Thieving Fear

'That's it,' Justin said. 'Enough.'

'I'm not standing here to have people tell lies about me.'

'That's right, you aren't. You're not here.' Before this had finished exacerbating Hugh's disorientation Justin said 'You're suspended. Go home.'

'Will he be able to find his way?' the teacher said, and Hugh saw too late that his section was beyond the aisle at her back.

'He'll have to. We can't spare anyone to go with him,' Justin said while continuing to face Hugh. 'You'll be hearing from us. Better stop whatever you've been doing to yourself and sort yourself out unless you want to end up playing round with litter on the moors.'

Hugh might have searched for a retort to this, except that he could see the moors across the car park outside the window beyond the checkout desk at the far end of the aisle behind Tamara and Mishel. They were all in a straight line ahead, and once he was in the open he would be able to see the bus stop. He strode forwards like a robot with a rudimentary brain, hardly aware of the girls as they dodged aside. He blundered past the tills and followed a parade of laden trolleys out of the supermarket. The bus stop was almost as good as ahead between the parked cars, and he made for it at once, hoping that the relative openness would lift at least some of the confusion from his mind. Once he was home he would be free to think of ways to help Ellen if he could – and yet for a moment too fleeting to grasp, the ambition seemed so mistaken it was nightmarish.

FIFTEEN

At first Rory thought it was the deepest sleep he'd ever had – so deep that it seemed he might never wake up. His eyelids were gummed shut with such thoroughness that he couldn't tell how dark it was around him. When he tried to blink they didn't begin to respond. He lifted his hands to his face, however little he could feel them. His fingertips must have reached his eyes, despite the absence of sensation. He pushed at the lids, and plucked at them, and clawed at them to no avail. His eyes weren't gummed shut at all; they'd grown shut. They were covered by a senseless mass of flesh.

He cried out. He must have, even if he couldn't hear a sound. He felt as though he were struggling to raise a scream beyond the surface of the inert lump he'd become. He had only the vaguest impression of scrabbling at his face – perhaps just the knowledge that he must be doing so. He gaped like a dying fish as he screamed again and again. At last he seemed to hear the faintest whimper, so feeble that he scarcely recognised his own voice. He dragged in a breath and screamed once more and crawled up the lifeline of the pathetic noise into wakefulness.

His face was buried in the pillow, and the quilt was draped over his ears. His fingers were digging into the mattress. The awkwardness of the position surely explained why his body had relinquished many of its usual routine sensations. When he moved his limbs, regaining any sense of them took rather longer than it should. At least he was able to unstick his eyelids and identify that the bedroom was bright enough for late morning, which his boyhood clock – one of the very few items he'd taken from the house in Huddersfield – confirmed it was. Although its large circular face was crowned with bells, he hadn't heard the alarm several hours ago. He reached for the glass of water on the floor beside the mattress and canted his head up to take a drink. Surely he needn't be concerned that he could scarcely taste the water, even if it would ordinarily have been more of an event on his palate. He planted the blurred glass on the vague floor and blinked his vision clearer as he located his phone on the board pierced by a knothole that snagged one groping fingertip. He held the mobile above his face while he fumbled for the button until the display lit up, accompanied by an unexpectedly muted electronic fanfare. Within the last hour he'd missed a call from Hugh.

Rory levered himself into a sitting position, splaying his legs across the floor, which felt no more immediately solid than the pillow under his fist. He succeeded in regaining more sensation by dealing the wall a good thump with his shoulders to prop himself up. Perhaps the lingering dullness had slowed his mind down, because as he thumbed the key to retrieve Hugh's call he remembered that he'd had a version of the nightmare once before, when Charlotte's sleepwalk had wakened him. Hadn't he dreamed he was in a house but unable even to judge whether it was dark? The memory seemed less important than discovering that Hugh had left no message, or if he had, it was wholly inaudible.

'Don't mess me about,' Rory grumbled and poked the key to call Hugh. Straining his ears eventually rewarded him with his brother's voice – just Hugh's name inserted in the Frugone answering message. 'Don't just ring and keep your gob shut,' Rory protested. 'I've got enough problems. Call me back.'

He held the mobile in his fist while he kicked off the quilt and made for the bathroom. Once his belated ablutions were behind him he tramped still naked to the kitchen. While the coffee percolated he gazed out of the window at the unforthcoming view of green hills slotted into a straightforwardly cloudless sky. The first taste of coffee enlivened him somewhat, or the jab of caffeine did. If Hugh wanted to speak to him, he'd had ample time to ring back.

Should he have called Ellen or Charlotte instead? Rory thought he would feel better for a few sharp words with Charlotte about Ellen. Within three simulations of a bell she said 'Rory. You're a surprise.'

'I try.'

'You don't have to with your family. What's up? Not that anything needs to be.'

'Has Hugh been in touch?'

'Not for a little while. Today, do you mean? Not even this week.'

'He rang this morning and didn't say why and now I can't get him.'

'I expect it won't be too important then, would you say?'

'I wouldn't, nothing like. You mean because he isn't?'

'Not at all. I'd never say that, and I'm sure I've never given that impression. If anyone – I haven't, that's all.'

'You're making out I have.'

'I should think you're how a lot of brothers are.'

'One of a mob, you reckon.'

'You're a bit of a hedgehog today, aren't you, Rory? Are you worried about something?'

'Can't you speak up? That's not helping.'

'How's this? I'm in the office, you understand.'

'If you want rid of me just shout.'

'I don't. I asked you what was wrong, if something is. Why do you think Hugh would have called?'

'I know why he should have.'

'Do enlighten me.'

'About Ellen.'

'Why, what's wrong with her?' Charlotte said urgently enough for him to resent it on Hugh's behalf. 'What have you heard?'

'Stuff you mightn't want us to. We know how you're messing with her book.'

'I wouldn't put it that way, and I don't believe Ellen would. She's turning out to be quite the pro.'

'Maybe that means something different where I live.'

'As far as I'm concerned it means professional.'

'I wouldn't know.' When this was met by a silence even more muffled than her voice kept growing, Rory said 'I wouldn't, are you saying?'

'I wouldn't, no. I'm sorry if you've somehow run away with the notion I think I'm better than you. I don't believe I've ever given that impression.'

She was giving it now, Rory thought; her language and her tone were. 'Anyway,' she said, 'I should be getting back to work. How's yours?'

'I'm working on an idea,' he retorted, and at once it ceased to be a lie. 'I'll say ta-ta. Hugh may be trying to call.'

'Let's hope,' Charlotte said and left Rory with silence, which was just what he seemed to need. It felt like the seed of a project based on his dream. Only one visitor at a time would be admitted to the installation, a lightless room. The visitor would have to don a face-mask and earplugs and padded gloves and other special clothing – anything that would muffle their sensations. Or could this be done less cumbersomely? In any case cameras would monitor visitors while they explored the room as much as they dared. It would be entirely empty and no doubt a good deal smaller than they imagined, since the experience was about stimulating the imagination – indeed, letting it loose to perform. Nothing and Nobody seemed to be the ideal title, not least because it felt capable of describing Rory himself. It was close to reviving his nightmare, and he decided to leave developing it further until he'd dealt with his very probably needless anxiety about his uncommunicative little brother. He took a tasteless gulp of coffee as he called Hugh's number, but the only answer was the message with Hugh's voice almost lost in it. 'Still me. Still waiting. If you've got owt to say, for buggery's sake get it said,' Rory urged and moved up the list to Ellen's number.