I Am The Wind (4 page)

I walk forward, bold as brass, hands in pockets as though his presence doesn’t bother me one bit. It does, of course it does, but he doesn’t need to know that. Monsters in nightmares—and in life, when you think about it—feed off of fear, use it against you.

The tunnel seems never ending, but I reach him eventually, stand before him and look up at his face much like I have to with Alfie. The light behind him prevents me seeing his features properly, but I just make out the blackened teeth in his mouth—the same shaped teeth as on that hacksaw—and the whites of his eyes.

“What do you want?” I ask. A dumb question, really, but what else is there to say? I’ve got to sort this shit out, create a clean slate. I can’t keep thinking of what went on before. The future’s where it’s at, right?

“I want you. To break you. See how you deal with
that.
You’ve been an embarrassment. Hurt us. We just want to hurt you back.”

His voice, it’s like a file rasping on a hunk of wood, all rough edges and splinters. I wonder why all those people want to see me fail? If I’d treated them like shit I could understand it, but all I’d done was admit to being bent. Hardly something to be broken for. Not in my book, anyway.

“Nice,” I say, shrugging to show him I don’t give a toss. I have to, don’t I? The minute he smells fear he’ll come down on me like a sack of shit.

“Come with me.”

He turns and I follow him into the light. Nothing but brightness surrounds us until he lifts his arm and flicks his wrist. The light dissipates, and a torture chamber comes into view. Dark and dingy, the room has mould growing up the walls and the stench of dampness is overwhelming. I breathe through my mouth, holding back the urge to gag, throw my guts up on the manky floor.

“Go and sit over there.” He points to a wooden chair beside a table.

Chains are draped over it, heavy-looking sods that could keep a body captive, no trouble. I do as he asks, curious as to what he has in store for me, hoping that whatever he dishes out will help me make sense of everything. If this wasn’t a dream I’d make a run for it, because this bloke isn’t anything like Alfie. He doesn’t make me want to stay with him.

I sit and the man secures me to the chair, chains wrapped around me so it’s like I have a breast plate on. Strangely, it feels safe, me being hugged by the metal. Weird, that. Sometimes even nasty things can make you feel okay, especially when you’ve endured them before, when you know what’s coming. Familiarity, that’s what it is. The fear of the unknown is much worse—things coming at you out of the blue.

But me in this chair? Ted’s done something similar, except he used rope. Said it was a sex game, that we were playing, but when he shoved his hard cock into my mouth and rammed in and out regardless of me trying to turn my head away, I knew it wasn’t any kind of game I wanted to play. Yet play I did. Better to have attention like that than none at all, right?

Right?

I know the answer to that now, and it isn’t yes. The months since I left Ted taught me that. The one-night stands, brief as they’d been, had never thrown up a monster. No man had his mental switch flicked and treated me like shit. People like Ted weren’t the majority, it just felt like it sometimes. I mean, Mum, my mates, Ted, all of them had turned out to be mean cunts in the end. I’d just been unlucky to encounter them all at once, that was all.

And this guy here, this dream guy, he’s going to be a cunt as well. I know it just as I know I’m going to wake up to a better way of thinking, a new way of coping.

“Get on with it,” I say, staring up at him.

I can see him properly now, face lit by the bare lightbulb overhead, hanging from a ceiling the same as the one in Alfie’s cellar. Funny how dreams pull things in from real life, eh? And he’s ugly as sin. His face is covered with scars, ravaged by fire I’d say, and his irises are black, no pupils in sight. He smiles showing me those black teeth, stares down at me, a sinister monolith who’s been sent by my mind to help me. I want to laugh, really laugh, because ordinarily this bloke would frighten the crap out of me.

He steps back, and a baseball bat appears in his hand. The fact he’s going to hit me with it goes without saying.

Yep, it’s going to hurt.

The first strike comes swiftly, barging into my shins, and the second, well, it’s inevitable it would mirror real life. The end of the bat connects with my nose, and this time the bone does shift upwards, does go into my brain. I can feel the bleed, the hot seepage of blood swarming into my head, and for the time it takes to register that I’m going to die, he attacks me some more. Rage, he’s got so much of it, and as I float out of my body and look down on the scene, I find myself feeling sorry for him. Look at the state of him, all angry, expending energy he’d be better off directing elsewhere. On things like smiling, being happy.

Laughing.

A bit like me, really. Time to let go. Time to laugh, be happy.

I return to my body, get the strong urge to bust out of these chains and set myself free. He’s still hitting me, each strike hurting more than the last, my skin splitting with ease. Strength swarms through me, and I push against the binds, the need to get the fuck out of this mess eating me alive. The chains break and I stand, shove past the bastard without shielding my face.

No hiding behind a barrier anymore.

I run into the light, then out of it and into the tunnel, my eyes suffering, going from dingy to bright to dark all in the space of seconds. Eyesight fuzzy, I can only hope I don’t veer off the path and fall into the canal, but honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if I did. Crap always happens to me lately, so what’s getting wet in water full of shit, piss and God knows what else?

Reaching the end of the tunnel, I stand where I was when I first sensed I was dreaming. I turn to see if the monster has followed me. A figure stands in the light at the other end, but it isn’t the same shape as him. Yep, it’s big all right, wide and tall, strands of his hair blowing in a gentle breeze, but it isn’t the same bloke.

This man walks towards me, and as he draws closer I see he’s wearing blue jeans and a red T-shirt. My stomach muscles tighten, and a smile breaks out on my face. If only Alfie was really here, in this dream with me. The real Alfie, I mean. He’d know then that I’m pleased to see him, that now he’s standing in front of me he can see how happy he makes me. But he isn’t here, and it’s up to me to let him know I’m not going anywhere.

And make sure he really believes it.

I wake, disoriented for a few seconds, expecting to be back in the cellar. I’m not. I’m still on the end of the sofa, and I lift my head to glance down the other end. Alfie is there, concern written all over his face, whittling his fingers as though he’s having trouble keeping his hands to himself.

“You had a dream,” he says. “Saw your eyelids twitching.”

“Yeah. Sorry about falling asleep. Must have been the heat.” I sit up a bit, rub my eyes then stretch my arms up. “I haven’t slept that well in ages.”

“What did you dream about?”

I tell him, go into great detail about my feelings, my emotions. I may as well let him have the whole of it. What he chooses to do with the information is up to him. I can only hope it makes a difference, makes him see.

“Jesus,” he says. “I’m sorry, really sorry. What the hell have I done?”

“You did what you thought was right at the time. Mad as it sounds, I understand what you’re doing. I might not know why, but I understand. We all do crazy shit sometimes. Okay, your shit is a bit crazier than the average person, but I don’t reckon you’re a bad bloke. You’re desperate, that’s all. Mixed up, maybe.”

I push the thought away that I might have gone too far—again. I don’t get the feeling he’s going to turn mean. Yeah, I’ve been confused, right at the beginning when he first put me down in that cellar, raged at his insanity, at how I wanted to beat the crap out of him for doing this to me, but I’ve had plenty of time to think since then, haven’t I?

And now I’ve laid myself bare, told him my fears, my needs, my every-bloody-thing. I can only hope he wants to return the favour.

“So, you want to tell me your story?” I ask, praying he does.

“I don’t know. It’s nothing like yours. Mine’s…stupid.” He runs a hand through his hair.

I wish his hand was mine.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s bad to you, means something to you. What’s a simple thing to one person is a complicated ball of fucking hell to another.” I shrug. “I’m here to listen. Not going anywhere.”

He stares at me. “I believe you. I think. But I’m scared.”

“What of?”

“Believing. It’s dangerous.”

“It can be. I get that. Shit, do I get that. But I’ve done it. I’m here, still hoping you’ll want me to stay. Knowing it’s mad to think it but not caring anyway. I’m sick of doing what people say is right. I need to do what I want, what feels right inside, know what I mean?”

He nods. Slowly.

The kind of nod that shows he agrees one hundred percent.

CHAPTER FOUR

You’re on your own now, Alfie. The End.

“
A
lfie.” A pause. “Alfie?”

What does he want now?

“Where are you, you little cunt?”

I got up from my bed, the same one I’d had for the past twelve years. The mattress sagged in the middle, box springs knackered, and smelled of the piss I’d released in my sleep ever since Mum and Dad left. They’d never been the normal parental type. You know, the kind who actually give a shit about their kids. Me and my brother, John—the one who called me a cunt—had been accidents, so Dad said. The pair of them had been high at the time of our conceptions, forgetting to use a condom, something Dad had great pleasure in telling me he didn’t like. Made him lose sensation, he’d said. Back then, I didn’t know what the fuck he was on about, being eight and whatnot.

You know, I don’t think I’ll ever get over how they were, what they did. What people, in their right minds, treated their kids like that? Preferred the bottle, dope, and whatever the fuck else they could get their hands on? And I’m their son in more ways than one, aren’t I? I mean, look at me, at what I’ve done.

I’m as fucked as they were.

I wonder sometimes where they are, where they went. Whether they think of the two little bastards they made between them, and what became of us. It hurts, doing that, because I know full well they don’t think of us at all. We were nothing but burdens, stopping them living the life they really wanted.

By rights, I shouldn’t even be here.

I woke up one day, expecting Dad’s usual harsh cuff to the back of the head as I sat at the dirty kitchen table—a table covered in junk, hardly any space to put my cereal bowl—but that cuff never came. Neither did his hard voice or Mum’s grating whine. All I heard was John, smacking the crap out of the living room wall—nothing unusual there—then coming into the kitchen, his knuckles bleeding.

“What are you fucking staring at?” he’d said.

I’d looked away, ate my cereal—stale cereal Mum had got on the cheap to go along with the soured milk. Didn’t matter much to me. It had always been the same. Wasn’t until only John looked after me that I tasted fresh milk and knew what I’d been missing.

Still, best get back to what I was originally saying, eh?

“Alfie, if you don’t get your arse in here…”

I walked from my room, wanting to drag my feet as I went down the stairs but not daring to. It wasn’t wise to ignore John. His temper matched Dad’s. Nasty bastard sometimes, was my brother.

I stood in the living room doorway, staring at John, who was having trouble closing a suitcase. A distant memory came then, of Mum fitting all our clothes inside it and us buggering off to the seaside for the weekend—the only holiday we’d ever had. They spent the two days in pubs, leaving me and John to get on with it, but that was okay. We’d gone to the beach, I’d seen the sea, paddled in it, and ate more Mr Whippy ice cream than a kid should eat in one day.

But John packing a suitcase; I’d never seen that before. Were we going somewhere? Were the Social Services coming for me like he’d said they would if I didn’t do what he told me? No, they were his clothes spilling out, not mine. Nerves squirmed in my belly, and I wanted to be sick. Even though John was an arsehole, I knew him. Better the devil you know and all that.

“Help me with this fucking case. Sit on it.”

I did as he instructed, balancing on it and hoping I wouldn’t topple off. The case was on the sofa—a sofa in just as much disrepair as my bed.

“Are they coming for me, John?”

He stopped fighting with the zip and looked at me, frowning like I’d said the most stupid thing he’d ever heard. “Who? And don’t say Mum and Dad. They’re long gone. Thought you’d have accepted that by now.”

“No, not them. I know
they’re
not coming back.”

“Who then?” He returned his attention to the case, gritting his teeth as he yanked the zip around a corner, narrowly missing catching my skin in its teeth.

I lifted my legs so he could go under them and watched as he finally had the case closed. “The Social.”

“Not as far as I know. Get off.”

I jumped down and stood with my hands behind my back, the posture John said a real man always adopted. It showed the world he had nothing to hide, he’d said. That he was fearless. I often wondered why I ought to stand like that when I was nothing but a big bundle of fear inside. Seemed stupid, didn’t it. Hypocritical.

John hefted the case off the sofa and dragged it out into the hallway. I couldn’t see him around that corner but knew he was putting it by the front door. We were going somewhere, and I panicked at the thought I didn’t have a case of my own. What could I put my stuff in? I didn’t have much, a few ratty, stinking clothes, a couple of books I’d nicked from school, but they were still my things.

My brother came back into the room, all six-foot of him standing in the doorway like he owned the place. And he did, even though we rented a council house. This was his place now, our place, and even though, looking back, it was a complete shithole, it was home.