Sleepwalkers (21 page)

Diane glanced up at her and she expected the stern warning look, but her expression was different and Carrie couldn’t read it. She pressed on.

‘There are things that don’t make sense, things I’ve done and they worry me. There’s so much I know about the project, but I know there’s more too. After all I’ve done, I think I should be told what that is. After all I’ve done.’

Diane’s finger paused on the glass and Carrie could see that the drawing was not actually a sun but an octopus with long, flowing tentacles. When Diane turned to Carrie she looked at her a little sadly.

‘If you wish,’ she said, ‘I’ll sort something out, send someone over.’

‘I do. Thanks.’

But Diane shook her head, as if thanking her was the very last thing she should be doing.

‘I don’t think you’ll see me again, then. You take care of yourself, Carrie.’

With that, Diane picked up her designer handbag and slipped out of the bedroom, closing the front door quietly behind her as she left. Carrie could feel the sweat under her armpits. Her pulse was racing. She was going to find out more. She was chasing after Ben and they were going to help her do it.

Everyone’s always banging on about tighter laws and how impossible it is to get a fake ID, but all you need do is spend some time down at the arcade at the far side of town – and boy, is it a dive – and look for the shady guy in the thick coat who’s always hanging around but never talking to anyone. Once you know him, he can get you just about anything, or so he says. He’s got a leery way about him, always smirking and sniffing, and I’m not sure I want to find out what ‘anything’ actually means. Anyway, after I’ve given him the cash up front – which I wasn’t happy about but what can you do? – we meet again ten days later. He hands over a fake ID and driving licence like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Once I’ve got them, getting a credit card’s a piece of piss. All this takes about three weeks. Once I’ve got these, I go to a small car hire company in the town about five miles from the hotel and choose something unremarkable. I’ll only need it for a day, but sign for three, saying my own car is in the garage. They don’t seem to care, which is just how I want it.

The drive from my shitty seaside town is surprisingly picturesque and easy. As I get closer, however, so the rolling hedgerows are replaced by wooden fences and dull lengths of grubby pavement. The houses cluster closer together. A pub, a garage, a row of tatty shops; another part of the country that no one really chooses to live in.

I stop and check the address against a map. Sergeant James MacFarlane lives, if he still does, two roads down. I drive around first and get to know the place. I look for speed cameras, for dead ends, for roundabouts and traffic lights. I keep driving back and forth until I worry I’ll be noticed. I know the fastest way out now. Okay.

I wait until it starts to get dark, then I park one street down and walk the rest. I gaze into people’s houses as I do so. The roads are identical – a square of semi-detached houses, some well-tended, some neglected. There are net curtains on the windows, but no one looks out. Televisions flicker inside.

And this is his street, just like the others. And here is his house. A small, tidy, semi-detached home with a varnished wooden gate which I hop over without any noise. I slip down the side entrance and am soon at the back of the house. Out of sight, I take a moment to check out the garden: lights from the back of the house show up the neatly mown lines on the tiny lawn; a small shed with a padlocked door; crazy paving swept clean. I could leap over the back fence and get away fast if I needed to, no problem. I move from the safety of the corner to the back window and glance in. An empty kitchen. A mug on the draining board, upside down. A trickle of water at its base. Someone’s inside, or if not, they were only minutes before.

And then I see him walk into the kitchen and I nearly jump out of my skin, backing away, nearly tripping over myself as I try to get back into the darkness. But he doesn’t look up and I’m able to stand there, only a few feet from him, watching him. And then, when he does raise his head, I realise that the light inside has turned the glass into a mirror – he’s looking straight into my eyes, but all he’s seeing is his own reflection.

Jacko. It really is you. But he seems so much older. His hair is thinner and he moves like a pensioner. He scratches his head then rubs his eyes and just, I don’t know, sags. He stands in front of the sink, cleaning the same cup that he’d already cleaned before. I remember him always being tidy, a real stickler for it. I remember the way he’d position his polished boots at the end of the bed, the way he’d puff his pillow. I used to laugh at him for it. But this feels different. He looks crumpled. No – he looks shattered. Jacko, what the hell’s happened to you?

He walks back out of sight and I stalk towards the back door. I check it – it’s open. I enter and close the door behind me and stand dead still. No noise. I glance back behind me, check the windows of the houses that overlook this one, but there’s no sign of anyone watching. I listen again. Nothing, then the faintest sound – a foot scraping on the floor, maybe. Then a choked cough. He’s sitting in the next room. All I have to do is walk out and say, ‘Hey, Jacko. Long time, buddy.’ I’ve practised it enough bloody times. Fix the smile, say the words. Go on, do it.

Another cough. He’s doing something, fiddling with something. I close my eyes for a second, try to picture his face as
he used to be, just to give myself the confidence to walk in there. I see the guy standing on the bonnet of a military truck, shirtless, his muscles pumped, the eagle tattoo on his shoulder shining with sweat. Laughing.

I turn and walk into the living room. Jacko’s sitting in an armchair facing a television which is switched off. He’s holding a rifle. Its nozzle is in his mouth, his finger on the trigger. His eyes are red with tears. I stop and stare at him and my mouth flaps open but no words come out.

He sees me and his eyes widen for a second. Then he pulls his mouth away from the rifle’s end and looks at me properly. But I notice that he leaves the gun pointed at his head.

‘You choose your moments, don’t you?’ he says.

‘Jacko,’ I croak back.

‘Where did you get to? We fucking buried you.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, really. You twat. You’ve been alive all this time and … What does it matter? Shit. If you want a cuppa you can make it yourself.’

‘Put the gun down will you?’

‘You gonna save me?’

‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

‘It’s hardly a cry for help. Not pills or shit, is it? Then again, I’ve been trying to do this for the last three days, so …’ He lowers the gun. And then a craggy smile forms. ‘You cheeky git. So you’ve been alive all this time. What happened?’

‘I honestly don’t know. Amnesia, I think.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Mate, until recently I didn’t even know I’d been in the army.’

‘What did you think you’d done then? When you’ve got a bloody great army tattoo on your arm: ‘No guts, no glory.’

I raise the T-shirt that covers my arm – there is no tattoo. His eyes widen.

‘Come here, come over here.’ He grabs my arm, stares close at it. Whistles. ‘Wow. Must have cost a bit to get rid of that. Didn’t know they could do that.’

‘I had a tattoo?’

‘Oh piss off. You’ll be telling me next you don’t remember Sarah.’

Sarah. Oh shit. Who the hell is Sarah? Jacko sees my confusion and bursts out laughing.

‘Really? You monumental turd. She’d kill you all over again if she heard that. Well, she’d have to stand in line, what with you playing around with Jess and Pen at the same time. You were one sly old dog.’

Come on, brain. Remember. But there’s nothing. Nothing. I sit down on the sofa opposite him and his hand grips the rifle a little harder.

‘So what’s this about?’ I point to the rifle as casually as I can.

‘Time. Catching up on me. Memories. You know.’ And then he laughs. ‘God, if you don’t … Fuck me. I’ll have what you’re taking. I’d love to wipe the tat from my arm too, wipe it all away. Look at me.’

I do. He stares at me and I see his hard gaze become confused, then amused – he can tell I’m not the man from before. He shakes his head, amazed, leans back. A long silence. The only noise is his fingers tapping on the rifle.

‘You a nice guy now then?’

‘Apparently.’

‘You remember what you were before?’

‘Bits. They come and go. I dream a lot.’

‘Dream?’

‘Yeah.’ And then I can wait no longer. ‘Jacko. What’s my name?’

He looks at me then laughs – a big, hearty laugh. ‘Piss off.’

‘I remember you. Bits of you. I remember some of my time in the army. Some of the things we did. What I was like. But I don’t know my name.’

‘What do you think it is?’

‘Ben.’

Another laugh. ‘Ben? Benjamin!’

‘Please. Jacko.’

A pause. He looks at me, his smile fading.

‘I’ll tell you your name if you do something for me.’

I already know what he’s about to say and he can tell because he leans towards me.

‘You were my best mate. We stared into the devil’s eyes together, you and me. Your dreams, they give you a clue to the sort of shit you’ve done?’

‘Yes.’ Yes, I know what that other part of me is. But I’m keeping the lid closed on that.

‘Really? I doubt it. Cos your face, it’s all gawping and sweet. That’s not the Nudger I knew.’

‘Nudger?’

‘Want to know why we called you that?’

‘Go on then.’

‘Cos no one ever saw you coming. I wouldn’t call it subtle, but you weren’t the kind who’d chuck a guy off a cliff. No,
you’d pally up to them, make them think they were going to be okay and then, then you’d just nudge them into oblivion. Like when we took down those towel heads on that sheep farm. You were one cruel bastard then, eh? Are. Still are, I bet.’

I don’t remember any of this. But I believe every word.

‘The guys were in awe of you. The way you could do those things and then sleep like a baby. Me too. Bet you never knew that.’ And then he bursts out laughing, remembering my memory loss. He shouts it again in case I hadn’t got it.

‘Where’s the booze?’ I say, standing. I have to move.

He points towards the kitchen. ‘Far left, top shelf,’ he says. I get a bottle of cheap, garage-brand whisky and two glasses. I return and sit opposite him.

‘Nudge. Mate. Best mate.’

‘No.’

‘Please. I’ve been sat here for days. My balls are dripping. I thought it’d be easy. It’s only a trigger, it’s only a tiny, little reflex action with my forefinger. Shot enough before, ain’t I?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He sighs. ‘I was saying – I was in awe of you. Hid it from the boys cos I was meant to be top dog. I was the meanest bastard around, couldn’t lose that crown. But keeping up with you came at a cost. Digger and the boys would piss themselves, but I’m too bloody soft.’

He runs his hand along the rifle. His eyes are fixed on mine.

‘Nudger. Finish me off. You owe me.’

‘For what? No, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’

He smiles. A little warmer, a little sadder.

‘What’s the last thing you remember about us?’

‘Nothing. Not like that. Just some dreams. Just moments. You thought I was dead?’

‘We were attacked – our convoy – about a mile outside Basra. Our truck took a direct hit. Ground to air missile, or, as they used them, ground to truck. I was thrown from the truck, Shakey lost his legs, the rest were brown bread. You were too, we thought.’

‘How many died?’

‘Five plus you.’

Five others. They’re probably dead. But maybe one or two, maybe all of them, they could be out there too. Dads. Teachers. Doctors. I don’t know. Forgotten shadows.

‘You found the bodies.’

‘Course. Six bodies, charred and all sorts of hell. Repatriated. Honours, funerals, the usual shit.’

‘What’s my real name?’

He smiles. Shakes his head. He has something to bargain with. He holds up the gun, go on, but I don’t move.

‘I’ll ask you something. If you don’t mind,’ he says.

‘Who’s in a hurry?’

‘Fair point. You, now, this new, improved super-you. You like it?’

‘It has its problems.’

‘Such as?’

‘Men who want to kill me.’

‘Oh. That’s a pisser.’

‘Yeah, it can really chaff.’

‘Now that’s Nudger!’ he cries, excited. ‘There, that was just like my old mate right there.’ He smiles, points at me. ‘Wotcher, Nudger.’

‘Hello, Jacko.’

‘Be a mate, blow my head off.’

‘Who’s Sarah?’

‘I’ll hold a pillow over my head, if you’re worried about splash-back or noise and attention.’

‘Jacko.’

‘She’s a girl. Your girl for a while. What’s to say?’

‘You know where she lives?’

‘Alright, so here’s the thing. Your life now seems a bit shitty, what with the men and the guns—’

‘Jesus, Jacko, are you really going to spend your last few moments on earth bullshitting?’

‘Why change the habit of a lifetime? Anyhow, this isn’t bullshit. This is … fuck, this is almost profound!’ He smiles, nods like he’s a bloody guru all of a sudden.

‘Go on then.’

‘Right, so apart from the men and the guns, is your life really that bad?’

‘That’s like saying, apart from his curious relationship with women, wasn’t Jack the Ripper really a top bloke?’

‘Well, yeah, I’ll give you that, but the point I’m trying to make – and you have to remember, Nudge, I always had a habit of coming to things in a roundabout way – the thing is, are you so sure you want to jump back into your old world? I’m only saying it because, well, if you look at me, who happens to be the only guy I think you know from the good old days – that’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yeah. Right. So, you look at me and think “this fine upstanding ex-sergeant and servant of Her Majesty just happens
to be suicidal”. So maybe all’s not entirely rosy in this garden. And maybe there are things from those glorious old adventures that might make you feel … not so rosy too.’

He has a point.