Sleepwalker

By Andy Lang

Deborah Grant is a normal, healthy teenager. A girl standing at a crossroads in her young life, and she has a decision to make:
Allow her loving yet domineering father dictate her future, or.
Strike out on her own, follow her heart and dare to dream?
A long holiday is what she needs, and the Costa del Sol has beckoned. Fuengirola has welcomed the buxom blonde into its sun-drenched embrace.
But the Spanish resort reveals deeply buried desires, desires that she had never dared to dream lived inside her, desires that cause Deborah to rise from her bed in the early hours... and in a trance, she walks.
Disturbing, yet harmless she imagines...
Until the morning that she wakes to a nightmare discovery.
Suddenly, Debbie is terrified to close her eyes!

Sleepwalker, a psychological thriller that will make you wonder just how safe it is to fall asleep!

• Language: English
• Publisher: PMO Publishing
• Release date: Jun 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310982996

Andy Lang

Andy Lang was born in the north west of England in 1965 and worked in the early years as an engineer in an agricultural manufacturing company. Moving from the United Kingdom in the late 1990's he subsequently spent many years in the entertainment industry in Cataluña, Northern Spain and property sales in Andalucia, Southern Spain. After several years workings as an Independent Financial Advisor in East Africa, he now writes full time. Over the years he has travelled extensively and has lived in Spain, the west of France, Brazil, Kenya and South Africa.He currently lives with his wife and their young sons in Kenya.

Book preview

Sleepwalker

Andy Lang

Copyright

Layout Copyright © 2016 by PMO Publishing. Published 2016 by PMO Publishing. eBook design by PMO Publishing. Cover art by Andy Lang.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the authors permission.

Chapter 1

Debbie opened her eyes slowly, the anticipated hangover blossoming swiftly and predictably.

How much did I drink last night? Simply thinking the question registered as pain and an elevation of the pounding inside her head, prompting a small gasp. Sleep it off. she whispered, and squeezed her eyes tightly shut before burying her face back into the pillow.

Morning trickled away as she slumbered, noon arrived and departed ushering in the afternoon. Once again Debbie stirred. Once again she cautiously opened an eye. The throbbing had not departed with noon, but it had lost some intensity, the mornings keen edge now dulled.

So, she tentatively announced, pleased that the sound of her voice had not resurrected the pounding, Think Debs, what the hell happened last night?

She shuddered and licked dry lips, My mouth does actually feel like the bottom of a birdcage, at least I would imagine this is how it would taste! Stale peach schnapps lingered, mixed with cigarette ash and something else that she couldn't readily identify, yet seemed vaguely familiar.

I don't know, she admitted quietly after a few moments of debate, an attempt to identify the elusive flavour, Maybe something that I ate?

Sliding a leg out of bed she peeled away the light sheet, dismayed to see her clothes scattered across the floor, a clear trail discarded between door and bed. I don't remember anything! Debbie shook her head instantly regretting the action, but decided that stiffer punishment was probably deserved for her absolute loss of nocturnal control. Since her arrival in Fuengirola on Spain's Costa del Sol her usual restraint had deserted, possibly still in the UK, Maybe it missed the flight, But at least my morals managed to board with me. she chuckled, beginning to see her excess in a more forgiving light. Yes she was living the vida loca for a while, but why shouldn't she?

I'm eighteen, not eighty, she declared as she studied bloodshot eyes and her unruly mop of blonde hair in the bathroom mirror. Hair messed by the pillow, and most alarming, liberally laced with dried pine needles.

How the hell? she asked herself and fought for recollection as she teased the needles free, I came straight home, I'm sure. Deborah closed her eyes and focussed. I remember, I got a taxi, I came straight home, I even remember unlocking the door!

Slowly she squeezed a line of toothpaste and began to brush away the previous night, her mind hunting for an explanation to the needles conundrum. Think Debs. she muttered around the brush.

I remember the taxi, I remember unlocking the gate, then the door. I had another drink, Sex on the Beach... that explains the schnapps... then what?

I was definitely alone. I was in the taxi alone, I was in here alone.

Recollection returned like wisps of smoke or morning mist, faint and hazy, yet with concentration they began to take shape, their form more coherent, less ephemeral.

I was alone. I locked the door, got a drink from the fridge, ate cold pizza, then I puked. Clarity bloomed, her grip on the toilet rim had been fierce. Her body had rebelled against the injustices inflicted, an automatic reaction to such abuse... urgent and unavoidable. After that I slept! she clearly recalled shedding her clothes en-route to the bed. I slept, but what about the pine needles?

The only flaw in her careful reconstruction, she had completed the jigsaw but stood holding a piece in her hand that was clearly a part of the puzzle - despite not fitting.

From the seat in the taxi?

Unlikely, she admitted, but the only realistic explanation. The hours leading up to her taxi ride home could be accounted for, she had been reasonably lucid at the time. The bar, dancing, flashing lights and noise. A basement club, the air thick with dry ice and hashish smoke, but definitely urban, no plants, Except for the pot, she giggled, but certainly no pine trees!

Shaking her head, Debbie started the shower running, she wished that there was a clearer explanation, but only her taxi theory made any real sense, So I guess I have to go with that. Someone was moving an old Christmas tree, or something like that, some needles got stuck to the seat, then transferred into my hair!

A theory that she could have reluctantly accepted... had she not glanced down at the shower tray and noticed a stain swirling toward the plug-hole, dirt, traces of dried mud – mud that covered her feet.

***

Wrapped in a towel she retraced her steps. Stripping away the sheet she gasped, the foot of her bed displayed marks and smearing that she had prayed would not be there. My shoes, she whispered as she pushed the bedroom door open and stepped into the wide passage that would lead her to the villa's spacious lounge and open kitchen. Evidence of the night before confirmed much of her recollection, a pizza box lay open on the central coffee table, uneaten slices curling, nibbled crusts littering the floor, a carton of juice lay on its side, dead in a pool of peach. My panties, Debbie flushed slightly, wondering why she had discarded such intimate attire first, And my shoes!

Pristine - Almost.

Polished but for a fine sheen of dust, the same dust accumulated during normal wear. The red leather taunted her as she glanced nervously at her painted toenails, once the same scarlet, now dulled by grey mud.

Deborah slumped down into an armchair and attempted to conquer her confusion, before deciding that aspirin and coffee would probably make more sense. Clear my hangover, then retrace my steps!

Urgently she scanned memory as the kettle boiled, steam rising as the thermostat clicked, a spoon stood in her mug, heaped instant coffee and sugar awaited, no milk she had decided, Strong and black, sober me fast... I hope.

After washing down two painkillers with a glass of tepid water Debbie carried her coffee back into the lounge and began to re-assemble her memories. I remember the club, she stated, counting off the events on her fingers like mental maths. I remember the taxi, I had my shoes on, because I remember taking them off in here... that's really clear! Then what? Pizza, Peach schnapps mixed with pineapple and peach juice, vodka, tequila, grenadine... she counted off the bottles lined up beside the table, the components of her own adulterated version of the famous cocktail, I fixed a drink, ate food, I remember taking off my shoes, I remember wondering what possessed me to go out clubbing in heels. I was wearing them when I got home, and they're clean. A bit dusty, but that only proves that I didn't wipe mud off them. She looked again at her feet and shuddered. How? she whispered. I'm beginning to remember clearly now, I puked, then I slept... then I woke up with pine needles in my hair and muddy feet!

Deborah Grant had always understood that sometimes in life, things happened that defied explanation, and on occasion, she faced situations that made little logical sense. But until that moment she had paid those situations little mind, occurrences that didn't register as important. Often she would place her door keys in a bowl in the hall on her return in the evening, only to find them in her purse or pocket the following morning. I'm absent minded sometimes, she would justify, expecting that something in her subconscious insisted that she keep the keys close. Yet the events that had led to mud could not be written off or dismissed. I went to sleep, then, even though I don't remember anything, I must have got up again, got dressed, except for shoes, and gone out... somewhere with trees, somewhere wet.

So now what? Debbie drained her mug and folded the lid hiding desiccated pizza slices, the sight of which set her delicate stomach churning. Now I get dressed, and take a walk, I need to find the trees, the muddy ground... I need to discover where I went.

Gathering up her scattered clothes Debbie faced a growing and decidedly disturbing realisation. These are where I threw them last night, with aspirin and coffee had come recall with a fair degree of certainty, So if they are where I left them... what was I wearing when I went back out?

With a sinking feeling she pushed the bedroom door open, collecting clothes as she walked, understanding that no other garments had been disturbed, drawers closed and untouched, hangers filled, none vacant. Maybe I folded and hung everything again when I got back in! Her creamy skin flushed crimson, the stupidity of her statement sublime in its ridiculousness, Who am I trying to fool, she groaned, and pulled her covering towel tighter as she wondered if she would ever dare face the outside world again, and exactly how many people had witnessed her second outing of the evening.

***

Cautiously she opened the front door, dark sunglasses hiding perceived shame as much as protecting from the savage rays of the summer sun, beads of sweat prickled instantly as clothes intended to cover proved to be more than uncomfortable away from the chill of air-conditioning. "If my suspicions are confirmed, then there is nothing that I can do to, I can't turn back the clock, I can't make people un-see me. Dying of heat exhaustion isn't going to improve my reputation, just compound my stupidity." and with that realisation in her mind, she discarded the heavy sweat shirt and jacket, but retained her baggy chinos. Swallowing hard, Debbie pulled the door closed behind her, and stepped into the light, her jaw set, determined to let derisive comments roll off her back.

Siesta time isn't a big deal on the coast. That's what she had been told when she had raised the question. Inland, in the rural areas and remote villages it's respected and adhered to, almost religiously... but the Spanish on the coast are more into the twenty-first century, they understand that tourism doesn't stop for a little sleep in the afternoon, so they have adapted.

Deborah felt relief that the advice proved inaccurate, the small street was deserted, both sides of the avenue devoid of life, only a small group of sunburned tourists meandered in the distance, emerging from the underpass, the dark concrete tunnel that marked a boundary between the town and the beach. Overhead roared the A-7, one of the most dangerous roads in Europe. Impossible to cross, easy to pass under. And on the far side of vibrating asphalt; The Mediterranean Sea, and of more interest to Debbie at that moment in time, the ancient fortress of Sohail, and to its right from where she stood, the thick stand of pine trees that marked the western edge of Fuengirola resort.

It has to be there! she sighed, and her face flushed again as she glanced around, studying windows, the placement of street lamps, wondering just how much coverage the darkness had offered.

There is nothing that I can do about it now, she admitted with resignation, and struck out toward the underpass, determined to confirm a theory, even if it brought her little real gain.

Traffic thundered unseen overhead, the vast tunnel acting like a sound-box, intensifying vibration until she felt the tremor in her chest. Several cars passed her in the gloom, their tires hissing in standing water that dripped constantly from the concrete ceiling high above. An eerie half light surrounded her, not dark enough for car head lights to be switched on, yet not bright enough to be absolutely sure of surroundings, the film of water shimmered in the distance as fierce sun reflected on the southern end of the tunnel. Squelching sounded, and Debbie cursed as water flooded her canvas shoes, I had to find a puddle, I just had to. Stooping she swiftly slipped off her shoes and picked a way toward the light.

Well, that's total confirmation, she sighed as the end of her tunnel revealed thick, grey, mud dripping from her shoes, mud identical to what had coated her feet and bed sheets. Now I know for sure that I came this way... barefoot. But I can't have stopped here. Subconsciously she stroked her long blonde hair and glanced toward the trees. I went there, I must have.

***

Dappled shade welcomed her as she stepped away from the suns glare and under the eaves. The pine trees closed in around her. A breeze wafting in from the sea whispered in her ear, sharing its secrets, wanting hers. I wish I knew what secret the trees have, and I hope that it was only them that saw me last night.

All doubt had left her mind as she retraced her nocturnal footsteps. I was nude, of that I'm sure. I was drunk, and I scattered my clothes everywhere, spilled juice, dropped crusts on the floor... and still I try to convince myself that I got dressed! I came out here for God only knows what reason, and then staggering drunk, when I return I have the focus and clarity to carefully fold and hang what I'm wearing!

My panties! she suddenly gasped, They should have been the last item to come off, yet I found them in the lounge. A small smile surfaced as she discovered a plausible way to rescue a shred of dignity. I wasn't completely nude. she stated with a surety that she clung to as tightly as a life vest in the middle of the ocean.

So now I can hold my head up a little. I was wearing my panties, who cares what else. Loads of women go topless on the beach every day, I could strip right down to my underwear now, walk out onto the sand with my boobs bouncing free and no-one would even blink... really quite normal behaviour.

I wonder if I have the nerve? The silent question took her by surprise and she shook her head feeling her face tingle as blood infused. I couldn't!

Debbie wouldn't call herself a prude, but neither would she claim to be worldly. I'm just reserved, she often told herself, shocked when her girlfriends giggled over sexy selfies that had found their way from boyfriends smart-phones and on to social media platforms. "I'm not ashamed of my body!" the statement and defence most often uttered, lack of shame seemingly adequate justification for online exposure. I'm not sure I could do that, flaunt myself in public... but maybe here on the beach would be easier, no-one knows me, I could do it and walk away, I would never see these people again. But a photo, online! That's different. It's too permanent, too easy to download and save. Imagine dad finding photos of me! she shuddered, the thought disturbing. But what about topless? Here on the beach? The taunting question returned, prompting silently, demanding an answer, a definitive conclusion.

Nervously Debbie giggled, slightly shocked that she could even debate revealing her body, yet she found herself clearing the trees and stepping onto burning sand. I can sit here for a while, she whispered, ignoring her inner voice for the moment, her mind torn, confusion growing, temptation prodding.

Not that busy, she told herself quietly as she scanned down to the high tide mark, fifty people, no more. On public holidays she knew that the numbers swelled to many times that number, all trace of sand hidden by towels and sweating bodies, But this afternoon is... she hunted for the correct word, deciding eventually on comfortable. Yeah, she nodded, If I did decide to do that, I think I would be comfortable with not so many people around.

Her eyes wandered, drifting casually from couple to couple, all stages of the human condition on display. A young couple, early to mid twenties. Him, wearing Bermuda shorts, frighteningly bright, garishly floral. Her, proudly sporting decidedly less than the dictionaries definition of bikini, three minuscule triangles of opaque fabric attached to strings. And here I am stressing about if I got seen in the darkness. Debbie chuckled and began to feel a little better about her nocturnal wandering. The young couple chatted with an elderly lady who strolled the sand with a small terrier dog on a leash, her sun browned skin creased with great age, yet proudly displayed.

I understand, Debbie nodded slowly, I actually understand... I've been looking at this from the wrong angle. I see exposure, something sordid. They see beach lifestyle, something normal, a healthy way of life.

For what was left of the afternoon Deborah sat and observed, her spirit of adventure teasing from time to time as a stream of bronzed women sauntered onto the sandy stage, playing their part in Debbie's theatre, all topless, their breasts wondrous in variety, saggy or pert, natural or enhanced, some nipples almost microscopic, others as large and hard as champagne corks. A huge variation of shape, yet all shared a common denominator... a complete lack of shame. With interest and a growing respect she watched these women interact, both friends and strangers received the same levels of comfort, at no point did timorousness provoke any coverage. Breasts stood exposed in all of their glory, almost inviting and welcoming inspection.

I wish I was that brave.

The whispered statement caught her off-guard. The implication clear. That answers the original question, she giggled quietly and felt her face flush, I would... if I was brave enough!

But I'm not, so why worry. she added quietly as she brushed sand from her chinos, and with a final, if slightly longing glance toward the sand, she turned her back to the sea and began the short walk home.

At least I don't feel so self conscious now, she admitted as the mud oozed between her toes while she strolled through the underpass, But just in case, I'll come back here tonight, after dark, just to see how obvious I was.

***

High summer signalled light nights, and the sun finally set as the hands on her wristwatch crawled toward 10 PM.

She sat outside a small restaurant, waiters bustled around her laden with trays and plates, delicious aromas wafted but failed to tempt her. She had eaten earlier, now she sat relaxed, only one small glass of red wine had passed her lips, coffee had substituted for her normal tipples, she wanted to keep a clear head. An inspection, she had decided, And no risk of a repeat.

Darkness had fallen, and stars glittered. The music bass beats grew as the clubs shook off the heat of day and welcomed the night owls.

Time for me to go. Deborah straightened her dress as she stood. Her look; demure, and aged well beyond her tender eighteen years. I want modesty tonight, she acknowledged, understanding that her look had all the sensual allure of surgical stockings, I don't want to draw attention to myself, especially on the street, dressed like this, hopefully anyone who saw me last night won't recognise me.

The taxi dropped her at the Sohail beach as requested. The driver curious, but not inclined to pry, the frumpy girl obviously had a good reason for being dropped in the quietest spot in all of Fuengirola, who was he to question.

Taking a deep breath Debbie faced the underpass. Not as scary as I expected, she whispered, yet felt dismay bloom, strong lighting may equate to safety, but it also signalled absolute clarity. There is no way that I sneaked through here unobserved. she sighed as sodium lamps seared overhead chasing every shadow and exposing her own footprints. Almost as though to emphasis her observation a car passed, slowly, almost crawling, the windows reflecting white light, reacting like mirrors, disguising the driver. But he sees me as clear as day. she groaned softly, and hurried forward, feeling exposed despite her long dress and light cardigan.

Two more cars cruised past before she emerged from the brightness of the tunnel and back into the comforting gloom of street lights, pausing for a moment she waited for her eyes to adjust. I hope I'm right about wearing my panties last night. the small comment hid a wave of embarrassment. The blank windows had felt like mirrored eyes, eyes that burned into her, exposing her, stripping her naked, leaving her helpless under their steady gaze.

At least there is some shadow on the street. she took a deep breath to calm herself and stared into the distance picking out the twin orb lamps that glowed on either side of the ornate black metal gates that marked home. Except for the tunnel, I doubt that many people would have spotted me on the street... hopefully I don't have that many reasons to blush.

So unobserved, and un-commented, Deborah wandered quietly back to her father’s villa on the Costa del Sol. Locking both the gate and the front door behind her, she neatly folded her clothes, and with a sigh, slipped into a night dress before drifting into a deep and untroubled sleep.

Chapter 2

The water felt wonderful as it kissed away the heat of the day, and Debbie gasped in pleasure as the coolness washed over her exposed breasts. She felt liberated, released from the confines of morality, from her prudish upbringing.

This is just perfect. she sighed – before opening her eyes and releasing an anguished cry of horror.

Across the open sea a heavy moon hovered silver and full, it's twin reflected, a rippled double on the calm water. Debbie gasped and turned slowly to face the shore. A string of glittering lights marked the seafront. Frantically