Sleepwalkers (7 page)

‘Honey, you’re worrying yourself for no reason. You need a good night’s sleep. Come to bed. Come to bed, baby.’

I look down at my scratched hands. How can you think straight when you’re this knackered?

Go to bed. Sleep with your wife. Be still. Choose the life you know.

I take Carrie’s hand. Let her lead me there. Let her slip the clothes from my back. Let my hands take her.

We fuck. Slow, rhythmic, gentle, a little sad. I imagine us lost together in the jungle. Fucking in a bamboo forest. Green, hot, sweaty, silent.

She falls asleep with her arm across my chest. But I don’t sleep. All I can think about now are my parents. I feel my mother’s arm around my shoulders, smell her perfume. My
father walks in from work and I run to him and he pulls me to him, laughing. I pull on his tie and he scolds me gently. This must be real.

Later, when it’s safe, I’m drawn back to the wonder wall. I sit facing it, my back against the other wall. I look at every photo. I feel numb. Something inside of me is missing. Taken.

*

Breakfast is absolutely normal in every way. I look at everyone and it’s almost like we’re in an advert: ‘the average family’. Carrie and I laugh and argue, then scold and chivvy the children to school. I head off to the garage with a smile and you’d never know that anything was wrong. Work at the garage is steady. I smile at Jeff and make the appropriate groans at his terrible puns. We get on with things and lose a few hours stuck under the bonnet of a choking engine.

I remember my father staring at the engine of our beaten-up Morris Minor, an oily rag in his hand, his head dripping with sweat. An ice cream van’s bell rang out a familiar tune from a nearby street. He swore, angry, then saw me watching him and made me promise I wouldn’t tell Mum. We fixed it together.

‘Nothing more satisfying than fixing something with your own two hands, my boy.’

I must have taken it to heart.

Jeff revs the engine. It’s sounding better.

‘One more time,’ I bark at him. He revs it again. I remember how different that old car sounded. Like a sewing machine. Tiny, simple engines for a smaller, simpler time.

‘And again,’ I call. Jeff revs the engine. We’re nearly there.

Nearly there. I remember Dad saying exactly that as the car turned left and below we could suddenly see the sea and Mum
squeezed my hand – the first time I ever saw the sea for real. I miss them. I miss them suddenly and terribly. I want to see them, want to connect with something that’s mine.

‘Again.’

I turn, even as he revs the engine and walk straight to my car. I don’t even look back. As I get in, I can hear him calling to me, thinking I’m still stuck under the bonnet.

‘Ben? Again? Again, mate? You happy? Oi! Ben!’

I rev my own engine hard. And I’m off.

*

It’s a three-hour drive to the cemetery where my folks are buried, but I’ve got a full tank and the roads are empty. As I drive in, the sun breaks through the clouds and something superstitious in me tells me this is a good sign. It’s been raining and everything is incredibly clear. I park the car. Outside the Chapel of Rest, a group of mourners wait to go in as another service finishes.

I slip into the graveyard itself, follow the path I know from old. My mum and dad died when I was eighteen, so I’ve been here many times. I look around: the old cherry tree is about to flower. Sparrows and blue tits bob around its branches. Suddenly it’s warm with the sun out, so I pull off my jumper.

I stop at their graves. These seem remarkably well tended. And then I realise I’ve got the wrong ones. Someone else – Martin and Jemima King. Embarrassed, I turn, thinking I must be a row out or something. I move down, but stop. Turn back, try to get my bearings again. Stop.

I look at the cherry tree, the same tree I’ve looked at so many times before from this exact spot. It frames the chapel behind it. I am in the right place. But the names on the graves …

I walk away, walk around trying to work out where I’ve gone wrong. I do it ten times, at least. I know that the two graves in front of me should bear my parents’ names. But they don’t.

I feel sick and angry all at the same time. I look around, I’m choking on air, coughing. My knees wobble.

I start at one end of the graveyard and begin to check off each and every grave, slow and methodical. My mobile phone rings in my pocket but I don’t even bother to check who’s calling. I walk on, and with every name I don’t recognise, anger continues to rise within me. Soon I’m boiling, volcanic.

I head for the Chapel of Rest, ready to take it out on someone. The man inside the room marked ‘Staff Only’ is pale and podgy, wearing the black suit and tie that the job requires. His hair’s white, he could be sixty or something. He’s got his head in paperwork, humming to himself, so I slam the door to get his attention. Before he speaks, I’m at him.

‘You’ve got some explaining to do. Who the fuck gave you permission to dig up my parents’ graves?’

The man is too astounded to speak.

‘My parents, Jeremy and Patricia Jones. Buried here on March 16th, 1986. Out there. But I’ve just been out there and someone’s … they’re not there. So someone’s gone and fucking moved them!’

The accusation seems to spring Podgy back to life.

‘I don’t think so, sir. No.’

‘So, what’s happened to them?’

‘We would never, never move a grave, it’s absolutely out of the question.’

‘Did you dig them up?’

‘NO! Absolutely not, we’d never, it’s against the law, sir.’

‘Those graves there, the two together – you can see them from here – those ones. They were my parents and now—’

‘Those are, that’s Mr and Mrs King. I know the family well. They were buried there over thirty years ago. Their daughters still visit regularly to change flowers and keep them tidy.’

Doubts again, doubts trickle around my head. They drip across my eyes like tar. Podgy can sense it, his confidence is growing.

‘Sir, I’ve worked here for the best part of forty years. If I’d buried your parents then we would have met before and, well, I’m very sorry, sir, but I don’t remember you.’

‘No. I don’t remember you either.’

I don’t understand. I lean out a hand against a chair to hold me up.

‘Maybe, sir, if you gave me your name, we could find … I’m sure there is an easy explanation. Has it been a while, perhaps, since you last visited? It’s easy to become disoriented.’

He’s right. And it has been too long. I try to remember the last time I came. Jesus, why won’t my mind work better?

‘Sir? If I could have your name? Did you say Jones?’

‘Yes, sorry, it’s, I’m – my parents were Jeremy and Patricia Jones. Jerry and Pat.’

He starts to type at his computer. Everything’s on bloody computers.

‘They died on March 12th, we had the funeral here on the 16th. 1986.’

More typing. He frowns.

‘Right there. The cherry was in full bloom. Looked amazing. Everyone commented on it. Auntie Meg said it was a present from God, a sign.’

He looks up, shakes his head.

‘And the vicar got the words muddled and we all giggled and …’

‘I can’t find anyone who … we’ve got plenty of Joneses, of course, but not those Christian names and not on any dates close to the ones you—’

He’s embarrassed. It’s clear he wants to help me. But I’m spinning now.

‘Right there. It rained later and the blossom came down and we got soaked running to the car.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Stop it, stop messing with me. What have you done?’ I take an angry step towards him. I feel the big man inside me, the one who challenged Jeff. ‘Cos there’s nothing wrong with my memory. It’s you, this place. Check them again, check that bloody computer again.’

He starts to type. Both of us want the information to change and correct itself. Both of us know that it won’t. And while he types, muttering apologies, I feel as though the sun has suddenly set, like something colossal is blacking out the sky.

Podgy looks unhappily at the screen.

‘It’s not my mind, it’s not me that’s fucked up,’ I yell. ‘I’m telling you. And Dad’s old mate Ant gave me a fiver. Stuffed it in my jacket pocket and kissed me. See, it’s not my brain, it’s not me. Someone’s been playing, someone’s been screwing with your computer, with this place. I should make a complaint, you should, we should. I’m telling you, they should be there, just there, under that tree. THAT tree.’

I run out of words. He stares at me, too scared to speak. I realise that both my hands are clenched into fists.

‘It’s just … it’s not me, my mind, that’s not the problem.’

I look back outside at the grave. Standing there are two men. Big men. They wear sunglasses. One of them scans the graveyard as though he’s looking for someone. Both have short hair. And I find myself taking a step away from the window.

Podgy hasn’t moved, his mouth’s still open.

‘Look, I … okay. Is there another way out?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I came in from that door. Is there a different way to get out?’

*

Something inside helps me out without anyone seeing. An instinct, or something taught and well-hidden, I don’t know. Either way I slip over the metal fence, shielded by a tree, and if anyone’s waiting for me at the gates they’ll be disappointed.

Why would anyone be waiting for me?

There’s nothing wrong with my mind. There’s nothing wrong, nothing wrong.

*

I walk three miles then wait at a bus stop, leaving my car at the cemetery.

It’s dark now. I sit in the shelter and try to work it all out. Buses come and go, their doors puff open and the driver waits, but I never look up. I don’t want anyone to see my face.

Dark circles spiral beautiful, terrifying patterns in my mind, then crack and splinter. Roots wither and die. A beautiful sun rises behind my eyes then explodes, poisoning me with its deadly radiation.

I stare at my hands. I notice old scars beneath the fresh ones.

Another bus stops, its engine urging me to step on, but I can’t move. A demon sits next to me, laughing, knowing everything.

The bus pulls away and it’s dark again. Dark and quiet. Except for the laughter.

*

I don’t know what time it is when I finally return home. The journey was slow and sore, but I barely noticed it. As I get to the door though, I realise that I’m soaked through. It doesn’t matter, there is a red heat within me. I slip the key into the lock and hang my coat up as I have every day. It’s quiet. The kids must have gone to bed long ago.

It’s warm. Unopened junk mail lies by the door. The front mat is still dirty from the kids’ muddy boots after our walk in the park.

Carrie appears from the kitchen. Her eyes are red. She stares at me – relieved and furious.

‘You switched off your phone. No one knew where you were, the garage were very pissy about it until they realised how worried I was.’

‘Sorry.’

‘And?’

I don’t reply.

‘Ben!’ her voice is higher and louder now. ‘I’ve been worried sick. I had to get Carol to pick up the kids cos I was scared that if I left the house I’d miss … the news … that you’d …’

She’s nearly crying. But I won’t move.

‘I’ve been so worried.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘If that’s all I’m getting, we’re going to have one big fucking fight because—’

‘Please. Don’t. Don’t.’ My hands. ‘Do you love me?’

‘Not when you behave like a complete prick—’

I find I’m screaming. ‘Jesus Christ! I’m trying, I’m trying, I just need you to … do you love me?’

She looks at me, I see her expression change, and she rushes to me. Holds me.

‘I like it, Carrie. How we are. Simple. All I have to do is worry about footie results and bills and how we can stop Emma sticking peas in her ears. I like it. And I love you.’

‘I love you,’ she says. Her face is so soft.

‘But you’ve been lying to me,’ I say, and she suddenly seems a little bit harder. ‘I need you to be straight with me now.’

‘I haven’t been lying—’

‘I need you to be straight with me.’

The reply is quiet. Not scared, but … I don’t know. I love her too much to be able to read her.

‘Okay.’

Okay. ‘I went to Bolton today. And it wasn’t like anything I remembered.’

She just shakes her head, doesn’t understand.

‘I feel like … half of my brain’s been cut out or, I don’t know, but I can’t trust what’s in here and that’s really, really scary.’ I pull away from her. Not cos I don’t want to hug her tight, but the energy inside me is too raw. ‘When was the last time we went to visit my parents’ graves?’

‘Honey, I think you shouldn’t—’

‘I want you to answer my questions.’

‘Don’t talk to me like that. I’m your wife. Stop it.’

A car drives past outside, the stereo’s on full blast. It stops me for a second.

‘I’m in trouble, Carrie.’

‘So we’ll see the doctor.’

‘Who? Dr Mackay?’

‘Why not?’

‘You know, I’ve never met anyone else who goes to Doctor Mackay. They all go to the local surgery on Elm Street. Why is that? I mean, I’ve never seen anyone else in that waiting room. It always feels creepy, don’t you think?’

‘Let’s just, let’s just go in the morning, we’ll worry about this tomorrow.’

‘Don’t we always say this? We’ll fix it in the morning. We just fix everything by going to sleep.’

‘I think you’re suffering from some kind of depression or anxiety—’

‘That’s good.’

‘—and I think you’re starting to see things in a destructive way and I think you should maybe shut up before you do real damage here.’

‘Seeing things in a destructive way? When did you eat the dictionary?’

‘Alright. Imagining things.’

‘Which things am I imagining, Carrie?’

Silence.

‘Am I imagining the bit where I attack strangers in the night?’

‘Yes! God! Of course you are.’

I stare at her. Flawless.

‘No. I think I do.’

‘Ben—’

‘And I guess you think so too.’ She’s shaking slightly. ‘I went there, to the cemetery and it was like I’d forgotten how to walk or, no I can’t, that’s not it but … I was so shocked because you trust what’s in your head, right? I mean, we do things because of experience. Don’t put your hand over the kettle’s steam, cos you remember it’ll hurt. I’m made up of everything I remember. But out there, nothing is … I don’t know anything out there. So I come home. Cos this is the one place – the one place – where it should all make sense, but then I look at you and I know you’re lying.’