The Wannabes

by F. R. Jameson

  He sat at the end of the bed, his back to her. “I can’t fucking sleep. I’ll have dreams.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You don’t know I won’t.”

  “But Clay,” she said, “somebody else killed Raymond and Nick. You were with me all night. You had some terrible dreams, but you’re not responsible, you didn’t do it.”

  “What if I have another dream? What if I dream I kill you? What if I have a sweet little dream where I lean over and strangle you? What happens then?”

  She was on her knees behind him, pressing into him, her hands moving to massage his shoulders.

  “Don’t worry, Clay. That’s not going to happen.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me, it won’t.”

  He turned around sharply, forcing her back. She landed on her backside and elbows, but didn’t pout at him. Instead, she managed a seductive little smile.

  He spoke quickly. “What was I like last night? And the night before? Was I sleeping peacefully? Was there any movement? Any sound?”

  She blinked. “I didn’t notice anything wrong.”

  “Really?”

  “Clay, you slept. I don’t know what else to say. You were asleep, you were calm, relaxed. I even – I can’t believe I’m telling you this – I even sat up and watched you for a bit both nights, so glad to have you back. You didn’t move, you didn’t do anything.”

  He turned away from her. “I can’t sleep!”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You can’t stay awake forever, Clay. You’re going to have to rest some time.”

  “You don’t understand, do you?”

  “Please, relax.”

  “You’re not listening to me.”

  “They’re only dreams.”

  He was on his feet, his face red, his fists clenched. “They’re not only fucking dreams are they? If they were only fucking dreams then Raymond and Nick would still be breathing now, wouldn’t they? One of them would still be writing in Brockley and the other would still be strumming out terrible songs on the Holloway Road. They wouldn’t be lying in morgues with their flesh burnt off! These are not just dreams!”

  She pulled her legs in towards her a little, as if made vulnerable by his shouting. “Do you really think someone’s going to die tonight?”

  “I don’t know. But how can I sleep if when I wake up there’s a dead body, and I’m the one who can remember doing the killing?”

  “But you look exhausted, Clay.”

  “I feel shattered – but I can’t sleep, I know I can’t sleep.”

  “Just relax.” Her voice was soft. She moved towards the end of the bed. “Just please lie down and relax. It’ll be okay, I’ll hold you, I’ll ward off the bad dreams – I promise you that. Don’t be like this, Clay. You’re frightening me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m a little shit-scared of myself right now.”

  “Don’t be!” She offered her hand. “You’re with me all night, you’re not anywhere else, you’re not killing anybody. I don’t know what’s happening, I don’t know why you’re seeing these things – but please believe it isn’t you. Tonight I’ll lie on your chest, I’ll sleep in rhythm with your heart, and if it starts racing I’ll wake you.”

  “And if it doesn’t start racing?”

  “Then I’ll guess you’re sleeping fine, honey.” She gave him a full smile. “I’ll guess you’re not killing anyone.”

  He held her hand and with the other stroked the side of her face. She turned her head and kissed his open palm.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let me just get another cup of water.”

  She nodded and kissed his hand again, her green eyes wide and loving.

  She reassured him but his throat was still achingly dry, and he threw the contents of that small cup back in one.

  He examined his face in the bathroom mirror. It was pale, sweaty and – despite her reassurances – still filled with a look of trembling panic. He couldn’t dream again. She said he’d slept soundly the last two nights, been relaxed, breathed softly – that as far as she could tell his brow hadn’t even furrowed with wind. He’d been a good, calm sleeping boyfriend. So how was she going to know if something happened tonight? How would she tell if he was visiting horrors? He needed something else to stop him, to smack him into wakefulness. How would she really know? She’d be asleep too.

  He looked down at the sink and there were his razor blades, out of place against the pink. He could drop a blade into one of his shoes, so if he did dream he was walking across London, a voice would kick in to tell him he had a razor at the bottom of his foot – convince him that if he was really out, his sole would be cut open. It would stab him out of his dream, pain him into consciousness. Then when he woke, and everything was fine again, he could remove the blade and carry on safe with the rest of his life. It was a thin plan, but it might offer some success. If she listened to his heart, if he had the blade in his shoe – between them, maybe he could stop the dreams. Maybe nobody would die tonight.

  He sat on the bed and slipped the blade into the bottom of his right shoe. Belinda dozed on her side, her eyes shut, her nose scrunched up, her breasts rising and falling. He lay on his back and she reached over and rested her head on his chest. They cuddled, his arm curling over her shoulder, stroking her hair. He switched out the bedside light and then lay with his eyes wide, committing the ceiling to memory.

  The tension surged through him – a rickety train across his shoulders, he felt the full metal pressure, shudders, powerful shakes that trembled him to his toenails. He wasn’t sure if his eyes were open or closed. He stroked Belinda but felt he was hurting her, pulling too tight, making her wince. He dropped his arm, holding her round her waist, not moving, keeping his grip tender. He loved her so much and couldn’t believe he didn’t feel safe in her presence. Her breath irritated him. It was so gentle, calm, soothing, inviting. She wanted their breath to be together, their heart-rate to be one in peaceful slumber – but he couldn’t do it, and it made him suddenly angry that she wanted him to do it.

  “Go to sleep.” Her voice was deliciously drowsy.

  “I can’t.”

  “You’ll have to sleep sometime.”

  “What if I never again sleep? Okay, I’ll look and feel like shit. I’ll be slow and staggering and ill. The tiredness will get under my skin and I’ll itch constantly and have to have showers every hour to stop it. But if nobody gets killed that’s worth it, right? Isn’t it? I can give myself all that pain and it will be worthwhile if everyone is safe.”

  “You’re not making sense, you’re tired.”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “What if you don’t sleep and someone still dies tonight? What will you do then? Will you have yourself a nap?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not thinking. Go to sleep, you’ll feel better.”

  “You’re not listening to me!” He shoved her away. She sat up, even in the dark he could sense the expression of hurt pinched into her face. “I cannot sleep!”

  “Fine. Be a lonely insomniac.”

  She turned her back to him and curled up tight.

  He went to the bathroom and watched himself in the mirror. He didn’t know how late it was, didn’t think it was that late at all – but already he felt like the loneliest man in England. It seemed everybody was asleep but him. He pictured them all – wrapped up in beautiful little balls, next to their loved ones, dreaming lovely dreams in bright colours. His face yawned to the mirror and he staggered a little at the sink.

  It was insane – what could he even remember of those dreams? He tried to think what he’d seen in Raymond’s and Nick’s homes. He tried to recall a single detail of either dream. He thought he saw himself setting the fires, but did he? Did he really see that or did he add the heat and smoke afterwards? He couldn’t even picture their faces. Well, he could – but not from the
dreams.

  The last time he saw Raymond was in a pub in Greenwich, it must have been years ago now. He was having problems with Belinda and knew he was going off to an argument. He’d shaken Raymond’s hand goodbye and Raymond had said “See you soon” – in a calm, casual way that didn’t suggest they’d never actually see each other again.

  He’d last seen Nick outside The Murdered Bastard. He was this pathetic little man, desperately aggrieved, somehow going to have his revenge on Abigail. Clay had pretty much known he’d never see him again – who the hell was going to invite him out after that?

  But he couldn’t remember their faces in the dreams. He couldn’t remember going to their homes, he couldn’t remember what was said, he couldn’t remember how they were murdered. He couldn’t remember if he’d started a fire or not. They’d all faded. The dreams were like coloured gas pumped into a room with an open window – at one point you’d be able to see the particles clearly, but they would soon dissipate.

  A yawn forced his mouth wide and seemed to stretch down his whole body. Belinda was surely right, they were only dreams, nothing would happen, he’d just have a quiet night’s sleep. He yawned again and his eyelids fluttered. He switched out the bathroom light.

  Clay lay on the bed with his eyes closed, but felt no comfort. Belinda lay away from him, asleep with her back to him – as if still sulking. He tried to lie on his back, on his front, on both sides. It was too hot under the duvet, too cold on top of it. The tiredness was almost painful, but he couldn’t sleep. No one had thrown the switch in his head that allowed him to slip into beautiful reverie. He wanted to sleep now, fucking needed it, but there was a fear speared right the way through him. A voice in his head told him to ignore it, tried to convince himself they were just dreams – he heard Belinda’s voice utter the same sentiment – but there was only wakefulness.

  He heard a creak at the bedroom door. It opened, but no light shone through – whoever was there was used to travelling through the flat after dark. He sat up, resting on his elbows. Belinda stayed asleep beside him; she hadn’t stirred.

  “Hello?” asked a frightened voice.

  “Hello, Judy.”

  As soon as he spoke she was on him – a vulnerable mess of tears and shakes. Her arms wrapped around his chest and she wiped her moist tear-stained face against him. She wore a long nightdress and seemed smaller in the dark, it was as if he was nursing a scared six year old.

  “Oh Clay!” she said. “I had a bad dream.”

  She clung to him, her voice mixing a wail with a gentle consideration – showing how unhappy she was, but not wanting to wake Belinda. Her legs curled, so that – even though they were both lying down – she was effectively sitting in his lap.

  He stroked his hand through her hair. “What happened?”

  “It was a bad dream,” she whispered. “It was just so dreadful. I was so useless in it, so terrible. And it just made me feel that I am really useless and terrible. It just made me feel that I’m not a good actress, that I have wasted my life even trying to be an actress. It just made me feel such a failure, Clay, such an absolute loser. It made me feel talentless and useless.”

  “You’re a wonderful actress,” he said.

  She raised her head so he could glimpse her water-logged eyes shining in the dark.

  “You really think so?”

  “Yeah, I’ve always thought you were a brilliant actress.”

  “Thank you.” She reached up and quickly kissed his lips.

  His hand moved down her and he looked at Belinda. She was asleep beside them.

  “You know,” whispered Judy, “when I first knew you I was so hopeful, I thought it was going to come so easy. I thought by the time I was twenty-five I’d be a big star with the mansion in California and a résumé of wonderful films. I thought everybody everywhere would know my name, I thought they’d all love me. I didn’t count on life though. I didn’t count on life being a cruel bitch who’ll slap you down at any chance she gets. Oh, the things I could have done if I’d had the breaks, Clay, if I’d had a little bit of luck. There were roles I went for, good roles that made people – and all the time I stayed here. I’m thirty years old and feel such a failure. I feel that my time to be a star is slipping, that it’ll be gone soon – and from then I’ll have to go for character parts with my teeth out. I feel such a loser, such a pathetic fucking nothing.”

  “You’re not nothing.”

  “Do you believe in me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think I have talent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Charisma?”

  “Yes.”

  “Presence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I beautiful?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will I make it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh Clay!” Her lips slipped onto his and they were locked together. He kissed her, his hands pawing and clawing at the material of her nightdress – she arched herself up and tore it over her head.

  They made love quickly, quietly. She rode him while his hands reached up and kneaded her tits. He held his breath, while her squeaks of pleasure were caught in her throat. She came with a sigh that was drawn out in its need to be quiet, and then dropped down onto him.

  He glanced at Belinda and kissed Judy. Her kisses became slower, more distant, as sleep took her. She rolled over so she lay beside him. She was gone swiftly and then he stroked his hand down her peaceful face, kissing her lips as her two front teeth rested between them. He lay on his back and Belinda turned and moved into him. She was still asleep but felt his arm and – recognising his touch – curled up into it.

  And with Judy one side and Belinda the other, he felt safe. He was contented, and gradually the peacefulness of their breathing took him. His eyes flickered but couldn’t stay open, and he knew that he couldn’t resist and didn’t want to anyway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  He stood outside Jake Monroe’s building in Bayswater. It was a cloudless night with the moon as bright as a winter sun, the neon-lamps rendered superfluous. He waiting across the street, knowing he couldn’t crash through that heavy front door, knowing that after recent events Jake might not just buzz him in. He leant his weight entirely on his left foot, as for some reason his right seared with pain every time it touched the asphalt. He lingered with the moon shining directly on him, a silvery figure in the dark, a ghost on the prowl.

  About a hundred yards up the road a black cab stopped with a screech and a well-dressed drunk fell out. He must have paid already, as the cab raced off and left him with a mouthful of gutter.

  Clay thought he should help, but something kept him back, told him to watch and wait.

  The man pushed himself up to his knees and then laughed. He looked feral, making wild sounds to the moonlight. He pulled himself upright and stumbled against the nearest car – that was particularly hilarious. Then he staggered straight as he could down the road, as if trying to give the impression he was sober. Despite his shakes, the flecks of vomit, the step that reeled him right across the tarmac – he seemed to think that if he kept his head up and affected a nonchalant whistle, nobody would notice.

  He was tall – as tall as Clay – but lanky and thin, seemingly made up of angles. It did give him an advantage when he was this drunk, as even when he spilled from the pavement back into the gutter, he retained a kind of aloofness.

  When he stopped at the steps to Jake Monroe’s building, Clay decided to help him.

  The man was unsteady, zigzagging his way to the front door, looking like he’d fall backwards every time he gained a step.

  Clay limped across the quiet road, watching him try to slip the key into the right hole – but doing more damage to the paint work.

  “Need some help there?” he asked.

  The man didn’t hear, he was still whistling thinly – the tune getting lost in deep breath and hiccups.

  “Do you need help?” Clay’s voice was forceful. />
  This time the man spun round, nearly losing his footing and collapsing into Clay’s arms. The sight of Clay didn’t seem to reassure him, maybe because he was so stained by moonlight.

  The man gawped as Clay hobbled up the steps and took the keys out of his hand. He stared at Clay and backed away, as if unsure this was a flesh and blood creature he was dealing with.

  Clay pushed the key into the lock, gave a nudge with his shoulder and swung it open.

  Fear vanished from the man’s face; he smiled as his home became accessible. He even let Clay take him by the arm and guide him in.

  Clay shut the door behind them and led the man to the lower of the two apartments. That lock was tricky and even Clay needed a minute or so to open it – no wonder the drunk was so noisy when he came in unaccompanied. Finally, the door creaked open onto darkness and the mewing of a hungry feline. The man staggered into his home and Clay handed him his keys. The drunk tried to form slurred words of gratitude, to thank Clay for his kind deed, perhaps to invite him in for a nightcap, maybe to suggest the two of them continue the party. But Clay stopped him before he could speak, putting his finger to his lips, grabbing the knob and shutting the door from the outside, leaving the man alone and unsteady in his dark hallway, incapable of dealing with an increasingly demanding cat.

  Clay climbed the stairs to the upper floor, Jake’s apartment. His right foot felt as if it was being seized by the fangs of a snake, some force cleaving it apart. His hand clung to the banister rail and pulled him up on his left foot. He winced if he even brushed his right.

  Reaching the top of the stairs and Jake’s door, he leant against the frame as he knocked. He had the odd sensation that his shoe was filling with blood.

  He banged three times.

  There was no response.

  He could picture Jake inside, Flower curled next to him – enjoying the early hour’s slumber.

  He slammed his hand against the door again.

  Once more there was nothing.

  He wondered if he’d woken them, and they were now staring at each other in a curious – maybe scared – silence.

  He banged and kicked the door simultaneously.