Tricia and Sam exchanged a look.
‘I did see her this morning,’ I persisted. ‘She’s in her late forties, slim build, blonde collar-length hair.’
Still Tricia and Sam said nothing.
‘You must think I’m crazy,’ I said, running my right hand through my braids.
‘Of course not. But we know you’ve been under some stress recently.’ Tricia smiled. ‘I tell you what, why don’t you come to ours for lunch later?’
‘Good idea,’ Sam agreed.
Surprised by the gesture, I reached for my automatic refusal. ‘I wouldn’t want to intrude—’
‘It’s not an intrusion,’ said Sam. ‘We’d love you to come. Say one o’clock?’
I thought about it. ‘Well, I do have some shopping to do first, but OK then. I’ll bring a bottle of wine.’
I smiled again and went back downstairs, my smile fading to nothing as I returned to my flat. I didn’t understand at all. I knew what I’d seen. Mrs Guy was real. She was as real as I was. I slipped on my sandals, grabbed my bag and left the apartment to go to the shops. As I walked across the gravel forecourt I had the feeling that I was being watched. I turned back and looked up at the windows.
There, on the second floor, watching me, was Mrs Guy. She smiled at me and waved. I waved back before I realized what I was seeing. The sunlight glinting off the window where Mrs Guy stood made me squint. When I looked again, she had gone.
24
THANK GOD KENDRA’S dream had a happy ending. She was going to be all right. Whatever happened to her, she was going to make it – if her dream came true … when her dream came true. Strange, but at first I thought all the dreams were just my mind playing tricks on me. Now I knew better. Of the dreams I’d seen that weren’t set in the past, most were possibles, a few were probables. Kendra’s felt like a probable – but at least she’d survive.
‘Why didn’t you stay in Kendra’s head?’ asked Rachel. ‘Her dream turned out OK.’
‘But it was her dream, not mine,’ I replied.
I must admit, I had been tempted, but the idea of being nothing more than a mere spectator in someone else’s life … well, that just didn’t work for me. If I went too far down that road, who knew when or even if I’d ever be able to find my way back.
‘It doesn’t have to be for ever, you know,’ said Rachel.
How on earth had she guessed what I was thinking?
‘You have a very expressive face.’ She answered my unspoken question.
It doesn’t have to be for ever …
But it would be if I lost my way, and that would be so easy to do.
I looked down the carriage towards Death. He was becoming less ephemeral and more real with each passing second. But that was strange in itself. Why wasn’t Death real to begin with? Why was he taking so long to materialize? Surely that wasn’t the way Death worked? Or did he always play these kinds of games first, killing his victims slowly, nanosecond by nanosecond, as the dread inside them grew fiercer?
Well, no more.
I was going to prove to everyone, as well as to myself, that I could do this. No more running and hiding. I started walking towards him.
‘Kyle, no!’ Rachel called out. ‘Don’t be a fool.’
I kept walking. With each step, it felt like my legs were slowly dissolving, but I willed myself to keep going. When I reached Lily, to my surprise she grabbed hold of my hand.
‘Thank you for helping me,’ she whispered.
‘It was no—’
But her hand was prickling against mine, sending a swarm of stings shooting up my arm and across my entire body.
I didn’t want this to happen again. I was ready to meet Death, not jump into another dream. But I was given no choice. Lily was in her bedroom and I was there too, looking through her eyes – watching the world as the world watched me.
25
Lily’s Nightmare
I KNELT DOWN, feeling every weary second of my fifty-three years. I tugged at the bottom drawer of my dressing table but it refused to budge. Rocking open the drawer was a slow, frustrating process. My knees were beginning to hurt, even though the carpet beneath them was good-quality, thick wool. Shifting my weight, I sat down, carefully stretching my legs out in front of me. I looked around the bedroom. How many years had I spent in this house, in this bed? More than twenty. Almost thirty.
I smiled at the Christmas decorations my grandchildren had insisted on putting up for me. Paper-chains and tinsel boas and glittering baubles covered the walls and hung down from the overhead lampshade. I hadn’t wanted my bedroom decorated, but as usually my beloved grandchildren had won me over.
‘Oh, come on, Nan. It’s Christmas,’ Julian pleaded.
‘Please, Nan,’ Judy joined in. ‘It’ll make your room look so pretty. Please.’
And of course I gave in. When had I ever refused my grandchildren anything? I ran my fingers across my tear-filled eyes. This wasn’t helping.
‘Keep searching,’ I told myself. I had to find some clue as to why this had happened. I turned back to the open drawer. Diaries. Diaries of different sizes, colours, shapes. All my private diaries, holding each secret thought and fear. The yearly diaries I’d faithfully kept since my sixteenth birthday, when I’d received my very first one. I’d never shown them to anyone. I’d never wanted to, never dared to. And I’d never re-read them. Once a page was written I never returned to it. What was the point? Writing the truth, but never reading it, was my way of burying the past. And starting a new page each day had been somehow symbolic, not to mention therapeutic.
But now I needed to see them, to read them.
I looked down at the diary on the carpet beside me. My current diary had only a few pages left before the end of the year. But I would only make one more entry – and that was for today, Christmas Day.
I took my diaries out of the drawer. Opening them one at a time, I carefully laid them out in a line on the carpet next to me. There were so many of them that it took some time to arrange them in chronological order. I shifted again so that my back was against the dressing table. I had thirty-seven diaries on either side of me.
That was when I felt a frisson of anxiety. The gateway to the past was now open. All I had to do was walk through.
But this wouldn’t be like arguing with my memories. They were old and frail, as I now was, and could easily make mistakes. But my written words – I couldn’t argue with them.
I ran my fingers over the oldest diary. The blood-red velvet was skin-smooth and almost warm to touch. My fingers moved to the next diary, then the next and the next. I saw the one I wanted, a small diary, palm sized, with a raspberry-pink cover, decorated with yellow flowers. I held it to my nose. It still smelled of playing cards and old spices. I opened it.
14 February
I’m happy, happy, happy. Alex met me outside the Italian restaurant. He was holding a dozen long-stemmed red roses. He ordered champagne with the meal. It was wonderful. Then, guess what? He handed me a small box and asked me to marry him. I tried to stay calm, I really did. I thought to myself, Lily, act like you get a marriage proposal every month at least!
But I couldn’t. I leaped up and hugged him right there in the restaurant. I didn’t care. I’m so happy I want to scream and scream and never stop. So what if Alex is thirty-three? I like older men. They are so much more mature. Besides, I’m only ten years younger than him. That’s not such a gap. And Alex is wonderful. He says that we can get married exactly a year from today. How romantic!
He loves me. Me!
And the only itsy-bitsy fly in the ointment is that he wants us to start a family as soon as we’re married. When he said that I got a peculiar stirring in my stomach.
I’d rather wait a while before starting a family. But never mind. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.
He loves me. No one has ever loved me before.
I think I’ll never again be as happy as I am now …
There was a d
ull thud as I slammed the diary shut. I could hardly hold it, my hands were trembling so much. Putting the diary back in its place, I picked up one for the following year.
16 October
I hate this. I hate this so much. And Alex doesn’t care. He has no idea how I feel. All he keeps talking about is how wonderful it will be when the baby arrives.
I’ve made a colossal mistake. The biggest mistake of my life.
Alex wants children. I don’t. I love him desperately, but the thought of this thing inside me terrifies me. I should never have got pregnant, but Alex wanted it so much. I knew the instant I conceived. A hollow, nauseated feeling bit down deep inside me. The feeling hasn’t got any better. In fact, it’s worse. Something repulsive and alien has been planted in my body and slowly but surely is taking me over. I’m no longer in control; it is. It dictates when I should eat, when I should sleep, even when I should pee.
I’m going crazy.
I fight against it, but it is too strong. It’s got to the stage now where I can’t bear to look at any part of my body, except my face. At least my light-brown hair and my grey eyes are the same. My cheeks are a little thinner, but they’re still mine. Nothing else is.
I lie in bed at night, clawing at my hideously swollen stomach while Alex lies gently snoring beside me. I feel like a balloon that’s about to pop and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I envy Alex and resent him like hell because of it.
I’m trying to suffer in silence, but then I find myself feeling even more bitter towards him. Why should I be the only one to suffer?
I hate this.
I swear that this pregnancy will be my last. Never, not even for Alex, will I go through this again. Another pregnancy and I can kiss my sanity goodbye. If it hasn’t gone already.
26 December
It’s over. At last. The thing was born quite easily on the day before Christmas Eve. It was born within two hours of my contractions starting. The pain wasn’t too bad and it slipped out of my body like a greased eel. That made it worse. The whole process disgusted me. I didn’t want to take the baby when one of the nurses handed it to me. It was bloody and slippery and smelled foul. I only took it in my arms because Alex was standing there, tears of joy in his eyes.
He never cried for me.
‘We’ll call her Nicole, shall we?’ he whispered.
I looked down at Nicole lying in my arms. I was so revolted I could feel my stomach churning.
‘Isn’t she perfect?’ Alex beamed. ‘Look, she’s got your eyes. She’s got my nose though. Isn’t she lovely?’
Everyone around me was telling me what a lovely baby I had. Wasn’t she an angel? Adorable? I looked down at her scrunched-up, screaming face and I couldn’t see it. I really couldn’t see it.
And I think … I think Alex knew I couldn’t.
She doesn’t even look like Alex. She looks like me. The same almond-shaped eyes tilting up slightly at the outer corners and extra long fingers and toes. Alex has short, pudgy digits. Nicole couldn’t even get that right.
I shut the book slowly, put it carefully back in its place and picked up the next one in line: a full-sized A4 diary with a blue vinyl cover.
12 May
I feed her when I have to, clothe her when I have to, change her nappy when I have to – that’s it. Alex, of course, is the complete opposite. He worships the ground Nicole crawls on. If she starts crying at night, he’s up and at her side in an instant, her first sob somehow penetrating even his deepest sleep. But his snores deafen me if I cry at his side.
Every day he tells Nicole how beautiful she is and how much he loves her. Humiliated, I said to him tonight, ‘Why don’t you say that to me any more?’
‘But, Lily, you know that already,’ he replied.
I’ll never ask that again.
It’s all her fault. I’ll never forgive Nicole for spoiling what Alex and I had. She’s turned me into the invisible woman.
I shut the diary and let it drop from my hand. For several moments I sat still, staring at one diary in particular, the diary which marked my thirtieth year and Nicole’s sixth.
‘I can’t …’ I muttered. Yet even as I spoke, I reached out to the grey-leather-bound, paperback-sized diary which I’d sworn I would never touch again.
1 December
What am I going to do? I’m losing it.
Today I lost my temper with Nicole. ‘Mum, is Dad going to die?’ she asked me.
It was as if every muscle in my body was immediately pulled taut. God forgive me, but I slapped her. She looked up at me as if she’d never seen me before. I didn’t mean to do it. It’s just that … she put into words something that I wouldn’t even let myself think. Silent tears spilled down her cheeks.
‘Nicole, I’m sorry …’ I started to say.
She turned her back on me and walked out of the living room.
Alex, don’t you dare die. What will I do without you? You’re only forty, for God’s sake. No one has a heart attack at forty. What am I going to do?
23 December
Nicole’s sixth birthday.
I wish I was dead.
I stared down at the blue ink on the yellowing page, smudged by my tears all those years ago. Fresh tears splashed down the page. My life hadn’t been so bad. There had been good times, happy times. So why were all the clues tied up in the moments of despair and misery? It didn’t make sense. I closed the book and put it back in its place, then allowed my fingers to skim over the covers of the next few diaries. It was all coming back now. The years of carrying on, though I never knew why. The years spent burying grief, living my life on autopilot. The years of shutting out my daughter until, at eighteen, Nicole had left home, never looking back. Then the slowly building guilt and shame and loneliness.
I looked at the diaries at the end of the line. The ones that covered the previous three years of my life.
The last two years of my life.
These diaries contained the final clues. The pointers that had been there, ready to be acted upon had I but noticed them. I picked up the diary of two years ago.
25 December
I have always dreaded Christmas, but I must admit, I was really looking forward to this one. And I wasn’t disappointed.
It was wonderful.
My first Christmas with my grandchildren. Nicole still hasn’t told me what happened between her and her ex-husband Robert, and of course I can’t ask. It’s not my place to ask Nicole her business. I’m just grateful that she turned to me three months ago. I realized I was her last resort but I didn’t mind about that. I feel I have so much to make up to her, but I haven’t a clue where to begin. I don’t think we’ll ever have the mother–daughter relationship that most of the women I know seem to enjoy, but if we could at least be friends then I’d happily settle for that.
But thank you, God, for my grandchildren – they’re so perfect. I’m totally besotted with them. Why? Maybe it’s because I didn’t carry them. Writing that makes me feel uneasy, but if I can’t be truthful in my own diary, then where can I?
I remember the very first time I saw them. A jolt of happy recognition rippled through me. Julian is a miniature Alex. Even Judith looks like Alex; a small, sleek, feminine version. They both have his cat-like eyes, his lazy, crooked smile. They’re seven-year-old angels. The resemblance to their grandfather really is uncanny. He would have adored them. That thought makes me a bit sad, but I really feel I can’t be too unhappy today, even though I still miss Alex terribly.
This morning was the best. I was in the kitchen when I heard the twins crashing down the stairs. Thinking that Nicole was still in bed, I went into the living room to be with them. They were so enthusiastic and eager they made me laugh. They knelt down in front of the Christmas tree.
‘What is it, Nan? What is it?’ Judith asked. She sniffed at the large box-shaped present I had bought them.
‘Open it and you’ll find out,’ I said.
Nicole came into the roo
m and sat down on the sofa, watching them. I knelt down next to Judith and Julian as they tore off the wrapping paper.
They did everything together.
When the wrapping paper was strewn all over the floor, Julian sat back on his heels.
‘It’s a cage,’ he said, surprised.
‘It’s a hutch,’ I said. ‘And you’ll find what goes in it in a cardboard pet carrier in the cupboard under the sink.’
The twins almost knocked me over in their haste to get to the kitchen. ‘Be careful with it,’ I called after them.
The living room was eerily silent after they had left. The hair on my nape began to prickle. With a frown, I turned. Nicole’s eyes were narrowed slits as she regarded me.
‘Why, Mum?’ she said.
‘Why what?’ I asked.
‘Why do you …?’ Nicole’s voice trailed off.
‘Go on,’ I prompted.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
I don’t know which one of us felt more frustrated. Nicole turned away from me.
‘You’ve got lots of photographs on your windowsill,’ she said. The subject change was too abrupt to be even remotely subtle. I turned to look at the windowsill as well. There was the wedding photo of Alex and me, Alex by himself and two photos of Julian and Judy, hugging each other and pulling faces for the camera. Terribly sentimental, I know, but I love looking at my photographs – especially when I’m alone.
‘Look, Mum, look!’ Julian ran into the room. He was closely followed by Judy, who walked with measured, careful steps, a grey rabbit cradled in her arms.
‘Nan, it’s a rabbit,’ Judy said, her eyes sparkling.
‘I know, dear. I bought it for you – remember?’ I teased.
‘What’s his name?’ Julian asked.
‘Her name is up to you and your sister,’ I told him. ‘You choose.’
‘Let’s call her …’
Julian and Judy looked at each other.
‘Cloudy,’ they said in unison.
‘She’s just the colour …’ began Julian.
‘Of a cloudy day,’ finished Judy.
They’re always doing things like that. Sometimes I’d swear they can read each other’s minds.
The Stuff of Nightmares Page 20
