All nightmare long, p.37
All Nightmare Long, page 37
“A lift’d be good,” she said. “And if there’s a coffee drive-through in the way? I need caffeine.”
“Sure,” I said. The job interview was forgotten, and I glanced into my car, half-expecting to see Danzer sitting there. Of course, she wasn’t. I wouldn’t see her again for another six years.
“What’s your name?” the woman asked, standing in front of my car.
“Mark.”
“Thanks, Mark. I’m Rosie.”
It was another three days before mission control confirmed the news. The spokesman Pete Williams said they wanted to be sure before they made their findings public. And their findings were that Sunbeam had flown right into the path of a comet’s tail. It should never have happened. There were systems to prevent it, failsafes, and the ship’s computers should have spotted the danger from five billion miles out, giving them enough time to tweak the vessel’s course. But something had gone wrong, and while the spokesman said it might take them weeks to analyse the data to discover just what the fault had been, the result was the same.
It was over in the blink of an eye, he said, and the clip of his sad, staring face, eyes glimmering as he remembered everyone he’d known on board that doomed ship, went around the world. They presented a roll-call of the small crew whose job it was to remain awake and run the ship, thereby caring for the millions of sleeping souls. A dozen images in I realised they were all wearing the same clothing—a blue, one-piece uniform.
Rosie said she’d known Jimmy was gone, but she still became upset all over again. We cracked a bottle of wine and turned off the TV. She lit candles and I built a fire, and we sat together on the sofa and drank and talked long into the night. She worried at an image, turning it again and again—that Jimmy would have been blasted out into space, and might have died breathless and freezing and with only infinity holding him tight. I said if he had died like that, then he had gone further than virtually every human ever. And before I had time to consider, I said, “And he’ll be out there forever.” I bit my lip, wondering if I’d planted an image that would haunt her. But I knew Rosie so well. She fell silent for a long while, relaxing into my embrace, and after a few minutes she raised her glass and said, “To my floating Jimmy.”
We toasted her brother. I threw a log on the fire, while Rosie opened another bottle. Then she started to talk, and most of it was memories of her and her younger brother when they were kids. I let her talk, head back and tiredness sweeping over me, with the fire heating us through and the wine chilling us down. I chuckled here and there, and then she said something that felt like a dream.
“Huh! Jimmy. Rosie and Jim. We were kid’s book characters, you know? I used to tease him about that. If he’d been a girl, our folks were going to call him Danzer. What a name, eh? If it even is a name. Who the hell knows.”
I froze, then Rosie carried on talking about a family holiday, Jimmy’s first bike, and the first time he said he wanted to be a scientist. We were both sleepy, and I wondered if I’d misheard her. I also wondered what it meant if I hadn’t.
A little while later she was snoring gently against me. I took her glass in case she spilled it, but though my arm was asleep I didn’t want to move. I listened to her peaceful breathing, and before I knew it she was nudging me awake.
“Bed,” she said.
“Yeah.”
Drunk, almost sleepwalking, we went to bed.
Rosie was nudging me again. I snorted, tried to roll away, dreams and the cool darkness of our bedroom stirring around me.
“Hey!” Another nudge.
“Lemme. No. I’m asleep.”
Her hand on my shoulder, shaking, more violent this time. “The fire.”
My eyes snapped open. Rosie lay on her side of the bed, cuddled up with knees up to her chest and duvet clutched in tight. She breathed deep, heavy, and I sat up straight, looking around the room.
She was backing away towards the open door. She had never, ever touched me before.
“The fire,” she said again as she slipped out onto the landing.
I jumped up and dashed from the room, glancing back once at Rosie’s shadow as she slept and dreamed on.
Downstairs the fire was crackling as it ate its way through the remains of the last log. Knots spat, and sparks speckled the rug in front of the fireplace. There were already a few darkened patches where embers simmered. I picked up a cushion and beat them out, then used a poker to spread the remains of the fire in the grate. I put the guard up against it, then sat down on the rug. My breathing was fine and level. I wasn’t afraid or shocked, and maybe that was because I was still groggy from sleep.
“Too much wine,” Danzer said, exactly as I thought those same words. She was sitting on the sofa, in the same place where Rosie had fallen asleep against my shoulder, and I tensed as if to go and sit beside her. But I didn’t think that would work.
She nudged me.
I thought if I stood, she’d probably fade away just like she had before.
She shook me awake!
“Are you real?” I asked.
“I’m so far away, it doesn’t really matter.”
Then she smiled, and instead of vanishing she sat there with me for a while, until light touched the curtains and a new day dawned.
SEARCHING FOR THE ROOM YOU CAN NEVER FIND
The door scrapes on grit and something that has been dropped and smashed, and it sounds so much like an angry growl close to my ear that I jump and glance behind me, out across the desolate dust-covered gardens where my footprints to this place are already fading away. It’s the gentle breeze that does that, the fine dust. The breath of the world wipes out any trace that I have ever been there. The scraping is the loudest sound I have heard in days, perhaps even weeks, and I freeze in place. I imagine the sound echoing away through this vast old mountain hotel and wonder what it might wake, but that is only fanciful make-believe. In reality I know there’s nothing and no one there, or anywhere. Only dust.
Inside, I turn and stare at the large front doors for so long that the hazy sun has moved across the light brown sky by the time I come to my senses. The light has changed and shifted, but it’s difficult to tell how much time has passed. I decide to leave the door as it is. I can’t bear that noise again, and I can now see that the door ground across the shattered remains of something that might once have been fine china, or bone. It doesn’t really matter that it will remain open.
Quick escape, I think, but that’s an idea from many months ago, not now. Back then there had been things I needed to consider escaping from quickly.
I turn and head into the large lobby area. It’s illuminated by six huge hanging chandeliers, each holding two dozen clear glowing bulbs. It’s curious that the power is still on, but I don’t dwell on it for too long, because this is a whole new world of mysteries. Three weeks ago I saw a car sitting on flat tyres with its engine still running. There’s a spread of tan leather sofas to my left and a long reception desk to the right, with large columns holding up the three-storey roof, mirrors, and paintings reflecting what the gorgeous landscape beyond the windows and doors had once looked like. It’s nice to see these paintings, but sad too. It’s like looking into my dreams, framed by the limits of recollection. On some of the low tables between the leather sofas, large vases hold the brittle remains of flowers. Petals are fine dried sculptures on the tabletops, waiting for a breath to reduce them to dust. A stack of luggage is piled close to the reception desk, with a laptop bag left carelessly open on top. A trolley stands nearby, empty but for a folded pushchair. On a single lonely chair placed against one of the columns, a book is open face-down. I see the title and it’s one I always thought I should read, but I don’t pick it up just yet.
There’s a fine sheen of dust across everything, just enough to dull the whole scene. I don’t mind. Most of what I see now is like this, and that’s fine, because there’s a place where it isn’t so. I’ve been travelling for some time, so I decide to go and find this place before thinking about anything else—the food I might discover here, the water, the booze, the clothing and blankets and tools and anything else that might help me to continue in this strange new world. Before all of that, I go to rediscover the past.
Room 104
Alice tripped as she came to sit back down and she giggled as she went sprawling, left hand sinking into the sand, knees thumping onto the blanket, and despite everything she retained hold of the wine glass in her left hand.
“Didn’t spill a drop!” she said, and her giggle turned into a guffaw that ended in a loud snort. From along the beach another couple who’d come to watch the sunset applauded and the woman let out a supportive whoop, and Alice raised her glass to them and said, “I thank you.”
I helped her sit, hugging her in close.
“Water’s freezing,” she said, even though she’d only gone in up to her shins. I’d remained seated on the blanket, nursing a beer in one hand and content to watch her paddling. I’d managed to take a few sly photos with my phone, even though she didn’t like having her picture taken. I never really figured that out or understood. I told her she was beautiful, to which she only shrugged.
“Sun’s going down,” I said, stating the obvious. It seemed to settle the moment and Alice leaned into me, resting her head on my shoulder. I hugged her close, and brought the second blanket up over our legs. The waves shushed up against the shore. A dog barked in the distance, so far along the beach that I could hardly see it against the sand. A few seagulls still whirled overhead, readying to roost.
“Do they just float?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“The seagulls. Do they float around on the sea at night? Roost on the cliffs, or rooftops? Where do they go?”
“Seagull hotel,” she said, sipping some more wine. “Turn your brain off. Look.”
She was right. Nothing needed to be said, and we sat close to each other and watched as the sun burned its way into the sea, setting the water aflame and bleeding its last across the cloudy skies. The colours started bright and then turned deep, like an oil painting being sketched, layered, and then given depth by an invisible and patient artist. Darkness fell quickly, and soon we’d finished our drinks. The other couple walked past us hand in hand towards the paths leading through the dunes and back into town. We stayed, though, and neither of us needed to say why. Some moments that should last forever just seem to play out that way.
I wake after several hours’ sleep. The bed is the most comfortable I’ve slept in, perhaps ever. I am alone, even though for a while I feel sand between my toes and smell Alice’s hair, that brand of shampoo that simply says Alice however autumnal-woodland or springflowers it claims to be.
Soon those sense memories bleed away like a sunset, and I sit up against the headboard. It’s night outside now but the lights are still on, and I see myself reflected in the dark window. I need a shower, and I’ve already established that the hotel still has running water. As far as I can tell it has everything that makes it a hotel, apart from the staff and guests. I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve had a proper wash. To begin with I was keeping count of the days, and then the weeks, but once I lost track it was difficult to grab hold of them again, and more time dashed past with every blink.
I stare into my own exhausted eyes and lean back down into the pillow, but sleep does not come.
Later, I hear faint voices in the distance, like poor radio reception or a stilted conversation. Perhaps they belong to people back on that faraway beach and they’re just an echo from my dream. Or maybe they’re ghosts. Either way I don’t go to investigate, because I’m sure they are best left alone.
When morning comes I have that shower. It’s delightful. The gel smells of pine forests not covered in dust, and I stand beneath the powerful spray until the water swirling down the plughole turns from brown to clear. It feels strange being so clean, and when I look at the filthy clothes scattered on the bathroom floor I can’t face pulling them back on. There’s a fluffy, heavy robe hanging behind the door, and I slip it on while I’m still wet and go looking for something to eat.
I’ve been lost in hotels before, especially at night after a few drinks. Once in New York I found myself in a shadow hotel, corridors slightly more run down than I was used to seeing, doors speckled with damp, and when I found my room number the key would not fit. I tried for a long time, but the door was not opening. I checked the room number and tried again, and again. Eventually I found my way back down to reception and the receptionist smiled and said I’d found my way into the other hotel, the one not taking guests anymore, and she directed me to my own room. I woke up next day doubting the memory, and I doubt it even more now.
I wander the huge building, with no receptionist to ask the way. It’s half an hour or more before I find my way to a large dining room, imbued with the memory of old breakfasts. I walk through to the kitchens and the larders, and there I find shelves and shelves of tinned goods, and in a large walk-in fridge there is bacon and sausages and more food than I could ever eat. I cook on gas rather than over an open fire for the first time in forever, and the food tastes glorious. I eat it at a table at the edge of the dining room, and several times I raise my hand and chuckle as I imagine a waiter or waitress walking over to top up my coffee. I finish the mug, feeling as though I’ve drunk two or three, and leave the plates to clean up later.
It already feels like it’s been a long day. I’m tired again, probably from my long search for the dining room, cooking, and eating such good, rich food. Still in my robe I stroll out of the large dining hall and pass by a staircase. I turn and look up at no one coming down. I venture up the stairs. The corridor on the first floor is identical to the one below, with the same patterned carpet, chequered colour scheme, and subtle light fittings. Between blinks it is pristine, and dust-coated. It reminds me of that long-ago hotel with its shadow self.
Every door is closed but they all have old-fashioned keys in their locks, with heavy wooden fobs engraved with room numbers. I wonder why any hotel would have been left with keys in open doors. Maybe it’s simply been waiting for me.
I choose a door at random and inside I immediately feel at home. The room is familiar, as if I’ve only just left it, even though it is bland and sterile and clean and contains nothing of mine.
The bed is huge. The covers are turned down, and there’s a small wrapped chocolate on one of the pillows. It’s in the shape of a small bird. I peel it and starting chewing, and the taste accompanies me down.
Room 134
Another beach and a different time, this one was in a small fishing village in Cornwall. We’d had a meal and shared a bottle of wine, and we went for a walk before going to bed to help our food go down. We were both relaxed but far from drunk, and we were the only people on the small sandy beach, as far as I could tell. It was dark and breezy, and waves washed against nearby rocks, throwing up ghostly spray in the moonlight. There was nothing really special about the moment, no more than a thousand others we had spent together and would spend together in the future. Alice hugged me from behind and we watched the sea together.
“Food baby,” she said, tightening her arms a little around my stomach. I groaned.
“Shouldn’t have had that apple pie and custard.”
“ Eyes bigger than your belly.”
I opened my eyes as wide as I could, and even though she couldn’t see I knew that she knew what I was doing.
“I’m looking forward to growing old with you,” I said.
“Idiot.” She sighed heavily into my neck, and we watched the sea ebb and flow, up onto the beach and back down, a gentle heartbeat indifferent to our own and yet so bound with that moment.
When I wake it’s morning again. I stretch in the bed, sit up, and look at the once-glorious views. The curtains are open, and I can’t recall whether or not I closed them the night before. Beyond, the landscape is wide and huge and desolate, with mountains in the distance, valleys closer by, the flat sheen of several lakes interrupting the rugged terrain. It is all grey. Dust has made this place its own. I cough as though it’s still in my throat, even though this room is sealed and clear. I walk to the windows and run my hands around the edges, testing the seals. I tug at a handle and one casement pops open, and I shove gently until it reaches its limit.
The familiar smell of my past few weeks or months is carried in on the constant, equally familiar breeze.
I realise that I’m naked, and the robe I’d been wearing is on the floor. I go to the wardrobe and there are some clothes in there, trousers and socks and underwear and several shirts. They’re tatty but clean, and they’re just about my size.
I decide that I have to take some control of my situation. I know there’s plenty of food here, and that the power is still on, but if I’m going to remain here for some time—and there’s no doubt in my mind, and when I look out at the colour-bleached landscape it’s as if I have always been here—I have to check out this huge hotel properly, see what else is here, and make sure . . .
Make sure I’m alone.
It’s a strange thought, because I haven’t seen another person in so long that I cannot remember what their face looked like, nor the sound of their voice. All I can remember is Alice from my dreams, and how her hair felt against my cheek and the smell of her on my skin. And that’s fine. If I’m to remember just one person, it is always going to be Alice.
As I wash and use the bathroom, I hear the distant thump and rumble of water moving through pipes. I turn it off and step from the bathroom, and there’s still a sound coming from somewhere. I think it’s water hammer, or perhaps a leak, but then it comes closer and is easier to identify.
Footsteps on soft carpet.
I stare at the closed door and the narrow band of light below it, cast there by the corridor lights outside. No shadow interrupts the light, and the footsteps—if that’s really what the sound is—soon drift away. Perhaps whatever cast them is too nebulous to affect light, or maybe it was merely sigh of fading waves.
