‘I understand that. But this one is just so real. I can feel the walls when I touch them. I can feel the earth, cold and wet, when I fall in the garden. I mean, I was always told that if you pinch yourself and you don’t feel it, that means you’re dreaming.’
‘Have you tried pinching yourself?’
Tom realized he had to think about this before answering. ‘I don’t think so. No, that’s funny – I don’t remember doing that.’
Hunt smiled. ‘It’s not an infallible test. Though with a little practice, some people find it’s a trick they can use to wake themselves up. You might try it, but don’t worry if it doesn’t work.’
‘But look, Brendan,’ Tom said, leaning forward to impress his point more earnestly, ‘supposing someone does something so terrible that they can’t bear to think about it, they just want to forget it. They push it out of their mind. I mean, they push it out of their conscious mind and into the unconscious, which is the only place it can go. In that case, why couldn’t they dream about it exactly as it happened, not necessarily in dream language?’
‘Even when you’re asleep, the mind still censors itself. The conscious mind, the part of you that can’t accept the truth when you’re awake and has therefore suppressed it—’
‘With a lot of help from alcohol and some serious narcotics.’
‘With all that. That same part of you is still there when you’re dreaming. You still don’t want to face up to what you’ve hidden from yourself.’
‘What if another part of me wants to?’
‘Perhaps part of you does. And when you’re asleep, your defences are down, it’s not so easy to hide from your secrets any more. So you dress them up as something else. Dream images, which use visual and verbal puns and references instead of straightforward everyday language. It takes a long time to decipher what these things mean, if in fact you ever can finally.’
Tom thought about this, then said in a flat, defeated voice, ‘Maybe some things are best left forgotten.’
Hunt inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the point. ‘Of course,’ he said, in the tone of a man who wanted to be fair to all sides, ‘there are distinguished scientists and psychiatrists who would argue that dreams mean absolutely nothing, anyway. Just the rumblings of the mental digestive system.’
‘I find it hard to believe that.’
‘And I find it hard to believe that you are the man you are trying to accuse yourself of being. I think you’re adding two and two together and making five. I really do. I’m speaking as your friend, not as your therapist, which anyway I’m not.’
Tom looked at him for a while, then said, ‘So you don’t buy the Jekyll and Hyde thing.’
‘No. Not in your case. Not even with the help of a lot of drugs and alcohol.’
‘But the girl was there. Right there in Albany, at the festival. And so was I.’
‘So were a lot of other men, Tom.’
Tom sighed and sat back, wearied by the effort of searching for answers in this complex morass of memory and guesswork, but determined to go on. ‘But why? What is the kind of reason I might be having this dream?’
‘It may be that there’s some deep-seated thing that’s bothering you and you’re trying to come to terms with it. If you really want to find out what it is, you could get into analysis or some other form of treatment – not necessarily with me, but I can name a number of excellent people you could see.’
‘All I want to know for now,’ Tom persisted, ‘is what can it mean to dream repeatedly that you’ve murdered someone?’
‘Well, the most obvious interpretation is that you’re harbouring repressed anger. It may mean that you’re on the edge of violence and only just managing to contain it. But I don’t think that’s your problem – although I don’t have to tell you how much anger there can be associated with addictive behaviour, which is still there and has to be dealt with even after the addiction itself has been controlled.’
‘All right,’ Tom said, ‘I can see that. Is that the only thing this dream can mean?’
‘Lord, no. It can mean a lot of things – dreams often can. For example, it can arise out of an unconscious feeling that you’re freeing yourself from something. Adolescents often dream of killing their parents around the time they start wanting to become independent, but all they’re doing is killing their feelings of dependence, as part of personal growth.’
‘But what does it mean to dream you’ve killed a child?’
‘Like I said, if you really want to get to the bottom of it, you may need to see somebody over a period of time. Anything I say now isn’t much more than a shot in the dark.’
‘That’s OK – keep shooting.’
Hunt regarded him a moment, making a decision about whether to go on. ‘Well, I’d say that you’re afraid of failure, of falling back into your old ways, when you were controlled by your addictions. To you, that’s what failure means – falling back. That’s the fear that you’re running from in your dream, which you see as this decaying, forbidding old house. And now you’ve made the house even more frightening by filling it with the worst thing you can imagine – for example, the idea that you’ve killed a child.’
Tom nodded. ‘That’s logical. Except why would I necessarily pick on the idea of killing a child? There are plenty of other things that scare me.’
‘You picked up on it because of what’s been happening with Julia, and the fact that it’s thrown up the story of this missing girl. Remember, you’d learned about Melanie Hagan before she started popping up in your dream.’
‘But why,’ Tom persisted, slapping the back of one hand into the palm of the other, ‘why was I dreaming about the house before that?’
Hunt’s professional, easygoing calmness soothed and absorbed the frustration Tom felt. ‘You said the first time you had this dream was around the time of Julia’s birth.’
‘I was running out of the house, but I didn’t know why. I didn’t know there was a dead girl in there . . .’ He stopped and ran a hand over his face. It was a gesture of extreme weariness, of a man nearing the end of his tether. ‘Or maybe I did . . . I just didn’t remember until Melanie Hagan came back into my life – through my own daughter.’
Hunt was silent, letting Tom’s words settle in the air between them, giving them the weight and the reflection they deserved. Finally he said, ‘I don’t believe anyone can explain why your daughter has these memories, Tom, so you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. You’re trying to find reasons and logical sense where maybe there isn’t any. As Oliver Lewis admits himself, sometimes we just have to accept that there are no explanations.’
33
Murray Schenk gave a last wave to Alice Macabee and got into his car. She watched him through the window of her living room, as he turned his key in the ignition, checked his mirror, and pulled out. He would drive around for a while – it always helped him clarify his thoughts, and right now he needed to think over what he had just learned.
It was obvious from the way she had talked about him that Alice Macabee had liked Tom Freeman too. There was no reason why she shouldn’t: he was a charming, good-looking, courteous man. What she didn’t know was a fact that Murray Schenk had just discovered: that Melanie Hagan had disappeared at exactly the time and in exactly the place where Tom Freeman had been on his last drink- and coke-fuelled binge.
Tom knew it, too. He had known it since his own visit to Alice Macabee. So far, he had kept the information to himself.
Schenk decided it was time to put him to the test.
The phone in Tom’s office at the back of the house had rung several times during the morning, but he had let his machine pick up the calls. When he checked it later there were messages from his business manager, a couple of TV executives, and a researcher who was working on a new idea for a series. The two last callers had left no message. He wondered if they had his cellphone number – and as though in response to his thought, it rang in his pocket. He recognized Murray Schenk’s gr
uff tones at once.
After they had got the pleasantries out of the way, Schenk said, ‘I just wondered if you came up with anything at that newspaper office last week, anything that might help us?’
Tom couldn’t be sure if he was imagining it, or whether there really was a hint of suspicion in Schenk’s voice. Surely a cop would know better than most people how to disguise his feelings? But there was something in the deliberate casualness of his tone that suggested a trap. It was perfectly possible that Schenk had traced his footsteps and spoken to Mrs Macabee himself. Tom thought fast, and saw he had no choice. Either Schenk knew the truth already, or he would find it out soon enough.
‘As a matter of fact I did, Murray.’ He tried to sound relaxed, but his voice was tight and he had to clear his throat. ‘I found out something, but I decided I wasn’t going to do anything about it. The reason is that I’m trying to protect my daughter. She seems to be getting over this . . . this “thing” that’s happened to her, and that’s the way my wife and I want to keep it.’
There was silence on the line. Tom waited.
‘What did you find out, Tom?’ Schenk said eventually.
Tom wondered how to play this, how much to say, how much to hold back. It troubled him that he was thinking like a guilty man. Since his conversation with Hunt he had clung to the thought that maybe he really was putting two and two together and making five. More importantly, so had Clare. It wasn’t much of a lifeline, but it was all they had.
And now here was this cop trying to hook them on it.
Of course the thing that Schenk could not possibly know about was the dream. Tom was sure that Hunt would keep that confidential.
All right – strategic disclosure. That was the way to play it.
‘I guess you’ve spoken to Mrs Macabee yourself, Murray. Am I right?’
‘You’re absolutely right, Tom,’ Schenk said. His tone was neutral, no acknowledgement that he had been testing the other man; but both were on their guard now.
‘I’m sure you can understand our point of view,’ Tom said. ‘My wife and I feel that this has gone far enough. If our daughter, through some psychic fluke or whatever you want to call it, has picked up on something that happened before she was even born . . . Well, let me put it this way, Murray: I was the one who started to unravel this whole thing because I wanted to find out what was happening to Julia. Frankly, I think I’ve found out all I want, and I’ve gone far enough. My only concern now is to see my daughter get well, which she is doing. And that’s something I don’t intend to jeopardize.’
‘I understand what you’re saying, Tom, and I’d feel exactly the same in your place. But from where I stand, things look a little different.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘I mean that if I and a few of my colleagues had done our jobs better ten years ago, then that girl might have been found. Or at least we might’ve found out what happened to her.’
‘Have you spoken to Jack Edwards? Is he pursuing this?’
‘Jack has enough to pursue with what’s happening now. More than enough. Like I told you before, I have nothing but time.’
Tom realized he was being made to understand that Schenk was not going away. ‘You’re retired, Murray. Are you making some kind of personal crusade out of this?’
‘I intend to try and find out the truth.’
‘Well, I respect that. But you’re not going to involve our daughter in any of it. I want to make that clear right now.’
‘I’m not planning to involve your daughter. I doubt if there’s much more she can tell us, anyway. But don’t you think we owe it at least to Jennifer Sawyer to tell her whatever we know about her sister?’
‘Perhaps. But it’s not much, is it? I mean, it’s hardly a solution to the mystery.’
Schenk was silent a while, then he repeated Tom’s words. ‘No, it’s hardly a solution to the mystery.’
Tom was unsure whether he heard resignation in his tone, or something else. A veiled threat, perhaps? Certainly an acknowledgement that the story was not over but was, as Tom’s childhood comic books used to say, ‘to be continued’.
‘Well, Murray, ‘you must do what you think is right. But I’m through – for the reasons I’ve given you.’
‘I understand. I’ll call you if anything new comes up.’
‘OK, Murray – do that.’
34
Murray Schenk hung up the phone and wondered about calling Jennifer Sawyer. In fact he did feel, as he had said to Tom, a genuine obligation to keep her informed. And he would do so. But for the moment it could wait. Right now he had further enquiries to follow up, other lines of thought to explore. He dialled the number he had been given for Dr Brendan Hunt in Saracen Springs.
The following day, just after 12:30 p.m., Brendan Hunt made the ten-minute drive from his office to the Citadel Motor Lodge on Scarsbrooke Avenue, where Schenk had checked in that morning. It would be better to meet there, Schenk had said, because it minimized the risk of running into the Freemans, or anyone who knew them.
Hunt drove slowly past the freshly painted cabins in the bright midday light until he came to the number Schenk had given him. He knocked at the door, and took his first look at the man who opened it for him.
‘Good of you to find the time,’ Schenk said. ‘Come on in.’
The room was characterless even by the standards of an average motel: bed, TV, bar, and a couple of large but oddly uncomfortable armchairs. Hunt refused either coffee or a drink. Schenk flipped the top off a beer, then the two men sat opposite one another, Schenk with his hands resting on his ample stomach, contemplating his visitor with Buddha-like inscrutability.
‘What exactly is it you want to talk to me about, Mr Schenk?’ Hunt said, taking the initiative to get the conversation started. ‘You were somewhat cryptic on the phone.’
‘You have to be these days. Never know who’s listening.’
‘That’s true. But if I can be of any help . . .’
‘It’s Tom Freeman,’ Schenk said, and took a sip of his beer. ‘I know you’re the girl’s psychiatrist, so there’s a limit to what you can tell me about her. But it’s her father that interests me.’
‘Well, to an extent the parents are covered by the same confidentiality, but I’ll do what I can.’
Schenk fixed him with a relaxed but concentrated gaze that was, Hunt suspected, a routine technique in his bag of interrogatory tricks.
‘I’m going to tell you a couple of things about Tom Freeman that you maybe don’t know,’ Schenk began, ‘and I’d like you to tell me what you think. Evaluate them, so to speak, in professional terms.’
‘Go ahead.’
Schenk outlined what he had learnt of Tom’s drink and drugs days, and of the final episode that had landed him in the hospital ten years ago. Hunt nodded thoughtfully as he listened, and then said that Tom had in fact told him the story himself.
‘If you’re asking whether he’s fully recovered, in so far as we use the term “recover” for addictive problems, I’d say without question. He hasn’t so much as touched a drink or smoked a joint since he woke up that day in the hospital.’
‘OK,’ Schenk continued, ‘I accept that. Now I’m going to tell you something else, which maybe you don’t know.’
‘If it’s about that girl disappearing at the same time, right there at the festival . . .’ His tone was polite, but conveyed an impression that he didn’t have time to waste hashing over old news.
‘So he’s told you about that, too?’
Hunt nodded. ‘I don’t believe he’s making any secret of it. Besides, all we know is she was headed for Albany. We don’t know for sure that she got there.’
‘True, but . . . let’s suppose she did.’
‘What I assume you’re asking me, Mr Schenk, is whether I think it possible that Tom killed Melanie Hagan in a state of temporary fugue – drug- and alcohol-induced amnesia. Is that your question?’
Schenk nodded. ‘That’s m
y question.’
‘Well, my answer would be – it’s possible. Remotely possible. But highly unlikely.’
‘You don’t think he has it in him, is that what you’re saying?’
‘You could put it that way if you like.’ Hunt shrugged. ‘I’m not his psychiatrist, and so I can’t claim it as a clinical evaluation. But it’s a strong instinct.’
‘So what we’re dealing with here is coincidence, pure and simple. The girl’s disappearance, Tom’s blackout . . . and his daughter being born with the missing girl’s memories. Pure coincidence.’
Hunt drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘Obviously there’s something more than coincidence going on here. But if you ask me what it is, I have no idea, Mr Schenk.’
‘Call me Murray, please.’
‘Murray.’
A silence hung between the two men. Schenk took another pull on his beer, then smacked his lips reflectively ‘D’you think maybe she’s trying to tell us where she’s buried? Wouldn’t that make sense, Brendan? Couldn’t that be what’s going on?’
Hunt, whose gaze had wandered over to the wind-ruffled trees he could see beyond the half-open Venetian blind over the window, focused once again on Schenk.
‘So you’re assuming she’s dead, Murray.’
‘Oh, yes. She’s dead all right.’
35
Julia went up to bed at nine, asking that her father come and kiss her goodnight as he always did. When Tom entered her bedroom, she was lying with her eyes closed, breathing steadily. He did not know whether she was really asleep or just pretending, lying in wait to take him by surprise as she sometimes did. Whatever, he would play the game her way. He tiptoed across the room so softly that even if she were awake she would not hear him, and he would be the one to surprise her. He got right up to her bed and leant over it. Still she did not react: no flickering of the eyelids or telltale twitching of the mouth as she fought to suppress her laughter. Maybe, he decided, she really was asleep. He bent down and kissed her gently on the forhead, just below the hairline.
A Memory of Demons Page 13
