Slow Burning Lies (9 page)

The music and the company were good therapy.

After another drink, and more conversation with Beth – this time more easily digested talk of planned holidays – Patrick went home.

Alone that night in his apartment, Patrick sensed his life was going to take a turn for the better. The woman who was, to all intents and purposes, his new boss, was turning out to be a human being after all. More importantly, although time would tell whether the dreams that had blighted the last few months had gone forever, he felt able to come to terms with them, to live with them.

To be at peace with his own mind.

With these thoughts, he sensed he was going to sleep well.

17

‘We’re closed,’ Maggie Dolan shouted to the elderly gentleman rattling the door of the coffee shop. She stood up from the table and shook her head, jabbing a finger towards the sign slung on the door, and the man moved along.

‘I might as well get a coffee now I’m up,’ she said. She looked back to the man sitting at the table. Perhaps it was the low lighting, but from a higher angle he looked even more haggard, and there was that matted section of his hair. Was it blood? And was that a red tinge to his fingers? ‘You look like you could do with one too,’ she added.

At first there was no response, he just kept his head bowed slightly, looking up at her through a tired frown.

‘You’re not impressed?’ he said eventually.

‘I didn’t say that. I asked whether you wanted a coffee.’

‘Perhaps I should,’ he said. ‘Strong and black.’

A minute later she placed the steaming cups onto the table then removed her apron. ‘No need for that now,’ she said sitting down. ‘Might as well leave the cleaning for the morning.’

‘This is very hot,’ the man said staring into his cup.

She drew her head back and frowned. ‘You just saw me make it. It’s fresh.’

‘Hot’s good,’ he said. He placed both hands around the cup and swilled the liquid in a circle, concentrating hard for a few seconds like he was giving its insides a coat of paint. ‘I’m sorry for keeping you,’ he said.

‘Don’t be, mister. You tell a good tale.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, still looking down into his coffee.

‘And I guess you’re going to tell me your next dream—’

‘What do you mean, “
my
next dream”?’ The man looked up and across to her, his eyelids twitching as he spoke.

Maggie’s face dropped for a second. ‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘
This Patrick guy
. After telling me he felt all at peace with himself I’ll bet you’re going to tell me his next dream was a real humdinger. Am I right?’

The man’s mouth formed an upturned arc as he drew breath to reply. ‘Actually, no.’

‘No?’

‘Why not listen to the rest of the story, seeing as you’re not going to clean up tonight?’

‘I’m not cleaning, but I need to get back pretty soon.’

‘There’s your children to consider, isn’t there?’

‘Yeah, my children.’ She twitched her mouth left and right. ‘Aaah, they’ll be okay. Carry on with the story. I told you, I like a good story.

‘Okay,’ the man said. ‘I’ll continue.’

18

Patrick felt more at peace with his mind than he had in a long time, and slept soundly and deeply for another two nights.

On the third night he had a dream – a dream that was not so much frightening as confusing.

*

Patrick’s radio alarm went off and he blinked his eyes awake. The Eagles were singing
Lyin’ Eyes
, and Glenn Frey was telling the world – or whatever part of it that was awake at half past six in the morning and tuned into Dallas King Radio – that every form of refuge had its price.

Patrick stole a moment to think that through. Were his dreams a form of refuge? Some time ago he would also have been wondering how he knew the time and the name of the radio station, but after so many of these dreams – or whatever they were – he just knew he had a certain amount of knowledge about his dreamworld, and accepted it.

The duvet cover smelt clean and fresh, and when he opened his eyes he found himself staring at an uncluttered and dust free bedside table. All of these things meant he wasn’t in his own apartment. And again, everything was in that same sharp-edged very undreamlike clarity he’d come to respect and fear.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, but felt no fear. Why should he? This was his wife.

The hand was just an overture to the main movement: hot flesh pressing against his back like he was lying down on a sun-baked beach. Aromas of cocoa-butter and classy perfume fell onto his face.

So what was his wife’s name? Rozita. Yes, that was it. Rozita with a ‘z’ – always with a ‘z’ on pain of death.

Her smooth legs entwined themselves around his, then there were hot-ice kisses, chilling the back of his neck but also exciting him.

Then he felt a spider-like hand drifting down the side of his belly, pausing for a moment at the waistband of his jockey shorts like it was a border crossing. It slipped effortlessly into the hallowed county.

‘You dirty bitch,’ Patrick said.

The words came out instinctively, as they always did at first. Patrick wasn’t completely sure of the tone; whether there was just a hint of menace in own his voice. Was he a wife-beater this time? No, that just didn’t feel right.

Then he heard Rozita’s laugh, and yes, it was as dirty as a seasoned whore, which was just fine by Patrick.

‘You mean you don’t like that?’ she said. She shifted position. ‘Well, how about… this?’

Patrick gave a primitive grunt and slowly turned his torso over on the cool sheets.

‘Shh!’ Rozita whispered. ‘You’ll wake the kids.’

Kids? Of course, there were four of them. Their faces and names peppered Patrick’s consciousness then melted away as his eyes fell on Rozita’s face, half-illuminated by the early morning sun.

Patrick held the point of her chin between thumb and forefinger and tilted it to fully catch the light.

It was the most beautiful face in the world. Tender brown skin, spirited hazel eyes which each perfectly reflected the bedroom window, and a writhing mass of wiry black hair gushing from her head.

She was perfection – no, not perfection; there was a small mole to one side of her nose – one single flaw which layered attractiveness onto perfection.

Rozita –
Patrick’s
Rozita – was better than perfect.

As was their lovemaking.

Later that morning, at the breakfast table, Patrick checked each of his children in turn. All were bright, lively and bushy-tailed, and just about as well-behaved as any parent would want without the individuality being knocked out of them. They were all healthy and well-balanced, but at the same time each one had their own characteristics.

And talking of characteristics, since he’d woken and seen his wife’s full beauty in the morning sunlight he’d also noticed how the skin above her top lip creased whenever she laughed, which she did a lot.

Throughout the morning the gaps in Patrick’s routine and life-story started to fill themselves in like a crossword puzzle. Rozita was a full-time mother, Patrick was a well-paid physician. The whole family took annual skiing holidays in Canada, and also Summer vacations at the Florida keys or various cities around Europe, popping in to see Patrick’s mother, father and brother in Manchester, England.

In short, something was very, very wrong. This was simply too good.

On the way to the Dallas Peachtree Hospital Patrick tried to second guess this story’s outcome. So he wasn’t a wife-beater. Was he having an affair with a nurse? God, no, not bad enough – nowhere near bad enough. Was he abusing his own kids? Or was he doing what his sick friends back in England used to call ‘a Shipman’ – euthanizing his elderly patients as soon as they had become a burden on society? Or would it be completely off the wall this time, a double existence away from Rozita and his family, away from his job? Devil worshipping or human sacrifice, perhaps?

But no, Patrick spent the day carrying out his duties of healing the sick and the lame – or at least prescribing medicine for them – with prudent efficiency, even enjoying the chat with Bertrand Somers – eighty-four years young and recovering from replacement knee surgery – never once feeling the urge to do anything other than make the man’s remaining years of life more comfortable.

Driving home from the hospital that evening, Patrick had time to step out of this seemingly perfect life and consider the possibilities, the possible alternative meanings of his current dream.

One possibility was that all was light and fluffy now, but at some time he was going to do something evil. This was starting to seem unlikely, given the opportunities this new Patrick had allowed to pass him by.

A second – more obvious – possibility was simply that his dreams were a random mix of the good and the bad. He’d had plenty of bad experiences and maybe this was a rebalancing one, the other side of the coin.

The curveball third option was that somehow this dream meant something different, that it represented Patrick’s subconscious view of what he really wanted out of life. Perhaps even this
was
him in fifteen years’ time if he worked hard, or at least an aim, a perfect lifestyle to aspire to.

He caught his face in the rear view mirror. Yes, it looked a little more mature, not yet wrinkled but completely filled out and with a hue of maturity he quite liked.

Whichever the truth was, it made no difference to his routine. Usually he’d
think
like the real Patrick, the one from the real world (and it
was
the real world because he just knew in his bones he was in a dream) – but he simply wasn’t capable of acting on those thoughts, as if freedom of choice had been replaced by instinct. Yes, he was a prisoner of his dreams.

But hey, what a prison.

At home Rozita had cooked Chicken Maryland with fresh vegetables, boiled and buttered potatoes. For dessert the family ate sticky toffee pudding made from the recipe Patrick’s mother had given Rozita on their last visit.

During the meal the family shared their day’s respective experiences, and afterwards they all sat down to watch a sitcom on TV. Patrick didn’t find it remotely funny but found himself laughing anyway – at the reactions of his children.

Then they put the children to bed, making sure they had all showered, and especially checking that Dean, the eldest, had washed his hair because he was verging on that awkward age where he thought it cool not to.

Patrick and Rozita made unhurried and satisfying love for second time that day, then showered and went to bed, where Patrick read chapters nine and ten of a thriller that somehow he remembered the first eight chapters of.

He looked deep into Rozita’s eyes before switching the light out, and drifted off to sleep no longer expecting any wickedness to creep up on him and grab him by the shoulders.

*

Patrick’s next conscious thought was wondering what had woken him up. It was a full twenty minutes before his alarm was due to go off, and as long as far as he knew he’d slept like a darted lion.

He glanced around his apartment, said good morning to his Marlon Brando poster, then got up. Again, this was easy – like he’d had the optimum amount of sleep, so that he felt neither that residual heaviness of exhaustion in his chest that pleaded with him to go back to bed, nor the grogginess that came with overdoing it, like he often did at weekends when he slept in till noon and regretted it.

And that extra twenty minutes made all the difference. Usually he’d grab a quick coffee to wake him up properly before rushing out to the OrSum offices. Today he had time for a proper shave, a healthy breakfast cereal and a glass of orange juice. He even had time to brush his teeth before leaving.

At work Patrick exceeded his own slightly above average expectations, finishing the module he was working on by mid-afternoon. He went to Beth and broke the good news to her.

‘Has nobody told you the rules?’ she replied with deadpan delivery.

For a second Patrick was puzzled. He’d just earned another gold star, and here Beth was… aah, hold on, a cheeky twitch of her eyebrows, the crooked smile.

‘The faster you work, the more shit we just pile right on top of you again.’

‘Okay,’ Patrick said, nodding slowly. ‘I promise I’ll take it easy next time.’

Beth pointed a finger at him. ‘Don’t you dare. You just keep on grinding yourself into the dust.’

Patrick gave a salute. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

‘Seriously. Good work, Patrick. I won’t forget it.’ She leaned forward, clasping her hands together on the table. ‘So, are you okay now?’

‘Never better.’

‘Good. I’m pleased for you. You know you can talk to me if it becomes a problem again.’

‘Yes. Thanks. So what’s next?’

‘There’s no point starting anything major this late in the day. Just take a look at the other Zombie Stomper modules, see which one is the best fit with your skillset.’

Patrick turned to go then checked himself. ‘Just one other thing, Beth.’

‘Sure.’

‘Where’s Paulo today?’

‘Not sure. Off sick, I think.’

‘He seemed fine yesterday.’

Beth shrugged. ‘So ask him when he gets back.’

Patrick nodded and left.

On the way home that evening Patrick stopped off at the bar and shared a beer, a dirty joke or two and a backslap with a few of the regulars that he still wouldn’t call friends, then went home.

He had a pretty typical evening meal, watched average TV shows as per normal, then went to bed with a warm contentment he was starting to take for granted.