Authors: Peter James

Tags: #Supernatural

(1989) Dreamer (43 page)

Sam hesitated. ‘I – it’s very important – I must—’

The woman half stood up, and for a moment Sam thought she was going to lunge at her. She backed away, stumbling, tripped on the doorstep and dropped a crutch. She leaned down, scooped it up, and looked again at the woman, who was standing upright now, her face filled with hatred, and hurried outside. She climbed into the Bentley, shaking, her face smarting. Ken put her crutches on the rear seat then closed her door. ‘Any joy?’

‘Christ, they’re strange in there. She’s ill and they don’t think she’s coming back – and they wouldn’t give me her address.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘I think I know it,’ he said.

Sam looked at him in amazement. ‘How? What do you mean?’

He started the car, without speaking.

‘What do you mean, Ken?’

He raised a finger, and eased out into the mid-afternoon traffic.

They crawled up Tottenham Court Road, then turned left into Marylebone Road. She watched the lights and the silver flying spur mascot on the bonnet blankly, her mind fogged, unfocusing, a part of her still in the icy underground tomb. They went up the ramp of the Paddington overpass, and she glanced again at Ken, trying to find some clue in his expression. They turned off towards Shepherds Bush, came to the end of the expressway and joined the slow heavy traffic.

They went through Acton and into Ealing. Ken stopped twice and checked the A–Z, and they navigated a maze of back streets, finally stopping outside a crumbling Victorian mansion block.

He opened the door for her and helped her out of the car. ‘I’ll come with you, be your minder.’

‘How do you know this is—?’

‘I don’t; but I think I’m right.’ They looked at the names on the entryphone. It was written in pencil and faded so badly it was barely legible. ‘2 Wolf’ was all it said.

She looked at Ken again, puzzled. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I think you will.’

She was about to press the buzzer, but Ken stopped her and, instead, pressed one for another flat.

‘Harry? That you Harry?’ said a grumpy old woman’s voice.

‘Parcel – special delivery,’ Ken said, then the latch buzzed and he pushed open the front door, holding it for Sam.

The corridor was dark and dank and smelt of boiled cabbage; the linoleum on the floor had rucked up and was uneven to walk on.

‘Wait here,’ Sam said. ‘It’ll be better on my own.’

‘You sure?’

She nodded and carried on into the gloom. She squinted at the first doorway on the right, which was number 1, then reached the far door, smelled a strong smell of cats, and saw the faded brass number 2 on the door. She hesitated for a moment, and listened. Somewhere behind her she could hear a television turned up much too loud. She glanced around, and pressed the buzzer; there was a grating metallic rasp which echoed around. Then a long silence. She was about to ring again, when she heard footsteps, firm, quick.

The door opened, and Claire stared out at her.

Sam blinked in disbelief.

Claire.

Claire staring at her, matter-of-factly, no trace of surprise.

As if she had been expected.

Sam stumbled back, confused. ‘Claire?’ she said.

‘Why have you come here?’ she said, icily.

‘I – I thought – I – I wanted to see Mrs Wolf.’

‘My mother has had a stroke and can’t see anyone. Go away and leave us alone.’

‘Your
mother?
’ Sam shook her head, trembling. ‘Your mother?’

‘She had the stroke when she saw her son fall in the avalanche. She saw it all.’

‘Saw it?’

‘My mother sees a lot of things.’

‘Where did he fall?’

‘He went over a drop, fell a long way down, then through deep snow and onto a frozen lake. They will find him in the spring.’

Sam stared at her, unable to speak.

‘You’ve killed both of her sons. Isn’t that enough for you? Why don’t you leave my family in peace now?’

The door closed firmly and she heard the sound of the safety chain. She stood in silence too shattered to move.

‘Sam? You OK?’

She saw the red glow of Ken’s cigarette. Slowly, she hobbled down the passage towards him.

‘OK?’

She stopped in front of him. ‘You were right,’ she said. She tried to read his face in the dim light, then she heard a noise that sounded like a door handle behind her, and turned fearfully. But there was nothing.

She climbed into the car and sat in silence as they drove away, watching the lights of the traffic and the darkness.

‘You’ve had no more dreams, since?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘I wouldn’t talk to anyone else. I wouldn’t dig any further, Sam. Try to forget about it. It’ll heal in time.’

‘I wish I could believe that.’

‘Don’t you?’

She shook her head.

‘If the mind’s got the ability to see the future, Sam, then I’m sure it’s got the ability to forget the past.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Forget it all. The hooded man’s dead and buried.
Both of them are now. Bury him in your own mind, too.’ He tossed his cigarette butt out of the window. ‘Forget it. Forget the past. It’s over. You’ve met your monster – isn’t that what someone said to you?’

She nodded.

‘You’ve met your monster – all your monsters – and you’ve beaten them.’

‘Life’s full of monsters, Ken.’

‘Life’s full of survivors, too.’

Maybe it was an hour later that Ken dropped her off at Wapping. Maybe it was several hours. She seemed to think they’d stopped and had a drink, or perhaps she was confusing that with another time. Her head was a blur of burning pain and she was shaking all over.

She went into the lift and pressed the button for the fourth floor and the door slid shut and the light came on and they began to move upwards, slowly, shuffling and clanging, it seemed to be going slower than ever. It stopped, with the same jerk that always unbalanced her, but this time it seemed even more vicious and she was thrown against the side.

There was a sharp pop, and the light went out. She felt the sting of glass on her face, and yelped.

Then there was silence. She waited for the door to open, but nothing happened.

She fumbled her fingers down the control panel, trying to find the round ‘Door Open’ button, her heart thumping. It ought to be at the bottom of the panel, she knew. She felt the indents of the floor selectors, reached the bottom one, then nothing. Just cold smooth metal. She moved her hand up, counting. Ground, First, Second, Third, Fourth, then smooth metal again. She pressed a button at random. Nothing. Tried another. Nothing. She gave the door a thump with her fist and
heard the dull metallic boom echo around. She thumped it again.

Alarm bell, she thought. There was an alarm bell. Higher up; or was it the last button? She pushed each button in turn. Nothing. Nothing. Suddenly the door began to open, slowly, scraping, and her heart leaped with relief.

Then she screamed.

Screamed and fell back across the tiny lift.

Pressed herself hard against the wall as Claire came in through the door with a sickle in her hand, raised above her head.

‘No! Claire, no!’

She flung her hands up and felt a raw terrible pain as the grimy, muddy blade sliced into her arm. She tried to fend Claire off with a crutch, but the demented woman tore it out of her hand and flung it, clattering, into the corridor.

‘Richard!’ she screamed, ‘Oh my God Richard, help me!’

The blade smashed into her hand, slicing off fingers, then into her chest.

‘Richard!’

It gouged into her chest again, searing her with pain, then it crashed into her head; she heard the clang; felt the agonising pain, closed her eyes, opened them again, saw Claire’s face right up against hers, her eyes bloodshot, flooded with crazed pleasure, saw the hand rise up again, then a million red hot spikes were being ground into her skull.

Claire jerked sharply backwards; Sam saw her dimly, skidding across the floor, a hand holding her hair, shaking her head like a rag doll, saw her flung against the wall, a startled look in her eyes, saw the sickle smash into the wall, then drop out of her hand. Richard.
Richard shaking her, wild with rage, smashing her head into the wall, again, then again, until she slumped senseless onto the floor. He turned towards her.

‘Bugs?’

Sam stumbled forwards, reeling. Richard was now a dim blur. She fell towards him.

‘Bugs?’

There was silence.

‘Bugs? You OK?’

The blood covered her face, poured down it, poured through her clothes.

‘Bugs?’

Light came on. Brilliant dazzling white hospital light, a doctor staring into her face, and beyond him she saw the painting of a nude on the wall, and she realised it wasn’t a doctor, but it was Richard.

‘You’re OK, Bugs, it’s all right. You’re OK.’

She ran her hand across her face and stared at it. Water. Perspiration; it was only perspiration. She stared at her hands; counted her fingers, slowly: they were all there; not a mark.

‘Was that another?’ he said. ‘Was that another of your nightmares?’

She shook her head. ‘No. It was different. Different.’

He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.

She was panting, she realised, panting and gulping down air. She lay back and listened to the sound of her own heartbeat pounding inside her chest that was as tight as a drumskin. ‘It was different, this time. It was fine. Just a dream,’ she said, loudly, clearly, as though she wanted the whole world to hear; as though, if she said it loudly and positively enough, she might even believe it herself. She closed her eyes for a moment, and saw Claire’s head smash into the wall again, and again. Saw the glazed beaten expression in Claire’s eyes as she
slumped to the floor. Then she looked back at Richard and smiled.

‘It was just a dream.’