The Dead I Know (13 page)

I stopped punching the wall when the shower chilled in response to a toilet being flushed. I turned the hot tap off completely and wore the full icy blast of spray on my upturned face.

I shivered as I dried myself, my limbs leaden and stunned by the cold. I felt tired to the marrow, the lack of sleep and the relentless imagery of my dream gradually swallowing the last of my defences. Amanda Creen’s moving toe, my panic attack in the chapel and my reaction to Skye’s clairvoyant storytelling were products of my sleep-starved and addled brain. The less I slept, the less I
could
sleep and the more fragile my mental state became.

A lazy weekend, John had prescribed. The thought of being still long enough for the dark thoughts to sink their teeth in kept me moving. I washed and dried my work clothes and ironed everything with a seam. When the sun was properly up, I jogged along the foreshore all the way to the hospital. Right through to room
206
.

Tucked-in sheets wrapped the bed where Mam had been the night before. Like an actor in a comic play, I looked
under the bed and in the cupboard before I realized what I was doing.

‘Mam?’

Movement in the corridor.

‘Mam?’

A nurse entered. ‘Mr Rowe?’

‘Yes.’

She squared her shoulders, rested a hand on my elbow. ‘Your mum’s been taken up to the Herriot Wing. If you’d like to come with me, I’ll show you the way.’

She dragged me by the elbow, more than practical urgency in her stride.

‘What’s the Herriot Wing? Why has she been moved?’

‘Herriot is the critical care unit. I’ll let Doctor explain the full details of why she was moved.’

‘Critical care? What happened? She had a broken arm!’

‘She’s okay, Mr Rowe. Honestly. They transferred her up there to keep a better eye on her, that’s all.’

I propped. It broke the nurse’s grip.

‘No,’ I growled. ‘Tell me the truth.’

She flushed. ‘See for yourself,’ she said, beckoning.

It became a monumental effort to move, one step at a time, through the fire doors marked Herriot Wing. The nurse led me on to a dimly lit room where Mam slept – a picture of tranquillity. I breathed again.

‘She’s fine,’ the nurse said again, her hand on my arm. ‘Doctor will be with you shortly. Have a seat if you like.’

She left and I chose to stand. I took Mam’s hand, limp and warm, and held it to my cheek. She didn’t stir and I knew she’d been medicated. Even at her most deranged, she slept like a bird – woken by the slightest sound or movement.

She was usually awake when I woke, as if her consciousness preceded my own. In my childhood, when nightmares woke me, she’d be speaking words of comfort before I fully realized I’d been dreaming. At Easter and Christmas, with the expectation like caffeine in my veins, she’d be wishing me good morning before I’d rubbed the sleep from my eyes. This fake torpor was the closest I’d seen her to death.

‘Mr Rowe?’

I dropped her hand. ‘Yes?’

It was a different doctor, taller and younger with a pair of livid scratches on his right cheek. He shook my fingers and said his name – a swatch of syllables I couldn’t keep hold of.

‘Mrs Rowe is sleeping. We have given her a sedative.’

I nodded.

‘She woke during the night,’ he said. He touched the wounds on his cheek. ‘She was confused and distressed. We transferred her to critical care so that she could be watched on a more regular basis.’

‘Can I take her home now?’

‘I would advise against that at the moment. In her current state —’

‘She’s confused and distressed because she’s here,’ I said.

‘Probably true,’ the doctor said. ‘We had to reset her arm after her outburst.’

‘I could bring her back in if . . .’

‘That would be an ideal situation once her arm has had a chance to stabilise. Perhaps a couple of weeks.’

I felt the injustice in my guts. It swam around and pulled the muscles of my face. He didn’t realize what he was
saying. He was saying ‘You’ll have to balance your tottery world without this strut’; ‘You’ll have to face up to things without this protective blanket’; ‘Live life naked.’

I wasn’t ready for that. At that moment I felt I never would be. I could see it was irrational and pathetic. I could see it would change little about my day-to-day life; in fact, it would make certain aspects of my life easier if Mam was safe in hospital, but she was my lifeline – my conduit, through which the world made a strange sort of sense. Where would I hide?

‘If you need somebody to talk to, I can . . .’

I wiped the expression off my face and tucked it back in its box. I reined in my breathing. ‘I’m fine,’ I said

It was what he wanted to hear, even if it wasn’t the truth. He offered a curt nod and left the room.

I kissed Mam’s forehead and fled.

24

I want to move but I no longer want to run. I want to pull the sheet away. I want to see the face. I want to know the texture of the fabric, feel its bloody weight and be steeped in its terror. I must move or this moment will eat me alive. I close my eyes and I know that someone is watching me. I feel it on the back of my neck. I turn my head.

I leapt awake as if my heart had been jump-started with a defibrillator. A noise made it through my lips, more squirrel-squeak than human. A green shadow recoiled from in front of me and retreated to the door of the annex before I’d rubbed my eyes awake. Somebody
had
been watching me.

Saturday afternoon. I’d fallen asleep in Mam’s armchair studying my guide to the learner’s permit, even though I told myself I wouldn’t shouldn’t couldn’t slumber. I’d woken
exactly where I’d fallen asleep for the first time in a long while, the book still on my lap. The television spoke too fast and too loud. The silhouette of a child hung in the doorway.

Skye Barton. She smiled, flicked a wave. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.’

I killed the TV. ‘No, you didn’t. I just . . . I was dreaming.’

She stepped forward. ‘Was it the same dream?’

I nodded before I could check myself, rubbed my temples.

‘Tell me. What’s it about?’

‘How did you find me?’

She shrugged. ‘I was at Steevie’s place. Just kept looking. Steevie went home.’

I stood.

She backed outside into the light.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. I got bored. Dad was supposed to come and get me an hour ago but he phoned to say he had to do a pick-up.’

‘So you thought you’d come and watch me while I slept? Is that it?’

Her cheeks coloured. ‘I wanted to say sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘For last night.’

‘Apology accepted,’ I said. ‘I should be saying sorry to you. I reacted badly.’

She took a step closer. ‘So, what is the dream about?’

‘Is that really any of your business?’

‘No. But that’s not going to stop me from asking, is it? I’m a kid. I’m supposed to be blunt.’

I gave a joyless snort.

She smiled in victory.

I sat on the step into the van, waved her to Mam’s seat. She wriggled into place, then stared at me, expectant.

It’s difficult to say why I spoke to her. It was probably a mix of things – her age, her curiosity, her persistence, her honesty, her familiarity with death. I found myself speaking with ease, painting that one scene again and again until every detail lay bare. Maybe it was Skye; maybe it was me. Maybe I was going mad. Maybe I was already mad, and talking to Skye was one way of admitting it to myself.

‘That sounds real. It isn’t just a dream, is it?’ she said. ‘Look! I’ve got goosebumps. How much of it is real? Is the blood real? Who is she?’

‘Enough,’ I hissed. ‘It’s a dream. I should have known.’ ‘What? Should have known what? That I wouldn’t stop?

What do you think I am? I’m a—’

‘—Kid. Yes, I know.’

‘I was going to say “girl”. It’s in our nature, you know. Talk, talk, talk. Ask a thousand questions. Comm-uni-cation. I thought robots were programmed to communicate?’

‘Too much communication,’ I rattled. ‘Must . . . shut . . .
.
down.’

Way off in the distance, a voice bellowed.

Skye swore, covered her mouth and apologized. ‘It’s my dad,’ she whispered. ‘See you!’

Her shoulder hit the sliding door as she ran through. She apologized again but didn’t break her stride.

It was after eleven when I snuck to the empty shower block and brushed my teeth. The lights seemed friendlier than I
remembered. I stopped brushing to listen – footfalls on the path outside. It was too late to hide.

I stooped over the sink. Westy entered my peripheral vision and stopped. It wasn’t an abrupt stop – his limbs seemed heavy and loose.

‘Rowie, Rowie, Rowie,’ he said, tutted and shook his head.

I didn’t look up or acknowledge his presence.

He moved swiftly, with fabricated poise. He grabbed the hair at the back of my neck and butted my head into the mirror. The glass cracked obligingly but he didn’t let go. I tried to shake free. He turned my head and slapped the side of my face with his free hand. My ear rang as it had in my dream. He slapped me again and toothpaste-spit sprayed us both. He shoved me off in disgust. I caught hold of a sink and remained upright in the corner against the shower stalls.

Westy unzipped his fly and hauled his penis out. He stretched it and flapped it from side to side, took aim and relieved himself on the floor, on my leg, my hip, my stomach. I’d turned to stone. Cold, hard stone. He rolled up onto his toes and his stream reached as high as my chest. I closed my eyes until the flow diminished to a series of squirts accompanied by little grunts.

He spat, hitting my shoulder, and then left.

I stood there, dripping, his vapour hot in my nose.

Pea on the floor.

Two steps into a shower stall and a battering of ice needles. It took ages for the water to warm up and even longer for the smell to leave. Someone had stashed a bar of soap on top of the wall between the stalls and I shed
my clothes and scrubbed until the only smell rising in the steam was bogus lavender. I padded back to the van barefoot and naked, unseen and unheard, and dumped my wet things in the rubbish.

I couldn’t live like that any more. I lay on Mam’s bed and caught bites of party noise from van
57
that set my heart on a wild gallop. What had I done to unleash the mindless wrath of Westy? I didn’t touch his cash. Without the distractions of work and caring for Mam, I had nowhere to hide. If it wasn’t for the total numb exhaustion I would have run. Wherever. Forever.

25

A single red eye is hovering in the shadowed doorway. It shakes, as if bitten by rage. I have stared at it for a lifetime but in the dream it is scarcely a second before it suddenly blinks and floats to the height of a man. The eye is the glowing tip of a cigarette. The smoker inhales and the glow sketches the figure. I know him. It is the man she calls David.

Dawn on the laundry bench. I’d fashioned a pillow from forgotten clothing and woken with a crowd of thoughts protesting in my head. David? The dream was no longer a single scene. It had morphed and taken on new dimensions, and the fear I felt had multiplied, too. It now had a face – one I didn’t want to remember but somehow did. I knew that if I let my thoughts rest there, the face would crack and release a buzzing swarm of memory.

I showered and walked the foreshore to the café strip. The
day shimmered, the air still and bright. I felt strangely rested, as though the shift in my dream denoted that I’d surrendered to my fate, whatever that might turn out to be.

I bought a cooked breakfast and ate it on an al fresco table beside a woman with a newspaper, a boyish dog and a cigarette. She sent me a smile and I lobbed one straight back.

‘Magnificent morning,’ she murmured, her words thickly accented.

‘True,’ I said.

At the sound of my voice, her dog stepped as close as his lead would allow and pressed his nose to my thigh. He watched my face with his hazel eyes, searching. I scratched his head and whispered a greeting.

‘Wally, get down,’ she said – definitely French. ‘The poor guy doesn’t want you slobbering all over him.’

She reached under the table for Wally’s lead.

‘He’s fine. The attention is always welcome.’

She smiled again and tugged on his collar anyway. ‘Yes, he’s not exactly the perfect gentleman but he is the friend of the
entire
world.’

I held that thought for a mere slice of a second – friend of the entire world – and my eyes flooded. Not with television tears, but silent, hot things that dripped faster than I could wipe, that made my nose run and fuzzed my vision.

‘Are you okay?’ the woman asked. Her chair scraped and she handed me a serviette.

I thanked her, nodded. I squeezed my nose on the paper towel, mopped at my face and sat there. Meet the incredible crying boy. See him
feel
something before your very eyes.

The woman went back to her paper, polite enough to not make a fuss and brave enough to sit there as I melted. Perhaps tears were commonplace in her life? The crying lasted less than a minute but it left me feeling as though my lungs were bigger than they were before.

The woman bade me farewell with a smile.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

She nodded and tugged Wally’s lead. Her high heels clicked loud on the pavement; the dog’s claws clicked soft.

Mam’s hospital bed had a blue seatbelt. It had been drawn across the blankets over her hips. It was loose enough that she could slip out if she wanted to but tight enough to remind her to stay put. Her good arm wore a tight circular bruise I hadn’t noticed the day before. Her face wore a grin for me.

‘Here he is!’ she sang. She’d blanked on my name completely; I could see it behind her eyes. ‘Give me a hug.’

I did as I was told and there was kindness about her touch that took me back to childhood. Just for a breath.

‘What have you done?’ I asked, gently stroking the purple mark on her arm.

‘Oh, it’s nothing. Not even a scratch.’

‘No, it’s a bruise.’

‘Nothing.’