Pillow Talk (26 page)

‘I love you,’ she said, walking on, winking gratefully at the sea as if it had empowered her to reveal her feelings.

Arlo stood for a moment, looking far out to the horizon.

‘And this hole in my heart
Can't be filled with the things I do.’

For a moment, he couldn't see a thing.

*

Bed-time loomed. And the closer it came, the more of an issue it became for Petra. She knew from humiliating experience how her sleepwalking was often at its worst when she stayed in a new place. While Arlo washed up coffee cups, she slipped away to the bedroom and assessed it carefully. She lay on the bed, flung out her arm to see where it reached. Nothing. It would be better if there was something. Something to clonk against or tumble over or to trip her up and wake her. Next, she counted the steps from the bed to the window, to the wall, to the door; she gauged what furniture jutted out, whether there were any rucks in the carpet. As quietly as she could, she closed the door. She wanted to see how easily it opened and, as she closed her fingers around the handle, she prayed it would be tricky – surely the door of a folly would be a little warped, stick in the frame, need a lot of pulling at some idiosyncratic angle. It opened soundlessly, however, and with ease. She closed it again, turning the handle slowly and fully until she heard an encouraging click, then she pushed her weight against the door to ensure it was shut tight. She went back to the bed and walked over again, put her hand around the knob. She didn't even know how much force she exerted when sleepwalking, or whether twisting a handle this way and that came instinctively. She'd had no trouble pushing aside a sturdy old armchair she'd wedged up against the door at Eric's parents' house even though she'd loaded it with the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
. She'd then gone into his brother's room and got into bed. With him in it.

But there was no armchair in Arlo's bedroom. Nor were there any sturdy books. Just LPs, thousands of LPs stacked together like a long, rectangular caterpillar. Petra tried the door. Again, it opened easily. She closed it again. Took off her shoes, placed them in the path she thought she might walk. This time she closed her eyes, hoping to best emulate the way she walked when asleep. Shoe. Ouch, corner of bed. Shoe. Where is the door? Where is the sodding door? She opened her eyes. The door was open and Arlo was standing there, staring at her.

‘What are you doing?’

Petra was mortified. ‘Oh! Nothing. Nothing. I'm just – tired. I kicked off my shoes and practically fell asleep on your bed in an instant! So I was coming to say I'm going to bed. I can hardly keep my eyes open! Actually, maybe I have something in my eyes – perhaps that's why they feel so tired.’

From the way Arlo was looking at her, it was obvious that either he didn't believe her, or else he thought she was nuts. But she just didn't want to tell him about it. Her sleepwalking had irritated Rob supremely, frustrated her parents, amused her friends. No one really took it seriously, that was for sure. Petra just didn't want Arlo to know. At least not yet. Not when love had so recently taken wing, as fragile in its newness as a butterfly just unfurled from its chrysalis. On a deeper level, Petra felt embarrassed: she didn't know why she sleepwalked and she had no idea how to stop it. Nobody did. All she wanted was a good night's sleep in Arlo's arms; night after night safe in bed with him. Surely the more of those she had, then the bad spell would be broken at last? Just then she thought she was going about it the best way she could.

‘I'm just tired. Just about to put my shoes away.’

‘Oh,’ he said, still looking puzzled. ‘OK, well, I'll join you in a minute or two.’

‘OK!’ she said with an oversized grin, giving him a quick, unnecessary thumbs-up which she regretted instantly. Stop it! Act normal. It's Arlo. It's Arlo. It's love. Don't worry.

* * *

But of course she walked. Arlo was still awake – as was so often his wont in the small hours – when Petra sat up quickly and left the bed. She banged into the corner of it, made her odd, stilted passage to the door regardless, opened it easily, went through to the sitting room. Arlo followed her. She was standing very still. He walked right in front of her.

‘Earth to Planet Petra,’ he said, with a little wave in front of her eyes. She pushed his arm down with surprising force and shuffled a few steps forward. He stayed in front of her. ‘Arlo to Petra,’ he said gently, ‘come back to bed, sweetheart.’ As gently as he could, he turned her shoulders, letting her do the walking while he did the guiding. Back to bed. Snuggled up close. Holding her against him. Don't go. Don't leave. Stay.

‘Where is it that you go, Petra?’

She said something. In a flat monotone mumble.

‘I go looking,’ he thought she said.

Chapter Thirty-eight

‘How did you sleep?’ Arlo asked casually from a muffle of pillow, waking at the scent of breakfast in bed which Petra had just brought in. Hot buttered toast. Sod the crumbs.

‘Oh fine, fine,’ Petra said. ‘You?’

‘Terrible.’ He noted that she looked momentarily panicked.

‘Why? Oh God, do I snore?’

‘No,’ he laughed. ‘It's just I don't sleep very well. Haven't done so for a few years. A sort of insomnia, I suppose. No matter how tired I am, I lie awake and stare at the ceiling. Sometimes for hours.’

‘Perhaps you should paint sheep on your ceiling to count?’

‘Believe me, I've thought of that.’

‘Things on your mind?’

‘Not really – that's the problem. If there were things on my mind I could try and work through them. But I just lie there, not sleeping, with adrenalin caught at the base of my throat – sometimes my heart races. Do you remember that feeling when you had an exam the next morning? That mixture of doom and excitement? Anticipation and dread? It's like that.’

‘Arlo, that's terrible. You know, I read somewhere that if you're lying in bed and you can't sleep, then you should leave the room.’ Petra leant over and took a sizeable bite of Arlo's toast, having finished two slices of her own. ‘You should only associate the bedroom with being a sanctuary of sleep. If you're not getting any – then go to another room for a while. If it's really bad, perhaps consider a course of cognitive behavioural therapy – it's meant to be brilliant for insomniacs.’

‘I'll take your advice,’ Arlo said, though he was tempted to say, You're a fine one to talk, just to see how she'd react. However, he'd sensed that, wherever it was she went while she slept, it was private territory and if he barged in just now, he'd be trespassing.

They went to Whitby that morning, by mini-bus again. Petra was transfixed by the ruined Abbey. Then as they meandered through the town, Arlo had her in stitches with lurid tales of Dracula, pulling her into doorways here and there to kiss her dramatically along her neck. As they browsed the jet and marvelled at the goths, she told him all about Kitty and how much she'd love Whitby. Why don't you invite her up for a weekend, Arlo suggested. I might just do that, Petra mused. On their journey home, they interviewed each other for their Desert Island Discs. Arlo just about allowed her to take Robbie Williams. And Petra let Arlo take Marcy Playground, wherever that was or whoever they were. Petra chose
Jane Eyre
as her book (‘I'd never have guessed – I had you down as a sci-fi girl,’ Arlo said drily, laughing when she bashed him) and her tools as her luxury, having first ascertained that her island would be replete with natural reserves of precious metals and gemstones. Arlo chose a razor as his luxury, not that he minded growing a beard (he'd had some success with a goatee in his twenties) but because he confided to Petra that he was relatively obsessed with keeping his hair closely cropped. ‘You vain poof,’ Petra laughed but she affectionately stroked his head all the same.

* * *

The first Arlo knew about it was the scream. A desperate scream of glass-shattering purity. It jerked him out of his sleep with the force of an electric shock and he sat bolt upright, noticed in a glance that Petra was missing, and knew instinctively it was she who had screamed. But now there was only silence. It was eerily quiet as if the scream had come out of the night and had been instantly swallowed up by it. It was now so quiet that momentarily Arlo wondered if he'd imagined the sound. Sometimes, he dreamed musically – the images and emotions described to his subconscious in bizarre terms of notes and rhythm that always made sense at the time and that sometimes he jotted down on awaking. But Petra was gone from his bed and it was she who had screamed and as Arlo scrambled into his clothes, he called her name. She was not in the bathroom. Nor was she in the sitting area. She wasn't in the kitchen. No sign of her at all, no evidence of her having even been there, apart from the ominously open door. 3.02 a.m. He cursed himself for having actually been asleep.

‘Petra?’

Arlo shuddered. In the thin air of the small hours, the trees loomed a little menacingly, ominous silhouettes clawing at the night sky. The silence was thick and oppressive but Arlo didn't dare break it with audible footfalls, for fear of damping out any further sound from Petra. He tiptoed across the path to the safer surface of the grass. Called her name, over and again.

Nothing. Arlo shivered. It was surprisingly brisk. Though the paths were lit well enough for errant schoolboys to be caught sneaking out for a crafty fag after lights-out, they were not lit well enough for somnambulant females to be found.

‘Is anyone there?’

There was a rustling. During numerous insomniac sorties of his own, Arlo had become well acquainted with the wealth of wildlife which claimed the school grounds as their own at night. But right now he didn't care for badgers and owls, he just wanted to see Petra.

‘Petra. Petra Flint?’

‘Arlo?’

It was her. Somewhere. Her voice, thin and desperate and fogged by tears.

‘She's here.’

Who the fuck is that? A male voice. That direction.

‘Where's
here
?’ Arlo called out.

‘Here.’

No, this direction.

He ran, calling her name, calling hullo, calling that he was coming. Petra, I'm coming.

There she is. Sweet Jesus. Buck naked. Arms closed defensively around her body. Head downcast with shame. Knees buckling a little with fear. Or with cold. She is flanked by two men. There's a Walley Brother on each side. Christ, thinks Arlo, foxes would be better than them.

‘She yours, then?’ asks one Walley with a leer at Petra, a sneer at Arlo.

‘Yes,’ Arlo says, striding up close while pulling his top over his head, drawing Petra close against him, wrapping his sweatshirt around as much as he can. ‘She's mine.’ He kisses her head gently, holds her body very tightly, whispers, ‘You're fine, Petra, you're fine.’

‘We found her,’ Walley Two is saying, ‘asleep in the grass. We didn't know what she was at first, did we? Walk around like that often, does she? In her birthday suit? All hours?’

Petra buries her face deeper in Arlo's chest.

‘Had to prod her to wake her.’

‘Couldn't wake her. Had to turn her over to see if she was dead.’

‘Wasn't. Could see her breathing.’

‘Could see a bit too much. You never heard of a nightgown, miss?’

‘Pyjamas, miss?’

‘Lucky it was us, really. You ought to count your lucky stars. Don't want the boys coming across this. A sight for their sore little eyes.’

‘Their sordid little eyes and filthy little minds.’

‘Thank you, Mr Walley, thank you, Mr Walley,’ Arlo says. ‘I'm grateful you were around. We both are. She's fine. You're fine, Petra. Everything is OK. You can leave her with me. You can leave – now.’ Arlo knows you have to spell things out for the Walley Brothers. They may claim to be simple folk but they're sly enough to twist what they find and scatter seeds of malevolence across the school grounds. Like when Head of Maths Mrs Goode's son turned up from Cambridge University halfway through term. Kicked out, came the word from the Walleys. Glandular fever was the truth. And when Mr Henderson crashed his car. Drunk as a skunk, said the Walleys. Minor stroke, said the hospital. And when Simeon de Vries failed every GCSE the Walleys rolled it out that it was down to the kid smoking too much wacky baccy. Not so, said the doctor, diagnosing ME soon after.

‘She was asleep,’ Arlo tells them clearly. ‘She doesn't know she does it. She sleepwalks. She cannot help it.’ He feels Petra pull back a little, he can sense her staring at him, then he feels her think better of it as she sinks back into the safety of his arms. ‘It's an affliction,’ he says. ‘It's a serious condition and it is not, I repeat
not
, gossip.’

The Walleys look a little put out. You don't want to get on the wrong side of them. Creepy and in the background they might be, but you don't want to give them voice.

‘I can't thank you enough,’ Arlo suddenly says. ‘Thank you so much – both of you. No – really. Thank God it was
you
who found her. Poor Petra.
We're
so pleased it was you, Mr and Mr Walley. Can you imagine if it was someone else? Someone who didn't understand these things – someone who isn't as discreet as you two, nor as wise? We are
so
grateful.’ Arlo is making a mental note to buy them a bottle of whisky, each, the very next day.

‘Well, all right then,’ says Walley One, a bit miffed to be praised rather than insulted.

‘As you say, good job it was us,’ growls Walley Two.

‘Lock your door,’ Walley One says as he mooches off into the dark.

‘Keep the girl dressed,’ says Walley Two as he follows his brother into the murkiness of their night.

Petra is shaking. Arlo eases his sweatshirt onto her properly. ‘Come on, you,’ he says. ‘Cup of tea. Let's get you back inside. Let's get you warmed up. I have chocolate too. Come on, Petra, chocolate tastes especially good in the middle of the night. I should know.’

She sips. Arlo has added lots of sugar, muttering something about sweet tea being good for shock. He has placed small chunks of milk chocolate on her knees which he replenishes each time she eats one, breaking them off from a very large slab. If she talks, she talks, he quietly decides, sipping a mug of highly sweetened tea himself.

‘Thank you,’ Petra says and she looks sheepish. ‘I'm so sorry.’

‘That's OK – but are you OK?’

She shrugs. ‘I'm – appalled.’ She casts her eyes downward. Her feet are dirty. She tries to tuck them in to each other. ‘It's toe-curlingly embarrassing,’ she says. Literally – she and Arlo both think.

‘You sleepwalk,’ Arlo says and it is not a question.

She darts her gaze up at him, and then away. ‘Well – sometimes.’

‘More than sometimes. I've watched you – you do it at the Stables, you do it here. You build towers out of loo rolls. You put houseplants in the fridge. You put shoes on the window sill. You bash into things yet you don't wake up.’

Petra buries her face in her hands.

‘You go walkabout, starkers, through the grounds of one of the UK's leading public boys' schools.’ Arlo says it so sensitively that he almost manages to raise the corners of Petra's mouth. But her shoulders droop and she looks absolutely defeated by it all. ‘It must be bloody awful for you, Petra. Christ, it must be a strain.’ And he really, truly means it. Petra can hear his utter commiseration in the timbre of his voice.

‘It is,’ she nods. No eye contact, as yet. ‘I didn't know you knew.’

‘I do know.’

‘You didn't say?’

‘I didn't think you'd want me to see.’

‘I don't.’

They sit in silence. They eat more chocolate because it gives them something nice to share, something to do other than talk.

‘Have you always done it? The sleepwalking? Is there anything you can do? That I can do? That can be done for you?’ Arlo puts his mug down and walks to the kitchen. Comes back with the washing-up bowl full of warm water, brimming with soap suds. He kneels down, places her feet in the bowl, a towel across his lap. He can look up at her downcast face, catch her eyes, at this angle. He holds her gaze for a moment. Then, gently, he bathes her feet. Each toe in turn. This little piggy went to market, he says. This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy went sleepwalking squeak squeak squeak out into the big unknown. A teardrop falls to Petra's knee. Arlo puts his finger over it, as if it's an ant that is to go no further. ‘Don't cry,’ he tells her. ‘You're safe with me.’ He sits beside her, draws her feet onto his lap and rubs them tenderly, turbans a towel around them.

‘I started when I was about eight,’ she tells him. ‘I've sleepwalked ever since. In some periods of my life more often than in others. I went deaf in one ear for five weeks when I fell down some stairs. I've found myself naked, locked out on the fire escape of a country hotel at my friend's wedding. I have wet myself countless times. I peed on a pile of toys belonging to a friend's kid sister. On my ex's armchair. I've walked right out of my flat and been picked up by the police. Clothed, thank Christ. I've had black eyes, grazed knees, bruised shins, sprained wrists, swollen jaw, split lip.’ She pauses. She toys with a piece of chocolate until Arlo picks it up and places it in her mouth. ‘I hate going to bed because I never know where sleep will take me.’

‘Can't anything be done?’ he asks. ‘Can't anyone help?’

‘I went for trials at the world-famous sleep centre at Loughborough University,’ Petra says, ‘and for more tests at the renowned sleep clinic in Harley Street. They monitored me, night after night. They glued electrodes onto my scalp, onto my body – a polysomnogram which monitors brainwave activity, heartbeat, breathing. There was a CCTV which showed me ripping the pads off – and I was really tugging hard. I had little bald patches after that.’