Nightmare Waiting

by Glenn McGoldrick

  “Fuck,” I said, when I read the headline on page seven.

  “This nineteen-year-old is in North Tees with stomach wounds,” I said to Harry.

  He sat on the sofa, reading the article on page seven of the Gazette.

  “I can read, you know,” he said.

  “Critical condition, Harry. He could die.”

  “So? Why have a go at me about it?”

  I pulled the paper from him and read aloud the eye-witness description of the suspect.

  “White male. Dark hair. Six feet tall. Stocky build. Early twenties. That sounds a lot like you, Harry.”

  “Piss off, it could be anybody.”

  “It was you, wasn’t it? It was the same night you came home late, and threw your clothes in the washing machine.”

  “Don’t be silly. We watched TV and had pizza that night, remember?”

  When I didn’t answer he stood and moved closer, looking down at me.

  “Remember?” he said.

  I handed Pat his pint and sat down, watching as he took a long gulp.

  He wiped his lips with his thumb and said, “That’s just what I need after that shift.”

  “Yeah,” I said, sipping at my pint.

  “So, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  I looked over my shoulder, making sure nobody was within earshot. Then I told him everything about my dilemma with Harry. He asked a few questions, and by the time I’d finished explaining we were on our third pint.

  “Tell him to go to the police, Derek,” he said. “Don’t cover for him.”

  “Maybe he didn’t do it. I don’t know for sure.”

  “Bollocks. Maybe you don’t know for sure, but you must admit it looks very suspicious.”

  “What if he says no?”

  “Then tell him you’ll have to go to the police.”

  I scratched the corner of a beermat with my fingernail. “I don’t know.”

  “If Harry did it, and the police find out, they’ll be wondering why you didn’t tell them.”

  “Shit. I know that, Pat.”

  He shook his head. “You’re too soft on him.”

  “He hasn’t had much of an upbringing,” I said.

  “So? That’s not your fault. He treats your house like a hotel. When was the last time you brought a woman home?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, now folding the beermat in half. “A few years or so.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Because they take one look at that little bastard and they never come back.”

  “Jesus. Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Derek. Seriously. Tell him to go to the police,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “If he’s innocent, then he’s got nothing to worry about.”

  I sat with Harry in the living room and advised him to go to the police.

  “No way,” he said. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “So, why were you so keen to wash your clothes that night?”

  He drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa but didn’t reply.

  “Were you there when the guy was stabbed?” I asked. “Did you see what happened?”

  “What if I did?”

  “So tell the police what you saw,” I said. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

  “Ha! The police! They’re always trying to screw me and you know it.”

  “Maybe I should tell them, then.”

  He stopped drumming his fingers and looked up towards the ceiling. Then he smiled and shook his head.

  “You don’t want to do that,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re in this with me.”

  “What?” I said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Come on,” he said. “You knew what I’d done.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  He pointed his finger at me and said, “It was you who told me to put my bloody clothes in the washing machine.”

  “Harry! What are you saying? That’s not what happened at all.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Just keep walking, Derek.

  I’m almost at Milbank Lane now. Not far to go. It’s a sunny day, but I feel cold, I feel nauseous. It’s just nerves. It’ll pass, I hope.

  Am I doing the right thing? I think so. I don’t know. What choice do I have?

  If I cover for Harry now, then where it will end? He’s already trying to blackmail me. If I keep quiet now, then I’ll have to keep quiet next time.

  I’m not even sure that he did the stabbing, but I’m pretty sure he was involved. The police can figure it out.

  And no matter what he’s done, he’s going to be angry at me. Very angry. I can ask the police for help, protection or something.

  Anyway, here I am. Might as well get on with it.

  I push open the door and walk to the desk.

  The man in uniform says, “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I have some information,” I say. “About the stabbing in the town centre.”

  Nightmare Waiting

  “You’re going to pay up,” Dave says to me.

  We’re in his garden. I’m watching him working on his bicycle in the afternoon sun.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I’m not joking, Mark,” he says. He stands up, moving towards me, holding the bicycle pump like he’s about to swing it.

  “No!” I say, backing away. “Don’t!”

  “You’re going to pay up,” he says. “And I mean soon.”

  Awake. Jesus. My neck feels damp on the pillow. The alarm clock reads 2 a.m. Shit. I’ve not been asleep long.

  My mouth tastes of booze. I drink a glass of water in the bathroom, then lie back down on my bed, the pillow turned to its dry side.

  What’s the nightmare all about? What do I owe Dave? Money? I’m not sure.

  Did he do a favour for me? Or a job? It doesn’t feel like that. But he’s sure that I owe him something.

  Why’s he being so nasty? I’m shocked. He’s supposed to be my friend. I’ve never seen this side of him.

  It’s too early to get up, but I don’t want to go back to sleep just yet - I can still feel the cold hand of the nightmare.

  If I can just stay awake a bit longer…

  Shit. I’m dreaming again. Thornaby town centre. It’s a nice day.

  I’m coming out of school. I think it’s school, even though I’m probably too old for it. I’m one of the last ones out.

  He’s leaning on a railing, smoking a cigarette, waiting for me. He sees me, throws his cigarette away and stands up from the railing.

  He’s skinny, medium height, dark hair, older than me, maybe forty-five, jeans and camouflage jacket.

  I know that he’s here to collect the debt.

  “Are you working for Dave?” I ask him.

  He stares at me without blinking.

  “Let’s go,” he says.

  We stand at the traffic lights, waiting to cross the road.

  “Watch out for this guy,” he says, holding my arm as a rider-less bicycle speeds by, almost running me over.

  We’re at the ATM.

  I tell him I’ve got the money, but I know I haven’t. He’ll find out when I try to withdraw the cash. He’ll know I’ve been lying to him. What will he do?

  He’s cool and relaxed. Unhurried. He scares me now, and he hasn’t even raised his voice. What will he do to me if he’s angry?

  Does he know I’m scared? I think he does.

  Does he work for Dave? Doing what? Collecting debts? He seems deadly. Maybe a killer. Does Dave know people like that? Or is this guy working for somebody else?

  I’m in trouble, when he sees I’m short of cash. Time to wake up!

  I’m awake again, feeling like shit. What’s with this nightmare?

  It’s 5 a.m. Still too early to get up. Must try to control my breathing. Did I scream out? I’m not sure. The house is quiet - my heartbeat sounds very loud in the stillness.

  I don’t want to go back to sleep just yet. T
he fucking nightmare is waiting for me, I can feel it.

  The cycling theme is no real surprise; I know what it means. It happened five years ago. Five years ago this week, actually.

  It’s been on my mind all week. It’s been on my mind ever since that night.

  I drove home from the pub in Hilton, taking Roger Lane towards Maltby.

  It was late and the sky was black and starless. A light rain fell, slanted into my windscreen by the wind.

  As I came over the rise of a hill, a large yellow blur struck the car and I hit the brakes. The car skidded to a halt.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I said. “What was that?”

  I opened the door and stepped out of the car. There were no streetlamps, so I couldn’t see what I’d hit. Turning the car around, I shone my headlights into the hedgerow at the side of the road.

  A man lay on his back, his neck at an unnatural angle. He wore cycling shorts and a yellow high-visibility vest. His bike lay crumpled beside him, the back wheel a few feet away in the ditch.

  He wasn’t moving, and I couldn’t feel a pulse in his neck.

  Time to call the police. They’d breathalyse me. I didn’t feel drunk, but I’d fail the breathalyser. Then I’d be screwed.

  Murder? Manslaughter? I didn’t know, but probably prison for a long time. It was an accident, but they’d say it was avoidable, I was driving too fast, all kinds of stuff.

  I stood in the rain for a few moments, the wind blowing through unlit fields around me, seeing the lights of Thornaby in the distance.

  “You’ve been acting weird,” Jenny said to me a week later.

  I thought about telling her, but there was no way of knowing how she’d react. I had a strong urge to tell someone. Anyone.

  I thought about turning myself in to the police. I’d feel better for a while. But then I’d be in prison for a long time. Maybe living with some guilt was a lot better than prison.

  I read the papers, followed the news. The police appealed for info.

  Every knock on the door, every time the phone rang – I thought it was the police. But they never came.

  I drank alcohol more often; if I drank enough then the nightmares weren’t too bad.

  “You drink because something’s bothering you,” Jenny said the day she left. “But you won’t tell me what it is. You won’t let me in.”

  So now it’s just me.

  The nightmares come and go. It’s the price I have to pay for what I’ve done. It’ll get better in time, I hope.

  Now, I should try and get a few hours’ sleep.

  Rhodes Court. The house I grew up in. What am I doing here?

  I’m looking out the living room window, across the gardens of my neighbours.

  I see my childhood friend, Kenny Parker. He’s a man now. He sits at a table in his garden, with others, not sure who. They’re having food and drink. It’s a sunny day.

  He looks up and sees me watching him. Shit. He wants me to pay the debt. I know it.

  Is he collecting for Dave? Does Dave have two collectors working for him? Why do I recognise only one of the collectors? Or are Kenny and the Camouflage Guy working for somebody else?

  I tell him that I’ve got the money. He understands and nods, even though I’m behind the window and too far away for him to hear me.

  My sister Tracey sits at a table in the garden next to Kenny’s garden. She’s having food and drink with others, not sure who.

  She looks around thirty years old, but she was a small child when we left Rhodes Court all those years ago. Are we back in 1985?

  She’s facing my way, but hasn’t seen me. I don’t want her to see me like this, embarrassed and scared.

  Kenny gets up from the table, and points to the shed at the bottom of his garden; he wants me to meet him there.

  He wants me to pay. Shit. Should I go? I can’t pay, so he’s not gonna be happy. Why am I afraid of him?

  Should I stay here in Rhodes Court? Forever?

  Maybe it’s time to wake up. I said wake up, Mark! Shit. It’s not working. Is this how I pay the debt? Is this how my story ends?

  Thanks for reading!

  I hope you enjoyed my stories.

  Please feel free to review this book on Amazon, and let me know your thoughts.

  Until next time.

  Glenn McGoldrick.

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