The Dream Wife

by Louisa de Lange

  Jack slowly moved round and sat next to her. He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath in. ‘He is, Annie. Johnny’s going to be fine.’

  Annie’s energy was palpable; she fidgeted and twitched, happy to be sitting with Jack, her husband gone, her son tucked up in bed, safe and warm at home. In contrast, Jack was very still, his face cast to the floor. He produced a mug of coffee and held it in both hands, cupping it for warmth.

  ‘Do you have kids, Jack?’ Annie asked.

  He smiled. ‘No. It’s just me and Lizzie. We’re too young at the moment.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Guess.’

  Annie studied him, taking in his cheekbones, the stubble that didn’t quite cover his chin, the lack of wrinkles, the full head of hair. ‘Twenty-two?’ she said tentatively.

  He laughed, and some of the tension disappeared from his face. ‘Close, but I’ll take it as a compliment. Twenty-five.’

  ‘Ah. And what about me?’

  ‘Thirty-two,’ he said, without missing a beat.

  ‘How did you know?’

  He smiled. ‘Good guess.’

  ‘And where did you meet Lizzie?’

  ‘At work.’ Annie raised her eyebrows and Jack sighed. ‘Why so interested all of a sudden?’ he asked.

  ‘I know so little about you. I’m just curious.’

  Jack looked at his mug of coffee. ‘We both work for the same company. She is part of the systems engineering team and I am part of software. We started on the same day.’

  ‘Good, we’re getting somewhere.’ Annie was enjoying herself. ‘Does she know what you get up to at night?’

  Jack laughed. ‘You make it sound like I’m out with prostitutes! No, she doesn’t.’

  ‘Why haven’t you ever told her?’

  Jack sat up in his seat and frowned. ‘I’ve thought about it, but what would be the point? I’ve found her a few times and she doesn’t have the same ability as you or me, so she wouldn’t understand. And I don’t want to freak her out.’

  ‘Do you think it would?’

  ‘Wouldn’t it you? “Hey, love, at night I can move around and spy on people’s dreams.” Wouldn’t you think you were dating a crazy?’

  Annie nodded. She thought about a mug of tea then brought it into her dream, with a packet of chocolate digestives for good measure. She opened them and held them out to Jack, who took one.

  ‘And your family?’ she continued, eating a biscuit of her own.

  ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ Jack said, through a mouthful. He chewed thoughtfully. ‘My mum lives in Camberley. She has a nice little house there and a small dog – one of those yappy things, you know? She seems happy. My dad died when I was seven. Cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry. What was he like?’

  ‘From what I remember, wonderful. Did all the usual things with me – played football, helped with my homework. We used to go for these long rambly walks when he would tell me the Latin names for all the plants and trees, and show me animal tracks and make me guess what they were. I found it boring then, of course. Would love it now.’ He rubbed the side of his nose with his middle finger. ‘It’s a bugger, cancer.’

  They paused for a moment, quiet in each other’s company. Unlikely friends in unlikely circumstances.

  Jack looked over at Annie, and placed his empty mug on the coffee table. ‘Annie?’ She looked at him. ‘Does anything feel odd?’

  She raised an eyebrow and gestured around the room. ‘Everything always feels odd. I’m only just getting to the point when odd feels normal.’

  Jack smiled. ‘Yes, but … I don’t know. Like you’ve forgotten something.’

  Annie looked puzzled, then listened and heard the unmistakable chatter of a small boy, awake and ready to start the day. ‘I’m being called,’ she said with a smile, and faded out of the room.

  Jack got up and walked over to the mantelpiece. He picked up one of the photos lying there and looked at it for a long time. Whatever he needed to do, it would have to wait. Until when, he didn’t know.

  33

  The rain eventually stops, and the sun returns to our part of southern England. On this particular morning, Johnny and I have nothing planned. We eat our breakfast; we tidy up the kitchen. I put some washing on and hang it out to dry in the garden, a gentle warm wind blowing about. Johnny decides his toy cars are the way forward, so we are carefully putting the final pieces in place of a rather impressive road layout (figure-of-eight, with two bridges, a T-junction and a pedestrian crossing, no less) when I hear the jiggle of a key in the door. It scratches and tries to turn a few times, the handle going up and down redundantly. I sit in my position on the living room floor and watch.

  The doorbell rings twice in quick succession, so I pull myself to my feet with a sigh.

  ‘There seems to be a problem with your locks,’ Maggie says as I open the door, handing me her jacket.

  ‘No problem, Maggie. I just had them changed.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ She stands in the middle of the living room, one foot on the edge of Johnny’s road. A small white battery-operated car swoops round and hits it, overturning next to her. Johnny runs over and taps her foot in protest.

  ‘What?’ she says to him, and he holds up the car.

  ‘Crash,’ he says.

  ‘You’re standing on his road,’ I point out, and she moves her foot. ‘Cup of tea?’ I ask, ignoring her question.

  Maggie follows me into the kitchen, taking position at the edge of my counter top, blocking my exit. ‘Why did you change the locks?’

  ‘Just to be safe, Maggie,’ I say, my back to her, filling up the kettle at the sink. ‘I didn’t know who David had given keys to, and since it’s just me and Johnny now, I wanted to be sure.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to give me a spare.’

  ‘Why is that, Maggie?’ I ask, turning back.

  ‘I’m family.’

  ‘We’ll always be here, we can always let you in.’

  ‘What happens if I need to get in and you’re not here?’

  ‘Why, Maggie?’ I ask, smiling innocently. So you can snoop around our things? Pry into our business?

  ‘In case I’ve forgotten anything, or …’ She stops, thinking. ‘Or something happens to you.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ I say, ‘but thank you for the offer.’ I hand her the tea. Earl Grey in a mug, tea bag still in, paper tag hanging over the side. We don’t have any lemon. She takes it from me as if I have handed her one of Johnny’s dirty nappies.

  I walk back into the living room, placing my own mug on the coffee table and handing Johnny his beaker. Maggie follows us, holding the offending mug at a distance.

  ‘Look, Annie,’ she says, ‘I don’t know how to say this, but I don’t think you are fine. Look at you.’

  I look down. I am still wearing my pyjamas, but to be fair, it is only just past nine.

  ‘We’re having a lazy day.’

  ‘I hear you have quite a few lazy days.’

  ‘Hear from who?’ My skin starts to prickle.

  ‘I didn’t want to do this, Annie, but I’ve hired someone to keep track. To follow you. To check on you and Johnny.’

  ‘Hired who? Like a private investigator?’

  ‘He’s very nice, extremely discreet. You haven’t noticed at all,’ she adds, as if this is a plus point. ‘He says some days you don’t leave the house except to go to the play park and the supermarket.’

  ‘I’ve got a two-year-old son, Maggie. Where do you expect us to go? The art gallery?’

  ‘Don’t be facetious, Annie. I’m worried about Johnny. I don’t think you’re looking after him.’

  At the mention of his name, Johnny glances up at us both, a lorry in one hand and a piece of bridge in the other. His chubby cheeks are healthy, his T-shirt and shorts clean and his nappy empty.

  ‘What exactly is wrong with him?’ I ask.

  ‘Look at his knees, they’re covered in bruises.’

  ‘On
ce again, Maggie, he’s a two-year-old boy. He runs about. He jumps, he kicks, he falls over. That’s normal.’

  ‘Is it? My David never had bruised knees.’

  ‘Your David wouldn’t have known an outdoor activity if a football had smacked him in the face.’

  She gasps, one hand clutched to her chest. ‘How dare you speak ill of the dead?’ she exclaims.

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud.’ I can feel my hands starting to shake, and pick up my mug to calm myself. ‘Maggie, we are fine. Johnny is fine. I would appreciate it if you would ask your private investigator to stop following us, and for you to leave us alone.’

  She stands up, pulling her beige cardigan around her. ‘I will not. I will give my file to the social services, and I will file for custody of David Junior.’

  I slowly place my mug of tea back on the table and stand up next to her. I am trying very hard to stay calm. Even though I am hardly blessed with height, I tower over her tiny frame. ‘Get out of my house, and leave us alone. You have no right to have us followed and no right to claim custody of Johnny.’

  Maggie whirls round to face me. ‘You are a terrible mother,’ she shouts. ‘I will make sure David Junior is taken away from you and you never see him again.’ She picks up her handbag and pulls open the front door.

  ‘Get out of my house, you crazy old bitch.’ I can’t control my anger now.

  Maggie turns to me, her handbag in front of her as a barrier. ‘My David was a winner in every way. You are always destined to be at the bottom, taking after your whore of a mother.’

  ‘What do you know about my mother?’ I am winded for a second, the breath knocked out of me.

  ‘Do you honestly think this is the first time I’ve used a private detective?’ she hisses, her chin jutting out. ‘When we first met you, we checked your background, but it all came too late, you were already engaged. It would have been too much of a scandal to break it off, but we knew!’ She waves a spindly finger in my direction. ‘We knew about your druggy mother, how she died.’

  ‘I’m nothing like my mother.’

  ‘It’s in your blood – and now it’s in his!’ She goes to move back towards Johnny, and I jump forward, putting my body and all my resolve in front of her. ‘You have no idea what being a true mother is like.’

  ‘And you do?’ I growl. ‘I know I love him. I know I would do anything to make him happy, to keep him safe. What else do you need to know, you fucking stupid woman?’ I can feel my whole body shaking. I am tensed, muscles on alert, everything about me ready to protect my son.

  She hesitates and backs away from me, half out of the door, unsure about what I might do. She goes to leave, then turns back, wrinkling her nose. ‘You disgust me. You are not important. You wait and see what I can do, you little slut. I’ll destroy you.’

  ‘Just leave us alone,’ I shout after her. ‘Get out of our lives.’

  I slam the door and lock it, watching from the window as she reverses at speed out of our driveway, nearly hitting an innocent Nissan Micra on the road. Brakes screech and horns blare at each other, and for a moment I am distracted, feeling a flicker of recognition, an awareness of déjà vu. I shake my head and watch as Maggie’s BMW swerves out of view and she is gone.

  I slump onto the sofa, my hands shaking and tears prickling in my eyes.

  Johnny turns back to his cars, distracted for a moment by the shouting.

  ‘Bye bye, Grandma Madgie,’ he says. ‘Bye bye.’

  Bye bye, indeed.

  34

  Her girl found her. Arriving early for her daily ironing and cleaning session, she was surprised to find Maggie still in bed, motionless and staring up at the ceiling, unblinking.

  Her girl is obviously of a delicate constitution and promptly vomited on the floor, cleaning it up in the time between calling the police and them arriving. Maggie had trained her well.

  The police officer arriving first on the scene, my very own Detective Sergeant Coleman, recognised the name and called me straight away in a tone of voice I am getting used to. Not that I wasn’t expecting the call; I just hadn’t known when.

  As I arrive at the house, the girl is still sobbing, sitting on a dining room chair, tissue in hand and a trace of pink puke on her white shirt. The police officer has that face on again, a mixture of barely mustered sympathy and badly concealed boredom as he asks his questions, notebook in hand, tiny handwriting scampering over the page. Johnny and I wait by the door, Johnny patiently holding my hand, quiet as a mouse as he has learnt at Grandma Maggie’s house.

  DS Coleman glances across and holds a finger up to me to show he has seen me and to ask me to wait, while the girl sobs on. I can hear them talking: ‘… like a mother to me … always took care of me …’ Yeah, I think, as long as you didn’t complain about being paid less than minimum wage and did her washing just as she liked it.

  I move towards the door to the lounge, still wearing my shoes, a previously unforgivable crime, and look round before pulling the handle down. We haven’t been in this room since David Senior died, and I slowly digest the space, taking in the bland, generic furniture. It’s strangely sad, a featureless showroom, giving no clue to Maggie’s personality.

  The only thing in the room that implies some sort of feeling on Maggie’s part is a framed photo of David Junior, positioned next to a candle, gently burning itself out. I pick up the photo and examine it, exploring myself for some sort of emotion. It is a corporate shot, a different one from the monstrosity at the funeral, and I recognise it as the one his company used for publicity when he became CEO. He looks smug. I feel the last vestiges of grief, a little remaining anger, but mostly the picture brings on a wave of relief.

  DS Coleman clears his throat behind me and I turn, the photo still in my hand. Johnny moves closer to me, wary of seeing this strange man again; I grip him tightly, my arms wrapped around him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sullivan,’ DS Coleman says. ‘This must be a shock to you.’

  ‘It’s not been a great month,’ I say.

  He comes into the room, sitting on the sofa next to me, his hard black shoes leaving a trace of mud on Maggie’s immaculate white carpet.

  ‘The pathologist has taken the body away, but he says he thinks it was something similar to your husband. A catastrophic brain event.’ So much so, I would learn later, that blood came out of her ears and tear ducts. Something blew up so efficiently in there, it turned her grey matter to mush. ‘He did mention it’s strange that all the family seemed to suffer from it; said it might be worth your little boy getting checked for something genetic.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, knowing I will do nothing of the sort.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘I’ll let you know the outcome of the post-mortem and the body will be released soon after that. You know the drill,’ he adds with a little laugh, then hides it with a cough. ‘Sorry again, Mrs Sullivan.’

  I smile weakly and he leaves.

  Johnny taps my knee. ‘Home now,’ he says, with certainty.

  I nod.

  I wasn’t surprised by how heavy the gun felt in my hand. I wasn’t surprised that out of nowhere I knew how to unclip the safety, to pull back the firing pin and gently squeeze the trigger, both hands cradling the gun for support. I had opted for a gun, for a bit of simplicity. I had seen far too many Hollywood movies and wanted a taste of the action.

  This time my subconscious seemed warmed up to the event. It offered no resistance when I went in search of Maggie, finding her in a Chinese restaurant, a pair of chopsticks in her hand. I had never seen her eat what she called ‘ethnic food’, but here she was, plate of noodles, and prawn crackers in a basket, tucking in like there was no tomorrow. Which of course, there wasn’t.

  My arm offered no resistance when I lifted the gun, standing in front of her, barrel in line with her forehead.

  The next bundle of dripping noodles was ready to be loaded into her mouth. She even had her napkin tucked into the neck of her blouse, like a common pe
rson, she would have said. Our subconscious is a funny thing.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said with disgust.

  ‘Looking for you,’ I said, and pulled the trigger.

  The gun exploded with a loud bang, the recoil knocking my hand up and away, the bullet still somehow meeting its target and slamming into Maggie’s head. Her skull exploded like a watermelon, shattering her face and scattering pieces of it onto the wall behind her in a cloud of red mist. She looked at me for a moment, the hand and chopsticks still hanging in mid-air, then everything collapsed and she fell into her chicken chow mein.

  I was surprised about my lack of caution, my lack of hesitation. Maybe I’d thought something might hold me back; I might think twice or have doubts about what I was doing. What I knew would happen. But no, I didn’t even flinch. Not even when I could taste the steel tang in my mouth and a piece of something biological hit my shoe.

  I had been lied to; the people I loved had been hidden from me. My patience had run out and I was angry. I was really fucking angry. It burnt in my throat and bubbled in my stomach; my blood raced through my veins, keen to get going.

  Killing someone gets easier once you have done it before. And I knew I was right to go ahead.

  The room burst into life. Other diners screamed, and I could hear chairs being thrown and people running from the room. At the same time, I was aware of people running in. I turned and faced a row of burly Chinese men, heads shaved, all holding excessively large machine guns, all pointed at me.

  How funny, I thought; in her dreams Maggie was the head of the Chinese mafia. It wasn’t so funny when they all started to fire.

  Revolver still in my hand, I jumped, executing an overhead spin, firing as I went and hitting the biggest guy. He went down with a thump, taking out the waitress at the same time. I landed perfectly, poised for the next round, then ducked and rolled under the closest table, pulling it over in a shower of cutlery and glass, using it as a shield as bullets thumped into the wooden tabletop. I was enjoying myself, relishing the ever-increasing crazy. I raised my hand and let off a few rounds, and in the silence as they all took cover, I ran, spinning and firing with precision and poise as I went. In the moment before the mirror shattered behind me, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection. Hair slicked back, black eyeliner, black jeans, black boots and a tight black top. Crikey, I look cool, I thought, as I leapt across the bar, optics and alcohol splintering over my head in the crossfire. I laughed as I shook the glass out of my hair. I was getting the hang of this; either that, or properly going mental. Whichever, I was having a lot of fun.