Slow Burning Lies - A Dark Psychological Thriller

by Ray Kingfisher

  Patrick turned to go then checked himself. “Just one other thing, Beth.”

  “Sure.”

  “Where’s Paulo today?”

  “Not sure. Off sick, I think.”

  “He seemed fine yesterday.”

  Beth shrugged. “So ask him when he gets back.”

  Patrick nodded and left.

  On the way home that evening Patrick stopped off at the bar and shared a beer, a dirty joke or two and a backslap with a few of the regulars that he still wouldn’t call friends, then went home.

  He had a pretty typical evening meal, watched average TV shows as per normal, then went to bed with a warm contentment he was starting to take for granted.

  19

  *

  When Patrick woke up it was dark and he was in bed making love to Rozita.

  As alarm clocks go he’d choose that over a bleeper or Homer Simpson’s D’oh! every time – it wasn’t much of a contest.

  Afterwards, with his and Rozita’s limbs still entangled, Patrick fell into a deep and comforting sleep.

  In the early hours of the morning he was vaguely aware of Rozita carefully extricating her body from his and slipping out of bed. But there was a much more important thought seeding itself in his mind, one he didn’t know whether to be rattled about or thankful for: this was the first time he’d ever returned to the same dream.

  He wasn’t complaining, but what the hell was going on?

  Was there some kind of try before you buy principle going on here? As in: I don’t like the others, but that one where I’m a successful physician with Rozita and the family, I’ll take that please, repeat order.

  The thought was so appealing he fell straight back to sleep.

  When the alarm went off and Patrick woke, the first thing he did was press a hand over to where Rozita should have been. The sheet was as cold as a cadaver. The second thing he did was to sit up and look around just to double check. Yes, he was in Patrick the physician’s house in Dallas, not in his apartment with Marlon Brando’s provocative eyes glaring down upon him.

  He staggered out of bed, stretched, put a dressing gown on and padded outside. He found Rozita hunched on the sofa, her legs pulled in, her chin locked onto her knees like it didn’t want to let go.

  He approached her slowly and kissed her on the crown of her head, taking the opportunity to inhale that unique and exquisite aroma. God, how he’d missed that back in his “real” world.

  “Trouble sleeping?” he said.

  She nodded.

  “That’s not like you, honey.”

  “No. I… I know.”

  Patrick hesitated and chose his words carefully:

  “Bad dream?”

  “Very.”

  “You want to tell me what happened?”

  “I was in Paris.”

  “Paris? Doesn’t sound too bad to me.”

  She flashed him a dark look. “Well it was. And it upset me.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “But I don’t want to make a big thing of it. Perhaps I’m just getting old. I’ll be fine, I just have to take it easy today.”

  “You sure? You don’t want me to take the day off?”

  “You can’t do that, Patrick. You’ve got patients to see.” She stroked his face as he knelt down next to her. “It was just a stupid nightmare, that’s all. Please, don’t make a big thing of it.”

  Patrick thought for a moment and nodded. If that was what she wanted, that’s what he would do.

  The rest of the day was much like any other for Patrick the physician – an arduous but rewarding day’s work performing a socially valuable function, and getting paid well for it into the bargain. This was followed by the usual evening meal, with the family dissecting everyone’s day, which was warming as it was normal and average.

  “Do you mind if we don’t, tonight?” Rozita said as she pulled the bed sheets back.

  “Can I call my lawyer?” Patrick said.

  “What?”

  The word was delivered with a sharpness unusual for Rozita, and Patrick instinctively turned to face her. He just caught an instant of manic shock on her face, her cheeks dropping ever so slightly, her lips and nostrils quivering, before she seemed to recover some semblance of poise.

  “I’m only joking.” Patrick moved closer to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling the solid tension. “What’s wrong?”

  She moved his hands away. “It’s nothing, all right, it’s nothing.”

  “Okay.” Patrick paused, but there was no further explanation from Rozita; she simply frowned and looked down. Patrick held her close and tightly. For a second she let him, then he felt her pull away.

  “Come on,” she said. “I need sleep.”

  The next time Patrick woke up he was still in the house in Dallas. It was 3a.m. and he was alone.

  He gathered his thoughts for a second. Yes, Rozita should have been here. Perhaps she was having trouble sleeping again.

  He couldn’t sleep not knowing where she was, so got up. Just like the night before, he found her hunched on the sofa with her arms wrapped around her legs, this time rocking back and forth.

  As he walked towards her she held a hand up. “Please don’t, Patrick. Just go back to bed, I’m fine.”

  But he sat down next to her and took her hand in his. “No way.”

  “Please, just leave it.”

  “No. No, I won’t. Tell me what’s wrong. What have I done?”

  And then there was a hint of that smile from her, beautiful even when she was tired, and she caressed his face. “Oh, no, Patrick. It’s nothing you’ve done wrong, really.”

  “Then what? What is it?”

  “I… I can’t. It’s stupid.”

  “Tell me.”

  She gave her head an ambivalent shake.

  Patrick moved in even closer, their noses almost touching. “I’m not going back to bed until you tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s…”

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, just go back to—”

  “No. For Christ’s sake. Tell me. What is it?”

  “I feel so stupid.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’ve been having these dreams.”

  Instantly Patrick’s throat went dry, he felt weak and his breathing started to labour. And for the first time in Dallas, with Rozita and his dream life, he felt the line between the two Patricks blur, in some way threatening to break the spell.

  He swallowed, giving a little moisture to the back of his throat. “Dreams?” he said. “What kind of dreams?”

  “Well… Oh, it’s just stupid.”

  “Tell me. Tell me about the dreams.”

  “I do bad things in them.”

  “Bad? In what way?”

  She turned away from him and buried herself in the corner of the sofa. “Last night. You know I said I was in Paris?”

  Patrick nodded.

  “Well, I dreamed I was part of a terrorist gang. We poisoned the Paris water supply.”

  Patrick’s head dropped as he listened on.

  “I know it sounds stupid, nothing to get upset about – I’m a grown woman for Christ’s sake – but this just felt so real, not like a normal dream. It was more like watching a movie – no, not watching one, being in one. It was so vivid, it’s hard to explain, but we had guns, and we shot the guards at the purification plant – I actually shot two of them myself. They were unarmed – one was just sitting at his desk – I even remember the photo next to him, one of him and his wife and kids at EuroDisney. And I killed him, Patrick, I killed him and another guard. It was like they were real people. I can still picture the blood pouring from the holes in their uniforms.”

  Patrick was still looking down, head hung down low, not moving.

  “Patrick? Are you listening?”

  His head jerked up. “Hey, I’m sorry. Of course I am.”

  “I know it must be difficult for you, it sounds stupid.”

 
“Never mind that. How long has this been going on?”

  “Only two nights.”

  “You had another tonight, right?”

  She closed her eyes and nodded. “On my own this time – completely different to the first one. I mean, it was a different environment, like I was a different person, but I was still me. And I know that doesn’t make sense, but that’s what it felt like.”

  “No, no,” Patrick said. “It makes some sort of sense. So what happened?”

  “I derailed a train. I don’t know where, but it was a modern one, very fast. And I can remember everything in detail – how I dodged the security cameras, how I jammed the points. Even how I hacked into the computer system to stop the failsafe and how I watched the whole thing happen. I could tell you exactly how I achieved the whole thing.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you could.”

  She shot him and angry look. “Don’t patronize me, Patrick.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.”

  “Okay. So tell me. Do you think I’m going mad?”

  “Jesus. No!” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her into facing him. “These are all just bad dreams, yes? No more than nightmares?”

  “But they’re not like normal dreams, Patrick, they’re so… realistic.”

  “Okay. They seem realistic but they’re still only dreams, okay? You might have some bad feelings churning up your insides, but remember, you haven’t actually done any of these things.”

  “I know, but—”

  “So please, Rozita, don’t feel guilty about them. Okay?”

  “But I do.”

  And at that moment Patrick felt his two personas touching, and his mind returning to his confession.

  “Everyone on this planet has evil thoughts from time to time. It’s part of the human condition. It’s what you do about them that counts – whether you give in to them. You’re a loving wife and mother, that’s the reality. Dreams are just dreams.”

  “You think I don’t know that? The point is, I feel bad. I feel stupid. And I feel guilty.”

  “Well don’t. Don’t let the guilt destroy you. Nobody’s getting hurt, remember that. Nobody’s getting hurt.”

  She nodded.

  “Starting to feel better?”

  “Starting to feel tired.”

  “That’s good,” Patrick said. “That’s good. So you’re coming back to bed?”

  In bed Rozita fell asleep almost immediately.

  Patrick didn’t. He lay half-sleeping for hours, often unclear in the darkness whether he was with Rozita in the Dallas dreamworld or back in his apartment, or even hovering somewhere between the two.

  Things were going wrong. Just as he thought the dreams were soothing his mind, that they were having a calming effect on his fragile mental state, things had taken another twist. Was it possible that Rozita was suffering the same delusions that he himself was suffering from – indeed the self-same delusions that allowed her very existence? It was all getting much too complicated.

  Eventually he dropped off, and dreamed of the fire, the ever-reliable blaze that never upset him, and never let him down. He could smell the acrid smoke and it soothed his mind. He felt comforted by the sight of the curtains instantly fizzing to nothing more than black drips on the carpet, and the windows clouding up seconds afterwards – all the better to keep out any prying eyes.

  Yet again, this was his refuge, where he always wore a smile inside and never needed to worry about the problems another day might bring.

  *

  The next morning Patrick woke up to Marlon Brando’s accusing stare, and spent a few minutes wandering around his apartment with that zombie feeling he hadn’t experienced for a few days. It was like a silent buzz running around inside his skull like a trapped bluebottle.

  This was too spooky to take seriously. Bad dreams where his wife was having bad dreams? It was almost funny. But right now he didn’t give a shit; the immediate problem was how ill and tired he felt.

  How he wished it was the weekend and he could go back to bed instead of having to go to work and sit in front of a keyboard trying to stay awake.

  He glanced at the clock and his wander turned into a dash.

  He went to work that day – in body more than spirit, and lay very low. Again, Paulo wasn’t there, but there was no way he was going to worry about that. He was too busy taking regular reviving breaks from the sleep-inducing computer work and, more importantly, avoiding Beth, mainly by always having one eye (even a half-closed one) fixed on the other end of the long corridor, giving himself time to escape in the opposite direction should her prim figure appear at her door. But his eyelids weren’t about to get any lighter, so he gave up trying to stay awake and slunk home early.

  As soon as Patrick got back to the sanctuary of his apartment, he gave in to the urge to sleep and went to bed. That didn’t work. Whether it was worries about what might lie in wait for him in the dreamworld, or simple overtiredness, the annoying fact was that now he was free to sleep he simply could not drop off.

  Perhaps it was having an empty stomach. Yes, that was it. He always felt snoozy after a small meal. That was only natural.

  It was still only late afternoon, so he got dressed and left his apartment, signing out at security on the way. He bought a takeaway pizza, then came back and sat in front of the TV.

  He only took one bite of the pizza. It might have been his favourite meat feast with extra pepperoni from his favourite pizzeria, but the rest of it would stay untouched.

  Nothing was wrong with the pizza. And Patrick was still hungry.

  The problem was an overpowering nausea gushing over him. He’d just seen the headline news item, a solemn voice commentating over live TV footage of the aftermath of the accident – the derailing of the Japanese bullet train which had claimed 136 lives and still counting.

  20

  Patrick fought to keep down the single bite of pizza he’d taken, mesmerized by the coverage of the Japanese train crash.

  There was no cause suspected yet, the authorities were too busy dealing with the injured and fatalities even to consider the clearing of the track, let alone investigating possible causes. It was an unprecedented accident, according to the Japanese prime minister, a sad day for a country that always prided itself on the safety and efficiency of its infrastructure.

  Then the news programme cut to an industry expert, who sympathized with the prime minister but said that sources close to the investigating team were pretty certain a derailment this severe was no accident.

  There were also interviews with relatives of the victims, tearful accounts of how husbands had simply kissed their wives goodbye, saying they’d be home a little late that night; one woman whose daughter had just started work at the university that day, her pride now worthless. There was seemingly endless coverage; more than anyone could want – unless they had a personal involvement – but Patrick had had enough. He switched the TV off, drew a damp towel over his trembling face to dry the tears, and left his apartment again.

  He walked along the lakeshore – his usual escape from troubles – and watched people.

  The bastards were going about their usual routines, laughing and joking, chatting on their phones, listening to ipods while nodding their heads in time to the beat. Skateboarders whooped in delight at their cool moves, occasionally barking in pain when it all went wrong. Lovers carried on loving, oblivious. Everyone was doing nothing more than taking advantage of warm evenings while they still could.

  Perhaps they didn’t know yet? The crash had only happened late that afternoon US time, early morning commuter rush hour in Japan. He had the urge to go up to them all and tell them to go home and watch the news, to show a little respect for the deceased.

  He also had another thought. What about the poisoned water supply in Paris?

  He turned and raced back to his apartment, almost forgetting to check in at security on the way.

  He sat down next to his cold pizza and switched the TV on
. He flicked channels, even to the BBC world service, but found no story of problems in Paris.

  But which Paris was it? Texas, or France? Paris, Texas might not have hit the national headlines. He flicked to the local news channel, and listened to stories of fairs and rodeos, governor campaigns and weather fronts. But no, Rozita had mentioned the photo taken at EuroDisney. So it had to be France, it just had to be.

  He plugged his laptop into the broadband socket, fired it up, then spent a few breathless minutes moaning about the time it was taking to load up.

  The hour glass stopped. He was in. Internet browser to World News to Europe to France.

  And there it was.

  The civil authorities in Paris were warning all residents to drink only bottled water until further notice after an unspecified quantity of industrial grade weedkiller had been introduced into the water supply the previous day in a suspected terrorist sabotage. Many hundreds had been admitted to hospitals and there had been three deaths with a strong link.

  He read on, struggling to maintain focus. Sufferers with breathing difficulties and pains in the chest or stomach were being given priority, and those able to travel were being directed to hospitals in the nearby cities of Reims or Rouen. Commentators were sure many more deaths would follow but suspected the French government were denying this in an attempt to play down the situation, which was stretching their health service to breaking point

  Patrick left the laptop and spent a few moments pacing his apartment.

  What the hell was going on here? Surely the whole thing had been a dream?

  He returned to his laptop and double checked the news story on another site. No mistake.

  But how could it be true? It was all in his mind.

  Rozita, Patrick the physician, the four wholesome kids – they didn’t exist.

  Those people were in his mind – in his dream, and Rozita’s dreams were one step removed again from reality.

  So one of the characters in his dreams was having dreams that…