There’s just one more search I need to complete. There might be no trace of the mysterious Mr Salib in the area but I’m not entirely out of options. I should have thought about it before – after all, my mother had mentioned that he was Maltese but sounded Glaswegian. That is incongruous enough to send up red flags. It takes me all of twenty seconds to discover that Salib is Maltese for cross.
I massage my shoulders. On the eastern fringe of the town there is an old cemetery, high above the sea. I don’t think anyone’s been buried there for decades, not least because it was partially destroyed during the Second World War when a German bomber mistook it for the town’s gasworks. I went there several times as a child – there’s something deeply romantic and yet painfully tragic about old gravestones. It’s not the gravestones that are giving me pause now though – it’s the memory of the ramshackle building towards the back of the cemetery and the Maltese cross inlaid into the stone above its entrance.
I’m not sure I have any choice now about visiting it. It helps that I don’t feel safe within these four walls, not with the Mayor knowing who I am and my mistake in not masking my visit to the Somnolence page. But I’ve not been outside for eighteen months and if I step into the world, there’s no knowing what might happen. I’m not sure I can do it.
I start getting a bag together, not an easy task because I rarely use one these days. I root around in the spare room wardrobe and, when I find one it smells musty. A tiny spider scuttles across the once bright fabric.
I shake the bag then place some warm clothes inside in case I need to change. I add a torch, a bottle of water and a box of matches. I think some more and include the wrench I keep under the sink for plumbing emergencies, though not because I think I’ll be called upon to fix any leaky pipes. I throw in some nuts and a few bananas for energy. Some rope would be handy – I’m not sure why but every adventure story I’ve ever read has included rope. Unfortunately I don’t have any.
I heft the bag. It’s not too heavy and shouldn’t slow me down if I need to run. The thought of sprinting terrifies me. I might have done it a few times in the Dreamlands but I’ve been stuck indoors in the real world. My limbs are not going to be used to that kind of exertion. However, I open the small cupboard at the foot of the stairs and search for my old trainers. There’s still dirt ingrained in the soles from the last time I used them and a wave of nostalgia ripples through me. I pull them on, lace them tightly then find my old coat and shrug it on.
I take a step towards the door, and another and another. My legs are quivering and it takes everything I have to move them forward. Paper bag, I think suddenly. I’ll need a paper bag in case I hyperventilate. I go into the kitchen to find one, folding it up neatly and placing it in my pocket. Then I walk slowly back towards the door.
When I reach it, I simply stand and stare at it. Once I’m sure I’m not about to pass out, I unfasten the first lock. My fingers fumble and I pause to wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs.
I inch my way down, unbolting as I go. By the time I get to the bottom lock – the last one – my heart is thudding against my ribcage and blood is roaring in my ears. I swallow hard. I can do this; I have to do this. I slide back the lock and straighten up. Pinching my fingertips, one after the other, I start to hum. It’s a nonsense tune but it helps me to feel better. I concentrate on breathing, expanding my lungs and exhaling. When I’m sure I’m okay, I put my hand on the doorknob and twist.
Outside is the same as it always is. The oak tree is still there, majestic and noble. The path hasn’t changed. There are no cars and no people – just number twenty-five’s Labrador barking while a child laughs and shouts in the back garden. A light breeze drifts in, lifting the edges of my hair. It smells fresh and clean. It’s a beautiful day, although not the blinding sunshine of the Dreamlands; here it’s a softer light, and there are clouds passing lazily across the sky. It’s a day for being outdoors.
I raise my right leg. It hovers across the threshold, half in and half out. I focus on my breathing. ‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ I mumble. ‘There’s nothing scary out there.’
There’s a flash of movement and I throw my body backwards into the hall. I hear a meow and pick myself up, realising it is the Chairman who is sitting in the middle of the path and regarding me quizzically. I move back to the door, keeping my eyes trained on him.
‘It’s like ripping off a plaster,’ I tell him. ‘Need to do it quickly with no messing around.’ That’s easy to say. My feet are suddenly too heavy to move.
The Chairman, bored now, begins rolling around on his back. I count to ten in my head.
And I do it. I step over the porch and stand outside in the sun. My legs don’t give way and I don’t faint, although there’s a slight queasiness in my stomach and my pulse has speeded up. The sunshine warms my skin. This is okay. I can do this.