by Jason Arnopp
I yell in shock – probably more at the horrifying image than the pain, which I'm not feeling yet. My own hand, my flesh and blood, skewered like a butterfly.
If I'm going to wake up, this would be the time.
I spin my chair around as far as I'm able, raising my free hand in self defence.
The baseball bat swings towards my face, hard.
It connects, harder.
CHAPTER SEVEN: IN DREAMS
Sometimes, dreams have been kind.
Sometimes, they have allowed me to break down the eternal wall. To access those cordoned-off slices of sweet, pink-tint nostalgia.
Unaware I'm dreaming, I truly relive those moments. It is time travel. I forget that Jamie's going to die, just like I had no idea at the time. I believe that he, Sylvie and I will forever be safe and secure, our bubble fashioned from impenetrable magic. In fact, I don't even realise there's a bubble here to burst.
I'm back as I was – a man who actually believed life began at 40.
I am soaked with blood, rain and what is almost certainly my own urine.
Consciousness ebbs and flows.
The ceiling seems to move. I'm dimly aware of being dragged across the floorboards on my back, my arms stretched out behind my head, gripped firmly around the wrists. My joints groan under the strain.
One of my palms is wet, oozing red. The hole in its centre burns like napalm.
I know what's happening but am too lost and nauseous to do anything about it. Something has snapped inside my head. My skull feels dented, cracked, all wrong, the brain inside awash with sludgy dread and hate.
In dreams, I have returned to The Basket Arms, a sprawling pub tucked away in a small Clapham side road. I have re-experienced the awkwardness of standing amid a Singles Night throng at the age of 37.
Everyone wore name badges. Everyone had their photograph taken and stuck to a corkboard, so that interested parties could leave messages for them. Everyone had small padlocks around their necks, or keys in their hands, which might match up and earn them a free shot of something strong. Everyone was drunk.
For the first few pints, I remained isolated and awkward. Letting it all happen around me. Kidding myself that appearing aloof and uninterested might work wonders.
By the fourth pint, I was more relaxed. I chatted to a few women, trying my key in their lock. God, could there be a less subtle metaphor? Beyond initial chit-chat, I struggled to find common ground. Shallow candyfloss conversations dissolved on our tongues. Inevitably, either they or I made the classic excuse of going to the toilet, knowing that we'd never so much as make eye-contact again.
I kept spotting this one girl on the other side of the room. Short little thing with a blonde bob, in a tartan mini skirt. She didn't seem all that bothered about mixing with the opposite sex. She was with an inward-facing circle of friends, as if they'd wandered in here by mistake during a big girls' night out.
The rest is a blur, even in dreams. While reliving this night, I could probably rationalise and fill the gaps if I really wanted to. But then it wouldn't be real – it would be my creative mind making stuff up.
What I do remember, is taking part in some kind of speed-dating event towards the night's end. I remember the event finishing just before I got my five minutes with Blonde Bob Girl. I remember her walking up to me afterwards, bold as brass, introducing herself as Sylvie and voicing her disappointment at being "robbed" because we didn't get a date. I remember her sitting on my lap on one of the pub's sofas, just ten minutes later, kissing my face off, while her amused friends nudged each other. I remember a barman coming over to remind us that we were "in a public, decent place." I remember kissing her some more in a taxi. I remember her cluttered bedroom in the flat she shared with one of those friends – a tiny room perfectly in proportion with her. I remember moans fluttering out of her, my face between her thighs.
After that, we went on a proper date, to the cinema. That went well, so more dates followed. As an unspoken understanding grew between us, dates stopped being dates. They simply became what we did every day. They became the days of our lives. Sometimes, in dreams, I am allowed to relive them.
I snatch a glimpse of the glowing computer screen and it hurts my eyes.
Somewhere in the background: a constant liquid hammering. Rain batters the big window pane as if attempting to mount a rescue.
Gazing at the blurred ceiling, I limply writhe. Indignant, broken, fearful.
My voice splutters out, a wavering growl: "Let me go."
In dreams, I have returned to Sylvie's bedside, as she gives birth to our one and only son.
Not such a magical memory for her, perhaps, since she spent most of her time shrieking and drenched in so much sweat, I wondered whether dehydration might steal her from me. Still, the midwife knew what she was doing. An epidural, or something, helped with the pain. After what felt like an eternity, I sat and watched as Jamie was eased out of Sylvie.
It was like a magic trick. The box that can't possibly fit into the other box. A rabbit out of a hat. The 4.1 kilogram boy, impossibly emerging from the 54 kilogram woman. Roll up, roll up and see, if you've the stomach.
Sylvie held Jamie first, her drugged haze sharpening almost at once. She stared intently at that small pink parcel, wonderment making tiny creases on her face.
When I held Jamie, it all came home to me. The true purpose of my life.
I'd heard so many fathers say it before and had worried that I'd never feel the same. I was too selfish, wasn't I? Could I really put someone else's happiness before my own? The fact was, I'd already been doing that with Sylvie for three years while barely realising it.
The real purpose of my life was to look after this child. That had always been my destiny. He just needed to be born, so that the new phase of my life could begin.
I looked at his hands, with their minuscule, flexing fingers. Into his eyes, as they drank in their first sights. And I knew, right there and then, that everything was going to be okay. We would live happily ever after.
If this is the end then there will be no regrets, but I must do my very best to fight.
With a violent flurry, the whole world shakes. My legs feebly kick out at nothing as I'm hauled from the floor towards the chair, but it's an exhausting token gesture. My eyes roll back into my head as oblivion's dark descends once more, blotting everything out.
Dreams, as you know, are not always kind.
Sometimes, my revisitations to those pink-hued days suffer ugly collisions with reality.
I might be on the sofa of The Basket Arms, kissing Sylvie for all I'm worth, my hand creeping down her back to cup her backside, when suddenly she's screaming. Screaming right into my mouth and down my throat, screaming inside me, because Jamie looks so dead, there on the street. It's like abruptly changing channel from soft porn to horror.
I might be watching Sylvie give birth to Jamie, enraptured by nature's sorcery playing out before me, when suddenly there's the whump of an impact and the screech of brakes. Jamie's tiny form immediately stops moving, like a frozen frame of film. Sylvie stares down her body at the newborn corpse and starts to scream all over again.
Sylvie's screams, that day. Oh my God. Once you hear something, you can't unhear it. I'd give anything, truly I would, to wipe those screams from my mind. The kind of screams which are born in the gut, shredding flesh and sinew on their way up out. A slaughterhouse scream.
If only memories were like pages of a novel-in-progress. One press of a button and, whoosh, they're gone. If only we could judiciously edit our lives.
A friend told me that, somewhere along the line, the rubbish bins on computer desktops became known as Recycle Bins. This disturbed me. If I want rid of something, I want it obliterated, for good. I don't want it to somehow lurk on as a ghost in the machine.
Sylvie's screams, then, reside in my very own Recycle Bin. Gone, but not forgotten.
When I awaken in the chair, The Beast is standing before me.
Waiting.
I haven't seen this creature in days. Not properly, not in light.
I have only glimpsed it in the darkness of its lair.
Short of screwing my eyes shut again, I'm now forced to look at it, so stark and vivid. A nightmare made flesh.
The wild hair, matted with dry blood.
The big eyes, unblinking, blazing a trail through me.
Those bony shoulders, heaving through resentment and the exertion of having hauled my chair upright.
We stare at each other for a long moment, The Beast and I.
I have little to say to it. I can tell, however, that it has plenty to say to me. I sense that it barely knows where to begin.
The Beast opens its foul portcullis of a mouth for a second, but no words come out.
The portcullis creaks shut again.
I test the binds behind my back. They're tight. Maybe not tight enough? I begin to work on them. Even the slightest movement sends pain rushing from nerve endings in my damaged hand to my brain. I do my damndest not to let the hurt register on my face.
The Beast removes a cordless landline phone from its cradle. God, if only the line really wasn't working.
Perhaps it isn't. Perhaps the rain might've–
"Police," says The Beast into the phone, courtesy of a throat seemingly caked with dry rust.
I hate the rain. Why can't it ruin phone lines?
The Beast unsteadily paces around, listening, the phone clasped to a blood-caked ear.
"Yes, I need urgent help, right away," it finally says. "I've been held hostage for days."
My stomach does the dance. It takes all of my effort not to throw up, there and then.
I know exactly what The Beast is going to say next. It's going to name itself and a whole layer of my carefully constructed world will fall to ash.
"Yes," says the creature before me. "My name's Pauline Sparks."
You can only live in a world of make-believe for so long, before reality comes calling.
It always does.
CHAPTER EIGHT: INQUISITION
I observed Pauline Tabitha Sparks for days before making my move.
It was a warm night when I arrived. The field smelt of newly cut grass, the birds sang. All of which somehow fuelled my fierce conviction that I was doing the right thing.
It took me a full day and night to ensure the cottage was uninhabited, let alone plan my attack on the house itself.
I watched that cottage from the safety of the woods, seeing no movement or light within. Sparks, on the other hand, was clearly at home. All of the lights were on, presumably because this millionaire could so easily foot the bill. Once in a while, I would spot her passing by an ostentatiously tall window on the third floor – that must be her study, I thought – or busying herself in what might have been a kitchen at ground level. Each and every time this happened, I would look down to see my fist tightly clenched.
The Beast doesn't know I'm coming. But it will feel my wrath. Just need to do this right. There can be no mistakes.
On that first night, I watched the cottage until what must have been three o'clock in the morning. I knocked back whisky from a hip flask until exhaustion overcame me. Next thing I knew, I was jolting awake as a car engine started up across the field with a demonstrative thrum.
It was morning. Sparks was perched in her Land Rover, rolling across the gravel drive. This was my first good look at her. I was seeing the woman who most people had never laid eyes upon. She had flitted among us, the great British public, like a phantom, while causing untold havoc.
While tearing my family to shreds.
As she drove past, I ducked further down into the bush, but caught a good glimpse of her side profile between the big green leaves. She must have been in her mid 50s. Head held high, hands on the wheel. She looked like a woman who didn't give a good damn what effect her work had on people.
Part of me had wondered whether, once I laid eyes on Sparks, I might see a harmless human being and change my mind. The reality was the opposite. It made me despise her all the more. She resembled a peacock in dire need of clipping.
Once the Land Rover's engine was distant, I stole out across the field.
I carefully circled the cottage for a while, peering in through the windows. A few drawn blinds made it all the more of a challenge, but it didn't take me long to realise no-one was home. More than this – no-one lived here at all. The furniture was bare bones, generic, the carpets clean. No personal possessions scattered about. No tell-tale plates of toast crumbs, no abandoned mugs. This was a vacant show home.
One of the rear windows broke with ease. I simply bundled my jumper around my arm and punched my way through. I paused for a while, looking around. There was no movement besides trees drifting slowly in light wind.
I had been prepared to stay in the woods if need be, observing from there, but a vacant cottage was too good an opportunity to pass up. It was nobody's home – an empty space in a state of flux. This would be my shelter and base of operations.
In the living room, I unwrapped one of the sandwiches. Cheese and bread, nothing fancy. Food had long since ceased to be a pleasure for me. It simply served to fuel my body. To give me strength for what needed to be done. For the mission. Without the mission, I would probably just have lain down and allowed the life to drain from me weeks ago.
I took a bite and ate, while staring out through blinds at The Beasthouse.
For days after Sparks returned to the house, nobody arrived and nobody left.
Laden with bulging carrier bags, Sparks had disappeared back into what she imagined to be her sanctuary. After that, she had spent most of her time on the third floor.
By day, I watched her from the cottage. By night, when it was safer to roam, I watched her from various vantage points, mainly in the woods. Sometimes I would climb a tree, in order to get a good view of her sitting at her desk, typing away. Jade Nexus And The Cathedral Of Screams was being born as I watched. It angered me. So many times, I wanted to simply force my way into that house, right there and then. I managed to stall myself with the reminder that I had to be sure about security, about potential issues. If she had a husband, for instance, this would bring complications. It wouldn't affect the mission – I would just have to work harder.
Four nights later, I finally convinced myself that Sparks lived alone.
I was ready. It was time. The sandwiches had been eaten, my surveillance accomplished. I had also long since stopped thinking of her as PT Sparks. In my head, her transformation into The Beast was complete.
The front door just opened right up. Amazing. Hadn't expected that for a moment.
I experience flashes of fear, but no guilt. No nagging concerns about what I was doing. I felt unrestrained by any moral framework.
I had the right to do this. My response was wholly in proportion.
I entered The Beast's home with the same carefree abandonment as that foul monster had entered mine.
As I strode along the hallway, The Beast walked right out of the kitchen in front of me, carrying its dinner on a plate. I forget what kind of meal that was, even though I had to clean it up afterwards. I dislike mess.
The creature didn't make a sound. Just stopped in its tracks and stared at me, as if I couldn't possibly exist. Its jaw slackened.
I cracked The Beast around the head with my baseball bat and it was out like a light. Fell like a sack of potatoes, the plate smashing against a wall.
Working systematically, almost robotically, I stooped beside it. Took the gaffer tape from my bag, cut off a strip, then placed it diagonally over its mouth. A second strip formed a big black 'X' there. I had rehearsed this so many times in my head that it barely felt real.
I used my rope to secure The Beast's hands behind its back, tied its legs together, and considered my options.
I'd been wondering whether the house had a cellar, or a basement, or whatever you call them. Testing a nearby door-handle, I soon found out.
I dragged The Beast down the creaky stairs into musty dead space. My arms under its own, supporting its weight, its shoeless stockinged feet banging on every step.
I heaved it into a dark corner, left it there, came back up and locked the door.
It all happened so quickly, so easily. In fewer than five minutes, The Beast had been tamed.
When I first entered The Beast's study, an all-consuming sense of power made me giddy. I had to lean against the doorway, then sit on the chaise longue for a while.
I gazed at the glowing computer screen. At the words on them. Knowing that those words, The Beast's first draft, were now mine to sculpt. I was the storm, not the leaf.
Again, I was untroubled by guilt or doubt. If The Beast had been more responsible with its words, then none of this would have been necessary.
A surge of pride rippled through me. I almost enjoyed it for a while, before remembering Jamie. Remembering why I came here and what I had to do. This was not a power trip: it was a noble crusade.
The next day, I planned to print out Sparks' version of Jade Nexus And The Cathedral Of Screams in its entirety and see what a hash she'd made. I selected a bottle of wine from a rack in the kitchen, in preparation for the big read, which would be followed by the big rewrite.
As I left the kitchen with the wine, I heard The Beast howling through its gaffer-tape 'X'. As if wondering how this happened and why it was down there.
Ha! As if it didn't know this day would come.
Some people really do have incredible powers of denial.
"It's Number One, The Greyfields, Hollerton."
The entity which I now grudgingly recognise as Pauline Tabitha Sparks listens intently to the phone. When she speaks, it's punctuated by attempts at clearing dust from her throat.
