Patrick was happy with that arrangement. He liked his apartment being more private sanctuary than public drop-in centre.

Only on the third ring did he try to hazard a guess as to the caller. An angry Joni? An apologetic Deedee?

He quietly made his way to the hallway and leaned his head towards the door.

Now a voice came. It wasn’t loud or angry but was stern and unyielding.

‘I know you’re in there, Patrick. Security told me you were home.’

Beth. What the hell did
she
want?

Whatever it was, he wasn’t in a fit state to give it to her. He stayed quiet. The doorbell sounded again, nagging him.

‘I need to know you’re okay, Patrick. I’m not leaving until you answer.’

So why the concern? They’d been working together for less than two weeks. As his superior on the Zombie Stomper project she had access to his clocking records – she knew he’d been into work that day. Okay, she hadn’t
seen
him, he’d made sure of that, but the principle of looking after your employees could be taken too far.

Whatever her motives were, she wasn’t about to give up.

‘I need to know you’re okay, Patrick. That’s all. If I need to call the cops to get inside I will.’

Call the cops?
What the fuck was up with her? Jesus, this was harassment.

But Patrick had enough problems without having to explain his behaviour to the police – and without having to get the front door repaired.

‘I’m okay,’ he shouted out.

There was a long silence from the other side, followed by: ‘How about letting me in?’

‘What do you want?’

‘To be sure you haven’t done anything stupid.’

Twice Patrick’s mouth shaped to speak, but each time he aborted. Was there anything he could say that would make her give up and leave him in peace? And whatever he did say could easily give her the impression something was wrong – mainly because something definitely was.

He opened the door.

Beth looked him up and down. ‘I thought you said everything was okay?’

‘It is,’ Patrick said with a frown.

‘You look terrible.’

‘Well, I’m not. I’m okay.’

She stepped forward and Patrick moved out of her path – it was either that or start a wrestling match.

‘I just needed to see you,’ she said. ‘To check nothing’s wrong.’

‘Such as?’

She surveyed his state a second time. ‘God, you look like shit, Patrick.’

Five minutes later they were sitting opposite each other at the breakfast bar drinking coffee.

‘So, do you give all your staff this special attention?’

Beth shook her head. ‘Only if they need it.’

‘You know I could make a complaint about you, barging into my home like this.’

‘You could try. You wouldn’t get past first base.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘For one thing you invited me in.’

‘Did I?’

Beth tilted her mug. ‘Why would you make me a coffee if I wasn’t welcome?’

Patrick gave a conceding shrug.

‘And for another, you were supposed to come see me at work today to discuss your workload.’

‘Yes, I know, but—’

‘And third, we both know you’ve been having some personal problems lately.’

‘Oh, no.’ Patrick stood and started shifting his bodyweight from foot to foot. ‘Beth. If you think you can have some sort of hold on me because of what I told you – what I told you
in confidence
– you can also think about sticking your fucking job.’

‘Hey, hey, hey!’
Beth said, holding her arms out wide. ‘You make it sound like I’m blackmailing you. I’m just concerned, okay?’

‘It doesn’t feel that way to me.’

‘My, you
are
stressed out, aren’t you?’

Patrick eased himself back into his seat. ‘Okay. Perhaps I overreacted.’

‘I’ve just come to see how you are because I knew you were going through a rough time lately, and by your reactions I’m guessing it’s got a whole lot worse. Am I right?’

Patrick didn’t answer.

After a few moments’ silence Beth stood up. ‘I’ve seen you’re still in one piece, if you don’t want to tell me more perhaps I should go.’

Patrick stood and stepped in front of her. ‘Have you told anyone?’

Beth gave an indignant frown. ‘Hell, Patrick, just what sort of a person do you take me for?’ She put her hands on her hips and stood square onto him, her feet planted apart. ‘You told me you were having difficulty sleeping because of nightmares. You seemed really upset by it. As your manager I’d be abrogating my responsibilities if… if I… Oh, this is just crazy.’ She sidestepped Patrick. ‘Look, I know you’re okay. If you don’t want my help I’m going.’ She started to walk away.

‘Hold on!’ Patrick reached across and put a firm hand on her shoulder. A second later he winced at the feeling of his wrist being twisted into an unnatural position and drew it back sharply, stepping away from her as she turned.

‘I’m sorry,’ Beth said. She held both hands up to him. ‘Just don’t touch me, okay. Say what the hell you want but don’t try anything physical.’

Patrick said nothing, just rotated his hand to loosen it.

‘Your wrist okay?’

Patrick nodded. ‘Look, I wasn’t going to try anything on.’

‘It’s me. I’m sorry. I guess you’re not the only one who can overreact.’

‘As long as you know I’m not like that.’

‘I know.’ Beth nodded. ‘Like I said the other day, we all got issues.’

Perhaps it was because he’d never talked to Beth outside the work environment before, or because he’d got something that by all accounts was a rare commodity – an apology from her – but there was a definite warmth coming from her. It really was like some barrier between them had melted away.

‘Shall we finish our drinks?’ Patrick said.

Beth glanced to the door then back to Patrick. ‘Yeah, that’d be nice.’

‘And I promise, no touching.’

Beth simply nodded, her expression remained flat. They sat back down and sipped coffee awhile.

‘You know something,’ Patrick said. ‘It actually felt a relief to tell someone about my nightmares.’

Beth nodded slowly. ‘That’s good. And you did seem better afterwards.’

‘But…’

‘But things have moved on, yes? You’re dreams have returned?’

Patrick placed his cup down and leaned towards her.

‘I need you to promise me again that this goes no further, and like before that it’s not written down, relayed—’

‘Patrick. No you don’t. You don’t need promises at all. As long as it’s legal and not against company procedures you can do what you want, and you can tell me what you want in one hundred percent confidence.’

‘I just need to know I can trust you.’

‘You can.’

‘It’s… it’s difficult to explain.’ Patrick drew his hands down over his face and let out a groan. ‘The thing is,’ He looked through the window and narrowed his eyes to slits. ‘Beth, I’m going mad. I really think I am.’

Beth took a long pause. ‘So half the world’s mad,’ she said eventually.

Patrick stared at her and saw her face take on a new level of solemnity.

‘You don’t just mean
stupid
mad, do you?’ she said.

Patrick hung his head. ‘No.’

‘More bad dreams, huh?’

‘Not so much bad.’

‘So what?’

And Patrick told her everything: of his new life as a physician, of his perfect wife, Rozita, and of his perfect life. He explained how this was the first dream he’d ever been able to return to, how the dream had started to turn sour with Rozita’s bad dreams. He explained that the problem wasn’t so much his own dream, more that each of Rozita’s dreams appeared to be some sort of premonition of what was happening in the real world – that her dreams had become his real-world fact. He told her about the poisoning in Paris, and the train crash in Japan. He went on to explain his biggest fear, what had upset him the most: that if the dreams
she
was having somehow were real, then perhaps
his
dreams were too.

Then he backtracked, and said that no, that wasn’t his biggest fear. His biggest fear was that he was losing his mind, becoming psychotic, because there was simply no rational explanation for his experiences.

Beth sat stony-faced without interrupting.

‘Tell me,’ Patrick said. ‘Does all of that sound like the talk of a sane man to you?’

‘Not even remotely.’

Patrick grimaced, his eyes heavy with anguish.

‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ Beth said. ‘I guess that sounds a little clinical.’

‘But true. And right now, I need honesty more than anything. I’m having a job working out what’s true and what’s not.’

‘So what are you going to do? I mean, if what you say is true—’

‘What do you mean,
“if”
?’

‘No, no. I mean, there could be some other explanation.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know.’ Beth shrugged. ‘You… I don’t know… you could have fallen asleep during the reporting of the train crash and dreamed about it afterwards.’

‘I had the dream last night, Beth.’ Now Patrick was almost shouting. ‘It was
last night
, that was when Rozita told me about the crash, not today – definitely not today.’

‘Yes, but how do you know that for certain?’

Patrick froze for a second, then leaned his head back slightly, his nostrils twitching. ‘Oh, I get it,’ he said. ‘What you mean is,
How can I expect you to believe me?
Is that it? That’s exactly what you mean, isn’t it?’

‘No. I’m just playing devil’s advocate here. Step back and think for a moment. You said yourself, it just doesn’t make sense.’

‘So you don’t believe me?’

‘I’m just thinking about this logically. Think of it from my point of view. I’m a Combined Sciences graduate, and you’re asking me to believe you dream about major world incidents before they happen. I’m not saying you’re lying, Patrick, it’s just…’

‘It’s just you prefer the other explanation: that I’m going insane.’

‘Hell, no. It’s just hard getting my head around it, is all. I mean, if you could tell me what was going to happen tomorrow, if we could write something down and date and time it, and
then
see if it happened. Let’s be under no illusions here, Patrick. If you can see into the future you can get us the goddam winning lottery numbers.’

‘Now you’re taking the piss.’

‘I don’t know what that means.’

‘Poking fun at me.’

‘I am
not
. Think of me as your voice of reason. Go back to your dream of Rosy.’

‘It’s
Rozita
, with a “z”.’

‘Whatever. Go back there tonight, ask her what she’s been dreaming about. The moment you wake up, ring me and I’ll write it down. Then we’ll see.’

‘But I can’t control it,’ Patrick said. ‘I can’t just decide which dream I go back into, it doesn’t work like that.’

‘You said you dreamed of Rozita the last two nights.’

‘Yes, but…’

Patrick’s objection fizzled out. It sounded good to him, perhaps he would return. Perhaps somehow his mind returned him to the least disturbing scenario – and life with Rozita was a peach compared to his other dreams – or even compared to his real life.

He nodded. ‘Okay, I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything.’

‘I’m not asking you to promise anything except you’ll tell me what happens.’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘Hey, why not come over to my place tomorrow morning, that way there can be no misunderstandings?’

Patrick nodded.

‘But remember, for this to work, you need to tell me before it happens.’

‘Like I say, Beth, no promises. I might not dream at all.’

‘You think that’s likely?’

‘Actually, no.’

‘Let’s wait and see. Come over and see me whatever. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s almost eight o’clock. I’ve had a heavy week and I need a little rest myself.’