The Third Person

The situation seemed to have gone from one extreme to the other, and it had been a long night: my brain was having trouble keeping up with the swerves.

Hughes nodded to me once, and then turned to his accomplices.

‘Gentlemen.’

The four of them swept out of my living room, and I heard the front door close behind them. Within a few seconds, a car engine began gunning outside. I waited for it to drive away and then – when the sound had become a distant whine, barely even audible – I let out an enormous breath and went to find that second beer I’d been dreaming of, so long ago.

I had a dream that night, or a vision.

Sometimes, Amy used to wake me up, when she’d had a bad dream – it happened less and less as our relationship became stronger, and then more and more as it weakened again. Often, I’d already be awake; she’d be fighting with the bed, and you couldn’t sleep through something like that. I’d lie there, watching, wondering whether I should touch her or not. I wanted to; I wanted to reassure her. But I knew it would probably frighten her more than anything else, and so I had to wait for her to lurch awake, turn to me in the dark and cling there, shaking. That was how it always ended. Sometimes my back would bleed, she’d hold on to me so hard.

And that was what I dreamt about. I dreamt that I woke up and she was there, lying beside me on the futon – more of a dark shape beneath the covers than a real person – with blue dawn light coming through the curtains and brightening her edges. She had her back to me this time, not clinging at all, and she was quietly sobbing. Her hand was over her face; the futon was trembling beneath her. In the dream, I moved up against her, pressing my front to her back, and put my arm around her, curling it into the warmth of her belly. She ignored me. I whispered that I loved her, but she just kept crying. And that was when I realised the truth.

She was dead: not really here with me at all. I was alone on the futon, and it was like someone had opened a window beside me that allowed me to see into the world where she was. She was crying, oblivious to my touch, because somehow she’d found out about Claire. In my mind, the room she was in became a cell. The blue light was streaking through a food slat high in the door, and Amy was curled upon cool flagstones, crying inconsolably because she was dead and betrayed.

I don’t know how the dream ended – only that at some point it was finished and I was sitting up in that blue light of dawn, covers pooled around my waist, totally alone and crying. And I stayed that way for a while, wishing she was home, while all the time the memory of Claire’s voice was intruding into my grief.

Jason, if anything ever happens to me, she was telling me, sounding both scared and exhilarated, and I didn’t want to hear it then any more than I wanted to hear it now. The phone call had come out of the blue; I didn’t even know where she’d got my number from.

Why are you ringing me?

Because you’re nice, she’d said quietly, and then carried on, as though it was a difficult task that needed marching through. If anything ever happens to me, I just want you to remember one word, she said.

I want you to remember Schio. Just that.

Click

CHAPTER FOUR

There’s no easy way of projecting a brand logo onto the sun, which meant that the light coming streaming into the bedroom the next morning was a roughly natural amber – albiet stained a couple of shades closer to piss by the tepid tone of the curtains. I sat up, rubbing my face, aware through my feeling of rested nausea that I’d slept in. Ever since I was a little boy, I’d never slept much, and in adulthood – or as close as I’d gotten to it – I still tended to get up early and do my own thing. It has its benefits. The roads aren’t filled with traffic; there aren’t bunches of irritating fucking people around; even the adBoards are generally quiet apart from a sort of low-key buzzing. Shit-all on the television to even pretend you want to watch. It almost felt like the world was unspoilt.

I pulled on a dressing gown and made my way downstairs, figuring it was about ten-thirty, or so. That was bad, in a way. My dream had made me feel empty and miserable enough as it was, and now I got to feel lazy as well.

I had a ritual.

Every morning, what I’d do was get up early, come downstairs and put a pot of coffee on. I’d slip bread into the toaster, get the butter and milk from the fridge, and maybe even put some music on quietly: something that would’t disturb her. And then I’d sit at the kitchen table and wait for breakfast to be ready, and for a few brief minutes I’d be able to pretend that Amy was still upstairs, half-asleep, ready to come down in a bit when she was properly awake. A few minutes of denial? Sure: guilty as charged. But it was too late to go through that today.