The Dream Wife

by Louisa de Lange

  It would be my childhood all over again. I remember the loneliness, the strange people that came to the house who I knew not to trust, the official-looking women with their clipboards, sitting on the edge of our sofa. I can’t do that to my boy.

  ‘Home now?’ says Johnny.

  I nod, slowly.

  There has to be another way. We leave and get into the car, ready for the long drive south. I will think of something. I won’t let my little boy down. It isn’t over yet.

  As I drive, tears roll quietly down my cheeks. I am angry with myself for getting in this position again. I escaped once and now, somehow, here I am, life on repeat. Prisoner to the person I loved, helpless and trapped in the very place I am supposed to feel safe. How have I been so stupid?

  I pull into our driveway and the walls close in. I switch off the ignition and Johnny twitches in his car seat, keen to get out and play with his toys. For a moment, I can’t bring myself to open the car door. I sit frozen as he complains.

  What I believed to be the marriage of my dreams has turned into a living nightmare. And slowly it occurs to me. I don’t move. I stay in the driving seat, my hands motionless on the steering wheel, my brain whirring and processing the little snippets offering a glimmer of hope. What if there is a way out? What if I look beyond the obvious, beyond the land of the living? If I can’t solve the problem while I am awake, what can I do when I am asleep?

  23

  The door slams, followed by silence. I take a deep breath and hold it, my heart pounding in my chest. Slamming doors are not a good sign, but if the briefcase is put down lightly, things could be okay.

  We have been home a few hours, and Johnny is sitting in his high chair, a spoonful of spaghetti bolognese close to his lips. For such a messy dinner, for once he is doing quite well, the tomato sauce only slightly smudged round his mouth. He pauses when he hears his father, waiting for a cue from me. I am standing across from him at the kitchen counter, knife in hand, preparing the vegetables for our dinner.

  I hear a loud thud as David’s briefcase hits the door at the bottom of the stairs, thrown from a distance, and I reach across to Johnny in an instant reaction, wiping the red stains off as best I can. I take another deep breath and try to remain calm. Dinner is prepared and Johnny is clean, tidy and quiet, as am I.

  David hurls open the kitchen door, bashing it against the wall, and stomps into the room.

  ‘Fucking shareholders, fucking imbeciles who don’t have a clue about what the fuck they are doing,’ he shouts. I reach up into the cabinet and pull down a wine glass as he picks out a bottle of red. ‘Honestly, it’s a wonder I make them any money.’

  I murmur something quiet and soothing, at a loss for the right words to say.

  ‘I’m in charge,’ he rages. ‘Me! Yet I get called into my own boardroom to answer a whole load of fucking stupid questions to make sure they are happy. Christ! I have better things to do with my time. And then they have the audacity to question my answers and say I’m being flippant. Flippant! Of course I’m being flippant, they’re fucking stupid people with fucking stupid questions.’

  ‘What did you say?’ I ask, opening the bottle quickly and pouring him a glass.

  ‘I did what I’m paid to do,’ David says, and stops, peering into the glass. He sticks his finger in. ‘What, dearest wife,’ he says quietly, with a sneer, ‘is this?’ He holds out the finger, with the tiniest piece of something brown on the end of it.

  ‘David, I’m so sorry, let me sort that out.’ I go to take the glass away from him, desperate to dispose of the offending piece of cork.

  He pulls it back, out of my reach.

  ‘This is a 2011 Château Haut-Brion. Do you know how much this costs?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, David.’

  ‘Fucking seven hundred pounds a bottle. And you’ve fucked it in one quick move by getting fucking cork in it.’ He throws his wine glass into the sink and it smashes; pieces of glass flying close to Johnny, red wine splashing like blood across the white ceramic.

  ‘Careful, David,’ I say instinctively, as Johnny starts to cry, the noise scaring him.

  In a second, David is up close to my face, eyes bulging and nostrils flaring. ‘Don’t you tell me what to do. You are my wife!’ he spits. ‘You do not tell me what to do!’

  ‘I’m sorry—’ I start, then stop as the back of David’s hand smacks across my face. It makes my head spin round, my teeth clatter together, my hair fall over my face. He grabs the top of my arm and pulls me round roughly so I am facing away from him, pushing me over the kitchen counter.

  ‘You’re all out to fuck with me,’ he shouts, grabbing the back of my neck and pushing me forwards, my face pressed roughly into the chopping board, my arms trapped behind me. ‘I am in control, me! Only me!’

  I can’t see much: the outline of the carrots I was chopping, the knife next to them and the spice rack in the distance. I am turned away from Johnny, my cheek pressed into the hard wood, David’s hand on my neck, pushing me down. I can hear Johnny crying, properly now, and imagine his face, screwed up and red, mouth open and wide, as he watches what is going on, not understanding, just wanting his mum.

  I hear a metallic chink, and feel David’s hands roughly pulling up my skirt and pulling down my knickers. Material rips, skin chafes, and I gasp in shock as he rams himself into me, bashing, pushing, forcing his way in. My hands flap uselessly behind me, my head pushed down, hair over my face, nose running, tears obscuring my vision. He thrusts against me, not caring what damage he does, and it hurts, it really hurts, more than it has ever hurt before. This is nothing new, but he has never been so severe, so determined to punish, to use me as something to fuck and make me know my place.

  Johnny’s crying has risen to a scream, and I can hear the plastic scrape of his high chair as I imagine him trying to get out, to get away. I feel the bile rise inside me. I want to be sick. The pressure on my neck makes it hard for me to breathe. My anger grows as the pain increases. I feel something wet run down the inside of my leg, and through the haze, I realise I can move my arm, bit by bit, each time he withdraws and bashes into me again, getting closer and closer to the knife on the counter top. A knife newly sharpened.

  Fuelled by anger and fury and pain and survival and the overriding urge to protect my tiny son, I push and reach. The handle is inches from my fingers. I imagine myself gripping it and flaying round, random, panicked, determined to make contact with something, anything, to make it stop. It feels so real, I see an arc of red, David’s shocked face, and can imagine warm, sticky blood on my fingers.

  But then with one final thrust, David hurls me against the counter and lets go of my neck. My legs are wobbly and weak and I fall to the floor, coughing, back to reality, the knife clattering out of my hand. David stands above me, clutching his penis in front of my face, small drips of cum glistening on the end.

  ‘You should clean me up while you’re down there, you bitch,’ he spits, but then turns, pulling his trousers up. ‘Sort out this fucking child,’ he says, standing by the kitchen door. ‘I’m going out. The sight of you makes me sick.’

  The front door slams, and I drag myself upright, adjusting my clothing, then crawl over to my shaking son and pull him out of the high chair into my arms.

  We sit on the kitchen floor, Johnny and I, both stunned into silence, Rabbit now clutched to his chest and Johnny clutched to mine. We sit there surrounded by the mess, the glass, and red wine, until the pain subsides, replaced by something stronger, something more permanent.

  ‘He’s going to go soon, Johnny, don’t you worry,’ I say, stroking his hair, my arms tight around him. ‘He’ll be gone soon.’

  Winter’s gloom

  She found him sitting on a bench overlooking the sea. He was wearing a large black overcoat, the collar pulled up to his ears, covering his mouth and half his face. His hair stuck out the top, curly and unruly in the sea wind. He was watching the passers-by, a slight smile on his face. She sat down next to
him, pulling her own coat tightly around her.

  ‘Do you ever wonder about all of this?’ Jack said, not turning to her or acknowledging her arrival with even a hello. ‘Why are we able to control what we do, but they can’t?’ He shook his head. ‘They don’t have a clue.’

  Annie listened to him with barely a flicker of interest. She knew what he meant, she had often wondered the same thing herself, but she didn’t care right now. They looked out from the bench to the sand, thick and wet, and the dark forbidding sea, tossed with huge waves. The grand pier stood to their left, overlooking them all. The pink neon from the arcade shone out, a modern lighthouse in the winter’s gloom.

  ‘How come we realise we are dreaming, but they don’t?’ He frowned. ‘Think what they could do. Think where they could go.’

  ‘You know you said that if you die in your dreams, you might die in real life?’

  He turned to her for the first time since she had joined him. ‘Yes?’ he said tentatively.

  ‘How can we find out if that’s true?’

  He looked at her and studied her face closely. ‘Why?’

  ‘If you killed someone in their dream, would they die?’

  He raised an eyebrow. Slowly, he asked again: ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to kill my husband.’

  Part Three

  The test

  ‘I want to kill my husband.’

  Jack took a deep breath and studied Annie’s face.

  ‘Right,’ he said. He didn’t ask why.

  ‘Is it possible?’

  He paused for a moment. ‘Do you want to hear my theory?’ he asked, and Annie nodded. Jack turned back to the people rushing along the promenade, braced to the wind. ‘I tried early on to interact with others, to influence people in the dream with me. But they weren’t like you and me, they were lost in their own heads. I could move them a bit, if it was something fun, but otherwise it was impossible. I couldn’t change their minds from the path they were following.’ Annie stayed quiet. Jack turned on the bench to face her, slotting one of his legs under the other. ‘I think it will be hard to do something that someone doesn’t want to do – something their subconscious won’t like.’

  ‘Isn’t our subconscious the same as us?’ Annie asked.

  He screwed his face up. ‘Not really. The subconscious is more concerned with the basics – food, water. Think of it as a survival mechanism. Have you ever noticed that in your dreams you wake up before you hit the ground, or if something is chasing you, they will never catch up?’

  Annie nodded.

  ‘That’s your subconscious protecting you. It won’t take the risk that you might die. Because if you die, it will die.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s my guess, anyway.’

  ‘So can I do this?’

  He pushed his hair out of his face with a sweep of his long fingers. He looked at her for a long time, then frowned. ‘You really want to?’

  ‘Yes.’ Annie was sure.

  ‘Then you will have two problems: your subconscious won’t let you do anything nasty to someone, and the other person’s won’t let anything nasty happen to them. So you’ll have to make it sneaky, and do it fast, so he’s not expecting it.’ He rubbed his chin with his hand. ‘And finally, we don’t know if it will work.’

  He reached over and slipped his hand underneath her upper arm, twisting the soft, unprotected skin between her elbow and her armpit. She jumped, pushing his hand away.

  ‘Ow!’ she said. ‘Why did you do that?’ She rubbed her arm furiously, trying to make the sting go away.

  ‘A little test,’ Jack said. ‘When you wake up tomorrow morning, let’s see if you’ve got a bruise there. You should, it was hard enough.’

  It started to rain, big droplets making small indents in the sand. Jack produced a red and white umbrella and held it over them, protecting them from the downpour.

  ‘So how could you do that to me?’ Annie asked. ‘Assuming you’re not some sort of sadist who enjoys pinching people?’

  ‘I convinced myself it was for your own good, so my subconscious was happy.’

  They sat for a moment, looking out to the ocean. Large, ominous black clouds had formed on the horizon, blending the line from sea to sky. A couple passed on the promenade in front of them, riding the wave of their dream, moving effortlessly in the way she had seen so many times before.

  ‘So I have to tell my subconscious that David being dead is a good thing for me?’

  ‘Don’t you know that already?’ Jack said, turning to her again. ‘Or why would you be here?’

  24

  The alarm goes off with its usual shrill, and I jump awake, my heart thumping. Outside, it’s still dark, the birds haven’t started their rude chirping, and the rest of the street is sound asleep. Exactly where I should be, I think. How different things would be if … I sit up quickly with a jolt. Reaching over to silence the buzzing, I flick the light on and blink in the sudden illumination. Slowly I wait for my eyes to adjust, then I pull my arm free of the covers and twist it round to see if anything lies underneath. It feels sore and tender where I am pulling at it, but I can’t see a bruise, just pale, pink flesh.

  My heart sinks, and then I feel silly. Such a ridiculous thought – so much for Jack’s theory. Neither of us knows anything about how this dream thing works, and at the end of the day, that’s all it is. Dreams don’t really come true. Not for me.

  I fall back in the bed, lying there for a moment. Dread floods my body. Johnny and I are still here, we’re still stuck, with no way to escape. Nothing but this man, this life, this fear, for the next twenty, thirty, forty years.

  I pull myself out of bed, sliding my slippers onto my feet. Even with summer round the corner, in my light T-shirt and pyjama trousers the house feels freezing. I go downstairs, flicking the kettle on and overriding the heating.

  So morning duties, here we go. Breakfast for the boy, breakfast for the man. Two fried eggs, two slices of bacon, two slices of brown buttered toast. At least if the dream won’t kill him, perhaps the cholesterol will. One glass of orange juice, ice cold. Coffee: fresh and hot, black, no sugar. I pad up the stairs quietly, open the door and place the coffee by the side of David’s bed. The room is still in darkness, and a stale smell fills the air. Male sweat, alcohol, garlic, all compressed into a noxious fug. David is lying on his back, his mouth open, a loud snore emitting from his lungs. I close the door behind me quickly.

  For a moment I stand at Johnny’s door, my ear to the gap, listening to the contrast of my son’s light breathing. I feel my heartbeat return to normal, and decide to let him sleep for a while longer.

  Lay the table, ready for the both of them. Weetabix for me, bread in the toaster, ready for Johnny.

  Make tea.

  Tidy up the living room. Straighten the sofa cushions; pick up the red wine glass, the whisky tumbler and the finished bottle. Put his laptop in his briefcase and leave it by the front door. Straighten the coasters on the coffee table, all in a row, lined up with the edge of the table. Symmetrical, neat.

  As I hear the shower start, the baby monitor next to me springs to life. A little chirp, then more chatter fills the usual hiss, making the blue lights dance. Johnny is lying with his legs vertical up the side of his cot, Rabbit clutched in his paws, his little eyes shining in the dark. He is always pleased to see me, and this morning he claps his hands with delight.

  He smiles, a cheeky little grin that lights up my day. That grin can see Johnny through any of his mischief, make me forgive him anything: hands in the spaghetti hoops, a thrown train, days when his only word seems to be no.

  I get him dressed and go downstairs. I put him in his high chair. I take a quick swig of my tea, now practically cold.

  I hear footsteps on the stairs, and feel myself physically recoil, my body hunched. David walks into the kitchen, face looking down, staring at his phone. He makes a call and finishes his coffee in the other hand. I take a step back, turning away. I want to be invisible; I don’t w
ant him to see me, to talk to me. I can’t bear it if he touches me.

  Johnny watches him silently while I butter the toast, trying to seem normal.

  David hangs up and tosses the phone into his pocket. He picks up his breakfast and eats it with a fork, plate balanced on the palm of his hand. Shovelling it in, like a peasant from the Dark Ages.

  The plate is returned to the table, fork tossed nearby, and he turns his attention to Johnny, who is still staring. ‘Be a good boy,’ he says. ‘Don’t let anyone give you any shit.’ He laughs at his joke and turns to me. ‘Mother is coming over on Thursday night to celebrate her birthday. She’s going to phone and tell you what she wants you to cook.’ No question, just a certainty that that is what’s happening. ‘I’m eating out tonight, so don’t prepare dinner.’ I nod. ‘And what the hell have you done to your arm? Be more careful; you don’t want people thinking I did that to you.’

  With a smirk he swings out of the room, his aftershave lingering.

  I look at my arm but still can’t see anything. I rush into the living room and hold it above my head, looking in the mirror. There, where Jack pinched me, are two large bruises, turning black and brown, clear against my pink skin.

  25

  Summer has at last arrived in our part of the world, and the park is now a mass of white and pink cherry blossom, with the smell of newly cut grass. A few white clouds scud across the sky as we walk, and for once I actually look half decent, rather than like an escaped patient from a mental home. A pair of scuffed denim jeans and a T-shirt, with towel-dried hair, works in the sunshine. I could have just rolled off a beach in the Mediterranean.

  We are so engrossed in our little world that I don’t notice our companions until it’s too late. Johnny runs ahead to the swings, and instantly my cheeks are bright red. I’m cringing with shame, remembering the last time I saw Adam, how stupid I was to phone him, to put him in that position with David.