The dog yelps while I scream in horror. Blood streams from the bear’s mouth. The kid stops throwing the fish and freezes as the bear throws the lifeless little corpse to one side. I step back, double over and retch.
When I recover and stand up, the kid has returned to feeding the bears – and another puppy is by his side. Or the same puppy: I can’t tell because it looks identical. It wags its tail and seems happy but I can already see the same bear starting to shift its gaze. Taking charge of the situation, I tap the kid on the shoulder. He doesn’t turn round but he does jerk his head towards me. I move round to his other side and tap him again and he jerks again. I rock back on my heels. He’s not conscious that I’m there but he does feel something, which corresponds with what I experienced in my first dream.
I snap my fingers in front of his face while the bear licks its lips. The kid blinks. Recalling what the dark man – Dante – told me, I reach his arm and pinch his skin. Suddenly, I’m yanked backwards, as if someone has grabbed the scruff of my neck and is pulling me. I lose my footing and fall over – and then I’m no longer by the river.
It’s my local town square. I may not have been there for more than eighteen months but I’d recognise it anywhere. The shops are the same but there’s a strange absence of traffic. I get to my feet and look around: the place is completely deserted. A single tumbleweed that would be more at home in a street in Arizona than a little Scottish town blows in my direction, followed by a familiar rattle and whistle, just like you’d hear in the soundtrack to a cowboy film. Alarm bells ring in my head. Slowly backing away, I keep my eyes trained in front of me. A woman pops up at one end. She’s wearing a business suit but she has boots with spurs above her ankles and a gun belt round her hips. Her hands hover above the holsters. I look in the other direction and spot the florist in a similar pose.
‘It’s time, Belinda,’ the florist shouts. ‘You’ve had your fun and now you need to face the consequences.’ Her Scottish brogue has been supplanted by an American twang.
‘I ain’t no lily-livered, yella whore,’ the other woman calls back. Her fingers twitch.
I wonder whether I should interrupt them. If this is like the other dreams, they won’t see or hear me but I might be able to distract them. I picture the dead puppy; the last thing I want is to see this pair blast each other into oblivion, even if they are not real.
‘You stole my hoss!’ the florist yells. ‘Draw!’
Before I can react, they both lunge for their weapons and fire. Dust rises from the ground as shots echo around the empty street. I cover my ears and duck. The noise seems to go on for an eternity.
When silence finally returns and I peek out to see what’s happening, Belinda is standing over the florist. I run up to her.
She nudges her fallen victim with her toe. ‘He’s a no-good hoss. He ain’t worth dying for. But dying’s what you’re doing.’
The florist chokes, blood gurgling up from her mouth. Her skin is the colour of chalk. ‘He’s all I got,’ she croaks. Her eyes roll back and, yet again, I feel myself being dragged violently away by a force I cannot control.
The final dream is the worst. I’m surrounded by thick fog that tastes sulphuric. I can hear someone – I assume it’s the MailQuick worker – calling out for help and stumbling around. No matter how hard I try, I can’t reach him. I search blindly, doing what I can to stay calm. The more he shouts, the more my panic grows. ‘Hold on!’ I cry hoarsely. ‘I’ll come and get you!’
It’s no good, of course; he doesn’t hear me and doesn’t stop. I start to run. My lungs burn and my eyes stream and sting. I don’t want to be here but I don’t think I can get out, not until the dream ends naturally or I find Mr MailQuick and pinch him. Bile rises in my throat as I realise how foolish it was to stumble into someone else’s head with no idea of what I might find there. The other two dreams had a surreal quality; this is different. Eventually I hunker down and hug my knees as tightly as I can, rocking for comfort.
And when I wake up, my clothes and my hair stink of the smothering mist. My cheeks are wet with tears. My limbs are stiff and painful and I am trembling. It’s the first time in any of these dreams that I’ve felt genuinely afraid. I’m already trapped in my house. I don’t want to be trapped in my own head too.
***
One of the more positive results of my condition – at least as far as today is concerned – is that I have a mountain of cards and leaflets from local doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists and trauma experts. Almost all of them have been donated by my mother but a few have been passed on by friends. I study them carefully before selecting one who lists sleep disorders as a speciality. Doctor Miller: I remember he made some home visits during the early days. At the time he struck me as efficient and capable, even if his therapy didn’t do me a scrap of good.
I phone him. ‘I’ve, er, been having trouble sleeping,’ I tell him once I’ve re-introduced myself and given him time to locate my sparse file.