12:07 The Sleeping, page 4
So he did.
Stepping out of the car felt strange. It had been many years since his feet had touched that pavement. The years had passed like yesterday, suddenly gone. James breathed in deeply through his nose, he could smell his youth. Everything smelled surprisingly, just the same. How? He didn’t know how and he didn’t care.
James took a stroll and walked along the road where he had played as a kid. Two doors down was once the house of a very dear friend. They’d met when they were both five. This extraordinary friend, extraordinary in the fact that he knew he was different, would totter down the path, dressed in his mother’s frock and high heels, and call for him to play out. How people were truly different in their sexuality had never occurred to James, until pop music hit his ears. Sadly now, that long-ago friend was no longer in this realm of the living. Wherever he was, James wished him happiness.
Carrying on walking, James reached the end of the road; a whole new experience was remembered as a surge of adrenalin rushed through his veins and pounded on his heart like a ringside bell. The house opposite had a side passage, and this was the place he fought and won in one of those silly shows of male aggression, when defending the honour of a girl seemed the right thing to do. Those foolish boyish days, he thought.
And where was that girl now? He didn’t know, let alone care anymore.
James turned and backtracked to his car. He remembered an old song explaining that you can never go home again; nothing will be as it used to be. Nothing remains the same. But he did have all those memories of his childhood home. Nothing could ever change that—a home where happiness and sorrow went hand in hand. Laughter and a few tears were all the right ingredients to make a wonderful home perfect for an up-bringing of fun—and James had spent lots of happy times there, a head full of times he could never forget…
James felt a slight shiver, he felt like he was walking with ghosts. Opening the car door, he quickly got in and sat there in the dark silence. He remembered that this house—the house he grew up in—was where it had first happened. One night, in the bedroom’s darkness, the wardrobe door had opened and from it walked a shadow.
What he saw was taller and blacker than the very darkness it walked. Its face was white and without eyes. Hollows emitted an emptiness that held no sorrow. Its haunting slow walk, with an overpowering sadness that encapsulated your soul, drew you into its dark presence. Even now, his mind could still see it, so there was no doubt whatsoever. Young as he was back then, he definitely saw it. When he screamed, it retreated back across the room and back into the wardrobe. James was five and The Sleeping had been coming ever since.
James closed his eyes. He couldn’t keep awake any longer. If they were coming to get him tonight, then he would fight them like he’d always done. He fell asleep in his car, and slept like a baby.
The Sunday morning sun glared through the windscreen of a silent, parked car. Inside, James’ eyes opened from the warmth and then shuttered closed in response to white-light pain.
Gratitude of a few hours undisturbed sleep dissolved in his realisation that home was an hour away, and that hunger was calling. James stopped off at a supermarket for some fresh orange juice, a packet of streaky bacon and six free-range eggs. He even got a smile from the young and pretty, flirtatious cashier, free of charge. Sunday morning was looking good.
As James stumbled up the steps to his home, he noticed that the front door that led to his and Mr. Green’s flat was slightly ajar. Caution and suspicion were quickly overtaken by the thoughts of sizzling bacon and sunny-side-up eggs. He pushed the door further open with his foot and then kicked it shut behind him. It was then that he noticed several cardboard boxes piled two high, outside Mr. Green’s door.
James opened his door—an entry beeping greeted him. Alarm turned off and the shopping put down on his bottom stair, he returned to the cardboard boxes. Curiosity had beaten his hunger.
Something felt wrong. James nosily or good-neighbourly opened one of the boxes. Inside was nothing but old suits and shoes. He opened another, only to see shirts and ties and a wide, leather belt that had seen better days. He opened another; this one was full of photographs. On the top, facing up and looking right at him was Mr. Green. Albeit, this Mr. Green was a perfectly straight, standing man in his mid-fifties and in an army uniform, but there was no mistaking those warm, smiley blue-grey eyes.
James carefully rummaged deeper into the box and gently pulled out a handful of photos. He recoiled when his eyes met the rotting corpses of disembodied soldiers, the colour of the earth they merged into, and how harrowing the eyes of the dead looked into empty space. From other photographs, weary men looked straight at him with soulless eyes. Eyes that once saw the beauty of living, had now been tarnished by death’s horror and looked hauntingly lost in the waiting for their turn to die.
Something told James to put the photograph of Mr. Green into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He did as his thought instructed.
The doorbell rang, sending James’ arm reflexively to jump from his leather jacket inside pocket and into the air, whereby he poked himself in the eye. Tears streamed down his cheek as he shakily put the other photographs back into the box. The doorbell rang again. James stood up and opened the door.
“Good morning,” a man in brown overalls said.
James looked the man up and down. He hadn’t asked for anyone to call, so he assumed it must be for Mr. Green. “Can I help you?” he said civilly.
“I’ve been sent to collect some boxes that have been left outside Mr. Green’s apartment,” the brown-overalled man said.
James hated the word ‘apartment’. His face cringed at the Americanisation of the simple word Flat. His eye still shed tears; he wiped them away with his hand as he said: “Come in.”
James opened the door wide and stepped to one side to allow this portly man past.
“If it’s not a good time, I’ll come back tomorrow?” the brown-overalled man said, wishing to do exactly that. He hated it when weeping friends hung around. It’s not like he wasn’t sympathetic to people’s feelings, it’s just that he’d rather not get involved.
“No. If you’ve come to take the boxes, then take the boxes,” James said, dabbing at his smarting eye with a handkerchief to absorb the flow, rather than making it worse by using his fingers.
The brown-overalled man gave a sigh followed by a grunt, as he picked up one of the boxes and carried it off to his van, parked outside. He did this several times, and as he picked up the last box said: “My colleagues will empty the apartment as soon as possible.”
A pregnant pause followed—a gormless expression slid onto James’ face. “You mean the flat’s going to be for let?”
“Yes, once it’s empty and cleaned up.”
“Has he gone?” James recalled his last meeting with Mr. Green and how happy he’d looked at receiving his mail.
“Yes,” the brown-overalled man said. He wondered if he were talking to a dim-wit.
“When did he go?”
“He went on Thursday.”
“Did he go alone?”
“Excuse me!” the brown-overalled man said. Confusion as to where this line of investigation was leading made him look as simple as the man he was talking to.
“Did he leave with someone?”
The brown-overalled man pondered about that, then said, “Well, that all depends on what you mean by ‘someone’.”
“I thought he might have told me he was going,” James said, lowering his handkerchief to reveal a painful, bloodshot eye.
“Try not to reproach yourself,” the brown-overalled man said with sincerity. “When that someone comes to take you, there’s no time to let others know.” And while balancing the box with one hand, he patted a numb-looking James on the shoulder with the other. His touch to James sent a shiver through him—just as if the Grim Reaper himself had suddenly stroked his skeletal fingers along his backbone.
The brown-overalled man turned and left, pulling the door closed behind him.
James was left feeling stupid and alone in a cold white painted vestibule. “Did God write to you, Mr. Green?” echoed ghostly from his lips. “If he did, I don’t want to receive that sort of good news—not yet anyway.”
James picked up his shopping and back-kicked his door. It snapped shut. As he climbed the stairs he thought about Mr. Green and his good news letter from God:
Dear Mr. Green,
I’m pleased to inform you that your life will now end. I hope you did with it as you wished and that you took every opportunity to enjoy your mortal existence. Looking forward to seeing you soon,
God x
P.S. Judgement will be at…
James stopped at the top of the stairs. Horrible thoughts struck him. What if it wasn’t God that took him? What if it was The Sleeping?
A pan sizzled with bacon and eggs. A glass of orange juice was being swallowed, a gulp at a time. James, with nothing more on his mind than eating, seemed compliant to whatever may be in waiting.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The phone rang insistently as Miss Swan unlocked the door to the office. It continued to ring as she removed her coat and hung it in its usual place. It only stopped when the receiver was finally lifted from a seated position.
“Good morning… Mr. Lewisham’s office, how may I help you?” said an unrushed Miss Swan.
The person on the other end of the phone said nothing.
“Good morning… Mr. Lewisham’s office, how may I help you?” Miss Swan repeated.
Some grunts accompanied with a heavy breathing dispersed into her ear.
Miss Swan resisted from saying anything. Instead she listened to more heavy breathing. Then when she heard what sounded like her name being whispered, she felt extremely uncomfortable.
Distressed and fuming, she slammed the receiver down. “FILTHY BASTARD,” she shouted, in a tone that spat disgust.
Miss Swan stood up and walked briskly up and down to remove the shakiness from her legs. Her hands trembled as her whispered name echoed around her frightened thoughts.
Several minutes later, the office door opened and in walked Lance, with a vacant expression that displayed a satisfied smile. “Morning, Miss Swan,” he said, as he passed her. “Coffee would be nice on this fine Monday morning,” floated firmly from his cat-like grin.
Miss Swan said nothing. Her lips tightened to thinness as her eyes scowled at the telephone. Come on, ring again. Ring, you pervert, ring!
Lance picked up his bass and pressed her to his chest. He plucked the open A and felt her voice melt into his heart, and then adding a rhythmic blues riff, he drifted his thoughts away.
Feeling extremely relaxed, Lance again gently plucked the open A before setting his ageing beauty back on her stand. Her voice drifting in the floor beneath his feet, made him ready for the day.
He took his position behind his desk. Miss Swan’s arrival brought a waft of fresh coffee with essence of pulse-racing scent. If anything was going to keep you up, then this aroma was better than any little blue pill.
The bend-over began. Miss Swan, the fantastically formed and curved human sculpture, performed her filing cabinet routine like a pro. Pleasing her boss was foremost on her mind. Long legs and a bottom that craved attention balanced magnificently on high heels. Then came the turn, that coveted figure had the desired effect. Lance’s eyes rose to hand-full breasts. Miss Swan stood and waited and smiled. A slight flush to her cheeks seemed to make her lips redder. Lance returned the smile.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Miss Swan said. She was questionably wishing.
There came that unfortunate same reply.
“No. Not at this moment, Miss Swan, thank you,” Lance said. Regret was a wilting feeling.
He thought deeply. What would happen if I said yes? Would she respond favourably? I can’t…
As soon as Miss Swan left his office, Lance’s day felt like it was going to last a week. No matter how many people sat in front of him—telling their anxieties about what or who they thought they were—he was in no way a help. He, to all intents and purposes, looked like he was paying attention, but, to be honest, he was surmising over the doodles he’d drawn on the notepad in front of him. To his patients, the ones who watched, it was like he was writing concentrated notes that would somehow help them come to terms with whatever problem it was they were having. It’s a messed up, turned upside down world.
Lance had, over the last week, drawn 1207 in as many configurations as he could. He didn’t understand why he had done this or what it meant. But apart from his ghostly visit at seven minutes past midnight last Monday night, he had no other association with that number. No divine enlightenment would give him the answer. He seemed to be alone in his thoughts. All he saw, on the paper in front of him, was the stupid stickman he’d just sketched hanging from the number seven. Seven is supposed to be a magical number, so am I the stickman? He was grasping at straws.
Four patients came and four patients went, and they would come and go again, until they were happy with the way they are. Lance often wondered what true happiness was, and if there was such a thing as a truly happy person—happiness is such a momentary thing.
Lance stood and walked over to the window. His reflection stared at him like a stranger. He turned away, and wanting love, reached again for his 62 Jazz Bass. He knew Kath didn’t mind such an old lady giving her affections.
“Ahem!” cleared the silence.
Lance’s fingers slipped from his beauty’s neck.
A dark-haired man, with a strong athletic figure, was laid upon his conversational couch. “Oh! I’m sorry,” Lance apologised, “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I’m the one who should be apologising. I should have knocked and introduced myself—I’m James Walker, I made an appointment this morning and rudely coerced your lovely secretary into a lunch-time session… I hope I’m not intruding as I really need your help.”
Lance felt something he’d not felt since his college days. He felt a real yearning to know more about this man. He took his place behind his burr walnut desk; there he pulled open the right side desk drawer… and hid away his doodling.
“I can’t sleep!” James stated.
“Not a lot of us can,” Lance responded. He understood his own bouts of insomnia.
“I should say…” James began with due hesitation, “what I’m trying to say is… is that I try not to sleep.”
“And what do you think your reason is for that?” Lance said, leaning forward.
James closed his eyes, and looking like he was going to nod off there and then, said: “If I sleep they’ll come for me. They’ve always come for me.”
“Who comes for you?” Lance asked quietly.
“They do… The Sleeping… they come for me.”
“Who are The Sleeping?”
“I don’t know,” James answered truthfully, “but they’ve been coming since I was five.”
“Do you remember when and exactly how they first came?” Lance questioned, leaning back.
“Yes.”
“Then relax, and in your own time, tell me about it.”
James talked as Lance intently listened.
Lance pictured his patient’s anxiety. It was as if he was seeing exactly what James had seen. He was also beginning to feel that same anxiety.
Miss Swan came into the office to put Friday’s temporarily placed files into their correct alphabetical filing location. She crouched down, without any performance, and did the task in hand.
“You’re the charming creature I spoke to on the telephone this morning,” James said, from his prostrate position. He whispered her first name like he did earlier: “Imogen.”
Miss Swan’s head turned sharply, her face flushed.
James was on his feet and advancing towards a rather frightened and bewildered Miss Swan. He stopped inches away from her and cocked his head down to those shapely ankles. Higher his eyes roamed, and higher still they roamed, until they rested upon her breasts.
Miss Swan’s breathing increased rapidly. Her breasts quaked with every breath she took. This was her time—she was ready.
CHAPTER NINE
An enquiry led to a lengthy, over the phone, form-filling exercise. Mr. Green felt comfier talking from his hotel room than having someone, whoever it may be, staring at him like he didn’t exist. All the questions, which had to be answered, simply gave that impression. Besides, he had the money. And money spoke louder than any words.
The high street was busy. People bustled bumpily in their lunch hour. Traffic either crawled or waited at lights. Mr. Green waited patiently at an empty desk at the estate agents, in his request for a certain rental property.
He looked out of the window into the street. So many unwanted people in this world, he thought. Then his vision shifted to his reflection. His grey hair silvered in the incoming light. His bent-double frame wasn’t any straighter even when sitting. His warm, blue-grey eyes were smiling again.
“Mr. Green, sorry to keep you,” the young estate agent said, with a gestured shrugging of his shoulders, indicating he felt that he’d taken too long in his enquiries and was genuinely sorry for the time he’d taken. “Would you like a coffee?”
