Night Shade (3 page)

‘Don’t worry about Zoe Lydon,’ I say, mimicking her clipped voice. ‘She’s just cuckoo. We should be thankful she stays off the streets. She probably murdered that old guy because he came round for a cup of sugar.’

I pause for a moment, my eyes widening. Maybe they’ll actually think that. I gnaw at the inside of my cheek. He had a heart attack; I couldn’t have caused that, but my worry refuses to subside. The policeman jerks his head back in my direction and I stumble away from the door. Then my legs give out and I collapse onto the carpet.

Eventually I get my hiccuping sobs under control. I smooth my trembling hands over my trousers several times before clenching and unclenching my fists. My heartbeat races and I think of the strange electric shock the old man gave me. It felt more powerful than static and I wonder if it had something to do with his heart attack. It’s a ridiculous notion, of course: heart attacks aren’t contagious. Perhaps it was psychosomatic. I rub my chest. Whatever it was, it’s gone now, just like the old man.   His slack jaw and unseeing eyes are seared into my memory. His poor family. He had to be visiting one of my neighbours. I make a point of knowing who lives around me and he wasn’t one of them.

There was nothing I could have done. The thought doesn’t help me feel any better. I return to the door and check the spyhole again. Both the path and the pavement are clear; even the Chairman has vanished.

I check each lock, tugging hard at the door. It rattles against the frame but it seems secure. Satisfied, I start moving around the house, testing each window. During the day, I’m not too stressed about the windows because most of them don’t open widely so it would take anyone larger than a child a long time to squeeze through. As long as I’m conscious, it would be impossible for an intruder to get in without me noticing. I avoid having them open, of course. Right now, they’re all tightly closed.   Finally, I go into the kitchen and let the tap run until it’s icy cold. I splash water on my face and dab my wrists. I strain my ears but beyond the distant hum of traffic and the occasional bark from the Labrador at number twenty-five, everything sounds normal. Normal. A man just collapsed in my house and died in front of me. How normal is that?

I sit down at my desk, my eyes following the screensaver as it bounces from edge to edge. It seems crazy to go back to work after what’s just happened but I don’t know what else to do and it might distract me. I wish for a moment that I knew the man’s name; it would give him more dignity if I could stop thinking of him as ‘the old man who died in my hallway’. I wonder about his tartan slippers and his harsh whisper of caution about the mysterious department. Maybe he was suffering from Alzheimer’s. He could have been confused and wandered away from his carer and ended up at my door. If that were true, maybe his passing is a relief to him and those who loved him. And the police will close the book on the case without dragging me away for interrogation. I shudder. No, work will definitely help.

Several hours later, my neck and back are aching. My soul still feels heavy but my earlier panic has all but subsided. I send Jerry a quick email, informing him that I’ve finished ahead of schedule. He’ll have left the office already – it’s been dark outside for some time – but, like many people these days, he’ll still read the email and respond.

I massage my weary muscles, realising that I’m very hungry. Not surprisingly, I’d skipped lunch and the last thing I’d had through the afternoon was an appetite. I guess normal service is resuming.

I walk into the hall and stare down at the patch of carpet where the old man breathed his last. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say softly. I’m not sure whether I’m talking to myself or to the old man’s departed spirit and my voice echoes emptily as if to emphasise how paltry my offering is. I blink away tears and head to the kitchen to prepare some food.

I sit in my usual spot at the table, my ankles curled around the chair legs. I carefully chew each mouthful of my omelette. The large clock on the wall ticks away. I clear my plate before carefully washing it, along with my knife and fork and the frying pan. Once I’m done, I allow myself to turn on the radio. I want to hear the local news in case the old man is mentioned. I endure the DJ gabbling about an upcoming dance festival that’s going to attract ‘hundreds of people of all ages and from all walks of life’. I sigh although in the past I’ve not been beyond turning up the music and dancing around the living room on my own as if to re-create the same effect.

When the news finally comes on, there’s no mention of the man. I give up and move to the living room, settling back into the plump cushions with a book. At some point the Chairman joins me, deigning for once to settle on my lap with a deep, throaty purr. The pages blur and I find it difficult to concentrate. After reading the same paragraph five times, I set the book aside and close my eyes. Enough already.

* * *

I
t’s the prickle along the top of my ears that alerts me to the fact that something is different. I snap open my eyes. What on earth...?

I’m on a cobbled street, streaks of orange light bouncing off the puddles. There’s a steady stream of drizzle and, without consciously doing it, I lift my face, enjoying the damp splashes on my skin. I wait for the screaming panic to start but there’s nothing. Curious. I don’t feel afraid; neither do I feel cold.

There’s not a breath of wind. In fact, there’s no sound whatsoever, which makes as little sense as my lack of fear. It doesn’t matter where you are, whether it’s in the country or the city or at the top of Mount Everest, there are always sounds. Even soundproofed rooms have a certain quality to them that suggests, well, sound. Here, there’s nothing. The effect isn’t frightening. It’s not even unnatural. It’s just ... weird.

I look over my shoulder, starting in surprise. There’s a wall of black, deep impenetrable black of the sort I never achieved on the walls of my teenage bedroom. I reach out towards it, feeling an odd tingle as my fingertips brush against it. It has a spongy quality. I press harder, keeping the rest of my body well back from it. It doesn’t matter how much effort I make, I can’t penetrate it by more than an inch or two.

I withdraw my hand and look at it, wiggling each finger in turn. I half-expect some strange sticky substance to linger there but my skin is clean. I frown then shrug. In the absence of anything better to do, I leave the strange wall behind and start walking. My feet don’t make a sound.

I stop next to a large puddle. Experimentally, I kick at it, sending a spray of water arcing upwards. Everything is still silent. I take a deep breath and jump in, shocked when my legs plunge downwards. For a moment my stomach leaps sickeningly into my throat until my toes touch the bottom. The puddle is deep enough to reach my chest. I laugh and the sound is so unexpected it reverberates around the strange street. I lift up my arms and crash them down, creating a mini tsunami, then bob there, marvelling at what I’m experiencing.

I’d thrown a few mushrooms into the pan when I made my omelette. They looked normal enough and the large supermarket chain I’d ordered them from shouldn’t have been selling hallucinogenics, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. I giggle at the thought of people up and down the country having similar visions because of dodgy fungi. As soon as I come round, I’ll have to order more before the supermarket realises its mistake. This is so much fun.

I heave myself out of the puddle. It’s surprisingly difficult and I end up half sprawled on the cobbles like a beached seal. I clamber to my feet, shaking my body to rid myself of the worst of the water and start walking again. Well, I say walking; it’s more of a skip to be honest. No, I don’t advocate drug use and I really enjoy my boring existence – most of the time, anyway. But after the day I’ve had, this hallucination is taking my mind off the horrors. Besides, it’s only a street with a few wacky puddles in it.

I start humming a skewed version of
Ode to Joy
. I’d love an umbrella because then I could recreate Gene Kelly’s dance from
Singin’ in the Rain
. I glance down at my empty hands and will an umbrella to appear but it doesn’t work. I wrinkle my nose and shrug: it’s no great disaster.

I continue, my humming getting louder. The rain continues to fall, the cobbles stretch ahead and the street remains silent. This really is ... oh, shit.

I crash to a halt as I see the figure ahead. For a moment, I feel a flicker of fear but it quickly changes to irritation. This is
my
hallucination, I think crossly. I’m an agoraphobic with few friends; there shouldn’t be anyone here apart from me.  I have half a mind to march up to my mushroom-induced interloper and tell them to get out of my street.

I square my shoulders and decide to do just that. It’s a young woman wearing a tight red dress and high heels, so impossibly tall it’s a wonder she’s not toppling over. She doesn’t glance in my direction, even when I’m less than three feet away from her.

‘Hey!’ I say sharply.

She still doesn’t look at me. Instead she turns away and I follow her gaze, my heart sinking when I see another person strolling towards us. I tut like a petulant child.

‘Hello,’ drawls the young policeman who tried to help me earlier. He’s speaking to the woman.

I do a double take. What is
he
doing here? Although maybe it makes sense: he did play a major role in my day. It doesn’t mean I want him in my head though. ‘Why couldn’t I hallucinate Ryan Gosling?’ I mutter to myself.

Neither the woman nor the policeman seems to hear me. He walks up to her and pushes her against the wall. ‘I’ve been waiting for this for so long,’ he breathes.

The woman’s mouth curves into a slow smile. ‘Ally Bear, you’re my kind of man.’ Then, just like that, their lips lock together.

I cough. ‘Er, excuse me?’

His hand reaches down to the hem of her dress and tugs it higher. She moans, pressing into him and my cheeks flare up in embarrassment. I don’t want to see this! Why would I hallucinate this?

‘Do it,’ she murmurs.

No! Don’t do it!

‘Only if you beg me,’ he purrs in response.

I put my hands over my ears and squeeze my eyes shut. ‘No, no, no, no, no!’

I feel something sharp digging into me and hear a faint but familiar, low-pitched growl. I take my hands slowly away from my ears and stare at the Chairman. His hackles are fully raised and his pupils are wide and round. He hisses and spits, leaps off my lap and bounds away. I blink several times, shaking myself back into awareness. I’m still in my own living room and in my own chair.

I look round. Everything’s the same although my tongue feels furry and there’s a strange metallic taste in my mouth. ‘Maybe I won’t go ordering any more mushrooms again after all,’ I murmur.

I uncurl my legs, go to the mirror and stare at my reflection. I pull up my eyelids and examine my pupils. They look normal enough. Sticking out my tongue, I check for other signs that I’ve been drugged.

Then, the thought hits me that maybe someone did something to me today. One of the paramedics maybe, or that policeman himself. They could have given me something slow acting, which is why it didn’t take effect until now. Something that brushed against my skin. It might be related to the strange electric shock I received from the old man...

My heart pounds and my chest tightens. They could have done it to gain access to my home while I was passed out. I race jerkily towards the door, checking every lock again. It’s still closed. It would be though. My potential assailant wouldn’t get past it. The windows: maybe I didn’t check them as closely as I thought.

I waste no further time and grab the phone with one hand, ready to punch in 999, and a pre-prepared paper bag with the other. Living room – windows all closed. Kitchen – closed. Bathroom – closed. My throat constricts: upstairs then. I stare at the mountain of steps leading up to the first floor. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

‘Who’s there?’ I shout hoarsely. There’s no response. ‘I’m coming up! I’m armed!’ I look at the paper bag I’m clutching. That really was a ridiculous thing to say.

Barely managing to breathe, I ascend one step, then another and another. When I reach the landing, the lights are dancing in front of my eyes again and I know I’m not far from blacking out. I can’t let myself; if I do, anything could happen.   Bedroom one – closed. Bedroom two – windows still all closed. Utility cupboard – empty. Bathroom... I stretch out for the cold metal doorknob and start to twist. My breaths are so loud that I can’t hear anything else. Whoever’s on the other side of that door could be shouting and I wouldn’t hear them. I clench my teeth and throw it open.

A pair of dark, frightened eyes stares back at me from the bathroom mirror. Me. There’s no one there after all. My face is pale and there are dark circles under my eyes, but the contours of my cheekbones and the familiar smattering of freckles across them comforts me. I breathe into the bag, doing what I can to slow my heart-rate down, and continue to keep my gaze fixed on my reflection. Something’s still not right.

I drop the phone and reach one shaky hand up to my long brown hair which curtains my face in waves. For some reason, it’s damp.

I am interested in imperfections, quirkiness, insanity, unpredictability. That’s what we really pay attention to anyway. We don’t talk about planes flying; we talk about them crashing.

Tibor Kalman

––––––––

I
t’s not surprising that I don’t sleep that night. The Chairman also spends most of the wee hours hiding. It’s not the first time I’ve wished he could talk; perhaps then he could tell me exactly what happened.

I get through the night by sitting upright in bed, hugging my knees tightly to my chest. I manage yet again to avoid another full-blown panic attack but it’s still a relief when dawn breaks. When the telephone rings just after nine, it’s a welcome distraction.

‘Ms Lydon? This is Sergeant Rawlins. We met yesterday? I was hoping we could come by again today.’

I almost gush down the phone. It’s embarrassing. ‘That would be fantastic. Can you come now?’