Sleepwalkers (23 page)

‘How about a latte?’

She nodded, but only because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. She wanted to run away from there. As the machine delivered its goods, he turned to her.

‘You asked what we do, Carrie. We watch. That’s the nature of our work. And it operates best when everyone is pushing in the same direction.’

‘And Ben?’ Her mouth was bone-dry, but his name forced itself onto her lips. ‘Is he gone forever?’

‘Why do you care?’ He held the coffee cup, but he didn’t bring it over to her. ‘Carrie, the work you did was successful because you dealt with it in an objective manner. A scientific approach. You make it sound as though you felt …’ He looked at her again, as though she were now more interesting but also more disappointing than before. ‘Love?’

Carrie couldn’t find the strength to deny it.

‘God, once love gets into the mix, everything’s fucked.’ He spat out the last word. You didn’t fall in love with the test, did you?’

‘You’ve been watching me all this time. You know the answer to that.’

‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘We do.’

He didn’t move. Carrie felt naked under his gaze. This silly little man now terrified her. Then he snapped out of it and
brought the coffee over. ‘Honestly, if this was in one of those big mugs at Starbucks you’d have to pay three quid.’

She drank the coffee and joked about it tasting of piss and laughed at his mock-disappointment. But inside, her emotions spun and screeched. She had received his message clearly enough. She had been stupid to come here and wave her arms in front of them. They were watching her more closely now. She was part of the experiment. And there was no escape from its clutches.

When she returned home she didn’t know whether it was safer to lock the door or not.

I leave the car in the town next to the B&B – I’ll take the bus from here, over the hills, back to the B&B. Tomorrow I’ll get the bus again and come back, pick up the car and move it once more, returning it in two days’ time. If I return it early, then they might notice me.

It’s nearly midnight now. I bought a small rucksack on the way with money I found at Jacko’s and it’s weighed down with the papers and files I took. The straps dig into my shoulders as I trudge along the dark streets. I can hear the sea and it is a familiar, reassuring sound now.

As I head towards the B&B I notice a light flicker inside a car. I stop and see two men sitting inside. One of them is using a lighter for his cigarette. In a second, it’s extinguished. I watch the men as they sit there. I can’t make them out in the darkness. They could just be waiting for a mate. Or they could be cops, interested in someone else entirely. Or they could be for me.

I turn and walk back, my head down, my hands stuffed deep into my coat pockets, hunched against the wall. If I do a big
circle, come down through the back of the church, I can get back to the B&B without them seeing me. But if they’re here, then they must know where I live. I stop. But if they know where I live, then why wait out here? But if … I go through a thousand possibilities in my head and get cross with myself. I get spooked too easily. I stop and take ten long slow breaths. In and out, in and out. Okay. Get back, be careful, move on tomorrow.

The diversion adds about twenty minutes to the walk, but it calms me down a little. I’m less manic as I slip over the church’s low walls and head for the other side. It’s dark here and the crosses and graves are a bit creepy. But then I bloody well slip over and everything falls out of the bag onto the mossy paving stones. If I was scared before, I’m bloody furious now and I’m scraping everything back into the bag as fast as I can, but the wind’s pushing papers all over the place. I can’t let any of it go. It might be the one sheet that tells me about Sarah or something else. And it might be the one piece of paper that tells them that I’m here. I scrabble about on the ground for ages. And then, when I think I’ve got them all, I sit there on my knees and shake my head. This is all so fucking ridiculous.

I’m about to stand up when I realise I’ve been looking at a grave without any interest, but the words on it have finally hit through. ‘Martine Groves, faithful and loving wife, 1941–1989’. To the right and the left are smaller graves – Tabitha Groves and Thomas Groves – both dead on the same date. Both just children when it happened. Edward’s family. Buried here.

They did not leave him. His family won’t be coming back. They are dead and he’s been lying to me.

I push the crushed papers firmly down into the bag and tighten the straps so they can’t get out again. And then I look at the graves again, just to be sure. Why has he been lying to me? Why not tell me the truth? Why make up a story? Why did he let me in when he won’t talk to anyone else?

I walk back, and I’m more scared and more angry with each step.

I enter the house and it’s quiet, baking hot – Edward’s gone mad with the heating again. There’s something wrong with the thermostat, but he won’t let anyone in to fix it. Doesn’t trust workmen, he drunkenly told me, although he never explained why. He never explains anything properly. I drop the bag on the bed and pop open the top so the papers slide out again. I look at some of them but they’re just bills, just details of a dead stranger’s life. A link to my past, snapped out.

I walk through the empty B&B but it takes me a while before I find Edward. He’s dozing in the kitchen, the obligatory bottle and glass of whisky in front of him. I pour myself a measure and stand over him. I’m topped up with nerves and aggression. He wakes and when he sees me, he stiffens.

‘Hi,’ I say.

He nods, trying to look calm, but his flicking tongue betrays his nerves. Is he nervous because of how I’m standing, how I can be, or because of something else, something that’s about to happen?

‘You found your man?’

‘I did.’

‘And you talked to him, did you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re awfully cagey.’

‘He killed himself.’

He looks at me, cautious and quiet as he takes this in. ‘Why did he do that?’

‘I tried to talk him out of it.’

‘I see. Poor fellow.’

‘Yeah.’ I find I’m pouring myself another drink, my glass already empty. ‘Can we talk about something else?’

It’s so quiet. No one ever rings, there’s no post, no one visits. How can that be?

‘So …’ his fingers tap against his knees. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

‘What did you do today?’

‘Me? Are you serious? Burnt some food, drank some booze. Are we really going to talk about me?’

‘No one called?’

‘No one calls.’

‘No. Is the phone even connected?’

‘Of course it’s bloody connected.’

‘So that your family can reach you, right?’

He doesn’t reply, just swills the booze around his glass. Then he reaches over and pours more into mine. He’s doping me.

‘When did they last call, Edward?’

He’s silent, then the voice that replies is quiet and tight. ‘No one calls.’

How does a place like this exist? Ninety-degrees hot, every light on in the house, no calls, no neighbours, no letters, no cold calls. Nothing.

I watch him rubbing his thumb distractedly over his wrinkled, curled hands. I watch his eyes flick from me to the glass, then to his hands and then repeat the checklist over and over – me,
booze, him. Until now I’ve always considered him a quirky eccentric. I felt guilty when I scared him before. But now my lungs are tight and his sweet old face betrays a wariness and cunning that I’ve never noticed before.

‘How do you afford to live here?’

‘You seem very interested in me tonight, Ben.’

‘That’s not my name.’

This shuts him up. He looks at me, his face creased with confusion.

‘So … who are you then?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You said Ben isn’t your name. You said it with some certainty. So … who are you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You must do.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Why? What happened today? Why are you being like this?’

I don’t reply. The kitchen’s so bloody hot. I can see growing sweat marks under the armpits of his dark shirt.

‘If your name isn’t Ben …’ he says, pursuing my riddle with an uncomfortable smile.

‘What do you think?’

‘You want me to guess a name? Out of thin air?’

‘Do I look like a Ben?’

‘What does a Ben look like?’

I knock back the whisky. If tonight’s going the way my twitching heart suspects, then I’m going to need a few glasses more.

‘Well?’ he says, almost pleading.

I just grunt back. Pour a glass for him.

‘How come you never watch the TV?’ I ask.

‘I’m sorry?’

I just look hard at him. You heard.

‘I don’t like TV. It’s all shit. Game shows and stupid presenters with flashy suits and big teeth. Not my thing.’

‘But you don’t listen to the radio either.’

‘I don’t understand, Ben—’

‘I told you—’

‘Whatever your bloody name is, listen son, I’m not scared of you. You sit there, you sit there all tough and hard, but I’ve done worse than you so cut out the attitude, you hear?’

I grin at the shaking finger he points at me. Good stuff, old timer.

‘Edward. You don’t get the paper, you don’t listen to the radio, watch the TV …’

‘Right.’

‘You hardly go out.’

‘I go out. I get food.’

‘I’ve never seen you talk to anyone except me.’

‘I don’t like people.’

‘Why not?’

‘They let you down.’

‘So you’re a recluse. Is that it?’

‘Yeah. So?’

‘So why did you let me in?’

He pauses, a slight sag. ‘I dunno. You seemed to need somewhere. You seemed a bit like me.’

We drink in silence for a few minutes.

‘What’s the date today?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t care.’

‘You must know!’

‘Why?’

‘What? The news, the day, the date, that’s all useless to you, is it?’

‘I’ve got no interest in the news, yes, that’s right.’

‘How do you pay your bills?’

‘It’s all set up. Direct debit thingies.’

‘Sounds a bit hi-tech for you.’

‘They did it years ago, when I was still …’ he falters. The lie’s unravelling.

‘And you’ve just shut yourself away.’

‘I have.’

‘Waiting for the day your family just roll back in.’

He can only manage a nod.

‘How long since they left?’

‘I don’t want to talk about them.’

‘I do.’

‘Well, I don’t. So fuck off.’

I lean in, the soldier’s pushing up,
let me have a go
, he’s calling, jeering. Edward doesn’t shrink back. He just stares miserably at his glass, his hands finally still on his lap.

I push the chair away from me, hard enough for it to hit the floor. ‘You are a liar, old man.’

Let them come. Let them fucking well come and try to get me. I’m ready for anyone now.

I storm past him, turning on the clapped-out old radio on the sideboard. It springs to life, playing a tune so modern it feels like it’ll smash the china, but I’m not stopping in here.
I’m into the corridor, marching away as I hear his feeble cry, ‘Ben, Ben, whatever your name is! What’s going on?’

He’ll be hurrying after me, I’m sure. I get to the lounge and click on the TV. It takes a moment, then the old machine wheezes into life, a dull picture slowly forming long after the sound has filled the room. But I’m not watching or listening, I’m off again.

There is a room, at the top of the house, locked by a key. I’ve stopped outside it a couple of times, but never bothered with it. I’d always assumed it was a store room and hadn’t thought any more about it. But now – now I think they’re there, behind this door.

The door gives way with three hard kicks, splintering and scuffing as the hinges collapse. I turn on the light using a switch so old I fear I’ll electrocute myself in the process. The room is dusty and drab. There is no big secret in here. I look around, glancing back at the damage I’ve done to the door. The room has a drawn, moth-eaten curtain above a radiator that’s screwed shut. It’s much colder. No one has been up here for months, maybe years. An old rocking horse in a corner stares at the wall, dusty framed paintings are stacked up against each other, and cardboard boxes are piled one on top of another – the bottom ones have crumpled under the weight.

A little girl’s pink wooden chair lies upside down on a small table splattered with dried, primary-coloured paint. I take it, place it on the floor and sink down onto it. I open a box; it’s stuffed full of family photographs, old-fashioned paper folders with another unremarkable family’s private moments inside. I glance in at Edward with the family, enjoying happy days, but soon drop the photos back into the box and fold the resisting
lid down. I can hear the television blaring out somewhere below, hear Edward calling for me. I feel embarrassed. But why did he lie?

I reach for another box, open it – old clothes, children’s outfits no longer needed. Everything neat and folded – by his wife, I feel. Put away for the grandchildren and then forgotten. I have a pang of sadness and Emma and Joe come dancing into my mind, dressed up for Halloween, over-excited, pushing and shoving over chocolates in an orange bucket. Carrie would carefully fold up their costumes in plastic and dream of dressing their children in the same outfits in years to come.

Edward finds me sitting in the light of the buzzing bulb, a tiny pink cardigan in my hands. He takes a second child’s chair, bright green with smiley stickers all over it, and sits down near me, an arm’s-length space between us. So he can duck my fists, I suppose. I look at him as he straightens the cuffs off his shirt.

‘You saw the graves, didn’t you?’ he says.

‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth about them?’

He sighs. A twitch of his mouth, a nod. Then a shrug. ‘I don’t like the truth.’ He says it so quietly I almost can’t hear him.

‘Say it again.’

‘What does it matter? They’re gone. Why does it matter if they’re dead or they’re just …’ he falters again. His face creases, like he’s about to sneeze. ‘Who am I hurting?’

‘Tell me. Just tell me what happened, I can’t trust you otherwise, I can’t … I have to know.’