“It’s okay, that’s cool.”
“I don’t see enough of him. We’ve been through a lot together, but we hardly ever talk now, let alone see each other.”
“It’s not the law to see your folks,” Paulo said. “At least, not yet.” He gave a small exploding chuckle. “It’s pretty natural, don’t you think? You tend to develop your own friends and lose touch with family as you get older. I only see my sister back in Ohio every Christmas, and we hardly ever talk on the phone. Even when we do it’s usually to plan meeting up for Christmas.” He slurped the rest of his coffee, holding the cup up to drain the dregs into his mouth. Then he stared ahead and nodded slowly. “But we’re there for each other. We both know that.”
“I guess me and Declan are pretty much like that; thick as thieves when we were kids growing up in Manchester – which wasn’t too long ago – but I just don’t get the time anymore.”
Paulo stood up, then tapped his cup a few times before placing it in the recycling stack. “Come on, buddy. Code don’t write itself these days.” He jerked his head back to Patrick. “Well, these days it can, but you know what I mean.”
At a quarter past six that evening, Patrick shut down his PC and grabbed his rucksack.
“Coffee did the trick then?” Paulo said with a grin.
“Certainly did. Should finish the module by the end of the week at this rate. But my eyelids are talking to me again. I’m calling it a day.”
Patrick took the pedway two blocks to his apartment, informed the security guard at the foyer desk that he was back, and locked the door behind him.
He let out a long, long sigh, relieved to be back at base where he could fall asleep at will and not give a shit. And he needed it; he felt like he’d been awake for forty-eight hours.
He showered and watched some TV, then phoned out for a pizza.
He took his two pink tablets with a glass of water, then when the pizza came he washed that down with a can of cola.
The thought of ringing Declan crossed his mind. But he could do that tomorrow; Declan was probably busy. So he lay on the sofa watching TV again for an hour or more, during which his nervous glances to the bedroom door became more frequent.
Would he get the sleep he so desperately needed, or was tonight going to be one of those nights? If so, what would be the next ‘evil side of mankind’ vignette he would be forced to take part in? And if it didn’t happen tonight then when would it? Tomorrow? The day after? And how many more nights would there be before he had to do something, or see someone?
He got up, traipsed to the kitchen, and drank a small glass of milk. That might help him sleep. On his way out he checked the noticeboard, specifically the doctor’s surgery card. He shook his head and went to bed.
Before he turned his bedside lamp out he stopped to think, delaying the onset of that dark loneliness.
Would a doctor really understand his condition? If not, Patrick could be making things worse by telling him. What if the doctor took the view that Patrick could at some stage blur the distinction between reality and nightmares? And what if he thought Patrick might go on to perpetrate something unspeakable in the real world?
No, dreams kept to himself were harmless; it was guidance he needed, not some chemical cosh.
He switched the light out.
And he dreamed only of the dancing yellow flames, the plastic furniture at first crackling and then silently shrinking to a charcoal bubble, and pretty embers floating and swirling in the intense, blissful heat.
He slept well.
Three days passed. And with them three more nights that Patrick slept through without so much as a trip to the bathroom by way of disturbance. His complexion, his demeanour – even the way he smiled – all improved. Paulo said so.
Perhaps the “Hoolies”, as his father used to call bad dreams, had left him for good, hopping away onto the next unfortunate soul.
Perhaps.
But whether it was merely a hiatus or the dreams had gone forever, life felt like it was for living again. That evening Patrick went to a nightclub, passed some of his well-practiced banter to a local girl by the name of Joni, and took her onto the next phase: he asked to meet her again.
Joni was blonde. Or brunette. Or possibly a redhead. Whatever, she was good looking – she must have been, otherwise Patrick wouldn’t have asked her out. And he’d recognize her when he saw her again. The one thing he did remember was the look from those sexy cat’s eyes – the look that said I might be interested if you show enough interest. Patrick intended to show interest.
They arranged to meet up after work the next day outside the Lake’s End coffee shop. It was another healthy night’s sleep for Patrick. Things were definitely looking up.
5
“This Patrick guy came in here?” Maggie Dolan said.
The man seated opposite nodded. “He came in here a lot. Usually with girls.”
“Just like you, huh?”
“Just like me.”
“And did I meet him?”
The man put a hand to the side of his face and gave his temple a pensive tap with his finger. “I don’t think you were working that day.”
Maggie gave a short grimace. “You know, he doesn’t seem like a nice guy to me. He asks a girl on a date and doesn’t even remember what colour her hair is.”
“You don’t approve?”
“Not exactly.”
“But you’ve been happy to serve me all summer.”
“That’s business,” Maggie said. “Anyway. Never mind that. What happened when they met the next day? I take it Patrick recognized Joni?”
“I was just about to tell you.”
“Okay, so carry on.”
The man coughed, then drew breath.
6
Yes, Patrick did recognize Joni when they met, then told her how beautiful her hair was, and that he had a soft spot for redheads, before leading her inside and to a table on the far side.
“Well, hello again,” the waitress said with a welcoming smile as she walked up to the table.
“Hi,” Patrick said.
Joni looked to the waitress, then back to Patrick. “You some sort of regular here?”
“Sure he is,” the waitress said, tapping the point of her pen on her notebook. “But he’s always on his own. The girls here are really pleased he’s finally found himself a date.”
“You’re kidding,” Joni said, once more hopping glances between them. “You have problems getting dates?”
“I’m shy,” Patrick said, his twitching lips making it clear a smile was being suppressed.
He ordered a glass of water, two cappuccinos and two slices of strawberry cheesecake. The waitress scribbled it down and left.
“So would you say we’re boyfriend and girlfriend?” Joni said.
Patrick shrugged. “I guess we could be whatever you want us to be.”
“But we don’t know anything about one another.”
“Yes we do,” Patrick said. “You like Eminem – I think he’s dated. I like Marlon Brando films – you’ve never heard of him. You’re training to be a nurse. I’m a geeky, nerdy computer programmer that talks funny.”
“And you don’t think Marlon Brando’s dated?” Joni said.
“Class never goes out of style,” Patrick said, running his eyes over her face, hair and clothes, lingering to make sure she got the message.
Joni tilted her head to one side and giggled, her shoulders jumping in time. And Patrick saw her eyes sparkle even more than they had the previous night.
“Anyway,” she said, “that just goes to show how wrong you can be. I have heard of Marlon Brando – I just haven’t seen any of his movies.” She moved forward, patting her hand on his. “And you’re anything but nerdy or geeky. You just don’t look that sort.” She collapsed into another of those delicious giggling fits as she took a moment to take a closer look at his face. “Anyway, this is as good a first date as I’ve—”
Her smile dropped and she
drew her head back. She leaned across to see the side of Patrick’s face in a different light.
He let out a sigh. “I’ll say it for you,” he said. “You’ve seen my scars.”
“You don’t mind talking about it?”
He gently took her hand and brought her fingertips to his temple. She traced the lines down either side of his face, half touching, half pointing, always caressing.
“You probably didn’t notice last night in the club,” he said. “Unnatural light and all that.”
Joni withdrew her hands as the waitress came and placed their order on the table.
Patrick took a small brown bottle from his jacket pocket and reached for the glass of water. “That means I can take these without you asking what they’re for.”
“Mmm… I could ask,” Joni said. “I know I’m only a student nurse but I can’t see how tablets would help with scars.”
“Me neither,” he said, tossing two tablets into the back of his throat. “But doctor knows best.”
She nodded to his face. “Are you having treatment at the hospital for those? Did they give you the tablets?”
“No. Just my doctor.”
“Did it happen over here?”
“No. The scars were… I’ve had them a long time. Let’s just call it a childhood accident.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Patrick’s fork sank deep into the light pink cheesecake layer and snapped a piece off the base. He stabbed it with his fork and lifted it to his mouth, then stopped and nodded to Joni’s piece. “Let’s change the subject. I don’t want to put you off your food. They say this is the best cheesecake in Chicago.”
Joni gave her head an embarrassed shake and picked up her fork.
They ate in silence. Patrick hardly took his eyes off Joni’s lips. The lips. Their deep purple gloss contrasted so strongly with the delicate cream of the cheesecake, as they combined to devour it, cracking and splintering its honey-brown base. Occasionally, when the temptation became too much, the lips parted and that pink probe of a tongue flicked out and gave the lips a fresh glisten of saliva, closing again as she forced the pleasure deep down her throat. And then the tongue circled the lips once again, leaving them even more moist, even more shimmering and inviting.
It was at that moment Patrick knew he wanted her. No, he knew he was going to have her.
“You’re right,” she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
“Sorry?” Patrick said with a frown. “About what?”
She nodded to the empty plate. “The best.”
Half an hour later, while Joni freshened up, Patrick paid the bill.
“Thanks for that,” he said to the waitress.
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
“No. I mean what you said – the line about me always being here on my own.”
The waitress slowly smiled. “We want you to come again – not just for your first date.”
Patrick drew his head back. “Is it that obvious?”
“Not to most people. But if you work here long enough you get good at spotting these things.”
“Well, I guess I’ll come again for my next first date.”
“You’re more than welcome to do that,” the waitress said. “We aim to keep our customers happy.”
“You do,” Patrick said. “You do.”
“You do what?” Joni said from behind him.
“They do… good cheesecake.”
“Best in Chicago,” the waitress said. “Hope you two have a nice evening.”
Patrick and Joni left the coffee shop and meandered towards the lakeshore, hands in pockets, arms occasionally brushing together.
She looked up to his face once or twice, but he kept his gaze ahead, ready for the first glimpse of the rolling water. As they turned a corner and the featureless expanse rode into view, Patrick said, “I can tell you if you want.”
Joni hesitated. “You… you don’t have to.”
“It’s no secret. It’s part of me – part of who I am.”
“Okay, so… what happened?”
“It was a house fire. I was young – ten, I think. My brother, Declan, was rescued along with me. My parents didn’t make it.” He grimaced and shook his head slowly. “Me and Declan were in care until we were old enough to get out, then we came over to America together and split. We don’t live in each other’s pockets but we’re still pretty close. That’s about it really.”
“Oh, God,” Joni said. “That’s so sad.”
And Patrick saw the creases to the sides of her eyes thicken, and those sensuous crystal eyes close up tight and hard. She gave a few sharp shrill gasps and pulled a tissue from her handbag.
Patrick put his arm behind her shoulders and eased her in towards him. They stood together on the lakeshore promenade and their bodies came together in a cautious, almost provisional, way.
“I’m sorry,” Patrick said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Jodie nodded and pulled herself away only slightly as she sniffed. “I’m… I’m okay.”
Patrick helped wipe her tears away, then gave her a kiss on the forehead and slid the palm of his hand along her free-flowing hair.
“You poor man,” she said.
“I don’t really remember much about it – even my days in care with Declan. Sometimes I think my mind has blanked the whole thing out so I can concentrate on the future. Do you know what I mean?”
Joni paused then gave a slow nod. “Actually, yes, I think I really do.”
They parted, and Patrick gazed out over the lake, where the city’s corporate towers cast long shadows like dark blue supergods passing judgement. “Honestly,” he said. “I’ve got over it. It’s not a problem anymore.”
In those shadows the last of the day’s lumbering ferry ships rode into view, looking like a little boy lost, searching the lake for its mother.
Joni gave her nose a final wipe and sighed. “You wanna watch TV or something? I’m only five blocks away.”
Patrick gave her a slow and tender kiss on the forehead.
“Thank you,” he said. “That would be lovely.” He clasped her head and gently brought her in, this time a little more confidently, enveloping her body in his arms, with his chin resting on top of her head.
On top of his chin rested a pair of lips holding the broadest of smiles.
7
Later that evening Patrick turned his head on the pillow to see Joni’s bedside clock. A Homer Simpson job. Homer’s small hand was pointing somewhere between the figures ten and eleven.
“I’d better get home,” he said.
Joni eased herself up and leaned her elbow on her pillow. “What? Now you got what you wanted?”
A scowl took a short-term tenancy on Patrick’s face.
“I was only kidding,” Joni said, snapping the words out. She stretched her arm over and stroked the side of his chest, her fingers almost playing his ribcage like a harp. “If you need to go, then go.” Then there was singing to accompany the harp: “But you might miss out.”
Patrick tried his best to smile.
Joni’s apartment – or what little he’d seen of it as he got swept into her bedroom – was older than his own, less clinical, with posters of rock bands covering every spare inch of wall-space, and books and magazines littering the top of the small desk in the corner.
“You not hungry?” Joni said.
Patrick nodded. “Actually, now you mention it…”
Joni jumped up onto her knees, bouncing with excitement. “Hey, why don’t you do us some of that cheese on toast stuff you talked about earlier?”
Patrick snorted a laugh. “That ‘cheese on toast stuff’? It’s not like it’s a recipe or anything; it just does what it says on the tin.”
Joni frowned. “What tin?”
“Never mind,” Patrick said giving her a sideways stare. “Okay. So have you got any bread?”
“Check.”
“Cool. And cheese?”
“Nope. But I’m sur
e Deedee does.”
Patrick nodded. “Cool. Worcestershire Sauce?”
“Like, yeah. Duh! Like, doesn’t every kitchen in America got a packet of… What do you think?”
“Never mind,” Patrick said. “Worcestershire Sauce is optional – sort of.”
Joni’s eyes widened. “You’ll show me how to cook it?”
“Cook it?” Patrick tweaked her nose. “Sure. I’ll show you how to slice cheese onto bread and put it under the grill.”
He turned to check the time again, then had a split second to shut his eyes before he felt the full blow of a pillow hitting him square in the face.
“Hey!” he shouted, laughing. “You could have blinded me with that.”
He heard more of those girly giggles before the pillow hit him again. He stumbled out of bed and over to his clothes. The pillow followed, slugging his head another three times before he grabbed it and pulled both it and Joni to his chest. Her giggling stopped with a shriek.
“Okay,” Patrick said. “You win – we’ll eat.” He wrenched the pillow from her and threw it on the bed. “Just one thing. Who’s Deedee?”
“Deedee’s my roommate. I’m a student nurse. You think I can afford a place like this on my own?”
Half an hour later they were back in bed, their teeth tugging on slices of toast, strands of molten cheese stretching into wires before them.
“So what was all that about?” Joni said.
“What?”
“I said about microwaving it. You got, sort of, upset?”
“No.” Patrick lowered his voice. “Well, okay.”
“You don’t use microwaves?”
“They… they give me headaches.”
Joni collapsed in laughter, then gave a series of high-pitched squeals like an alarm gone wrong.
“I’m serious,” Patrick said. “But it never bothers me. I don’t like stuff cooked in them anyway so I just keep away from them.”
“You think they’re dangerous?”
Slow Burning Lies - A Dark Psychological Thriller Page 3
