The doctor picked up the plastic tumbler beside the bed, filled it and held it out to me. I just looked at her. She pulled a tissue out of the box on my bedside table and wiped my eyes and nose. Frowning, she bent over me and placed the tumbler to my mouth. I drank thirstily, while sniffing inaudibly at the scent of Dr Jacobs’s flowery perfume. I would’ve drunk the whole glass of water but Dr Jacobs removed the tumbler before I’d finished. I licked my lips slowly. My tears slowed. The pain in my knees was reduced to a dull throb.
‘Doctor Jacobs, please don’t let them take any more of me,’ I begged softly. ‘Please …’
I wanted to grab her arm, hold it and not let go until she promised. I tried to raise my arm, until I remembered that there was nothing there any more. The doctor regarded me, shaking her head again. I wondered at her strange expression. It was a mixture of pity and something else that I couldn’t quite make out. There was a knock at the door.
‘Joe, you have to go for an X-ray now. I’ll see you when you get back,’ Dr Jacobs said.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said, turning away.
But they knew how to get round that. Two nurses I’d never seen before lifted me up against my will and put me in a wheelchair. Then a porter appeared and wheeled the chair along the hospital corridor.
‘Why did you do it?’ the porter asked suddenly.
‘Do what?’ I asked slowly.
‘Do what? Are you serious? You … you …’ The porter spluttered and coughed as his words crashed into each other in their haste to be heard. I tilted my head back to look at him. The porter clamped his mouth shut when he realized how ridiculous he sounded. I too kept quiet. I hadn’t been trying to wind him up or goad him. I genuinely didn’t know. I couldn’t remember. As he pushed me along, I struggled to keep my eyes open as the painkiller took over. I failed.
The flashes of light moved up and down, up and down – striking at his arms, his legs. He twisted and writhed. His legs kicked out, kicked hard – but it didn’t do any good …
When I awoke, I was back in my bed, lying propped up on three or four pillows – and the rest of my legs had been taken. My whole body was numb. I lay perfectly still, staring up at the ceiling until Nurse Holmes walked into my room, a food tray in her hand. Nurse Holmes didn’t like me. But then, no one really liked me. It’d always been that way. If I could only remember why …
‘I suppose there’s no point in asking you to feed yourself.’ Nurse Holmes’s lips curled with contempt.
I didn’t bother to answer. We both knew I had no chance of feeding myself. My arms had been taken. Why did she have to be so cruel?
‘What is it?’ I asked, turning my head slightly to look at the tray in her hands.
‘Mushroom soup and lamb casserole,’ she replied, putting my tray down on the wheelie table at the foot of my bed. She pushed the table further up over my bed until it was nearly at my chest.
I didn’t like meat but I was starving. And I had to eat. I had to rebuild my strength. The sooner I was strong again, the sooner Mum would take me home. I’d be back with Mum and my brother, Joseph, and everything would be—
I had a brother called Joseph.
At last I’d remembered something else about myself. And that explained why they kept getting my name wrong. They were confusing me with my brother. I closed my eyes, trying to conjure up his face. I couldn’t remember anything about him. Was he older or younger? Did I have any other brothers or sisters? Lots of questions. No answers.
Nurse Holmes took the plastic cover off the soup and removed the plate-warmer from over the casserole. She turned to me.
‘You might have some people fooled with this act of yours, but I’m not one of them,’ she hissed. ‘You can feed yourself or starve.’
And with that she strode out of the room. I lay there, smelling the lamb and the soup. I had no legs to push myself up with. No arms to feed myself. I was so hungry, the smell was making me feel sick. I closed my eyes and willed myself not to mind about the hunger so much. I had to think of something else. To take my mind off my stomach, I concentrated on my heartbeat. It beat more slowly than before they’d taken away my limbs.
What did I look like?
No … I didn’t want to see myself as I was now. I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I’d survive as long as I couldn’t see myself.
Think of something else, Jon.
Although I concentrated on the slow beat of my heart, the rumble of my stomach was louder. I decided to go to sleep. To sleep for as long as possible. After all, what else was there for me to do? If only I could get through this dread of closing my eyes. To stay awake meant agonizing over my lost limbs and the gnawing pains in my empty stomach.
But to sleep …
I closed my eyes. So tired. I’d sleep. I should be safe now. What else could they take? And maybe this time the nightmare wouldn’t come.
His legs kicked out, kicked hard – but it didn’t do any good. He turned towards the light. And I saw his face for the first time. Only it wasn’t his face. It was my face. His body – my face …
‘Joe? Joe, can you hear me?’
I opened my eyes slowly. It was Dr Jacobs. She sat on the bed and smiled and asked me all kinds of inane questions about how I was feeling and did I hurt anywhere. I gave her what answers I could but all the time I was trying to drive my nightmare out of my head. It wouldn’t budge.
Dr Jacobs asked, ‘Joe, d’you remember what happened two weeks ago? D’you remember the reason you were brought to this hospital?’
I shook my head. ‘My name is Jonathan, Jon for short. And no, I don’t remember. Why won’t anyone tell me?’
‘Do you really want to know?’ the doctor asked softly.
‘Yes, I do. I want to know why everyone here hates me so much. I want to know why you’ve stolen my legs and my arms. I need to know …’
There was a long pause. The vertical frown lines between Dr Jacobs’s eyebrows deepened as she battled to make up her mind about something. At last her expression cleared. This was it. Now I would find out why I was here. I needed to remember. The truth was only moments away.
‘I’m going to take a chance,’ Dr Jacobs said at last. ‘I think you should know what happened – what you did. I think you’re ready. And it will help you.’
And very slowly, very carefully, she told me. ‘Joe, you had a brother called Jonathan. He was your identical twin brother. But you weren’t close. In fact, according to your mum, that’s an understatement …’
And she carried on. I heard her words but they bounced off me until there were too many of them to bounce off, and then they sank into my flesh like razor-sharp barbs – and still she spoke. My body shook with horror, and the more I shook, the more my body hurt.
And still Dr Jacobs spoke. I wanted to yell, to howl and not stop. It was all lies. It had to be lies. I would never, could never, do that – the mindless, horrific thing she spoke of. I wouldn’t do that to anyone, let alone my own twin brother …
‘No …’ I whispered. ‘No, it’s not true.’
I had to do something to drown out her words. My shoulders started to hurt. My hips started to hurt. I covered my ears with my hands and sat up, drawing up my legs.
‘No! No! No!’ I battered at the doctor with my fists. ‘Liar … Liar …’
All at once, the room filled with people. I was pushed back onto the bed. I battered at them all. Battered at them with my fists and kicked at them with my feet until the room swallowed me up like a whirlpool. Dr Jacobs and the others faded to nothing. There was just me and my brother left in the whole, wide world. Jon lay there, looking up at me, his eyes burning into mine. His blood drenched the bed sheets. It dripped down from the knife in my hand – dripdripdrip … He whispered my name over and over before he died. Joe … Joe …
When I awoke this morning, they’d taken my whole body. There’s nothing left of me now except my brain in my head, sitting here in the centre of this pillow. I don’t know how they’
re keeping me alive – I don’t care. I just wish someone would tell me what I did to deserve this. I really do want to know. What did I do?
I wish … how I wish I could remember. All I know for certain is that I’m sixteen, almost seventeen, and my name is Jonathan, Jon for short.
8
A YELL TORE me away from Joe’s mind and back to the train. I couldn’t catch my breath. As bad as the nightmares of Miss Wells and Steve had been, this one was worse. Joe’s nightmare had been so much more … up close and personal.
Someone help me … Please, someone help me, I whispered.
What did all this mean? Was I in Hell? Maybe Hell for me would be living through the worst nightmares of all my friends, losing more and more of myself in them until I didn’t know where my friends ended and I began any more. And the worst thing of all? I still had my own nightmare to deal with, which was far worse – because mine was true. Joe’s wasn’t. His nightmare couldn’t be real because he was in front of me, his eyes now closed.
‘Kyle …’
There it was again, that awful, faint voice. Like a cliché from a horror film. The only difference was, it was real – and terrifying, like the growl of some prowling, predatory animal. It was exactly like being hunted. I could no longer dismiss the voice as just imagination.
Why didn’t someone do something to get us out of here?
I checked out the upturned carriage seats. Maybe I could use the one which had popped its bolts as a boost to work my way up to the broken window above. If I could hoist myself up and out, I’d escape. I’d be off this train. The thought was so tantalizing, my foot was already on the upturned seat. The train juddered and slipped a few centimetres, the sound of crunching metal stinging my ears. I removed my foot immediately.
‘I wasn’t going to – not really,’ I whispered in supplication. ‘Not really. I wouldn’t leave my friends. Please don’t fall.’
Was I praying to God or the train? I didn’t even know any more.
Footsteps crunched on broken glass behind me. I spun round. It was a girl, not much older than me. Her pale face was lean, with almond-shaped brown eyes and a wide, generous mouth. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and was the colour of conkers, streaked with red lines so bright and vivid they looked like thin rivulets of blood. She wore black jeans and, underneath her long, black, leather coat, a white T-shirt which read in dark letters:
She was the best thing I’d ever seen.
‘Oh, thank goodness.’ The girl’s voice trembled as she ran up to me, dodging around debris and people.
‘You’ve come from the first carriage?’ I grinned inanely. ‘Am I glad to see you!’
In spite of the collision, there were people still alive ahead of us. I wasn’t alone.
‘I’m Rachel,’ said the girl. ‘Hurry! We have to get out of here.’ She grabbed my hand and pulled me back towards the front carriage.
‘Hang on …’ I tried to slow down but Rachel kept tugging me after her. She stepped over Elena, who was lying on her side, as if she were no more significant than a blade of grass. It was when she tried to do the same to Roberta that I decided that crap wasn’t cute.
I pulled away, determined not to take another step. ‘What d’you think you’re doing? My friends need our help.’
Rachel looked straight at me. ‘You can’t help them now. But I need your help.’
‘For what?’
‘I need you to come with me.’
‘For what?’ I repeated.
Rachel’s wide, staring gaze darted back and forth along the carriage. ‘We can’t stay here. Come on. We have to go.’
‘Go where? There’s nowhere to go. We have to wait for the emergency services.’
‘We can’t wait. He’s coming.’
‘Who’s coming?’
‘We have to hide.’ Rachel’s eyes were screaming at me.
A strange scraping sound drew my attention to the end of the carriage. But just as I turned my head, Rachel hissed, ‘Down!’
She crouched, yanking me down after her.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I said, trying to pull away and stand up. ‘I don’t even know you. What’s going on?’
Rachel pulled me back down, almost dislocating my shoulder in the process. ‘I’m the only one who can help you. If he finds you, all you’ll get is pain – pain like you’ve never even imagined before.’
‘If who finds me?’ I asked.
‘Is this girl a friend of yours?’ hissed Rachel, indicating Robby at her feet.
I nodded, wishing she’d give me a straight answer to at least one of my questions.
‘What’s her name?’ she whispered.
‘Roberta, but we all call her Robby,’ I replied, also whispering though I had no idea why.
‘Good. She’ll do. This’ll be much easier if it’s someone you know,’ said Rachel. ‘We can hide inside her mind. He won’t find us there.’
‘We can do what?’ I wasn’t sure I’d heard right.
‘You’ve already done it,’ Rachel told me stonily. ‘I know you’ve done it at least once. I can see it in your eyes. And each time you leap you get better at it. You get in closer and stay for longer, but this time I want you to take me with you.’
I stared at her. How on earth did she know what had been happening to me? None of it made sense. I wanted to deny it, to shout at her, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about?’
But it would’ve been a lie and we both knew it.
‘Hurry up,’ said Rachel.
What was I supposed to do? I looked from Rachel to Roberta. A glance was all it took. I sensed the tide of fear sweeping through Roberta’s unconscious mind, fear which had nothing to do with the train, and let myself get washed away by it. Only this time I didn’t make the journey alone. I sensed rather than saw that Rachel was somewhere near by. I felt her presence. I didn’t want to think too much about what was happening – or, maybe more to the point, how and why. I was afraid if I analysed what I was doing too closely, I’d fall away from Roberta’s world but be unable to find my way back to my own.
And even if I could do this, even if all this was real – what gave me the right to invade my friends’ heads like this? Like a dimmer switch being turned up, I could feel as Roberta felt, see as she saw. And it was appalling. I instantly tried to think of the train, to pull back, but I couldn’t. Robby wasn’t on the train. She wasn’t anywhere near it. She was somewhere far, far worse.
9
Roberta’s Nightmare
I TRIED NOT to panic, I really did. But the rain was only minutes away, I could smell it. I walked faster, then my walk broke into a run. The dying sunlight glittered through the trees like a tinkling laugh, a laugh directed at me and the futility of trying to escape the rain. The sky was more blue than white but experience had taught me that that meant nothing. Here I was in a nameless forest with no cover in sight, and if I didn’t find shelter soon, I would die.
And I didn’t want to die.
I didn’t have much – like thousands (or were there still millions?) of other people left in this godforsaken country, I was used to living hand to mouth, day to day. Everything I had in the world I carried in the bag on my back and it contained nothing I wasn’t prepared to lose in a hurry. If I were to get caught in the rain, there would be no one to remember me, let alone mourn my passing. But I wasn’t ready to give up yet.
So I ran, round gnarled trunks, over the concrete-hard ground, my head darting first here, then there, searching for some kind – any kind – of shelter. Ten minutes in the rain were enough. The rain was still full of the acids and pollutants created by the last civil war, a war with a new chemical weapon.
When my parents separated, my mum packed up and moved back here, to her home country. I wasn’t sorry about the separation. Dad punctuated his sentences with his fists more often than not when talking to Mum. Over the years I grew to despise him and everything he stood for. I hated his belief that might was right. I hated the way he
couldn’t bear to see Mum happy, as if her happiness was something he couldn’t control so it had to be knocked out of her. I’d lost count of the number of times over the years that I’d told Mum to leave him.
‘But he’s my husband … But how would we live …? But you need a father …’
Not a father like that, I didn’t. I swore when I was old enough to mean it for life that I’d never let any man treat me the way Dad treated Mum. I’d rather die first. Every time Dad hit her, I’d scream at him to stop. I’d cry just as hard as Mum. I’d feel every blow as if it was aimed at me. When I was old enough it would be me and Mum on one side, crying and hugging each other as he looked down at us. After that, Dad rarely hit Mum when I was around. But the moment I set foot through the door, I could always tell if something had happened. Dad thought Mum was telling tales, as he put it. He didn’t understand that she didn’t need to open her mouth.
I could always tell.
But then, when I was fourteen, he made the mistake of hitting Mum in front of me. And why did he hit her? Because she gave me a birthday card and the most beautiful necklace I’d ever seen. It was a single, exquisite pearl at the end of a delicate gold chain. And the card was signed, ‘With all my love, Mum’. Dad dug into his pocket and handed me a few notes. No card, no happy birthday. He’d obviously forgotten all about my birthday. And I made the mistake of ignoring him and hugging Mum and telling her how much I loved her present. Later that evening, over dinner, I wore my necklace and felt like a princess; the day was perfect. I kept smiling at Mum. I couldn’t help it. was so happy. Mum smiled back, just as happy as me.
‘What the hell is this swill?’ Dad shouted. ‘I’m so sick of this … this dog food you keep giving me.’ He picked up his dinner plate and threw it across the table.
And in that instant the mood around the table changed. I knew what was going to happen next. Dad jumped to his feet and moved round the table, hauling Mum out of her chair. Before I was even aware of what I was doing, I was there and in Dad’s face.
The Stuff of Nightmares Page 7
