Dreamrider (17 page)

Inside the house there were dishes stacked high in the sink and the kitchen smelled of cabbage and tomato sauce. Cockroaches scuttled across the draining board as I walked past. I moved along a dark corridor towards the bedrooms. I put my head through the first door on my right. A man and a woman were sleeping in a large bed. The man was snoring slightly, and the woman's arm was draped over the side of the bed. Her mouth was open and a web of saliva joined her parted lips. The room smelled of tobacco and alcohol.

I moved to the next room.

Jamie was asleep, but his dreams were troubled. He twitched slightly and moaned, turned violently on his side as I moved towards him. He had ointment on his face. Something for acne, I supposed. It glistened in the moonlight. I sat on the edge of his bed.

The room was untidy and smelled of stale sweat. Clothes littered the floor. There were cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. It was an unhappy room, a room where Jamie had done a lot of crying. And there was anger. The room was soaked in it. Jamie turned away from me in his sleep and I saw the side of his face brailled in angry sores. A muscle in his neck jumped.

‘Jamie,' I said. I kept my voice low and gentle. ‘Jamie, is this any way to greet a guest?'

His right eye snapped open. He didn't look towards me. I could feel his terror. It hung heavy in the air. He stared blindly at the wall, willing my voice to be an extension of his dreams. I waited until his muscles started to relax and I saw his eyelid droop towards closure.

‘Jamie,' I repeated. ‘Wakey wakey.'

He jolted upright in his bed. His eyes were filled with horror. I almost felt sorry for him. He stared at me and his lips were quivering. There were tears and terror in his eyes. His shoulders shook. When he spoke, his voice was strangled with tension. He tried to keep control and failed.

‘What the fuck? You are in deep fuckin' shit, man. Deep shit. This is . . . this is fuckin' breakin' and enterin', man. You're in deep shit.'

‘Jamie.' I put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but he flinched from me and scuttled over to the other side of the bed, hyperventilating. He gathered the sheet up to his chest. Maybe it was just as well. I didn't want to touch that acne, but I needed him to calm down.

‘Jamie,' I said, my voice low. It was important that one of us kept control. ‘Listen to me. Breathe deeply and settle down.'

He shuddered again, but his breathing slowed a little. I made no move to get closer.

‘Listen,' I said in the same soft tone of voice. ‘There are a couple of things you need to know. First, and most important, I am not in deep shit. You are, my friend. You are.'

He tried a sneer, but the muscles in his face weren't working properly. It came out wrong.

‘Oh yeah?' he said, gulping for the words. ‘If I yell, my Dad'll be down here in about ten fuckin' seconds and he'll rip your fuckin' head off, you freak.'

I spread my arms wide.

‘Be my guest,' I said. ‘Yell as loud as you can.'

He tried. His mouth opened and he breathed deeply into his diaphragm. But nothing came out. I stopped the noise at his lips. I made the air into blotting paper that sucked up the sound. His face turned red.

‘That's the second thing you need to understand,' I said. ‘You can't do anything, Jamie. You are completely in my power. Do you remember what I said to you this afternoon, outside Maths? Do you, Jamie?'

His face was still red and he continued his silent screaming, but his eyes told me he remembered.

‘I said I would come for you. And I have.' I laced my fingers in my lap. ‘I said I would rip your heart out, Jamie. I could do that.' I looked into his face. He was trying to move. I knew he couldn't. I waited for him to realise that struggling was no good. It was important for him to be completely aware of the situation. A clock ticked at the side of his bed.

I wanted to get back to Leah. But it was vital not to rush this. It was necessary to take my time. I allowed a minute to go by.

‘You see, Jamie,' I said, ‘you have no idea what my life has been like, the suffering I've put up with. From you, Jamie. And people like you. I want to give you a taste. Consider this as a learning opportunity.'

I settled myself more comfortably on his bed before continuing.

‘How does it feel, Jamie? To be helpless and terrified? Do you know you've pissed yourself?' I pointed at the growing wet patch in the sheet. ‘Does it worry you that your terror will have absolutely no effect upon the outcome of this evening? In a decent world, I might have pity. But this isn't a decent world, Jamie. This is a world where the strong make the weak suffer. I've learned that from you.'

I kept my eyes locked on his and saw they were filled with horror.

‘I'm not going to kill you, Jamie.' I paused and let the words sink home. ‘I'm not unreasonable. But you see, you're a symbol of all the crap I've ever been through. In every school. It's unfair that you have to pay for all the others.
I
know that. But it's not a fair world.
You
know that. I guess we'll both have to live with that unfairness.'

I stood up and moved around the bed until I was standing above him. He couldn't move. Martin was right. This
was
fun.

‘Tell me something, Jamie. Are you right-handed or left-handed?'

He gurgled, but I couldn't make out the words.

‘You'll have to speak more clearly, mate,' I said. ‘I'll assume you're right-handed. The odds are better.'

I reached down and took his left hand in mine.

‘It's actually quite interesting, Jamie. Did you know the word “sinister” comes from the Latin for “left”? And “dextrous”, which means skilful, is from the Latin for “right”. The left hand has always been associated with things that are evil.'

I broke his little finger.

‘The Catholic church once proclaimed that all left-handed people were servants of the devil. Isn't that barbaric?'

I snapped his ring finger. That was difficult. I had to use more force.

‘It wasn't long ago that left-handed kids were punished in school, and forced to use their right hands for writing.'

I'd got used to it by now. His other fingers were easy. I left his thumb intact. To be honest, I thought it was going to be difficult to break his thumb. And I'd made my point. I placed his ruined hand back in his lap.

‘Isn't that interesting? Well, I think it is. Anyway, it's time for me to go. I'd love to stay and chat but I've got things to do. Sleep well, Jamie.'

But I thought it unlikely.

I sailed down the corridor towards the front door. There was no sound in the house except low snoring from the main bedroom. The place was filthy. I felt sorry for Jamie. No one should have to live in that kind of mess.

Outside, the sky continued to clear. The moon was picked clean by the wind. I took fresh air into my lungs and allowed Jamie his voice back. I could hear his screams as I walked to the park. I sat beside Leah on the bench and we watched the lake. I still had most of the night at my disposal.

‘So. The hospital,' I said.

Leah squeezed my hand.

‘Let's start in the children's ward,' she said.

That was fine by me. I knew it would make her happy.

1
.

Dad left a note on the kitchen table. ‘Clean this crap up.' I found it among the pieces of material, propped up on the sewing machine. There was no sign of Mary.

The kitchen door was open. It was ten in the morning. I'd thought I would wake at the normal time, but the previous evening must have taken it out of me. I sorted through the material. The costume was mostly on the floor. I shook it out, but still couldn't tell what it was supposed to be. So I made toast and coffee. I'd tidy up later. I had the whole day ahead of me and nothing to do.

I took my breakfast into the garden. Wisps of cloud trailed delicately over blue sky. The palm trees were refreshed, their leaves glistening green after the storm. Beads of rainwater, trapped in foliage, flashed when the sun's rays caught them. The air was clear and cool.

I found Mary by the pond in the corner of the garden. She was smoking and gazing out over the fence. She glanced up as I approached and she smiled, a timid thing that struggled to keep its shape. I put my arm round her shoulder. Her eyes were red and puffy.

‘What's the matter, Mary?' I said.

She shuddered slightly and turned her head from me. There was silence. I wondered if she was going to answer.

‘Oh, Michael,' she said finally. And then she shook with sobs. It was as if the act of speaking pressed a switch and all of her emotions flooded out. She cried so hard, she couldn't get her breath. She gulped and howled.

‘Mary. What is it?' I said. ‘You're scaring me.' I tried to turn her head but she wouldn't let me see her face.

‘It's the costume.' Her voice was broken. ‘It's a disaster, Michael. I can't get it right. I've been up half the night working on it and no matter what I do, it's wrong.' I hugged her, but she got angry. ‘It's not even complicated.' She thumped me on the arm as if it was my fault. ‘I'm bloody useless, that's all. A simple costume and I can't even get that right. I'm totally hopeless. A waste of time and space.'

I couldn't help it. I laughed. She hit me on the arm again.

‘And now it's funny, is it? All the work I've put in and you find it funny? Well, go on, have a good laugh. Stupid bloody Mary. Can't do a thing right.'

I hugged her closer. She tried to resist. But not much.

‘It doesn't matter,' I said. ‘It's not important. I can hire a costume. It's nothing to get upset about.'

She broke away from me and her eyes were even angrier. I'd said the wrong thing.

‘Nothing to get upset about? Of course it isn't. You think it's silly and trivial. I wanted to make your costume for you, to get it right. I wanted it to be good. So you could go to the Social with something of me. Something to be proud of. I'm stupid for thinking that might be important. Go hire a costume, Michael. That's what you should have done in the first place. We both knew I wasn't up to it. I'm useless.'

I didn't know what to do. I'm no good at this sort of stuff.

‘Mary. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I didn't want to upset you.'

‘No? And what did you mean to do? Go hire a costume. Leave me alone.'

She went to move off, but I couldn't let it end like that. I stepped in front of her.

‘I want you to make the costume, Mary. Please? I don't want to hire one. Honest.'

‘You're just saying that to make me feel better. A few moments ago you were all in favour of hiring one.'

‘Yes, but I hadn't thought it through!'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I can't afford it. I don't have any money.'

She froze. And then she laughed. She laughed as hard as she had cried before. I smiled. I didn't know how I had done it, but I'd won her over.

Mary felt better after a cup of tea. She sat at the table and drank it while I put most of the bits and pieces of material away. I stuffed them into a garbage bag. Finally, we were left with the costume. I shook it out.

‘It's fine,' I said.

‘What is it, then?' said Mary.

‘Can I phone a friend?'

That got her laughing again.

‘Listen,' I said. ‘I've got an idea. This is kind of . . . well, shapeless. No offence. So why don't we make it more shapeless? Add strips of material all over it. We've got plenty. Make it into a cloak of some kind, ragged, torn and dirty. Add a hood.'

Mary raised her eyebrows.

‘Then,' I continued, ‘I could smear dirt all over my face and go as someone who's risen from the grave. Or maybe one of those evil creatures from
Lord of the Rings
.'

She kept her eyebrows raised.

‘It won't matter which. I don't have to tell anyone. People can use their imagination. And the beauty of it is, it doesn't have to look like it's . . . professionally made.' I kept an eye on the door in case I had to make a run for it.

There was a pause.

‘Pass me the dressmaking scissors,' said Mary.

My eyes snapped open. For a moment I couldn't place the noise. Then it came again. A knock at the front door.

I went to open it and my body felt fluid. Muscles moved like liquid beneath my skin. Nothing missed my senses, the feel of bare feet on cold floor, the way my hair ruffled slightly under the ceiling fan, the tingle of blood in my fingers. I felt charged.

Mr Atkins seemed embarrassed. He stood at the porch as if he was sorry someone had answered. He was half-turned towards the street. I got the feeling he was on the point of leaving. His smile, when he saw me, was nervous.

‘Ah, Michael, my boy,' he said. ‘Good to see you. Good to see you. Could you spare a few minutes? I wonder if I might have a quick word?'