This was too much.
Patrick slammed his laptop shut, went into the kitchen and grabbed the whisky bottle. There was barely a dribble left and he poured it straight into his arid mouth. He followed it up with a glass of water then splashed more onto his face, to shock him into keeping a grip on reality.
He grabbed a towel and pressed it to his face, holding it there for a minute, well after it had soaked up the water.
And in the darkness of that moment, with Patrick’s mind sifting through his own vile sleeping adventures – and the evil things he had done – the most terrifying aspect of this newest revelation hit him like a bare-fisted punch.
If the nightmares Rozita had had were not mere nightmares but were portals into some alternative reality – Patrick’s real world, and if the people she made suffer were actual flesh-and-blood humans with lives and loves and hopes, then what about Patrick’s own victims? Was it not possible – even likely – that they, too, were real people? The old man with lung disease he’d killed, that woman he’d attacked, the hotel explosion victims, the children on that roller coaster he’d tampered with, the Carlinis, and so many more.
Perhaps all of those were real people, just not real people in Patrick’s world.
Sweet Jesus. The idea that the events of his dreams might be real in some way had never occurred to him. And why the hell would it? It was madness.
The towel dropped from Patrick’s face onto the floor and he rushed to the window to look out over the nearby street scene.
No, that out there was the real world. They were real people. The people on planet Earth – this planet Earth here and now – they were the only real people. What happened in his dream wasn’t real.
Wait.
Suggestion.
That was it. He’d read about suggestive psychology before. It was the way illusionists and magicians fooled their audiences, feeding information into their subconscious minds, programming their minds to think what the tricksters wanted them to think.
Yes, perhaps that was the explanation, perhaps he’d seen or heard about these stories without them entering his conscious mind, and it was only after those thoughts he’d had the dreams. That was it; he was making dreams up based on—
And there he stopped. He checked his watch, then the clock in the kitchen. Who was he trying to kid? He’d definitely had the dream last night, when Rozita had mentioned the train accident, and it had definitely happened at 4pm Chicago time. The news channel and the internet feed had said so.
This time, surely, he was going mad.
For a few minutes he relived his nightmares all over again, the suffering he had caused torturing his own mind.
Then the doorbell went.
21
The sound of the doorbell didn’t register with Patrick at first – his mind was still travelling across universes or through time or wherever the hell it needed to go to reach the scenes of his crimes.
Could those characters he’d so brutally wronged really have been flesh-and-blood humans inhabiting some sort of alternative world?
The second time the bell went, his head jerked towards the hallway.
He didn’t get too many visitors – and that was the way he liked it – his romantic liaisons were pretty much restricted to “her place”. Also visitors tended to be put off by the security of the small group of apartments – signing in and out like a prison as one workmate had put it. Again, Patrick was happy with that arrangement. He liked his apartment being more private sanctuary than public drop-in centre.
Only on the third ring did he try to hazard a guess as to the caller. An angry Joni? An apologetic Deedee?
He quietly made his way to the hallway and leaned his head towards the door.
Now a voice came. It wasn’t loud or angry but was stern and unyielding.
“I know you’re in there, Patrick. Security told me you were home.”
Beth. What the hell did she want?
Whatever it was, he wasn’t in a fit state to give it to her. He stayed quiet. The doorbell sounded again, nagging him.
“I need to know you’re okay, Patrick. I’m not leaving until you answer.”
So why the concern? They’d been working together for less than two weeks. As his superior on the Zombie Stomper project she had access to his clocking records – she knew he’d been into work that day. Okay, she hadn’t seen him, he’d made sure of that, but the principle of looking after your employees could be taken too far.
Whatever her motives were, she wasn’t about to give up.
“I need to know you’re okay, Patrick. That’s all. If I need to call the cops to get inside I will.”
Call the cops? What the fuck was up with her? Jesus, this was harassment.
But Patrick had enough problems without having to explain his behaviour to the police – and without having to get the front door repaired.
“I’m okay,” he shouted out.
There was a long silence from the other side, followed by: “How about letting me in?”
“What do you want?”
“To be sure you haven’t done anything stupid.”
Twice Patrick’s mouth shaped to speak, but each time he aborted. Was there anything he could say that would make her give up and leave him in peace? And whatever he did say could easily give her the impression something was wrong – mainly because something definitely was.
He opened the door.
Beth looked him up and down. “I thought you said everything was okay?”
“It is,” Patrick said with a frown.
“You look terrible.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m okay.”
She stepped forward and Patrick moved out of her path – it was either that or start a wrestling match.
“I just needed to see you,” she said. “To check nothing’s wrong.”
“Such as?”
She surveyed his state a second time. “God, you look like shit, Patrick.”
Five minutes later they were sitting opposite each other at the breakfast bar drinking coffee.
“So, do you give all your staff this special attention?”
Beth shook her head. “Only if they need it.”
“You know I could make a complaint about you, barging into my home like this.”
“You could try. You wouldn’t get past first base.”
“Why’s that?”
“For one thing you invited me in.”
“Did I?”
Beth tilted her mug. “Why would you make me a coffee if I wasn’t welcome?”
Patrick gave a conceding shrug.
“And for another, you were supposed to come see me at work today to discuss your workload.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“And third, we both know you’ve been having some personal problems lately.”
“Oh, no.” Patrick stood and started shifting his bodyweight from foot to foot. “Beth. If you think you can have some sort of hold on me because of what I told you – what I told you in confidence – you can also think about sticking your fucking job.”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Beth said, holding her arms out wide. “You make it sound like I’m blackmailing you. I’m just concerned, okay?”
“It doesn’t feel that way to me.”
“Jeez, you are stressed out, aren’t you?”
Patrick eased himself back into his seat. “Okay. Perhaps I overreacted.”
“I’ve just come to see how you are because I know you’ve been going through a rough time lately. And by your reactions I’m guessing it’s got a whole lot worse. Am I right?”
Patrick didn’t answer.
After a few moments’ silence Beth stood up. “I’ve seen you’re still in one piece, if you don’t want to tell me more perhaps I should go.”
Patrick stood and stepped in front of her. “Have you told anyone?”
Beth gave an indignant frown. “Hell, Patrick, just what sort of a person do you take me for?” She put her hands on her hips
and stood square onto him, her feet planted apart. “You told me you were having difficulty sleeping because of nightmares. You seemed really upset by it. As your manager I’d be abrogating my responsibilities if… if I… Oh, this is just crazy.” She sidestepped Patrick. “Look, I know you’re okay. If you don’t want my help I’m going.” She started to walk away.
“Hold on!” Patrick reached across and put a firm hand on her shoulder. A second later he winced at the feeling of his wrist being twisted into an unnatural position and drew it back sharply, stepping away from her as she turned.
“I’m sorry,” Beth said. She held both hands up to him. “Just don’t touch me, okay. Say what the hell you want but don’t try anything physical.”
Patrick said nothing, just rotated his hand to loosen it.
“Your wrist okay?”
Patrick nodded. “Look, I wasn’t going to try anything on.”
“It’s me. I’m sorry. I guess you’re not the only one who can overreact.”
“As long as you know I’m not like that.”
“I know.” Beth nodded. “Like I said the other day, we all got issues.”
Perhaps it was because he’d never talked to Beth outside the work environment before, or because he’d got something that by all accounts was a rare commodity – an apology from her – but there was a definite warmth coming from her. It really was like some barrier between them had melted away.
“Shall we finish our drinks?” Patrick said.
Beth glanced to the door then back to Patrick. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”
“And I promise, no touching.”
Beth simply nodded, her expression still flat. They sat back down and sipped coffee awhile.
“You know something?” Patrick said. “It actually felt a relief to tell someone about my nightmares.”
Beth nodded slowly. “That’s good. And you did seem better afterwards.”
“But…”
“But things have moved on, yes? Your dreams have returned?”
Patrick placed his cup down and leaned towards her.
“I need you to promise me again that this goes no further, that it’s not written down, passed on or—”
“Patrick. No you don’t. You don’t need promises at all. As long as it’s legal and not against company procedures you can do what you want, and you can tell me what you want in one hundred percent confidence.”
“I just need to know I can trust you.”
“You can.”
“It’s… it’s difficult to explain.” Patrick drew his hands down over his face and let out a groan. “The thing is,” He looked through the window and narrowed his eyes to slits. “Beth, I’m going mad. I really think I am.”
Beth took a long pause. “So half the world’s mad,” she said eventually.
Patrick stared at her and saw her face take on a new level of solemnity.
“You don’t just mean stupid mad, do you?” she said.
Patrick hung his head. “No.”
“More bad dreams, huh?”
“Not so much bad.”
“So what?”
And Patrick told her everything: of his new life as a physician, of his perfect wife, Rozita, and of his perfect life. He explained how this was the first dream he’d ever been able to return to, how the dream had started to turn sour with Rozita’s bad dreams. He explained that the problem wasn’t so much his own dream, more that each of Rozita’s dreams appeared to be some sort of premonition of what was happening in the real world – that her dreams had become his real-world fact. He told her about the poisoning in Paris, and the train crash in Japan. He went on to explain his biggest fear, what had upset him the most: that if the dreams she was having somehow were real, then perhaps his dreams were too.
Then he backtracked, and said that no, that wasn’t his biggest fear. His biggest fear was that he was losing his mind, becoming psychotic, because there was simply no rational explanation for his experiences.
Beth sat stony-faced without interrupting.
“Tell me,” Patrick said. “Does all of that sound like the talk of a sane man to you?”
“Not even remotely.”
Patrick grimaced, his eyes heavy with anguish.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Beth said. “I guess that sounds a little clinical.”
“But true. And right now, I need honesty more than anything. I’m having a job working out what’s true and what’s not.”
“So what are you going to do? I mean, if what you say is true—”
“What do you mean, ‘if’?”
“No, no. I mean, there could be some other explanation.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” Beth shrugged. “You… I don’t know… you could have fallen asleep during the reporting of the train crash and dreamed about it afterwards.”
“I had the dream last night, Beth.” Now Patrick was almost shouting. “It was last night, that was when Rozita told me about the crash, not today – definitely not today.”
“Yes, but how do you know that for certain?”
Patrick froze for a second, then leaned his head back slightly, his nostrils twitching. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “What you mean is, How can I expect you to believe me? Is that it? That’s exactly what you mean, isn’t it?”
“No. I’m just playing devil’s advocate here. Step back and think for a moment. You said yourself, it just doesn’t make sense.”
“So you don’t believe me?”
“I’m just thinking about this logically. Think of it from my point of view. I’m a Combined Sciences graduate, and you’re asking me to believe you dream about major world incidents before they happen. I’m not saying you’re lying, Patrick, it’s just…”
“It’s just you prefer the other explanation: that I’m going insane.”
“Hell, no. It’s just hard getting my head around it, is all. I mean, if you could tell me what was going to happen tomorrow, if we could write something down and date and time it, and then see if it happened. Let’s be under no illusions here, Patrick. If you can see into the future you can get us the goddam winning lottery numbers.”
“Now you’re taking the piss.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Poking fun at me.”
“I am not. Think of me as your voice of reason. Go back to your dream of Rosy.”
“It’s Rozita, with a ‘z’.”
“Whatever. Go back there tonight, ask her what she’s been dreaming about. The moment you wake up, ring me and I’ll write it down. Then we’ll see.”
“But I can’t control it,” Patrick said. “I can’t just decide which dream I go back into, it doesn’t work like that.”
“You said you dreamed of Rozita the last two nights.”
“Yes, but…”
Patrick’s objection fizzled out. It sounded good to him, perhaps he would return. Perhaps somehow his mind returned him to the least disturbing scenario – and life with Rozita was a peach compared to his other dreams – or even compared to his real life.
He nodded. “Okay, I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything.”
“I’m not asking you to promise anything except you’ll tell me what happens.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Hey, why not come over to my place tomorrow morning, that way there can be no misunderstandings?”
Patrick nodded.
“But remember, for this to work, you need to tell me before it happens.”
“Like I say, Beth, no promises. I might not dream at all.”
“You think that’s likely?”
“Actually, no.”
“Let’s wait and see. Come over and see me whatever. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s almost eight o’clock. I’ve had a heavy week and I need a little rest myself.”
She wrote her address down and left.
22
Patrick considered what to do that evening. Usually on a Friday he’d go out to a bar then onto a cl
ub of one sort or another. But did he really need that real-world therapy – drinking and gassing?
He paced his apartment for a few minutes and decided that no, he simply couldn’t face it, and spent the rest of the evening alone in his living room. He listened to music, he read a book for a while, he tried to get into a movie on TV. He gave up pretty quickly on each one.
Playing a little guitar might help. Yes, that would calm his nerves a little.
His old friend – his good old Les Paul – was still in the cupboard where he’d placed it in frustration a few days before. He took it out and sat on the sofa, resting it on the top of his thigh.
Now, to try again.
He tried to hold a few chords, but, just like before, it felt awkward to his fingers, unnatural. He tried strumming it a few times, just to play anything, however tuneless. It sounded awful.
He looked at the signature just below the whammy bar, and rolled his fingers along the polished body.
This was silly. He was sure he used to play. He learned in his teenage years. Perhaps he was just rusty.
He tried again and again.
Sure, he knew the thing was a fake – a cheap Chinese import that still sounded pretty good. He knew he’d played in a few bands before. But the more he held it, the more he knew the truth.
The truth was, he just didn’t have a clue how to play the damn thing.
He gave up trying and went to bed.
By the time he got there he felt like he had given himself the last rites, going over and over the various possibilities of what was happening to him, trying to drag his mind away from the inevitable conclusion – that he was suffering from some sort of psychological disorder.
The sleep was slow in coming, but come it did.
*
The next time Patrick woke up he found himself sitting alone in a small office. There was a faint odour of disinfectant, and the surroundings were familiar – it took a few seconds of checking out the wall charts and the medical equipment for Patrick to fully realize that yes, this was Doctor Patrick Leary’s practice room.
There was no outward sign, but Patrick felt a bump of adrenaline hit his brain. Somehow this crazy plan had worked, he was back with Rozita – or at least he would be after his day’s work was done. And as soon as he thought of Rozita another feeling overshadowed the shock of being in the same dreamworld yet again. That feeling was of pleasure, the sort that made him forget whatever other worries he had in life, a feeling of love and simple togetherness with a woman the like of which he’d never known before.
Slow Burning Lies - A Dark Psychological Thriller Page 10
