Sleepwalkers (2 page)

‘Five’

‘Nah.’

‘Yeah, you were five; it’s this one here.’ I point to the mark. ‘And then you went upstairs in a hissy fit and came down in your footy boots cos you thought the studs would make you taller.’

He just shrugs. Does he really not remember at all? I try to remember other details to spark it for him. But nothing comes. The memory feels isolated from everything else. The kids stare at me as I stumble for something more. I’m trying to pull something from the back of my mind, but now everything’s gone and got confused. The kids are staring at me like I’m mental but there’s something, there’s something I can’t … just … can’t …

‘Hi, honey.’ Carrie hurries into the kitchen just as the phone rings. I answer it and someone’s talking in my ear, someone I don’t know but someone I like. I’m thinking this is odd, why
do I like them when I don’t know who it is? I’m wondering about this but I answer the questions anyway and now I’m a bit hazy. Everything feels so warm and happy and it’s like this cloud’s coming down and …

*

I wake up with the feeling I’m late for something. A bit of a start, a jolt. I sit up and wince because my back’s so stiff. I’m sure I’ve got scratches down it, I can’t really see them properly but it hurts like hell. It’s like that all day. Work at the garage was a nightmare. I seemed to be bumping into things all the time and now I’m home I just want a hot bath and a long sleep. Carrie says I’m being a drama queen. It was rugby training last night, season starts in two weeks and I’m always like this, she says. I guess she’s right. The ground’s still hard from the summer and you always get a bit scuffed up before the autumn sets in properly. I’m part of a veterans’ team and we’re all trying to pretend we’re still twenty by training too hard. Half the blokes are really posh but they’re alright, as it goes.

The papers didn’t turn up and I was going to pop around to the late-night supermarket to get one, but she talked me out of it. I’m so pooped, I could hardly be bothered anyway. And it’s not just my body. Sometimes, like today, my head feels like a fog. There are figures moving about, just beyond reach, and whenever I go towards them, they’re gone.

I slump onto the sofa and look down at my arm. Bruises are starting to colour under the swelling. I switch on the TV. The news is on, but the volume’s down to zero for some reason. As I turn it up, Carrie comes behind me, kisses me and whips the remote from my hand, turning it off.

‘I’m going to give up the rugby,’ I tell her. ‘I’m bloody aching all over.’

‘But you love it. You’re always moaning at the start of the season, but in a couple of weeks you’ll be doing all those stupid strong-man poses and talking about – what was it last year? – pop passes, and showing them the inside and all that shit.’

‘Right.’ I try to remember. There’s that fog again. Something tells me she’s probably right.

‘And you’ve got your mates there. You won’t feel like you’ve deserved ten pints and a fat burger unless you’ve sweated and grunted with Mac and Jonno.’

Mac and Jonno. Two laughing faces spring into my mind. I seem to have played rugby with those two forever. But oddly I can’t remember them as younger men. Only as they are now.

Carrie must have seen my frown; she flicks my ear playfully.

‘Oi! That hurts!’

‘Maybe you
should
give up the rugby. I mean, if you can get your arse whipped by a girl, then you’re no use to your mates.’

‘You? Whip my arse?’

‘Come on, big man, show me what you’re made of.’

And suddenly we’re racing to the bedroom, laughing. She’s pulling off her clothes as she runs. I’m up on my feet – God, my bloody back – hurrying after her with a low, happy growl. As we run, we pass the kitchen and I see the lines I drew to show the kids’ height, and there’s something about this that slows me for a second. I stop. Something I’m meant to remember.

‘Oi, fatty! Are you out of breath already or did you stop for some chocolate?’

Cheeky cow. I run upstairs and the sound of my heavy feet on the stairs has her screaming and laughing.

‘Watch out, honey. Here I come, ten tonnes of fun!’

*

When I was five years old, my mother decided to teach me the piano. Not seriously, not like some Chinese prodigy, and my hands were too small anyhow, but she wanted me to be good at music. Said it was important, a ‘life skill’. Those were the words. So she would sit me down on the piano stool next to her and she’d play a scale with my hand on top of hers so I could feel her fingers pressing down on each key. And also it’d look like it was me that was playing. I remember being scared that I’d fall backwards, so she’d snuggle up tight and wrap an arm around me, nuzzling her soft cheek against mine. We’d do it again and again and then she’d tell me to try it myself, showing me how to slip my thumb under my third finger to complete the scale. We’d do it over and over, and in the end I could do it properly. She kissed me and clapped, and I felt like a prince.

We’ve got a piano. It sits, lid down, near the back door. We thought it would go in the lounge but the passage was too narrow and we couldn’t get it in. I got home a little earlier than planned today – work at the garage sometimes pans out that way. Anyhow, I get home, and normally I’d go straight upstairs and have a shower to get the grease and dirt off me, but coming in I see the piano and I remember my mum. She’s dead now, long gone. And I’m looking at the piano and the house is well quiet. It’s weird actually because normally our place is like Beirut. I lift the lid and look down at the keys, then place my heavy fingers on the notes, trying to play a
scale. But the notes won’t obey my fingers and I’m too clumsy. I try to play a simple tune that we learned together, but can’t get anywhere near it. It all sounds awful. What a dick I am. I’ve thrown away a talent. Mum’d be furious.

I’m about to sit down and have a real proper go when the family pours in through the back door, a bundle of shiny coats, wellies and shopping bags. Joe’s screaming because Emma’s scratching at him, red-faced with fury about something. I run to them, pull them apart, listen to their contradictory accusations as Carrie staggers in with the last of the shopping.

Once I’ve calmed down the kids by putting on the telly, I look back at the piano. The house is too noisy now and I feel bashful. I shut the piano lid. I should just stick to the things I’m good at, I guess. Maybe I could practise when no one’s around, make a surprise of it for Carrie. Learn a tune then sing and play it for her birthday.

I like this, and the idea makes me turn to look at Carrie. I’m surprised to see that she’s watching me. I smile. She smiles back. But I find myself turning away from her, as though there is a secret in me that I need to protect. And somewhere deep inside me a man shouts something that I can’t hear, but I know that it’s important. The shout echoes inside me like it’s bouncing off white stone cavernous walls, and I imagine sand and sun and a glaring blue sky. I look back and Carrie’s now elbow-deep in shopping bags, emptying their contents onto the counter-top. Jesus, no wonder she calls me ‘Dream Boy’ sometimes. I walk over, grab the bleach and put it in the cupboard where it should be, put everything in the right place.

*

‘If you hold his head under for long enough, he’ll soon start blabbing. Just make sure you don’t kill him cos that’s a real shitter.’ We both laugh. ‘Go on,’ he encourages me. I look at his arm – see the tattoo of an eagle wrapped in flames. ‘Go on.’ His voice is harder now. ‘Don’t be a pussy.’

There’s a young lad lying on the floor. He’s no more than fifteen and he’s been beaten badly. Some of his dark hair is stuck to the congealed blood on his face. He stares up at me, starts to beg in a language I don’t understand. And I start laughing. Stamp my boots onto his delicate fingers. I hear the crunch as a bone breaks—

And I wake up.

Carrie’s asleep next to me and Joe’s sneaked in on the other side. Neither wakes. I don’t move. I just lie there. But this time I don’t try to think the dream away. Because I have dreamed this before. Not the same dream, but earlier, when I led this poor boy into the room, told him he’d be okay. Before I smashed his face in. I raise my hand up in the darkened room. Clench it into a fist. Try to imagine hitting him. The dream tells me I can. My head disagrees.

I slip my hand back under the covers. Joe sighs. A dream of his own.

*

Maybe I should see someone.

I’m sitting in the tiny upstairs boxroom where I sort the bills and stuff. We’ve got an old computer on a three-legged table while the rest of the room is stuffed full with junk. A red bill sits in front of me. I ignore it, and instead type ‘dreams’ into google. But there are too many sites, and nothing seems to relate to me.

Carrie pops her head around the door, comes in and starts to massage my shoulders, distracts me. Normally I love it.

‘I think I should see a doctor.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘My nightmares.’

‘Oh, hon.’

Her fingers continue to push and probe.

‘Or maybe a psychiatrist. You know, all that stuff about—’

‘Wanting to fuck your mother?’

‘No I don’t, I … be serious.’

‘I am.’

A thumb digs around my collar bone.

‘If my brain is, you know, so busy with all this shit then maybe it needs sorting out.’

‘Okay.’

‘And I’m fed up with them. I keep waking and it’s spooking me out and … can you get off a sec?!’

She withdraws, stung. ‘You want to be alone?’

‘No. Yeah. I don’t know, I just … I don’t know.’

She looks at me, confused. Her eyes stare into mine, trying to understand what she’s done wrong.

‘I just want you to take this seriously.’

‘I am.’

‘No, you’re sympathetic, but this is really … it’s a mess, my head and I … I … it feels like it’s getting worse.’

‘Okay. Well, we’ll go to the doctor. I’ll go with you.’

‘No, no, you don’t need—’

‘I’m taking you seriously.’

‘I’m not … Jesus, I just meant …’

I don’t know what I meant, but I know I should be doing
this alone. Somehow. Carrie shrugs – suit yourself – and leaves. I feel guilty now, but I don’t rush to stop her. I turn back to the computer, click on the internet again. But it won’t connect. The computer’s gone slow. I wait for a moment but it’s like the fucker’s on strike.

Irritated, I go out onto the landing. We have this wall where we hang our favourite pictures in gaudy frames. There must be nearly a hundred now. Carrie calls it our Wonder Wall. I stare at them – stare at a collage of my life. In every photograph, we are smiling.

Carrie is there again. She looks at me – waiting for it.

‘Sorry.’

Not enough.

‘I’m a tit. But I’m not sleeping so I’m a tired tit and that’s … that’s my excuse.’

She can’t help but let a little laugh slip out. I put my arm around her.

‘I’ll book an appointment with the doctor and you come if you’d like. I don’t mean, like you shouldn’t or couldn’t or anything, I just …’

‘You’re just a tired tit.’

‘That’s me.’

‘It’s almost poetic.’

‘Yeah, I’ve got hidden depths.’

We walk back to the bedroom. She has an arm around me, almost guiding me to sleep.

*

Work’s been a pisser so I’ve had to cancel my doctor’s appointment twice now and the woman on the phone was a bit shirty. But I’ve been sleeping better recently and now I think maybe
I made too much of it. I’m a bit embarrassed I made such a fuss, to tell you the truth.

Right now, I’m watching Joe play a footy game at his school. It’s the middle of the afternoon so there’s only one other dad. The rest are all mums who know each other well. They stand in a group further down, chatting and cheering happily. The other dad and I share a smile, but that’s as far as our contact gets. I prefer it like this. I’ve always been a bit of a loner. I like people, for sure, but – I don’t know – I guess I’m a bit shy and I don’t mind being alone.

Joe’s a spindly lad, a streak of piss, and he stands awkwardly away from the action, cold and unhappy. The ref is also the games teacher and he shouts over at him: get stuck in!

Joe runs towards the ball, but it’s gone before he gets near it and he stops, looks around, rubs his hands on his shorts. He glances at me. I give him a cheery smile and a thumbsup. Even I feel a bit pathetic. He shuffles on towards the action.

‘That your boy?’ It’s the other dad. A gruff, shortish man. His jeans are paint-splattered from work. I nod, a little ruefully. A smile.

‘He’s shit, eh?’

I look at him. He’s got a way about him that tells me he likes rubbing people up. I look back at the game. Gruff Man starts screaming encouragement to his son. I watch the boy for a moment – he’s annoyingly good.

‘Come on, Joe, you’re doing great, mate,’ I shout out across the grass.

‘If you say so,’ comes the wry reply next to me. I can feel the snide smile but keep my eyes fixed on my son. Joe slips
and doesn’t bother to get up. A wind sweeps across the pitch. Man, is it cold.

Gruff Man shouts more encouragement for his boy and a couple of the other kids. There are three or four boys who like the game and are good at it. Another bunch who are less talented but try hard. And then a few, Joe included, who are there because they’re told to be. I hate this. It reminds me of my childhood. My hands too cold to unlace my boots and the noise of studs on concrete.

I watch my boy pick himself up, hug himself against the cold and trudge into position as one of his team-mates implores him to make more of an effort. Joe nods, trying to please, but really trying not to be noticed.

I feel guilty.

Gruff Man barks away next to me. His son scores a goal. Everyone’s delighted. I join in the applause, but do everything I can not to look at the crowing idiot.

A whistle blows and I can see the relief on Joe’s face. He wanders around, shaking hands with the opposition with the same bored look that he had during the game.

The teams head back to the changing rooms. The mothers have knit themselves into a tighter huddle and are laughing like drains. I’m stuck with Gruff Man. I pat my pockets, swear quietly to myself and walk off to the car under the pretence I’ve left my phone there.