16

With the main door open he was faced with a metallic mesh concertina gate. He reached for the handle and pushed the gate along its runners until it was fully open.

He didn’t step inside.

Couldn’t step inside.

It’s only a lift, Ran. Get a hold of yourself.

He had an idea. Walking back into the kitchen, he lifted one of the chairs, carried it back to the lift and used it to prop open the outside door. If that closed while he was inside, he didn’t know how he would handle it.

Light flooded in from the corridor.

Then it dimmed.

He looked over his shoulder, down towards the main hall. But there was nothing. Probably the sun ducking behind a cloud.

Ignoring the slight tremble in his right knee, he stepped inside the lift. He looked at the red wallpaper with its gold fleur-de-lys motif. The red carpet. The low-legged, small chair in the corner. It was wooden, the centre of each arm cushioned with the same cloth as the seat cushion and the back insert. It was a parlour chair, he thought. Then he asked himself how that little nugget of information had dropped into his mind.

Wherever it had come from, the chair, the wallpaper, and yes, the mirror, were all familiar. Far too familiar. If he had only been in here in his dreams, why was everything in it instantly recognisable?

There was a draught. A breeze. On it floated a scent he recognised.

The kitchen chair shifted; its weight was insufficient to hold the outside door. With a brushing sound, it closed.

‘No,’ he shouted and reached out, but he wasn’t quick enough.

‘My love,’ he heard. The sound was musical, reassuring. He stepped back further inside the lift, shaking his head, refusing to believe that this was happening.

‘You should have a seat,’ he heard. ‘It’s tiring, isn’t it?’

Almost paralysed with fear and uncertainty, he managed to nod his agreement, and sat.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, hearing the panic in his voice. He sent the command to his legs to rise from the chair and leave, but his limbs remained unresponsive.

‘I know who you are. You are my love.’ He heard a smile threading through the answer.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said, and heard a note of anxiety in his reply.

He looked up at the mirror. And there she was. The woman from his dream. Her shoulder. Dark cloth with a white lace trim. The back of her head. A quarter view of her face. Long, brown hair in waves and curls.

‘What do you need to understand?’ Her cheek moved as if her face was forming a smile.

‘This isn’t happening,’ said Ranald, thoughts jumbling in his head, commands he sent to muscles going unheeded. He should leave.

Run.

This wasn’t a dream. He was wide awake.

‘And yet here we are, my love.’

Not happening, thought Ranald. Not fucking happening.

And yet.

‘Who are you?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘Why are you in my dreams? My head?’

‘Why not? Can’t you feel it?’

‘Feel what?’

‘Our love.’

Ran exhaled. Glanced down at his hands. They were quivering. He needed to get out of here. But again his muscles refused to obey his brain. Then a moment. A memory. Walking in the garden. Catching a glimpse of a slender ankle. A long skirt, its edges damp with dew.

‘We do enjoy our walks.’

‘We do? What’s happening here?’ He knocked his forehead with his fist. He should get back on his drugs. That was the explanation. He needed to be taking his medication.

‘Close your eyes.’

He did.

‘Lean back.’

He did, questioning at the same time why he was being so acquiescent.

‘Keep your eyes closed.’ Her laugh was a chime. Silver on crystal. Somehow he didn’t feel at risk.

Then he felt a hand slip into his loose grip. The weight of someone sitting on his lap. A head on his shoulder.

‘Please hold me.’

He did, knowing he had finally slipped beyond the veil and into madness.