If The Bed Falls In
A Man in Two Minds; are Either of Them His?
A psychological thriller
by
Paul Casselle
Book One in the ‘Bedfellows’ series
Written & compiled with Scrivener
First published on Amazon Kindle 5th February 2016
(Version 104 – Kindle edition)
ASIN: B019MONHMM
The Bit in the Middle Publishing
Book Two of the ‘Bedfellows’ series,
As Mad as Hell: Do You Want to Know a Secret?
available in Kindle & paperback.
GET YOUR COPY NOW! CLICK HERE
Disclaimer
This book contains passages of a highly graphic nature and strong language that may offend some readers. All characters and events in this work are fictional. Any resemblance to real people, dead or alive, is coincidental.
Copyright
No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed, via any medium, without the written permission of the author.
[email protected]
© Paul Casselle 2009-2016
Dedication
For Alex, as always x.
Part One
Sleep well,
Sleep tight,
Don’t let the bed-bugs bite.
And if the bed falls in,
I’ll see you in the spring.
Children’s rhyme (anonymous)
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Chapter 1
TOM FRIDAY’S WAKING THOUGHTS HAD BEEN THE SAME FOR MONTHS, ‘Do I have the courage to finish this? Can I actually end my life?’.
He looked down at the vast, white mountain beneath him. It seemed larger than he had previously noticed, and its apparent scale left him scared and a little breathless. He sat and looked again. The white mountain now rested neatly in his lap; a middle-aged paunch that had come from nowhere, in no time, and now threatened to be the final straw in a life that continued to fail.
Lately, he had found himself inexorably driven to thinking about his accumulated years, and discovered that the number so far amassed greatly surpassed the number he could actually remember. Had his brain selectively erased memories of his earlier life or was there another, more sinister, reason that some events could not be recalled? Maybe, like a damaged computer hard drive, some files were corrupted and could no longer be accessed. Or was it the extreme nature of his experiences that had caused these memories to be lost? Maybe time does not heal, but instead buries the past, and some events were either buried too deeply or were too painful to be exhumed.
He sat on the edge of the bed while a beam of sunlight found its way between carelessly closed curtains. He tried to move, but the warmth of his self-pity argued compellingly for his continued lack of action.
He looked around the room; the dusty curtains that hung awkwardly due to missing hooks, the large built-in wardrobes that contained very few clothes, and the bed he sat on; double-sized with sheets disturbed on one side only.
He dragged himself from the bed, put on yesterday’s underpants and descended the steep Victorian staircase to the kitchen. Halfway down, he winced as his lower back reminded him of his advancing years with a sharp and distinct stab. Then, arriving in the kitchen, he filled the kettle with water, turned it on, and prepared a cup and a teabag. The kettle started to hiss quietly.
He was finding life in London extraordinarily more demanding than the village of two thousand people from which he had migrated three years earlier. Storton, his picturesque Suffolk birthplace, was as invasive as London, but people there were only looking for gossip. However, London’s invasiveness feeds on your very soul. In such a city, so much is demanded by everyone that there is not enough to satisfy the bloated metropolitan beast, so it feeds on itself; on its people. The grey city consumes the unwary and absorbs their spirit. Being lost in Storton is temporarily not knowing which pub your friends are in. Being lost in London is to spiritually disappear from the face of the earth. He poured hot water from the kettle into his waiting cup. The teabag bobbed bravely for a time, then sank beneath the darkening water.
He slumped into one of the two wooden chairs that flanked the small table in the kitchen. Depression had eaten away at the vigour of his youth, and now at forty-five it had all but consumed him. Lately, even trivial chores; washing up, vacuuming or simply dusting, caused him physical distress. Sometimes, he believed he stood at the edge of madness. Often, he wished he would fall in.
“Enough!” he shouted suddenly.
He stood up, and getting a glimpse of his melodramatic behaviour, smiled inwardly. He made his way to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror above the basin. Lethargy returned; but with extra-human effort he started the laborious task of brushing his teeth.
Thirty minutes later, he left the house for his photographic studio in Whitechapel; the impoverished East End of London that the artistic, intelligentsia and lotus-eating rich insist is being gentrified. After studying photography at college Tom had drifted around with the sanguinity of youth coursing through his veins, waiting to be elevated to the elite ranks of Bailey and Lichfield. When this progression proved slower than hoped, he had increasingly lowered his aspirations, and finally stopped trying to pick his life from the lofty shelves of childhood dreams, settling for the easier, but intolerably mundane, bargain basement. The dashed dreams of youth are the uneven foundations of reality.
He had reached the end of Caledonian Road and turned right onto Pentonville Road. Ahead he could see the majestic St. Pancras Hotel, with its stunning classical red and white brickwork, rising above the unsanitary bustle of the streets below. He negotiated the busy junction with York Way, and approached King’s Cross. Then he made his way down the stairs into the underground station.
He climbed onto a crowded train, and his consciousness blurred. It was only six stops to Whitechapel, but was still enough to depress him. He remembered his first time on an underground train years ago on a day-trip to London with his parents. He recalled standing outside an underground station and asking his dad where all the trains were?
“They’re under the ground, you idiot!” his Dad had told him.
“What, like graves?” he had replied.
As a child, he had had trouble understanding the concept, but now as a seasoned commuter, he was buried twice a day.
The train rocked from side to side, and his head filled with the heat of the carriage mingled with the unpleasant smell of passengers. He tried to stay awake remembering someone saying, ‘Some men dream of great things, others stay awake and achieve them’. For the last few years he had battled to stay awake and find success, but greatness continued to remain an irritating tickle in his throat.
He coughed loudly to clear the people blocking the doors, then joined the crowd who unconsciously navigated the London streets to be on time for unwanted jobs.
Tom’s building lay a short way ahead of him at the other end of an alleyway; number seven hundred and seventy-seven; triple seven. He had always liked symmetry, so the building’s street number made him feel that much more at ease. As he turned into the alley he stopped dead. Déjà vu hit him, making his body ache and his sensibilities spin. Although he had been in this alleyway a hundred times before, this exact moment had already happened, recently, and he recalled with a feeling of escalating fear, there had been a man following him.
The fear running through him felt strangely exciting, despite him having conceded many years ago to the fact that he was not a physical man. On the few occasions when, despite clever verbal pugilism, he had reluctantly engaged in an actual fight, he had invariably come away both morally and physically defeated. And yet now ther
e was a distinct feeling of bravery in his trembling limbs. He felt, almost, like an actor playing James Bond. He was invincible, and as the hero could never be defeated.
With uncharacteristic resolve, he spun around ready to face his tormentor. As he turned, the playacting euphoria gave way to the reality of his situation. He felt the anguish and fear of a cornered fox, and had no idea how he was to deal with the suited stranger he was sure would be there.
The alleyway was empty, except for the sound of traffic in the next street. He stood for a moment, chewing his lower lip. He felt foolish and busied himself with straightening his jacket and looking at a non-existent item on the ground in an attempt to cover his behaviour. He needn’t have bothered; he and his fertile imagination were the only things there.
An exterior metal staircase was the only access to his loft studio. It was, in fact, a fire escape, which had become the only entrance to the top floor since the building’s conversion. The metalwork had not seen fresh paint for some time, and showed large patches of rust between the diminishing areas of peeling black. Some of his clients arrived a little flustered, having negotiated the unsteady ironwork. It didn’t worry him at all; fear of heights was about the only fear he didn’t have. In fact, he was quite excited by the danger of going higher than nature had intended.
Reaching the top, he unlocked the heavy green door and pushed it hard. Behind the door, was a large, airy studio; much cleaner and better-tended than his house. He turned the lights on, and went to the kitchenette. A few minutes later, with a steaming cup of tea in his hands, he lowered himself into a tatty leather winged armchair. A shiver went through him and his thoughts went back to the alleyway. He tried to understand what had happened; where that feeling of déjà vu had come from, but his concentration was broken by the street door intercom. He got up and pressed the button that allowed his first client entry into the studio.
Samantha was quite beautiful, although a little common looking. She was tall and thin with blond hair coming down to below her shoulders. Beneath overly thick make-up was, probably, unblemished skin that never saw the light of day. Her lips were painted a sultry red.
“Okay, look right at the camera,” he called to her. “That’s it; lovely.” He clicked the shutter twice. “You’ve got a beautiful face.” And a sexy body, he thought. Samantha giggled.
“How many more shots?” she asked, in a transparent attempt at modesty.
“The camera can’t get enough of you,” he joked, “or maybe it’s me that can’t stop photographing you.”
She looked nervous, and he worried he had overstepped.
“Just joking,” he said quickly, trying to return the situation to banter.
“Yeah, I know,” she said, but still looked tense.
She had been in front of his camera for the best part of an hour. He believed he had the shots he needed twenty minutes ago, but had kept her there as her attractiveness was brightening his day. He had always wondered whether it was just him or did others mildly abuse their professional position? Do people really have professional distance or is that a myth? Do doctors not notice the attractiveness of some of their patients and become aroused by the intimate access they have to their bodies? Do teachers have no visceral reaction to their precociously mature students? He had always worried that he was a dirty old man, even when he was a young man. He was embarrassed and sometimes alarmed at his level of sexual arousal in situations where society told him there should be none. Was he more sensitive than others or simply more honest about reality? Reality, now there’s a subject, he thought. His mind went back to the alleyway. When he believed he was cornered he hadn’t felt like himself. He had felt like a completely different person; powerful and in control. He was interrupted by his photographic subject.
“Are we done, then?” Samantha’s voice rang out.
He looked at her effortless provocative shape; her smooth skin, her breasts and hips. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her tightly to his body. He wanted to put himself inside her and feel her lose control.
“Yes, yes, I think that should do it,” he said.
He was worried that his voyeurism had been detected. Yet, in some way hoped it had. Samantha smiled and he smiled back. The moment hung stickily in the air; a fleeting window of opportunity that was fast closing and then, with an almost audible snap - closed.
“Okay, then,” she said as she bent down to her handbag.
He studied the smooth lines of her rump. Again, he was settling for the safe titillation of voyeurism rather than the uncharted territory of action that scared him so much.
As Samantha got her things together, he thought about whether they would make a good couple. She was amusing. About thirty-five. Would she be interested in him? This was his dirty old man syndrome, his consuming fear of sexual rejection. He didn’t want to make a move on someone only for the subject of his attraction to recoil in horror, leaving him believing he had got the situation completely wrong; that the attraction he had detected was platonic, not romantic. After Samantha had gone, he was left with a quandary: was he a wimp or a pervert?
Moments later, he was in his darkroom staring at pornographic images on his laptop. To the left of his computer were two large squares of man-size tissue. His right hand worked at a feverish pace while his left hand selected new images. The phone rang.
“Bollocks!”
He stood up and tucked himself into his open flies, then answered the phone.
“Was I disturbing the great artist?” joked his friend, Sarah.
“Something like that,” he replied. “What’s up?”
“I was just making sure you hadn’t forgotten about tonight?”
“I’ll be there,” he answered.
“Are you all right?” she asked after a short silence.
He knew he had been acting moodily over the last few months, and recently Sarah had begun to show concern.
“Sorry, I’m having a bad day.”
“What’s up?” Sarah’s off-hand tone sounded manufactured.
He believed she was troubled by his manner, but like a psychoanalyst asking, ‘Which of your parents didn’t let you watch TV?’ when they really meant, ‘Which of your parents beat you?’, she was confusing kindness with manipulation. He reacted.
“Sweetheart, I’m fine. Sorry, I’ve got to go. See you later.”
He put the phone down and stood confused for the third time that day. A desperate feeling of simply not wanting to exist, began to creep over him and his head swam with images of cinematic assailants, other people’s successes and pert breasts.
That evening, he lay in the bath trying to relax after the strange demands of the day. The bathroom swirled with steam infused with rosemary and eucalyptus from the bath oil he had poured liberally into the water. To further aid relaxation, he had dimmed the light to a shadowy half-dream. He had been in the warm water for around thirty minutes and had drifted off into a coffee-and-cream consciousness. His ears were just below the water line, which lapped against them like a gentle tide against a quay.
The relaxing sound was broken by the dull thud of something hitting the floor on the other side of the door. His breathing stopped. He moved his ears above the water and listened; still not breathing. He could hear nothing except for his increasing heartbeat. Another sound; this time whispering. He sat up quickly like a startled animal at a watering hole, making the bath water splash. Grimacing with both fear and anger that he had made such a loud noise, he stared at the door. Through the steam and half glow of the dimmed light, he saw the door open slowly. The pain in his chest was almost intolerable; flight or fight? There was nowhere to run. He was trapped and had to fight. With every ounce of courage, he leapt from the water, but stumbled and fell back into the bath causing water to rise like a tidal wave and crash to the floor. He had banged his elbow and head, yet despite the pain, he pulled himself back up, and turning to the bathroom door prepared to defend himself. To his surprise, however, the door was not ope
n, but firmly closed.
He opened it carefully and checked the entire cottage, but there was no one in the house nor anything disturbed; only wet footprints tracing his anguished search. Blood dripped from a small gash on his head.
Forty-five minutes later, he was dry, dressed and inspecting the plaster on his forehead in the bathroom mirror. He compulsively checked the cottage again, but the only thing that had been disturbed was him.
He put his coat on and left the house. He locked the front door and pushed it hard twice to make sure it was secure. He turned and walked away. After he had travelled just a few yards, he could not help himself, and looked back at the cottage a final time. He smiled an uneasy smile to himself, trying to dismiss his recent anguish with playful self-deprecation. He knew he was fooling no one, least of all himself.
As he got further from his house, he couldn’t silence his imagination. In his mind, he could clearly see his unlit house in the empty street. Suddenly the light in his front room flickered on, illuminating the car parked outside, and the two men watching.
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Chapter 2
Tom could see Sarah from quite a way down the street. She looked at her watch. Rain was falling at a considerable rate so she had sheltered under the narrow-arched façade of the art gallery.
The street was dark, as the moon was obscured by the thick nimbostratus clouds that brought the showery signature of night-time, winter London. Streetlights cut through the deluge casting silvery shadows in the accumulating puddles, which rippled with the urgent feet of passers-by, and all sound was softly attenuated by the thick darkness.
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