Lost Souls (18 page)

Sam woke up with a gasp. He looked down, remembered that he was at home. The clock read 5.45, the digits bright red in the dark room. He was panting, the sheets tangled around his legs. He looked across at Helena. All he could see was a shape, but she appeared still, and her light breathing told him that she was asleep.

He lay back and sighed, rubbed his face. His heart was beating a fast rhythm. Every night was the same, another trip into a nightmare he couldn’t control. Why the same dream, night after night, making him wake up like this, his stomach churning, his heart racing? And they were getting stronger, each one worse than the one before, the feeling of dread so real that he could still taste the fear.

He took deep breaths and wiped his forehead. What should he do? He thought about Eric. What would
he
do? How many times had
he
woken like this, drenched in sweat and fear? Sam knew he hadn’t given Eric much time, but still he knew the answer: he would paint.

But Sam couldn’t paint; he’d never had the talent. If
he wanted to make it real, he would have to do something different, something of his own. Then he thought about his job. He was a lawyer. He used words.

He climbed out of bed slowly, trying not to wake Helena, and crept downstairs, his bare feet quiet on the carpeted stairs. The only sound he could hear was the ticking of the radiator pipes as the central heating slowly warmed up the house. He went to the cupboard under the stairs, where the children put their toys at the end of the day, and rummaged around until he found a drawing pad and a Parsons & Co pen, a cheap corporate giveaway.

He thought about Terry McKay from the night before, wondered how he was, but he shook it away. He tried to hang on to his dream instead, just so he could make some sense of it.

He made himself comfortable in one of the kitchen chairs and thought back on his dream. It started to feel more distant, almost as if it was slipping away with every conscious minute that passed. He began to write quickly.

‘I’m inside. It’s cold, dark outside. Lots of doors inside. And cold walls. I’m running, and the rooms never end, just doors, shadows in front, shadows behind. I’m chasing. I can hear sounds and I’m desperate. I’m out of breath, but I’m getting no closer, and the doors keep slamming shut in front of me, the walls moving faster, the darkness ahead getting closer, making it hard for me to see where I’m going. I’m shouting out but I can’t make out what. I can see a figure ahead, dark, just a shadow, and it’s moving ahead of me, faster than I can move, and he is younger, stronger, but I keep going, always chasing, never catching.
I can hear crying, a child. The figure I’m chasing is a man. He’s holding something, and it’s bright, golden, but he won’t let me see it. I’m sure it’s a man, although I can’t see the face, but the feeling is of evil, of malevolence. But I have to catch him, I’m desperate to catch him.’

Sam stopped writing and sat back as he tried to remember more detail, but it was getting harder. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the clothes he was wearing in his dream, and even whether he could be sure it was him. He started to write again.

‘It is me, I know it is. I can tell from the strength of the feeling, like despair, panic. When I felt it in the dream, I felt it in real life. I’m wearing my work clothes, a grey suit, a shirt and tie, but they are soiled and dirty, like I’ve been running and chasing for a long time. And then I’m falling, can feel the air rushing past me, and I’m screaming Falling a long way’.

‘What are you doing?’

Sam looked up, surprised.

Helena walked into the room, wrapped up in a large white dressing gown, her eyes red and tired-looking. Sam could smell the stale booze on her, it drifted over as she walked in, and her cheeks were flushed.

‘I’m writing down my dreams,’ he said.

Helena rubbed her eyes. ‘You’re doing what?’

‘Someone came to see me, and he paints his dreams. He says that they come true.’

She sighed. ‘So it’s to do with work,’ she said, ‘even at this time of the day.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s always work,’ she said bitterly. ‘If you’re not there, you’re wishing you were.’

She sat down at the dining table, a large beechwood oval they’d bought on one of their few shopping trips together. She watched Sam as the pen dangled over the page, and then she asked, ‘Where were you last night?’

Sam sat back and thought about his answer. ‘I was at work,’ he said, which was a version of the truth.

‘Who was she?’

Sam didn’t answer.

Helena folded her arms. ‘Does she make you feel guilty?’

‘I’m
not the one with the secrets.’

Helena shook her head, curled her lip in disgust. ‘Don’t take me for a fool, Sam. If you’re going to have an affair, just tell me and get out.’

Sam said nothing for a few seconds, and then he replied quietly, ‘I am not having an affair.’

Helena didn’t answer at first. She sighed heavily, and Sam saw a tear trickle down her cheek. ‘Why aren’t you around more then?’

Sam felt his own eyes begin to prickle. He knew what she was thinking. Harry had rarely been there during Helena’s childhood, spending all his time at the office, building his empire, and Sam knew how she felt about it. But he wasn’t like Harry. Sam had listened to Helena talk about her childhood, and Sam had sworn never to be like that. Harry lived for the firm, and lived for the law.

But there was still a mortgage to pay, and school fees, and two cars to run.

Helena must have guessed what he was thinking, or maybe it was because they’d had the discussion so many
times. ‘That isn’t what we used to talk about when we were younger,’ she said, and her voice started to crack. ‘When we swapped dreams, we never said that one day we’ll be unhappy just so that we can pay a mortgage. I thought maybe we’d spend time with each other, you know, actually be together, rather than this,’ and she waved her hands around as if to indicate everything.

Sam had known that she was unhappy, but to hear her say it came at him swift and hard.

‘You say things like that when you’re young,’ he said, his own voice also a croak. ‘This is real life now.’

Helena didn’t answer.

‘Are you unhappy?’ He asked the question nervously, not wanting the answer. He had expected this conversation at some point, had even prepared his answers, but now it was here, he didn’t want it.

Helena nodded, looking down, and Sam saw she was sobbing. He didn’t go to her. He felt stuck, unable to move.

‘Why?’ he asked.

She looked up and laughed, but it was bitter, her cheeks wet with tears.

‘Why do you fucking think?’ she snarled. ‘You spend all day at the office, and all night, and then spend the evening running around with some young tart.’

‘There isn’t some young tart,’ he snapped back, his temper rising. ‘I was working.’

‘No, you weren’t!’ she screamed, and banged her fist on the table. ‘I came by the office to take your sons out for something to eat. It was dark, no one was there.’

Sam didn’t answer. What could he say? That he was sitting outside a young woman’s apartment?

She stood up and went to a cupboard, began to search-through it. Sam grabbed her arm.

‘More booze?’ he said.

‘Fuck off.’

‘And the dream I had when we got married wasn’t that you would drink yourself into an early grave,’ he said, sadness replaced by anger. He grabbed her arm and pulled her towards the hall, pushed her in front of a mirror. ‘Look at you. You’re a mess.’

She pulled against him. ‘And that’s why you’re playing around?’ she shouted. ‘Doesn’t she look quite as fucking messy?’

‘I’m not playing around with anyone,’ he shouted, and then he pushed her away. ‘Helena, I have not been unfaithful to you, I never have.’

‘What about you never will?’

Sam didn’t reply.

‘And what about the love and cherish part?’ she said, before pushing past him as she went back into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of vodka.

Sam followed her and saw her slam the bottle down on the table and unscrew the top quickly. ‘Is that it?’ he said. ‘Daddy’s girl not getting enough attention?’ His voice sounded cruel, even to him. ‘So you drink. Well done. A real grown-up response.’

‘Maybe I just need you around more,’ she screamed, and poured a thin layer of vodka into the bottom of the glass. ‘You know what,’ she said, ‘I really don’t care any more. And I don’t think you do either.’

He reached forward quickly and grabbed her glass. He couldn’t think straight. He was angry, tired, upset.
He threw the glass against the wall, bared his teeth as Helena screamed. He picked up the bottle next. Helena moved towards him, so he threw that as well. He turned towards her as pieces of glass fell to the floor and vodka splattered over the wall.

‘Try doing without for a day,’ he sneered at her, and then he walked over to the piece of paper he had been writing on. He snatched it up and slammed it onto the table. ‘Have a read if you like,’ he said, and then he left the room.

As he turned to go up the stairs, he looked back. Helena had her head in her hands. The vodka was starting to pool on the floor.

He started to walk upstairs, but stopped when he saw Zach at the top.

‘Are you and Mummy arguing?’ he asked, his voice coming out in a whisper. He looked worried, too much so for a boy his age. His hair was sticking up and his pyjama bottoms were slack around his waist.

‘We’ve just had a disagreement,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Are you going to work?’

Sam nodded, unable to answer. Zach came down the stairs towards him, and Sam held out his arms. He needed to hug his son, wanted to feel him bury his head into his shoulder.

Zach walked past him and carried on down the stairs.

Sam watched him go, and he realised that he had a wife he still loved and two beautiful children. And that he had never felt as lonely in his life.

*  *  *

The room was lit by the old paraffin lamp. It made the shadows dance as the wick flickered with the flame.

As he walked in, he felt the cold settle around him. Summer was fading and the nights were getting colder. Condensation fell from the ceiling as the wood stove made heat bounce back from the cold ceiling. His feet scraped along the ground, small stones and debris stuck under the soles of his shoes.

He’d found an old wood stove the day before. He put some logs into it and held out his hands as they crackled in the flames. His fingers ached.

As he warmed his hands, he looked to his right, saw the small boy lying on the old camp bed, cobwebs dancing from the ceiling above him, blown by the waves of heat. He seemed so much at peace, so different from the troubled young boy scampering through dark alleyways the night before.

He knelt down by him and smiled.

‘It’ll be all right, little prince,’ he cooed. ‘You won’t be here long, and then it will all get better.’

The boy’s fringe was lying across his forehead, so he blew it away, just soft breaths. He adjusted the blankets he had placed over him during the night. The boy had seemed cold so he had wrapped him up and pulled him closer to the stove, leaving it burning through the night.

He stood up and went to his usual chair. He checked his watch and switched on the television, watched the boy’s face as the colours made his skin flicker, his soft pale skin becoming green and blue as he waited for the news bulletin. The old car battery had seen him through
most of the summer, but he realised that he would have to get another one soon.

As the news started, he smiled to himself again, pleased, content. It would be a long journey for the young boy, and he might never realise what had been done for him, but one day soon it would all get better. He remembered how the boy had been the night before, skulking through alleyways, sullen and lost-looking. Asleep, the boy looked different. His lips looked soft and his eyelashes were like long blond curls.

The noise of the television drowned out the whistle of the wind. He closed his eyes, satisfied. The boy was the fourth story in, and as he heard it start he felt himself grow hard.

Healing hands.

But then he twitched, opened his eyes. Something wasn’t right, something he’d heard. He had felt his heart jolt, a prickle of panic.

He looked at the screen. It was the usual scene, a shot of the alley where the boy had been taken. He glanced over to the boy, and then back at the screen. Kyle Shadsworth. The bulletin had given him a name. But it wasn’t that. They’d all had names.

But then he saw the patch on his arm, the fentanyl, the sedative that kept him asleep, knocked him out for days on end, a flow of anaesthetic. He had checked the dosage the night before. The boy seemed tall, and had been out close to midnight. He had guessed his age as twelve, maybe thirteen.

But Kyle was nine, the news now said.

He leaped to his feet. He looked at his hands. They
were trembling. The boy asleep on the rickety old camp bed was nine. Now that he looked again, he could tell. The skin still looked so soft, like baby fat, had felt so smooth under his touch. He looked back at the screen. Kyle’s mother was on television, in tears. The hypocrite. Where had she been the night before?

He looked over at Kyle, and saw the wood stove again. And the blankets. He started to get short of breath. The heat would make him absorb the fentanyl quicker, and already the dosage was too high, designed to knock out a boy much older.

He stepped closer. Kyle looked peaceful. His eyes were closed and his lips were parted, but he couldn’t see any rise and fall in the boy’s chest. He flipped his wrist over and put his watch over Kyle’s mouth. When he turned it back, praying for the face to be misted over, the boy’s light breaths blocking out the thin black hands, he saw that it was as clear as when he had last looked at it. He reached forward and touched the boy’s cheeks. They were cold. He felt for a pulse.

He fell to his knees, put his head in his hands.

His eyes flashed back to the television. Kyle’s mother was giving the usual speech, how she wanted whoever had him to return him, safe and well, like all the rest.