by Simon Clark
‘Am I missing something?’ He frowned.
‘My name is Laura Parris. My parents ran a care home for the elderly. When I was seven I found one of the residents, a man of eighty, lying dead in the greenhouse. He told me often that he loved the smell of tomato plants. The day I found him he’d taken a drug overdose. I’ve never told anyone this before outside my family. My first boyfriend liked to massage oil into my breasts as he made love. He was horrified when I suggested oral sex might be nice. When—’
‘Whoa, Laura. Why on earth are you telling me this?’
‘When I qualified as a nurse I got the job of preparing corpses before they went to the morgue. I used to go back to the nurses’ accommodation block every night and wondered how I could deal with it. You know, moving the arms and legs of dead people like they were just the plastic limbs of a doll. Those noises they made after death? They made you want to rip your own ears off. I started to drink vodka. It works best with sugary drinks. Pow! A liquid right hook. But you know how I stopped going mad from handling dead men and women? Like pushing my fingers into mouths to pull out their false teeth? You know how, Victor? I discovered a taste for erotica. I read sex stories in magazines. Then I graduated to reading erotic novels. I haven’t told anyone else about that, either. No . . . don’t make the coffee yet. I want you to listen.’ She spoke in a cool, purposeful way. ‘Reading about people having sex – full penetration, lots of different positions – it all helped. People enjoying the act of creating life chased away this fog of death that surrounded me. Before that I’d look into a mirror, then all those dead faces, with staring eyes and blue lips, would flow through my reflection. Reminding me I’m mortal, that we all die anyway.’ She took a breath. ‘I haven’t told anyone else this either: Before I met you I hadn’t had sex for fifteen months.’
‘Oh.’ Victor didn’t know what to say.
‘There, I’ve put my trust in you with all these facts.’ She tilted her head. ‘You’ve given me your biographical details that appear on the handout. Funny that, hmm?’
‘It’s been a difficult couple of days.’
‘Difficult in what? About Jay or what Solomon told us? Or difficult that you haven’t been able to give me even one sentence about what attracted you to me? Or that we made love, or maybe it was just sex? I don’t sleep around, Victor. But you’ve made me feel disposable. Now you expect me to trust you with everything I know about Jay, or what we should do with him, or to him when he’s my responsibility. I don’t even know you, Victor. You know nothing about me. Even though you took a heck of a lot of pleasure in screwing me.’
‘Hey, that’s not fair. We haven’t had time to—’
‘What was wrong with making a time just to say you feel something for me, and that being in bed with me was at least OK.’
‘Laura—’
‘You’ve made me feel like a piece of gum that’s had the flavour chewed out.’
‘Laura, you’re wrong about that. You’re wrong to take this attitude, too.’
‘I thought you’d repressed all memory of us being together.’
‘Laura, you’re exhausted . . .’
‘I’m angry. Incredibly angry. You don’t want to even make a start about discussing us.’
Victor shoved the cups into the sink. ‘You better go back to your room.’
‘I trusted you. I came here tonight to see if there’s the start of a relationship we could develop. But you’ve built this great big wall around Victor Brodman – no one can see the real man. What we get is an island ranger, with a sunny disposition, but with less heart than one of those little lizards you stand guard over here.’
‘Laura, this isn’t—’
‘Working. You’re so dead right.’
‘Laura—’
‘Good night, Victor. I hope you’re so damn well pleased with yourself.’
She left without slamming the door. For some reason that sudden silence was an even more eloquent expression of her contempt for him than words or noise ever could be.
Twenty-One
Victor opened his eyes. Far away the church clock struck two in the morning. He lay there in the darkness as echoes of the final chime lingered on the warm air. A moment later a human voice called his name to the rhythm of the bell’s chime. ‘Victor . . . Victor . . . Victor . . .’ Rather than sound it seemed a ghost of a sound.
Victor sat up in bed, hopeful that Laura had come across the yard from the farmhouse. Her accusations yesterday had pained him. Just what had made her flare up like that?
Now this call. It possessed a shimmering quality that suggested a voice emerging from the river waters. He went to the window. ‘Victor . . .’ When he looked out it wasn’t what he expected. First of all the farmyard had vanished. Instead of an area surrounded by fences, with the block-shaped farmhouse standing at the far side, there were trees. He licked his lips. A usual dryness made his mouth feel like paper. The person calling his name wasn’t whom he’d hoped for. Jay stood beneath the trees, arms limp by his sides. Jay gazed up at Victor as he uttered his name: ‘Victor . . .’
Victor pushed open the window. Only it wasn’t there any more. His hands brushed against leafy branches rather than glass.
‘Victor. I’ll take you to meet someone.’
‘It’s late,’ Victor told him. ‘Go back to bed.’
‘Like I promised before, I’ve come to take you to her.’
‘No doubt you are in bed.’ Victor gave a grim smile. ‘Just like I’m in bed. Because I’m dreaming all this, aren’t I?’ He glanced back at where his bedroom should be. In the moonlight he saw trees. Through the trunks he glimpsed silver glints of the Severn. He checked his hands. There was a scab on the stretch of skin between his fingers where he’d cut himself while freeing the fawn. ‘In great detail,’ he told Jay. ‘But I’m still dreaming this.’
‘I’m going to show you Ghorlan.’
‘Correction. My subconscious is going to show me Ghorlan.’ Victor grimaced. ‘She drowned in the river. They never found the body. So don’t go showing me any horror pictures, will you?’ Victor realized this wasn’t so much a dream as the beginning of a nightmare. He sensed the approach of something ominous. ‘I’m not going to like this, am I? Tell me why am I questioning a dream version of Jay Summer?’
‘Follow me, Victor. I want you to be happy.’
‘Happy before I die?’ Moonbeams pierced the branches. ‘Laura told me what happens. You’re taking me for one of your little walks.’
Jay moved through the forest ahead of him. A herd of Saban parted to allow him through. Their blue eyes regarded Victor with such deep sorrow. They had the eyes of human babies. ‘So the legends are true . . . these animals are the souls of children . . . then I’m dreaming this, aren’t I?’ He pricked his hand as he pushed a branch aside. When he pulled out the black thorn from his palm a bead of red welled out. ‘Ouch. Boy, does this dream have verisimilitude.’ He sucked the wound clean. ‘Good word that: verisimilitude. Authentic. The substance of truth.’ He licked his dry lips. ‘I see accurate details: you, trees, moonlight, the river, the Saban, nettles, this purple foil from a chocolate bar in the grass. I felt the thorn prick my hand. See? Still bleeding. It tastes like real blood. Everything indicates reality. Only I’m in bed sleeping. So, therefore, I dream.’
‘Nearly there, Victor. You’ll see her soon.’
‘Please God, don’t make it a nightmare. The times I dream she’s lying on the river bed . . . in such a mess . . .’ He swallowed.
Jay continued in a monotone. ‘Victor . . . you see yourself walking through the forest. It’s that day the new ferry replaced the old one with the yellow funnel. You’re going to find Ghorlan; the sailing times have changed; you have to leave earlier, so you don’t miss the ferry; you’re going to visit your parents . . .’
‘Jay, I don’t want to do this.’ He tried to stop. However, his traitor feet kept him moving through the wood. A fox watched him. ‘Mr Fox, you know something I don’t, do
n’t you?’ Despite shivers cascading through his flesh he chuckled. A light-headed sensation disorientated him.
Jay walked toward a moonlit clearing. ‘You’re wearing the ranger fleece.’
‘It’s our first wedding anniversary. It wasn’t like this. I didn’t walk through the woods in the dark.’
‘When you did see Ghorlan, you found her doing something, didn’t you?’ He moved faster. ‘She was doing something you didn’t expect at all.’
Victor surged through the bushes into the clearing. A woman with hair as black as raven feathers knelt in the centre. Her actions were exactly the same as when he’d surprised her on that first anniversary of theirs.
Ghorlan glanced up, a look of astonishment on her beautiful face. ‘Victor? I didn’t want you to see this. You weren’t supposed to know.’
Victor approached her. When he’d seen her on that day she’d been wearing the green ranger fleece. Now she wore a white flowing dress, a fairy tale kind of outfit that a child might imagine would be gorgeous to an adult.
Victor’s heart clamoured. ‘I know this is a dream,’ he said. ‘I wish to God it wasn’t.’ He turned to Jay. ‘You’ve been making dreams come true, haven’t you? Or at least you’ve tried. Because this wish-granting thing of yours has been going wrong, hasn’t it?’
‘It’s not my fault. People wish for the wrong thing. They want to see people who’ve died, but I can’t make dead people live again. Not properly anyway.’
Victor watched Ghorlan. When he’d found her on that day a decade ago she’d been planting a tree. It had been her intention to surprise him with it. Then she’d been using a spade and been wearing the fleece. Now, in this dream-version she wore the beautiful flowing white dress as she smoothed soil around the newly planted tree with a shiny hand trowel.
‘It’s Cedar of Lebanon,’ she explained. ‘In my village it was a tradition to plant a cedar on the first wedding anniversary. It would grow as the married couple spent their years together. So the hillside near my home was magnificent with all the Cedar of Lebanon standing there. Big green sentinels. Enduring symbols of love, no?’ She smiled at Victor, her lips an outrageous red. ‘You weren’t supposed to see this yet. It was to be a surprise.’
The sensation made him sway. For a moment it seemed he’d really stepped back all those years to the day he found his wife planting the tree. While in his hand he saw he held a bracelet. Engraved on a gold tag: Ghorlan~Victor.
Victor shook his head. ‘Jay. This isn’t right. You’ve manufactured a fantasy version of what happened. Ghorlan didn’t wear a dress like that. She never wore scarlet lipstick. You think you’re pleasing me by showing me Ghorlan, but you’ve made her grotesque. This is a leering puppet. Artificial. Lifeless!’
‘I did my best. I want to make you happy.’
Ghorlan smoothed down the fabric of her dress with impossibly clean hands, considering she’d just planted a sapling in the mud.
Smiling, she said, ‘A problem, Victor?’
‘It’s time I woke up.’
‘Because I’ll tell you what the problem is, Victor, dear,’ her voice turned deeper. ‘The problem is you never looked for me.’ Her smile became a snarl. ‘I vanished from your life. Why didn’t you try to find me?’
‘I did. I devoted weeks to searching the river. Every inch—’
‘Are you blind? I was never there. Never ever!’
Ghorlan fled. Instinctively he followed. Ahead of him, the dress gleamed white as bone as she flitted through the trees.
‘Ghorlan, come back. Tell me what you mean.’
‘The river!’ she cried. ‘I was never there!’
‘I don’t understand. Explain what you’re saying.’
As she darted amongst dark tree trunks he strove to catch up. She’d become an elusive phantom now. A flicker of light in the darkness.
I’ll catch her, he told himself as his mind whirled with crazy thoughts. I’ll hold her so tight she can’t get away . . . then I’ll squeeze the truth out of her. I’ll force her to tell me what she means. Moments later, he burst from the trees. The castle tower loomed in the night sky. Ghorlan’s dress shone against the earth mound beneath the castle wall, then she vanished. The ground had swallowed her.
He groaned with frustration. ‘I wish I could hold her again. I need to tell her I love her.’
Jay appeared. ‘I can take you to her again. That’s what she wants.’ Jay pointed at the castle mound. ‘Just keep walking into there like you’re walking through a door.’
‘I’ll do it. I’ll do anything to be with her.’ A pain jabbed his stomach.
‘You’ve got to be quick,’ Jay told him.
‘I’m going.’ A metal taste filled his mouth. He took an unsteady step forward.
‘Hurry,’ Jay urged. ‘You want to find her, don’t you?’
‘More than anything else in the world.’ Victor reached out to push his hands into the grassy banking. His fingers pressed against fabric. When he clawed them aside he saw they were his bedclothes. The bedroom walls pulsated. His tongue tasted awful. Victor grimaced as the pain stabbed his belly. ‘You thought you’d escape it didn’t you, Brodman?’ Briefly, he clung to memories of Ghorlan in the dream. The next moment all that mattered was reaching the bathroom.
Twenty-Two
All the next day after that dream, the encounter with his dead wife planting the cedar, Victor Brodman lay in bed with about as much vitality as a garden slug. One of the black unctuous kind that slithers across the patio. When stomach cramps didn’t keep him awake he slipped into fevered sleep.
‘You’re down with the same bug as me, Victor. Bloody awful, isn’t it?’ his sister proclaimed cheerfully. ‘I’m feeling much better now, though.’
‘My mouth tastes as if a slug died in it; one of those fat, slimy . . .’ He groaned.
‘Same as me. The muscle spasms were worst, though. Felt as if I was splitting in two. Now, you’ve got a jug of water. Can I get you something to eat?’
‘Ugh . . . that’s just cruel. Nothing like a big sister to be chief torturer.’
‘It’s no worse than what you did when I went down with food poisoning when I was fourteen . . . you’d have been . . . what? Eleven, twelve? You came into my room as I lay there with a bucket by the bed. You were pleased as punch with yourself when you announced the best way to treat food poisoning was by eating frogspawn. You showed me a jar of the stuff that you’d collected from a pond. You said that to feel better I’d have to swallow it all in one go.’
‘I was eleven, Mary. It was a joke.’
‘Failing that, the next best thing was all the fat and gunk scraped out of a frying pan after Dad had one of those revolting fry-ups of his.’
‘Sis, if you leave me alone I’ll give you a million dollars, a million euros, whatever it takes for you to stop making me feel . . .’ He gulped.
Mary smiled. ‘I’ve been waiting years to get my own back. As they say, revenge is a dish best served cold.’
‘Medusa, witch, monster . . .’ He blinked. A housefly buzzed around the room.
Mary entered the room with a jug of water.
‘Do you feel like anything to eat yet?’
‘Uh . . . I dreamt you were here just now asking the same thing. Then you started talking about Dad’s cooked breakfasts.’
‘Ah, the cholesterol express.’
‘It wasn’t so much a dream.’ He swallowed. ‘A nightmare, a horrendous, torturing nightmare.’
‘It was no such thing.’
‘You actually said those things? About frogspawn and bacon fat?’
She grinned. ‘I thought it might cheer you up. But I said all those things over an hour ago. You keep falling asleep at the drop of a hat.’
‘Never become a doctor, sis. Your bedside manner’s a killer.’
‘Speaking of nurses, there’s one to see you now.’
Victor perked up. ‘Laura?’
‘Lou.’ Mary touched his forehead. ‘We could fry e
ggs on your face.’
‘Thanks for the lovely image.’
‘You must be feeling better. Until this afternoon all you did was grunt.’
His sister left the room. The fly remained. That buzz began to drive him insane. With an effort he turned over in bed. Jay stood in the shadows.
‘Jay? You shouldn’t be here. You might catch . . .’ Victor swallowed queasily. ‘Makes you feel rotten.’
Jay gazed at him. ‘You thought what your sister told you about the frogspawn was a dream.’
‘That’s right, I did.’
‘When you met Ghorlan last night you thought that was a dream, too.’
‘Of course it was a dream.’ He lay as limp as a wet towel. ‘Yes, I love my wife. I also know she’s dead.’
‘You pricked your hand on a thorn.’
‘It was a realistic dream. I’ll give you that.’
Jay advanced on him, gripped his hand, then lifted it. ‘What do you see?’
Victor’s heart lurched. For there in the centre of his palm was a small, black scab. After burning with fever now he shivered as if plunged into ice-cold water.
‘What’s that in your hand?’ Lou bustled in. She fixed him with her dark eyes like she’d found a young boy up to mischief.
‘Uh, nothing.’
‘You find nothing mighty interesting.’ Without hesitation she gripped his hand so she could study the palm. ‘Did you get a splinter in that, Victor, from breaking someone’s heart?’
‘A thorn. I pricked myself last night . . .’ He frowned as what she said fully registered. ‘Breaking someone’s heart?’
‘You heard right, Victor.’
‘My sister was messing with my mind – and stomach – earlier. Don’t you start or our cider drinking days will be over.’
She ripped open a foil sachet then shook white powder from it into a glass of water. ‘Drink this.’
‘Trying to poison me?’
‘It replaces natural salts in the body, restores electrolyte balances and the like.’
‘I don’t think I can really—’
