Graham Joyce - Dreamside

Lee was having trouble sleeping.It was already near dawn, and blades of light were slipping between the ribs of the blind. He’d spent the night on the edge of sleep, but every time he let go, something stirred in the dark and shook him awake. Not scary exactly, but enough of a jolt to flip him out of sleep. He opened his eyes. It was easier to give up.

The luminous dial on his clock blinked: outside a horn blared. He felt sticky and sweaty. His bed was a knot of sheets, his eyes were pasted half shut, and his hair stood up in a quiff. Fumbling to the bathroom, he turned on the shower and scalded himself.

It had been a strange night. A dervish of unfathomable, fevered images had crowded his dreams. Now they were sluicing away, as though painted on his skin. He threw on his once white towelling robe and went into his kitchen. Somewhere a time-set radio switched itself on and a breakfast voice piped feebly. He took an egg and cracked it on a pan but it didn’t break. He tried a second time. Again it didn’t break. “Oh, no,” he said, “oh, no…” Raising the egg close to his face, he blew on it sharply.

Then he woke up .

Daylight streaming in through the blinds picked out needles of perspiration on his face. The luminous clock dial winked at him. A horn blared outside, someone with their hand pressed down hard. He sat up, bedclothes slithering to a heap on the floor, and staggered to the bathroom. The shower made him catch his breath, gooseflesh popping as he walked into the icy pyramid of rushing water. This time he had a clear impression of what he had been dreaming the moment before he woke up.

In his kitchen, the time-set radio switched itself on. His eggs frying in the pan looked back at him with cartoon eyes, and he lost his appetite. He got dressed for work and pulled on his overcoat.

Outside, the earth was in the grip of its own dream, February frost that sucked the sound out of everything. He broke its spell with billows of exhaust that had the frost imps hacking and coughing and running for cover. Awake awake awake; that was what his wipers said. Awake awake awake. Slipping the clutch he put the car into gear.

And woke up.

The clock blinked. A horn blared. He was afraid to turn on the shower in case he should wake up back in bed. He looked in the mirror. A frightened face looked back at him.

His nerves were torn and he had a bad taste in his mouth. In the kitchen a radio switched itself on, and something fell away inside him. He turned, looked at the radio, then at the plug. He disconnected the plug from the socket and the radio died. He reconnected the plug and the voice picked up where it had left off.

He got into his car and sat behind the wheel in silence for a moment. Lee was the habitual early bird, always driving to work with his radio turned up loud, always first there. He turned into the empty car park behind the advertising agency and parked.

And woke up.

He lay in the dark of his room, panting, pressing himself into his mattress. The clock dial winked mutinously. The horn of a car sounded outside, falling away into the distance. This could go on for ever, he told himself. He wished he could tunnel out of it by going back to sleep, but he knew it was futile to try. There was no choice.

So he did it all again. Shower; oh no. Radio; not that. Breakfast; please God- Knowing all of the time that this could, and maybe would, go on for ever.

Dreaming. Would he ever wake up?

He needed something to convince him that he was awake, really awake. He brushed the back of his hand across the flame. He felt the hairs on his wrist begin to singe and got an unmistakable whiff of burned hair. It was a wide-awake smell.

Outside was the same frost-crisp morning. The car coughed into life. He drove to his office with excessive caution, and parked in a different place. The three flights of stairs left him short-winded, and he was breathing hard when he heard his phone ringing. Hurrying down the corridor, he pushed open the office door and reached across his desk to take the call. As he stretched, the expanse of desk seemed to grow and the telephone retreated from his fingers. He was unable to reach it, and, with each ring, the signal prickled with renewed urgency.

He woke up with his bedside phone ringing. It had the clarity of sound of a razor sawing on bone. He jack-knifed awake and reflex-caught the receiver.

“Lee?” A woman’s voice. “Lee Peterson? Is that you?”

There was no forgetting her voice. After more than twelve years, it was Ella Innes.

“Ella! Oh, Ella! I know why you’ve called me. It’s happening isn’t it, it’s all happening again!”

“Hold on Lee; it’ll be OK. Listen, we’ve really got to talk.”

“Yes. Only it’s not OK Ella. I don’t know if I’m awake or if I’m dreaming; or if we’re even having this conversation.”

“You’re awake now. This is real. Remember how I used to wake you? This is just the same, remember.”

Remember. It was a kind of code word. Remember. I remember it all. Your voice. Your scent. How I felt every time you came near me.

“Sure.” But he sounded more than doubtful. “Let me just get my thoughts together will you? It’s been a wicked night.”

“I had to get in touch with you. I couldn’t think of anything else.” He heard her take a deep breath. “I want to come and see you. Today.”

“Today? Where the hell are you anyway?” (Who the hell are you after all this time?)

“I’m living in Cumbria, by the sea. Nice scenery and nuclear seepage. What else do you want to know?”

“But that’s over two hundred and fifty miles away, Ella.”

“We live in a world of cars and motorways, Lee. It’s incredible how easy it is to travel around.”

“OK, no need to be funny with me.” But that was Ella. He thought for a moment before giving her some muddled directions. “All right. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Do it.” That’s how she always used to talk. Just do it.

“One thing before you go, Ella. How did you track me down? I mean it’s been a long time.”

“Not so difficult. I started at the university and followed a very orthodox career trail.” Old note of criticism, not fair. “Lee? Are you afraid?”

“I had a terrible night, Ella. Yes, I am afraid.”

He put down the phone. It had been twelve going on thirteen years since they had seen or spoken to each other. He stared at the wall, dumbly. His astonishment and dismay conflicted with the acute fear of waking up and finding himself back in bed, which he knew would stay with him all day.

Then he remembered the trick with the book. He took, at random, a paperback volume from the bookshelf. Letting it fall open naturally, he read the first few lines to present themselves:

Glancing away, he squeezed his eyes shut, then looked back at the open page. He was relieved to see that the lines were unchanged. He repeated the exercise. Hoping that it counted for something, he returned the book to the shelf.

When he checked back down the sequence of false awakenings, the most bizarre thing had been Ella’s voice striking out of the past and talking to him as if they had spoken only yesterday. When they had parted in their youth it had not been on bad terms, or at least where there had been pain there had been no anger. Parting had happened by inevitable unspoken contract, for the simple reason that they had come to hold each other’s company in a mutual despair which outweighed even their terror.