Unbeliever: Undreamed, #1

By Paul Western-Pittard

Alice is trapped between reality and a dream.

 

Caught between a life in Sydney and an equally real life in New York, she has no way of telling which is the truth, and which the dream.

 

Unbeliever (the prequel to Undreamed) follows both Alices as they set themselves on a destructive collision course in their search to discover the truth.

 

Emerging from a stint in a rehabilitation centre, Sydney-Alice is confronted by the impossibility of living her life, never knowing if she's real or imagined. Becoming increasingly desperate she decides to do the unthinkable: travel to New York in an attempt to find evidence of her alternative existence or end the illusion once and for all. Meanwhile, the Alice of New York becomes determined to destroy what she sees as her dream self and begins a journey that takes her into the dark orbit of a man who promises to end her dream. But at a price.

 

With neither Alice knowing if they're real or the dream of the other, they set themselves on desperate trajectories that are later concluded in Undreamed.

 

If you love psychological thrillers, this gripping prequel will stay with you well after you've put the book down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Western-Pittard
• Release date: Apr 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781507077986

Book preview

1

Mayfleur

They call this place the Chapel. It's a big airy building, and yes, once upon a time it used to be a real church. Despite its current use I can't imagine the hall any other way. The high vaulted roof sucks away the heat and keeps it above us like a cloud, or a threat. Morning sunlight hammers against the glass, throwing spotlights across the floor, which is scuffed and scratched despite the soft shoes they make us wear.

The crazy people walk through the doors in ones and twos, collect green plastic chairs from stacks, and lay them out. The room is filled with echoey scrapes, mumbles, and tatters of conversation as the circle is formed and we find our places. There is salt in the air, and if I really concentrate, somewhere underneath this shuffling of feet and movement, birds cry to one another. Seagulls. Which reminds me—I hate the beach.

We're wearing civvies today, all except Joan, who for some reason has decided to stick to her pyjamas. Maybe she's protesting about the food again; maybe she doesn't want to conform. She's got issues. I sit next to her and smile. Something flickers over her face, which is probably her smiling back. You never know with Joan. Matt waves from the other side of the circle, his hands fluttering in his lap like dying finches. Someone to the left of me, Kevin, I think, is crying. No scratch that, laughing. Next to him, Maya sings one of her lullabies. We still don't know why; it's something she does when she's nervous. She's always nervous.

We're the sane ones. You should see the rest of them.

All of this is real, I tell myself. This crazy messed up group is real, I'm real, this uncomfortable chair that zaps you with static if you wiggle around too much is real. The Chapel is real. And outside, the hot, huge world is real. I say the words, repeat the quiet mantra like Dr Matherson has taught me. I should believe it, I really should. I almost do.

I'm a still bit groggy from the Penathil they make me take, but I'm down to only one pill now. So it's not too bad. One day, I'll get through twenty-four hours without taking anything. The medicine is mostly to help me sleep. It's not that I don't get tired; I'm tired all the time. But you see, I hate the idea of sleep. It's a thief and a betrayer, stealing my life and telling me everything I know is a lie. The biggest lie of all is when I close my eyes; all of this becomes the dream. My dream, my nightmare—that turns into the waking world. When I go to sleep in this life, I wake in the other, and when I sleep there, I wake here.

So nothing is real.

I don't say that. I've stopped talking about it. If I do they'll think I'm crazy all over again and things will go badly. I scan around, sense the warmth of the day even in the cool of the building, hear the chatter of the group, smell the hint of salt in the air and fainter, the omnipresent ammonia-whiff of disinfectants. I'm conscious of my body, the dress, the chair.

All of this is true, I say to myself again. I'm real. The world is real.

Well it better be. I'm getting out today.

❖

Jen sits on the bed while I fuss around packing my stuff. My head aches from the anticipation of getting out, and the lie I have to swallow to make it happen. I'm not sure if Dr Matherson or even Jen believe me one hundred percent, but I've pulled my socks up, flown right, stopped being the crazy sister. Things are on the up and up.

Jen pats the bed and smiles at me. Her shock of frizzy red hair is an assault on the eyes, and she wears it with a confidence I could only hope for. Her jeans are tight and faded, T-shirt loose and comfy. My summer dress makes me feel like I'm twelve.

What?

Relax, sis, she says with a grin. I'm not going anywhere. No scratch that. I'm going to walk out of this shithole in about ten, and you are too.

Yeah, I say. I can't believe it.

She hugs me. Believe it, babe.

I stand and throw the remainder of my clothes into the suitcase. Glancing at a row of paintings lining the wall I decide not to take them. Art therapy completed. They're ugly things; dark and shadowy and cold, just like her. I purse my lips as I stare at the others, which are brighter and more dynamic. Kate said she liked the ones with lots of colour. I'll leave them for her. They'll sit well in her kaleidoscope of a room.

Jen stands and comes over, hugs me again. You ready?

I was ready three months ago, but I hold back from saying this. Old wounds. Instead, I nod and put on my brave face, and to my surprise, discover it's not an act at all.

It's kind of scary as I walk out the door and down the hallway to the station at the end of the building. Dr Matherson is here with a smile that is hard to read behind a patchy salt and pepper beard. For the first time I notice he has a paunch, that his face is doughy. I spot a tiny red stain on his shirt near the middle button; a splash of sauce caught some of his tie perhaps. It's amazing to recognise him as a man, I realise, not a doctor. I really have changed since I came here. He always seemed so professional and meticulous. Could be he's having a bad day, but part of me knows better. We start on the forms.

You realise this is just the start of the next component of your treatment, Alice? he asks. I nod. Of course I do. You're only going home for a couple of days to begin with. Get a taste of everyday life again. Then you'll be back here for a little while, and so on. I know all this. We've covered the detail a million times.

Yes, I understand.

I haven't even left the building and already I can detect some of my old self begin