12:07 The Sleeping, page 3
Katherine sat opposite and took a sip of wine. “Is it ok? I just did something quick,” she said, half smiling.
“Yeah, fine… I love anything you make for me,” he said, smiling back.
Bermuda blue eyes appeared grey inside lids that were red and slightly puffy—she’d put a little make-up on to try and hide the fact that she’d been crying.
Lance wasn’t stupid, not this time. He knew this day would be hard for her, especially when he couldn’t be by her side to support her.
“It’s okay. I know it’s been a tough day for you,” he showed real concern in his voice and looked at her with genuine understanding. “I just want to say how sorry…”
“Oh, so you do know what I’m feeling.”
“Of course I do,” Lance said, getting ready for the onslaught. “I have been through all this, remember?”
“Oh, I do,” she answered sarcastically. “Yes… I was there for you on both occasions… do you remember?”
“Yes, Love, I remember,” Lance said, with a sinking heart that filled with remorse. He knew he couldn’t have coped if it wasn’t for her support; when he’d lost his parents, she was his rock. He should have been with her today, but how could he? He hadn’t seen or spoken to her mother in eight years. “Do you remember how I told you ‘I asked for you’?” he said, hopefully trying to change the subject, as he took a drink to wet his dry mouth.
“Yes,” Katherine said, not giving the slightest care. “I’ve heard it so many times; I know you asked God for me—or so you say.”
“I did... I asked him for you.” He couldn’t have said it with anymore truth.
“Or someone like me,” Katherine responded with an aggressive tone and harsh expression.
Katherine was angry; her emotions were on high and ready to snap. She thought she could cope, but feelings have a way of surfacing. Standing, she picked up the wine bottle and threw it. Lance ducked; the bottle hit the wall and smashed, covering the wall with wine and the floor with glass. Just below where the bottle had hit, hung one of Lance’s designer art prints, it dripped a delicate chardonnay off its lowest edge. The canvas’s earthy, dark-brown background showed the cross of Christianity burning. A yellow printed verse that looked like it had been scraped into the very earth and filled with molten gold seemed to glisten in its new wet covering. A verse so intriguing, so confusing, made compelling thoughts. It read:
Movies of the coast and the burning cross
Hold tight as your fingers glow
Give another place another time
Watch the traveller, see things you didn’t know
“A least it wasn’t red,” Lance joked, trying to humour the situation.
“You asked for me and got me,” Katherine choked with tears, as she stared straight into his soul. “You never asked for Claire did you? If you did, we might have had her!”
Lance couldn’t see through the welling of tears now stinging his eyes, this was a subject he would never talk about—he didn’t know how to. He stood up and walked towards the storm, putting his arms out, reaching for any tenderness. Katherine responded by hitting his chest, pounding and pounding on it, over and over again.
“Let it out, darling, let it all come out,” he said, with a burning throat of emotion that tried to remain strong.
She continued to hit him furiously—blow followed blow. Eventually all that pent-up energy ceased, and her head slumped down onto where those clenched fists had only recently inflicted pain. Lance slowly drew himself closer and gently closed his arms around her, encapsulating her sorrow, hoping he could devour it into his own body. He so much wanted to take away her pain. He hoped his love could still do that.
CHAPTER FIVE
Katherine was drained—if anything was needed now, it was sleep. Lance picked her up in his arms like the gallant knight he was supposed to be, only that’s not how he felt. His tiny bundle helplessly clasped her hands around his neck. She needn’t have, he was not going to drop her. Katherine closed her eyes, letting her head rest upon his shoulder, as sleep came and took her away.
Lance wished he could time travel; he would carry Katherine back to when he first saw her. He would only watch her beauty, catch her smile, take pleasure in her laughter, but never speak to her. If possible he would catch her fragrance—essence of Katherine—and keep it forever. Then he would disappear like breath in the wind—she could start her life again, free from his cursed soul.
He carried her upstairs, to lay his sleeping beauty onto her side of the bed. Carefully he removed her clothes and with the realisation of how fragile she really was, he silently let himself cry. If ever a woman deserved more, then it was she, was his thought. Slowly and tenderly, he placed the covers around her body and softly brushed her hair from her face. His hand was pricked by the calamus of a single white feather, whose down of the afterfeather gently stroked the side of a beautiful face.
Lance placed the feather onto the bedside table and said softly: “The angels have visited you, Darling, they’re watching over you.”
Lance walked over to the window. Looking out, he noticed that the rain had stopped and a fresh wind blew, hopefully to blow all the demons away. The street lamps with their white glare reflected distortedly on the wet road. Trees swayed in rhythm, their leaves seemed to have a deep, hypnotic rustling. He drew away from their calling and shut tight the curtains. He was about to leave the room, when the idea of if it was out of sight it wasn’t there encroached his thoughts—he was thinking like an ostrich with its head in the sand.
Lance quietly closed the door, leaving Katherine to sleep.
Downstairs, in a dark living-room, Lance sat heavily onto a soft chair. He closed his mind from all thoughts, put his head back and relaxed. He began emptying the events of the day into his own mind’s recycle bin. Coldness came over him as the air chilled; it seemed to stifle his breathing. Lance looked around as his heart thumped fast. It seemed to muffle itself against his chest wall in its bidding to conceal his fear that he wasn’t alone.
Lance seemed to be wearing blinkers; darkness flooded his outer vision and was closing in. What small amount of grey-light this room had was diminishing fast. Soon all that he could see was a tunnel of sight, then nothing. He tried to stand up, but he couldn’t move. He was helpless. Then he heard a sound, it was the turning of a door handle. The air moved over him as the door opened.
“Katherine, is that you?” he called.
His voice sounded dull and distant. There came no answer. There was a presence in the room; a deep impenetrable sadness filled him. Shuffling noises like the dragging of feet upon his stripped floorboards came slowly towards him; an almost inaudible whooshing of sound ran through his ears.
The sound compelled him to listen. The more he listened the more he could hear. There were distant voices calling for help, screams of terror and sobbing all intermingled, swam around the air. In that sound, Lance could hear himself crying as a child, screaming terrified as a teenager, and shouting panicky as an adult. There were others too; all lost in the darkness, crying, screaming and shouting. The writhing sound was held together by nightmare memories that were somehow growing bigger and bigger, as fragments of living souls were being knitted to the souls of the dead.
Lance screamed his wife’s name till his throat ripped:
“KATHERINE! KATHERINE! KATHERINE!”
The darkness swallowed the screams; his voice was pulled towards the others in a mixing, whirling, endless spiral that tugged at him. He felt like elastic snapping as another small part of him left him voiceless. Then suddenly, silence fell like a ton weight crushing his lungs and every sound wave imaginable.
In the dark, Lance felt like he was only a pounding heart trapped within a lifeless shell. He needed to move, to see, to reach out. He wished his muscles to move so much, that they felt like they were tearing him apart in a bid to find some light. He sensed something close, the air tasted foul. In his pain, he wanted to scream his wife’s name again. His lungs engulfed the decayed air until he had enough to finally let out her name:
“KATHERINE!”
Something was now towering over him. The assailing figure lowered itself on top of him; he felt he was being submerged into death. His only escape was to kick and punch. And he did—he drew energy from his love for Katherine. It was a fearless love that burned within his soul. He wasn’t leaving her—ever.
The door opened and Katherine switched on the light. The darkness changed from a thick black-fog, to wispy grey-smoke, then to nothing, and all within the second it took for the electricity to burn the tungsten.
Katherine stood there rubbing her eyes in the yellow-white glow. Lance was asleep in the chair, twitching violently. She crossed the room and knelt down beside him. He was whimpering like a dog. She touched him ever so lightly on his shoulder, and he woke instantly.
“Katherine!”
“Shush…” Katherine said, taking her husband’s hand, “you’ve been dreaming.”
Lance’s look of confusion quickly left, as a soft look of caring in his Katherine’s eyes pulled him back into her world.
“What was the dream?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember. Was I dreaming? Was I even asleep?”
“I hope so because you’re soaking wet, and the only way you get like that is after sex.” She smiled knowingly, giving a suspecting look. “Dreaming of your secretary were you?”
“Don’t be stupid, you’re all that I need,” a hurt-looking face said.
“I better be,” Katherine said, standing up. “Come on my gallant knight, it’s time for bed.”
Lance looked down at his white shirt; it was soaked through, to the point where he could see his skin through it.
“What time is it?” he said, wiping sweat from his face with the palm of his hands and then wiping them down his trousers. “Is it morning?”
“It’s just after midnight.”
Lance stared at the clock; its black marble case looked like it was part of the black marble fireplace, its soft ticking gently passing away time. Its small hand pointed to twelve and its larger was resting between the first and second marking.
He whispered the time: “Seven minutes past twelve.”
Katherine was walking towards the door; she turned and asked: “Sorry… what’s that you said?”
“It’s just that number…”
“What number?”
“I don’t know… I can’t seem to remember.” His mind was desperately trying to think. 1207 flashed involuntarily from his subconscious, giving him a strange, confused feeling.
He couldn’t do it. Every time the realization of the numbers came to him, his thoughts would fog and the image would go. He stood up and joined Katherine at the door. As they left the room he flicked the light switch. The room became dark again as the door closed; keeping whatever may be there. An exhale of breath, from a pitiful sigh, hit the back of the door.
CHAPTER SIX
Five days passed. James lay on the bed. His eyes grew extremely heavy and started to close. At first he tried to fight it, but the more he relaxed the more drained he seemed to become.
He became aware that he could distantly hear the radio—it sounded like a local station, with some DJ talking in an overfriendly patter that didn’t sound genuine. Then the frequency shifted, drifting out of one station and into the next, like the old radio sets when you turned the big control on the front. James focused hard on the sound; he felt drawn and needed to listen. The high pitched whooshing noise drew him in further. A station was found; now old-time music-hall songs were being sung. He seemed to recognise them but didn’t understand how. A station shift again, and a church choir sang—
James found himself standing in a living-room. It was empty of all furniture—the rugs, curtains and pictures were long gone. He felt he knew this place as he walked around on the bare floorboards, his feet leaving footprints in the dust. The large bay windows flooded the room with rays of light which sparkled like glitter from the disturbed floor covering. He stood in front of a black marble fireplace, its grate empty. Once it would have burnt coal, throwing warmth and life into this now cold and damp room. Now only black sooty deposits remained. They peppered the rusting iron-grate like spent Christmas wishes.
He looked to the door; it was closed—shutting in memories of past times. He could hear laughter and happy voices faintly in the air, his senses heightened by the smell of spruce and orange—
James was no longer in the room. He was on the other side of the door, standing in the hall. His feet felt cold on the red and white diagonal tiles. A chill crept up through his feet and into his bones. It was darker, almost gloomy with all the doors closed. Coloured light illuminated the first few yards with criss-crossed patterns on the floor and wall, as sunlight penetrated the diamond-leaded panels within the front door. Looking back towards the dark he could see the stairs. White spindles with a dusty dark wood banister drew him. He walked slowly, half not wanting, half desperately seeking, up the stairs. At the top he stopped. All the bedroom doors were shut. The gloom seemed oppressive as he stood there in what little light there was—
James now found himself in a bedroom; it was much brighter as the light poured in through the window. It was another stark, empty room. The walls showed signs of damp in the corners. Richly patterned wallpaper displayed squares of how the paper once looked before the hanging of many pictures. Time had a way of decaying everything. This room felt even more cold and frightening in its brightness.
Now he was by the window, looking at his reflection in the glass—he looked ghostly white. He looked down onto the wooden boards; his bare feet had disturbed its dusty surface. Again the dust glittered.
He turned and walked—for reasons he didn’t understand—towards the darkest corner. There he stood on the spot where something large was once situated, and felt a sudden sharp sting to his foot. Warmth crept along its entire sole. Looking, he saw a pool of blood that spread outwards from his foot like the flowing of a river upon the scorching summer earth after the rains come. Balancing on one leg, he lifted his pained foot backwards so he could see the source of the flow—blood spat from a sharp needle-like object embedded within his skin. He pulled it out, a severe pain shot up through his body. James fell to the floor in agony. A splinter of mirror, about two inches long, was held tightly between his fingers. Blood ran freely from the wound, not-stopping—
James was back on his bed, the radio stations were drifting in and out again. He instinctively sat up and examined his foot—it was fine. There was no blood—no cut—just flesh, and cold flesh at that. He stood up feeling unsure of his surroundings, almost as if he wasn’t there. He looked down to the bed, only to see himself sleeping—
James was on the bed again; it felt so unreal that every time he got up he saw himself lying down. He struggled to shut out the sound of the radio, its whooshing fading, getting fainter the more he fought. Finally with great concentration, he ripped himself from his dream-like state and shakily stood up, then sat down again feeling weak and faint. His limbs ached, drained of all energy. He wondered what the time was; he looked at his clock displaying its red LED numbers of 12:07:00. They seemed to have stopped. Funny, he thought, as he shook his head trying to focus his mind to the last time this happened. They’re my birth numbers—the twelfth of July. Then the red LED numbers changed and counted 02:09:01… 02:09:02… 02:09:03…
CHAPTER SEVEN
One week can pass quite quickly. But one week without sleep can seem like a living hell, and James was in hell.
When it’s difficult to sleep it can be frustrating in itself. James wished he had insomnia, when the more you think about sleep the more you stay awake. He was finding his sleep deprivation increasingly difficult. The more he tried to keep awake the more his mind would shut down. His dilemma to keep awake created his difficulty with sleep. His ‘Catch-22’ was that if he slept, they—The Sleeping, as he was beginning to call them—might visit again.
James knew The Sleeping wouldn’t always come. Sometimes he could sleep like a baby. But what he didn’t know was in which sleep they would come.
A strange notion came into James’ mind, and he had no idea why. It’s not like he was thinking about the past, he was just trying to remain awake, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. He left his flat at 2.30 a.m. His journey would take a good hour of driving. The night air was fresh, a cool breeze circulated around the interior of his car as he drove with the windows down.
3.30 a.m. approached and those familiar streets became visible in his car’s beamed headlights. A friendly glow from the street lights caressed the houses, where, as a mere lad of eleven, he’d delivered the evening papers. They looked just as they did all those years ago. He could imagine himself drudging around the corner with a shoulder that ached from a bag that was too heavy for his skinny frame.
James drove slowly down the road thinking of how wet he used to get when it rained, and how cold those bitter nights were when the winter wind bit into his knuckles and cheeks, turning them red. The Christmas tips he received made up for it. He depended on them. The help it gave him in buying presents for his parents was much appreciated, a debt he repaid every Christmas to his own paperboy. The good days, he thought.
He rounded the corner. There was the house of a girl he’d fancied who once told him what she’d like to do to him. She was older, blonde, very pretty, and extremely wicked. James was twelve and only a stupid and shy kid. If only he’d let her, but it was too late now. All water under the bridge of life. He wondered if she’d ever married, had children and whose; but what was the use in wondering?
A few more turns and he had reached his destination. He parked the car and turned off the engine. Silence and darkness of the early hours shrouded everything like a veil of protection, just like it used to. James looked up towards his old home. Thirty-two years his parents had lived there. Now another family resided there. It felt strange to know he could never again walk in those rooms. His bedroom where he’d slept was now occupied by another sleeping body. The living room where he’d watched television was silent and dark. Visions of that room graced his mind with years of fond memories. An ever-changing Christmas tree merged an old year into a new year. Now that room would display someone else’s tree year after year. The kitchen where he’d eaten his meals—the stairs he’d fallen down—the toilet… he stopped thinking—he didn’t want to go there anymore. Quick! Think of something else, he told himself. Think of anything… think of friends.
