The Dream Wife

by Louisa de Lange

  She knew she would have to be quick, and sneaky. She thought about Johnny, about his future, about his life as a grown-up and how much better off he would be without David around. Without David, she would be able to bring her son up in a better way, with respect and love, free from worry or fear. At the moment David paid Johnny little regard, but what happened when Johnny developed a mind of his own? Would he copy his father, take on the same misogyny and distaste, or would he rebel? Would he become his father’s ally, or worse, another recipient of his temper?

  Annie took in her surroundings. She was wearing warm fur-lined boots and a thick coat. Black technical-looking gloves over her hands and a woolly hat on her head. She lifted the hat slightly from over her ears and listened; she could just about hear a repetitive sound of metal against wood. Faint, but there it was. Thud, then a pause, and then another thud. She looked around. There was nothing except more trees and forest; a few snow-capped peaks dominated the horizon, but there were no people, no other trace of habitation.

  She slowly moved closer to the cabin and peered through an icy window. Inside she could see a fire blazing in the log burner and a large bed in the centre of the room. A long feminine leg poked out of one side of the sheets, with blonde hair obscuring the face on the pillow. Ah, Annie thought, David’s subconscious: there it is.

  The noise continued from the other side of the cabin. Thud, pause, thud. She started moving again, slowly, round the house, getting closer, then poked her head round the final corner.

  At last, there stood a figure, axe in hand, a pile of logs to one side and a pile of chopped-up wood to the other. He had his back to Annie, and was wearing a black T-shirt, no coat, no gloves and no hat, despite the freezing weather. It was David at his most macho, proving his worth as a man.

  He raised the axe over his head again and took the impact as he connected with a log. It broke in two perfectly. He moved the chopped wood to the side, then rested the axe against a workbench, standing up straight and stretching out his back. Even Dream David, despite seeming in much better shape, was obviously not used to the physical demands of wood chopping.

  He picked up a mug, a rustic enamel creation, and took a swig of what seemed like coffee. In the cold of his dream world the mug steamed, piping hot, and he stood for a moment, king of his domain, looking at the scenery. Annie moved closer, slowly approaching where he stood, but still out of his line of sight.

  David put his coffee down and started stacking the logs in an ordered pile. Annie moved closer now, and picked up the axe. It was solid but heavy in her hand; it felt big and reassuring.

  She thought about him fucking his PA. She thought about him smacking her round the face, she thought about him raping her in front of her son. She thought of the hotel rooms, the videos, and all the other women. She thought about the blood, the snot, the pain and the fear. Feeling scared and lonely all the fucking time. Everything she had pushed down and suppressed for oh so very long. But most of all she thought about Johnny. She heard her son’s cries as he sat captive in his high chair; she heard him alone and ignored at Maggie’s house. She thought about the future, when David might hit him, when he might lay his hands on her perfect boy.

  She thought about Johnny’s future, picked up the axe and swung it into David’s head.

  The dream resisted her, as she knew it would. She felt the push back as everything moved in slow motion, leaving a blurred vapour trail behind. She summoned all her strength to lift the axe and heave it down. She pushed her subconscious away, replacing it with anger and the love for her son. She felt the muscles in her arms flexing and pulling, she felt her body tense, she saw the look on David’s face as he turned and saw her. At first recognition, then confusion, then sudden understanding, surprise and fear.

  He was too late. The axe connected; she felt the contact of metal with bone, and suddenly the world returned to normal speed. It jarred in her hand as it made its connection, vibrating all the way down her arm to her shoulder, but she held fast. The blade caught in his skull and stuck in the hard ridge of the thick bone. She let go, and he stood there for a second, axe embedded in the middle of his forehead, staring, shocked. Then the consciousness left his eyes and he fell forward heavily into the snow, his head hitting the ground last. The axe remained stuck, pushing his head up at a strange angle, so he was still looking at her, eyes wide, empty.

  Annie took a step back, her hands still in front of her. Before she had picked up the axe, she had cleared her mind, deliberately stopping herself clicking on to what she was about to do. But now that she was free and she could think what she liked, her mind still seemed empty.

  What had she expected to feel? They were married, after all; once they had even been in love. She sat down on the log where he had been chopping wood and took a look at his face. When they had met, she had thought him the most handsome man she had ever seen. Masculine, commanding, confident, all the things she had since come to hate. He had been kind once, too, although somehow she couldn’t remember the times when he had been good to her.

  A slow, thick stream of blood was leaking out of the hole in his head, running down the handle of the axe onto the snow. It pooled round the pile of chopped wood and she watched as it diluted into the pristine white of the snow. She had expected him to disappear or for her to be pulled away, to return to the land of the living, but nothing had changed. Perhaps something still flickered in his mind; a part of his subconscious remained. Around her the scene was silent. She could hear nothing but the gentle rustling of the birds in the trees. Her own subconscious had given up: it was obviously thinking, well fuck it, look what you’ve done now.

  Suddenly she heard footsteps and turned quickly, expecting a similar fate for herself.

  ‘You did it then?’ Jack stood behind her, his hands stuffed deep inside a smart wool coat, a comical multicoloured woolly hat with a bobble pulled down hard, blocking out his unruly hair. A matching stripy scarf was tied round his neck, pulled up to meet his hat.

  Annie took her gloves off and put them in her pockets, feeling suddenly warm. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

  ‘No idea. I mean it’s not like it’s real yet, is it? Haven’t I just dreamt about killing my husband? How will I know if it’s worked?’

  He shrugged, blowing on his hands to warm them.

  ‘Wake up.’

  Jack took a step back as Annie disappeared. He saw the body in front of him, the blood a ghoulish red halo in the snow. He tentatively poked it with the toe of his shoe and it shifted slightly, the axe dislodging and the face falling forwards with a thud. He jumped back, his heart pounding. What the hell was going on?

  When he woke up, back in his bed, the sun was low in the sky, a soft glow highlighting the edges of the furniture and the gentle lines of Lizzie sleeping next to him. He stared at the shadows on the ceiling, feeling muddled and confused. Lizzie stirred in her sleep, turning over and facing him. Her hair had escaped during the night and was falling over her face, and he gently moved it away, tucking it behind her ear. He very rarely complimented her – something inside held him back – but looking at her even now, face sagged with sleep, mouth open, hair a mess, she looked beautiful.

  It was her confidence he’d first admired. She had the air of someone who knew her place in the world and was comfortable in it. It was a trait he recognised in others and envied because it was so absent in himself. His parents had been amazing, always telling him they loved him, and he’d wanted for nothing, but as a small boy, being adopted had always made him feel like an outsider, like something or someone was missing. Piecing together his childhood had helped a bit, but it wasn’t until he met Lizzie that he found someone who could truly create a home. This house, with her, was his life, and he was always grateful for that. He should tell her, he resolved, he should tell her every day how he felt about her. He would try harder to push away the feeling that there was something, someone, missing, and let go of the worry that he would lo
se another person he loved.

  He got up carefully, tucking the blue bunny affectionately back under the duvet with Lizzie, his hand pausing for a moment to stroke its tattered ears. He reached down and put on a sweatshirt lying next to the bed. The weather didn’t get cold nowadays, even in the middle of winter, but he needed the comfort of something round his shoulders. He fitted his feet into his slippers and walked quietly down the stairs to the living room.

  Their house was tiny, but perfectly proportioned. Lizzie wasn’t one of those women with acres of shoes or clothes or handbags, but she did have an eye for interior design and colour. She had decorated the whole house pretty much single-handedly, with him on hand to do the grunt work, and she had done an incredible job: creating a cosy nook but without twee kitsch; functional and fun but not too girlie.

  She was an amazing woman, he thought, as he sat on the sofa watching the sun come up. Why the hell hadn’t he asked her to marry him yet? Why hadn’t they talked about starting a family or making things more permanent?

  He stood and went over to the bookshelf, taking out an old copy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The book was orange, with yellowed pages; a photo of a young Jack Nicholson grinning out of the cover. He liked the irony of hiding it here, in this book. Thumbing the worn pages, he pulled out a flimsy white envelope, the handwriting on the front scrawled and messy, just giving his name, a name he didn’t use any more. He didn’t get the letter out; he didn’t need to. He had read it a thousand times before and knew every word by heart. He held it in his hand for a moment, then slipped it back into its hiding place and put the book back on the shelf, lining it up with the others so it looked perfectly in place.

  He hadn’t known who she was at first – just another person in his dreams – until slowly the niggle of recognition turned into a dawning realisation. He hadn’t even known it was possible. He was confused. He knew what had happened in his past, what his parents had told him, so what was going on now? The line between reality and dream was blurring.

  So she had killed her husband. Or had she?

  27

  I wake with a jolt. The light is still dim; I slowly register it’s morning as my eyes open to the sound of Johnny talking to Rabbit next door. I lie still for a moment, smiling at the chatter. Still time until the alarm will wake David. Will usually wake David. Who knows what will happen now.

  I remember the dream. I remember the axe, and what I’ve done. I put my hand over my mouth and giggle slightly – from the shock, or the anticipation of what might happen next. I know I should feel guilty, but my only concern is whether it’s worked. I feel twitchy, my hands desperate to do something, anything, to distract me.

  I put on my dressing gown and go into Johnny’s room, opening the door to the sight of my grinning son. I pull him out of the cot and he immediately demands to be put on the ground. He waddles off towards the doorway, the John Wayne of baby walks, his nappy full and in the way of his pudgy little legs.

  I pick him up, Rabbit in his arms, and carry him to the changing mat. ‘Thomas, watch it?’ he says.

  ‘Maybe, after Daddy’s gone to work,’ I whisper. ‘Let’s get you changed first.’

  Changed, dressed, clean and sweet-smelling, we make our way downstairs. Empty dishwasher, tidy living room, coasters in a line, briefcase by the front door. Tea, Weetabix, toast. Coffee made for David. I hold myself back from rushing. Slow and measured as I go about my routine, like any other day. Part of me is desperate to know what waits for me in the master bedroom and the other part can’t bear to find out. If he is alive, would I be disappointed? What does that say about me? And if he is dead, what then?

  Coffee in hand, I leave Johnny downstairs with his toys and take the stairs slowly, hesitating at the door. I push the handle down as quietly as possible and go into the darkened room. His curtains are still shut, so my eyes adjust slowly, looking for the light in the darkness. I put the coffee cup on his bedside table and stand for a moment watching him. I can’t see any movement. I can’t see if his chest is going up and down, if there is blood pumping through his veins. There certainly isn’t any blood on the pillow. I move closer. I can’t tell if he’s breathing. I lean down towards his face; I just want to see if he’s warm, if there’s air going in and out of his lungs. I slowly reach out a finger to touch his cheek.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ David’s voice throws me a metre back from the bed, and I stand against the wardrobe, my heart lurching.

  He sits up in bed, head intact, breathing steadily.

  ‘I just … I don’t know,’ I stutter. ‘I was going to give you a kiss.’

  ‘Stupid bloody woman,’ he says. ‘Go and make my breakfast.’

  I stumble out of the room, hitting my hip and shoulder on the door frame as I go. My head spins. It hasn’t worked, I didn’t kill him, he’s still alive. Will he remember the dream? What will I do now? Try again? Run away? Take Johnny and just leave?

  I sit on the sofa for a moment, stunned, with Johnny in front of me slowly lining up his toy trains on the coffee table. He takes them one at a time from the box, turning them around so the magnets connect. Today he seems keen on the bigger trains, discarding others for the ones he clearly prefers. He puts Edward back in the box and connects Gordon to the back of Spencer. He is oblivious to everything going on, so innocent. How can I protect him?

  A loud noise from upstairs disturbs me from my thoughts. A thud and a crash of falling crockery. Something smashes against the door to the living room and Johnny and I both look towards the sound. Johnny looks back at me, train clutched in his hand.

  ‘David?’ I call.

  I stand up slowly and open the door. David’s BlackBerry lies in pieces on the floor in the hallway, the back and the battery at my feet. Halfway up the stairs there is a brown stain and a piece of coffee cup, the rest scattered as my gaze moves upwards.

  ‘David?’ I call again. I look at Johnny. ‘Stay here.’

  Slowly I walk up the stairs, glimpsing David’s socked feet, perpendicular to the ground. As I get closer, I can see his body, half dressed in suit trousers and an untucked shirt, more untidy than I have seen him in months. He is lying on the floor, eyes open, mouth gaping, a gash on his head gently seeping blood onto our pristine cream carpet.

  Without a word I retrace my steps back down the stairs and pick up my mobile.

  ‘Ambulance, please,’ I say calmly to the emergency operator. ‘My husband has collapsed.’ I adjust the tone of my voice. ‘Please come quickly,’ I add, a trace of hysteria creeping in. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  I hang up slowly and sit back down on the sofa. I pick up my tea and take a sip. It’s getting cold.

  28

  The ambulance arrives with a scream of sirens loud enough to rouse the curiosity of the road. Men rush in, big green bags in hand, and I point up the stairs, wiping away my horrified tears with a tissue. Johnny attaches himself to my leg and I pick him up as he starts to cry in response to the noise and bustle. I bury my face in his warm shoulder, providing a welcome distraction from my strange demeanour. I’m not sure what to go with; nothing feels natural. Quiet and shocked, or hysterical and wailing? Quiet and shocked is easier, so I opt for that.

  They bash about at the top of the stairs, scuffing the paintwork with their equipment and bags. One of the paramedics goes downstairs to the ambulance and returns with another piece of equipment. I watch wordlessly from the doorway, Johnny still attached to my neck.

  Another car pulls up in our driveway, black and white, a police car, this time the sirens mercifully silent. My heart jumps. What the hell are they doing here? Are they here for me? Two officers climb out of the car, one in uniform and one in a suit, and walk slowly to the house, deep in conversation for a moment. They look over and see Johnny and me at the doorway, straighten their shoulders and approach the front door.

  Johnny has stopped crying, mesmerised by actual policemen arriving at his house.

  ‘Mrs Sullivan?’
the plain-clothes officer asks, and I nod. ‘Can we come in?’

  I move aside and they step through the doorway, wiping their feet on the mat. I force myself to calm down; there is nothing for them to know, I tell myself. I follow them into the living room, pulling Johnny onto my lap and cuddling him, his familiar warmth and toddler smell instantly reassuring.

  The first policeman sits opposite me on the other sofa, while the second stands uncomfortably in the corner of the room.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask, remembering my manners.

  ‘No, no, you stay there,’ the plain-clothes officer says, gesturing towards his colleague and then the kitchen. The policeman in uniform scuttles off, and I can hear the sound of my kettle being filled under the tap and switched on, then a clattering of teacups and cupboards opening and closing.

  The officer puts his hands together and leans in towards me. I notice the noise upstairs has stopped, just a gentle rustling and moving of heavy boots replacing the previous frenetic thumping and talking.

  ‘Mrs Sullivan, my name is Detective Sergeant Coleman. I’m here because in cases like this, we need to investigate what’s happened,’ the man says.

  ‘Cases like this?’ I echo.

  ‘When the accident is sudden, with no obvious cause.’ He clears his throat. He’s obviously not completely comfortable, fidgeting in the chair and running his hands through his salt-and-pepper crop. It’s receding fast at the front, showing a large expanse of wrinkled forehead. He’s not unattractive, but this, combined with his large nose, gives him the appearance of a wise eagle, care-worn and beaten through life experience. ‘I know this is hard, but can you tell me what happened?’