Sleepwalking

By Julian Mason

Sleepwalking - a story that moves between London, New York, Paris and
er...Cardiff.

Things are going pretty well for Jim Dawson: a great job, new flat and a
lifestyle that most thirty-somethings would kill for. Yet just when it seems
things couldnt get any better, a mysterious girl appears one night and
shakes up his world. As more and more inexplicable things happen Jim begins
to feel that his world is spinning out of control. But most of all he neeeds
an answer to one simple question : is he haunted by more than just memories?

Click here to go to Sleepwalking website.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 4, 2005
• ISBN: 9781462820962

Julian Mason

Julian Mason is a part-time British writer living and working in Brussels, Belgium. He is married with two young children. Sleepwalking is his first novel.

Book preview

Prologue

Looking back, life had been ridiculously easy. In quick succession there had been the promotion, the new flat and the housewarming party, three things that now seem totally unimportant. But then, like anyone else who has experienced something truly momentous in their life, Jim has to sort his memories into things that happened before and after the whole bewildering episode.

He had often heard married friends talk about the vivid memories they had of their wedding day, how they were surprised that the passage of time had actually sharpened rather than dulled the images. He now completely understands the phenomenon; if ever he had a need to tell his story, all he has to do is close his eyes and he is instantly transported back to the party on that balmy July afternoon.

Part One

Summer

‘Living is easy with eyes closed,

Misunderstanding all you see’

Strawberry Fields Forever

The Beatles

Chapter One

Saturday

Jim had always accepted life’s inalienable truths: the toast always lands butter side down, tomorrow never comes and films are never like real life. Then, for a few extraordinary weeks in his life, the last rule didn’t apply any longer and he became the unlikely central character in a tale that had more twists and more shocking revelations than any film he had seen.

There is an obvious starting point for his story and given his life-long love of films, he visualises an opening sequence that follows this imaginary screenplay:

BLACK SCREEN:

MUSIC: Saint-Šaens ‘Aquarium’

(from ‘Carnival of the Animals’)

FADE IN:

An aerial camera shot moving over a suburban landscape. During the sequence, the camera banks slowly to the left and then to the right, each time it banks a large proportion of the screen is momentarily filled with glorious blue sky.

CUT TO:

A lower shot, a camera zoom moving through a horizon of rooftops and trees.

TITLES AND CREDITS

CUT TO:

An even lower zoom sequence in which the camera skims over suburban chimney pots and branches. The zoom slows and settles on a rooftop terrace where there is a large gathering of people.

It looks like a group of affluent thirty-somethings.

TITLE MUSIC FADES

FADE IN LOUD BUZZ OF CONVERSATION

The camera pans slowly through groups of people talking animatedly. As it weaves its way through the groups, the soundtrack catches snatches of dialogue:

MALE VOICE:

(Loud and pompous)

Well it’s a bit of a gothic monstrosity, but it does have good size rooms.

FEMALE VOICE:

. . . yes, but it’s a classic Victorian house!

MALE VOICE:

(Very slurred)

. . . and that’s Harrow over there? No there, where the steeple is . . .

The camera makes a slow circuit of the terrace and stops at an open white UPVC door. A young WOMAN steps out and takes in the scene for a moment, as though she is not sure she wants to be there. She starts to scan faces, looking for someone. She is in her early thirties and is beautiful in a classically English sense, with porcelain-white skin and blonde hair that is tied back in a ponytail. There is a strange intensity in her expression.

The WOMAN obviously sees a person she is looking for and moves forward. The camera swings around and follows her.

Close in:

Rear of head shot showing WOMAN making her way through the crowd of people. She forces her way through politely and weaves forwards; taking care not to spill the glass of wine she is carrying.

The crowd parts to reveal a MAN hunched over a portable barbecue, engrossed in the activity of cooking. The MAN has his back to camera.

The woman walks purposefully up to him.

WOMAN:

(Challengingly)

Hello Jim, getting your fingers burnt again?

JIM spins around in surprise, and knocks a piece of meat with the spatula he is holding. There is a plume of smoke as the steak slips through the wires of the grill and lands in the coals. He turns his attention to the speaker.

At thirty-five Jim Dawson was wearing well; two inches over six foot with a build that could no longer be called ‘skinny’ but still qualified as ‘slim’. In a similar way the overall impression of his physique had changed from one of ‘lanky’ to one of ‘athletic’. He was wearing a pair of dark Ray Bans that day and secretly hoped that with his thinning but slightly spiky, black hair he might pass for an older Tom Cruise.

His eyes met the piercing gaze of Tracy Grant.

Oh God!

He did his best not to look flustered.

‘I hope you like your steak well done.’ he said.

‘You’ve obviously forgotten that I’m a vegetarian.’

It was a predictably cool reply.

‘I think that it was actually one of those Linda McCartney vegetable steaks.’

He cringed at such a feeble attempt at a joke. He wasn’t handling this at all well. Oh bloody hell! he thought, is it always going to be this awkward? Why do I feel a need to be clever with her?

He looked her levelly in the eyes and spoke more softly:

‘So, how have you been?’

‘Fine.’

It was said a little too breezily to be convincing.

‘You might have heard that I passed my exams.’ she added.

He vaguely remembered that she had been studying for a marketing qualification in her spare time.

‘That’s great. I know you put in a lot of work.’

Then, ever anxious to maintain the casual tone, he asked the question he had been asking people all afternoon.

‘So what do you think of my gothic residence?’

Gothic. Nearly everyone used the word when they arrived at the flat. He anticipated the reaction with relish, revelling in the feeling of awe that the building inspired, a feeling that even he still felt whenever he walked through the front door. Instead of being offended, he actually enjoyed hearing the word, especially when followed by people’s frantic attempts to turn it into a compliment.

Tracy however made no such attempt and thought carefully whilst taking a sip from her wine glass. Her reply was nothing if not a little odd.

‘To be honest, it feels a bit sinister. These old buildings always do.’

He nodded as though agreeing with a profound statement, whilst secretly thinking that this was another classic bit of Tracy ‘weirdness’.

‘Jim, can I introduce my wife Lesley?’

Angus Connell and his wife had decided to join them.

Oh brilliant Jim thought, just when I thought it couldn’t get any more awkward.

‘Pleased to meet you, Lesley.’ he said warmly, turning to offer his hand for one of those limp handshakes that men and women seem obliged to make.

‘I expect you already know Tracy Grant.’ he said, motioning towards Tracy.

‘Oh yes!’ beamed Lesley, as she exchanged a smile with Tracy, ‘We often speak on the telephone. We swap vegetarian recipes.’

I might have guessed he thought. He noticed that the errant piece of steak was now white ash and indistinguishable from the charcoal.

Lesley Connell was not as he had expected. Jim remembered that the Connells had three children, one ten year-old boy and twin girls now about four. It was well known at work that Angus had just turned forty, but a fresh complexion and slim figure gave the impression of a man in his early thirties. He knew that Lesley was a couple of years younger but the years had not been as kind. Although it looked as though she was close to winning the battle for her ideal weight, she bore all the hallmarks of the exhausted mother. The hair, worn practically short, showed undisguised flecks of grey and a simple application of make-up didn’t quite hide gaunt facial features that would have been acquired from years of interrupted sleep.

‘So what have you two been gossiping about?’ asked Angus with a sly smile, ‘You look very conspiratorial.’

Oh God! thought Jim Is that what it looks like? It was not what he wanted to hear.

‘Tracy was saying that she thought the building was sinister.’ he said quickly.

‘Really Tracy?’ said Lesley, fascinated, ‘Why do you say that?’

‘I just find these big old houses overwhelming,’ Tracy explained, ‘It’s the boldness of the architecture. The Victorians had a level of confidence that bordered on arrogance, and it shows in the design of their houses. I mean, just look at the size of those gargoyles.’

She gestured towards a corner of the terrace and one of the gargoyles in question. There was one at each end of the balcony, strange cat-like creatures, their faces contorted as though shrieking out a terrible warning to the world. They were huge; each one looked as big as a panther.

Jim bristled at the word ‘arrogant’, but Lesley Connell interjected quickly.

‘Well I think its really interesting living in an old property like this. You can just imagine a Victorian family living here. I would expect that the servants lived on this floor.’

Jim was amazed that someone so tactful could be married to Angus and picked up on the cue.

‘That’s right,’ he said enthusiastically, ‘the estate agent told me that. The tiny windows at the top of the house were the original ones for the servant’s rooms. The bigger windows were put in after the house was converted.’

There was more discussion about the house and the wonderful view from the terrace but he wasn’t listening anymore. He was still mulling over what Tracy had said. OK, it was a classic Victorian house, but could you really call it sinister? He remembered the first time he saw it.

It had been an unusually grey April day. The car had swung into the gravel driveway and parked outside an imposing-looking porch. Jim had hopped out and been awe-struck by a classic gothic pile, a house that at four storeys high was easily the biggest in the road. It had a bold sense of geometric form, with a large square turret section protruding over the porch. Long sash windows accentuated the impression of the building’s size, windows that on the top floor were cloaked in a dense growth of ivy.

His eyes moved upwards to the roof and two ornate towers. There was a parapet style of brickwork running between them and it felt as though he was looking up at a castle tower. The sky was darkening rapidly and it looked like it was going to rain again. It was a dramatic sight; a gothic silhouette against a sky the colour of slate.

‘Stunning, isn’t it?’ came a voice at his shoulder.

Julia, the pushy but not entirely unattractive, estate agent had driven him there. It was the fourth place they had been to that day and he had been uninspired by everything he had seen. All the properties so far had been modern soulless developments and now she had brought him to a house that could have belonged to the Addams family. He sighed to himself. He had been deliberately cagey about his ‘budget’ with the result that she didn’t really understand what he was looking for.

She pulled out a set of keys.

‘Wait ’till you see inside!’ she had gushed.

It had been painstakingly restored. The front door opened to a cavernous hall with a grand staircase. All around him he could see details of the care that had been taken, from the immaculately varnished banister rail to the polished original tile work on the floor. It might be worth a look after all.

Julia showed him into number four, a smart airy flat with new wooden floors. It had been decorated in light contemporary colours and he might have been seriously interested had it not been for an intriguing snippet of information that came up in conversation. He had asked her if all the flats were the same size.

She told him that they were, apart from number seven, which had an extra bedroom.

‘Could I see it?’

He felt driven by a strange compulsion.

‘Well there’s not much point,’ she said testily, ‘I’ve already told you that it’s been sold.’

He wasn’t going to be put off.

‘Have they exchanged contracts?’

‘Well no, but they will soon . . .’

‘Well it can’t hurt then, can it? Come on . . . I’ll bet you’ve even got the keys with you.’

He didn’t know where the burning curiosity was coming from. This wasn’t like him at all.

She studied the large set of keys for a few seconds.

‘All right,’ she said reluctantly, ‘Just a quick peek.’

It was a much better flat. There was the additional bedroom and a bigger living room with a large original fireplace. In an instant he could picture sophisticated gatherings with roaring log fires. The clinching attraction came when he looked around the kitchen.

‘What’s that for?’ he asked, pointing to a modern white door in the corner.

‘The terrace.’

He frowned and looked to her for elaboration, but she was already searching for the right key.

It was fantastic, a private terrace up in the suburban rooftops. It was about the size of a tennis court. Now his imagination was conjuring images of sunny cocktail parties and happy smiling faces. He let the daydream run for a while before coming gently back down to earth.

He walked up to the balcony and thought long and hard. This it, he thought. This is home. It was time to leave his shabby Acton flat, and its ghosts, behind.

‘What was the developer’s asking price?’

There was a definite edge of irritation in her voice now, but she told him nonetheless.

‘Tell them I’ll pay twenty thousand more.’

It was a line he’d always wanted to use. Still he could afford it, what with the promotion and the share options.

The idea for the party had come to him five weeks after moving in. By then it was summer and, with the novelty of the terrace in mind, he had decided that he would show the new pad off to its full effect by having a rooftop barbecue.

A spitting of flames and smoke stirred him from the memory. The steaks were on fire.

‘Chernobyl-style—my favourite!’ said a voice behind him.

In a blur of action, a pair of hands grabbed a pair of tongs and picked up the ruined pieces of steak, waving out the flames. Burnt pieces of meat were deftly lobbed into a bin liner.

‘Hey Jim—guess why they call them minute steaks?’ asked the newcomer, turning towards him.

Jim smiled in recognition. Good old Tom. He was already putting fresh steaks on the grill and carefully sealing them.

Although they had originally met when working together, Tom was without doubt his closest friend. Seeing him made him feel more relaxed and realise that it had been a mistake to invite so many people from work. He turned round to make the observation to Tom, but he’d already disappeared and left Jim to carry on with the cooking. In fact, he didn’t really see much more of Tom that day. Sometime later in the afternoon he caught sight of him chatting to Tracy, but other than that he seemed to be continually hopping around between different groups and conversations.

When the sun went down the party started to move into the flat and Jim put on some music. Tom persuaded a group of people to play a horrendously complicated drinking game and seemed to be the only one that understood the rules. Two hours later the gathering had been whittled down to the guests that didn’t have to drive home, to get back to children and didn’t have other plans for the evening. It was that stage of a party where there are enough seats for everyone to sit down and things feel much more laid-back. Somebody rifled through Jim’s DVD collection and there was an impromptu screening of ‘Pulp Fiction’. It was like being a student again.

At two o’ clock in the morning the only guests left were Tom and someone called Rob who Jim couldn’t remember inviting. They had been having an intense political discussion for what seemed like an eternity. It finally fizzled out at a quarter past two and ‘Rob’ left enthusing about a great party. Jim was feeling decidedly unsteady by now and left Tom to find the bed in the spare room. He lurched towards his room armed with a large glass of water. Within minutes he was snoring the rattling snore of a man who has drunk way too much beer.

Chapter Two

Sunday

$&*/~%!! :?}>!! Pain! Hurts! Headache!

In the early stages of consciousness, Jim knew he had a hangover. There it was, the undeniable message that the back of his head was hurting and that the front would join in just as soon as he opened his eyes. So he kept them closed and turned over, but the motion still made his head throb.

He was a seasoned professional in the area of hangovers and knew that the trick now was to concentrate on lying very, very still in the hope that the throbbing would subside and would allow him to drift back to sleep. It worked.

He woke up again two hours later. The head was a little better. Maybe he could risk opening his eyes this time.

His eyeballs throbbed on exposure to his bedroom’s faint light. He pulled himself up on to an elbow and tried to work out what he needed to do first. One of the attributes of a Dawson hangover was a complete inability to decide on his most immediate bodily need. After about a minute he decided that a drink of water must be top of the list. He took several large gulps from the pint glass he had brought with him the night before. The water sloshed down to his stomach and made him feel queasy. He had to put his head back on the pillow for a few more minutes.

Once he had recovered from that ordeal, he turned over and glanced at the clock. It was 10:23. Since waking there had been another sensory message nagging at his brain, but up until now it had been blocked by the full-scale hangover alert. The message started to come though:

Smell . . .

Oil . . .

Diesel . . .

Diesel?!

Oil!!!

He sat up with a start. It made his head and stomach swim so much that he had to play ‘statues’ again for a while. During this pause he was able to re-analyse the smell.

Rational thought took hold. It was actually the smell of bacon cooking. It might just as well have been diesel; such was his raging nausea.

The awful truth dawned. Tom was making a cooked breakfast.

Tom was always partial to a cooked breakfast after a major session. In fact his only irritating trait was that he never seemed to really suffer from hangovers. No matter how much alcohol had been consumed, no matter how late the night, he was always the first one up the next morning, bright and breezy and clamouring for bacon, eggs and fried bread.

And Jim knew that he wouldn’t be cooking for one.

But before he even thought about that, there was something else he needed to do. He slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed, anticipating the rush of nausea that this brought on. Another pause. He stood up and took a few tentative footsteps to the door. After a brave deep breath, he opened it; and was greeted by