Deborah Ferry – Asphyxia by Hanging
Stark got back to his flat at around 7 that evening. He had picked up a Chinese takeaway on his way home, emptied the contents into a bowl, stuck it in the microwave, then realised he wasn’t hungry. He pushed it to one side, decided to phone his sister. It went to voicemail. She would be working. A junior doctor on the A and E ward worked a million hours a week. The ability to function without sleep with nerves shredded to the bare wire were prerequisites of the job.
She was a goddamned warrior, and he loved her for it.
He slung his jacket over the kitchen chair, slipped his shoes off, tossed them into a corner, and slumped on his ancient settee. He looked about for the TV remote. It was nowhere in view. He realised dismally it had doubtless slipped down the side of the couch somewhere, but he couldn’t be bothered either searching for it, or shifting off his backside to press the “on” switch. He sat, in a weary daze, on the verge of drifting into a doze. His exhaustion was not physical. It was purely mental. He had been working for the last few months in a bottling warehouse, from eight until six, and as such, was hard as nails. It had been years since he had exercised his mind, and now, suddenly, it was being asked to work full overdrive.
He knew he should summon the energy to get up, get changed, hit the streets in his running shoes. But the thought held little appeal.
He lay on his side, put his feet up on the couch, and fell asleep…
…Night-time. A room. A bedroom. A single bed. The furniture around it was white. Girly. Wardrobe, dressing table, bedside cabinet, with pink edging and handles fashioned in the shape of butterflies. A doll’s house in one corner. On the cabinet, a lamp, the shade a bright selection of rainbow colours. Posters on the walls. All sorts – Harry Potter; flying unicorns; princess fairies; an orange fox with a multicoloured tail. From the ceiling, a hanging lamp – a hand-crocheted hot-air balloon, Peter Rabbit peeping out its tiny basket. All popcorn and candy sweet. Illumination was faint – a revolving glow globe on the dressing table, creating soft stars on the walls. Stark stood to one side, quiet as a shadow, and watched the events unfold, consumed with a dread the likes of which he never knew existed.
The door to the bedroom opened, allowing in a fracture of light. There! – he discerned a shape under the covers of the bed, huddled tight, a bob of blonde hair. A figure slipped into the room, quick and sly. Stark’s dread blossomed into throat-constricting horror.
The door closed. The dark returned. But Stark, transfixed where he stood, saw. The figure crept to the bed, pulled the covers back. A voice whispered, dripping sweet as honey. The bed creaked as the figure entered, and Stark, suddenly able to move, screamed for the obscenity to stop. His screams went unheeded. He felt every particle of her terror, her revulsion, her pain as if it was he who was being brutalised.
But there was nothing he could do.
In the instant it takes for a single second to pass, Stark was in a different place. Different surroundings. The dread remained, possessing a different texture. Latent, slow burning. A dread bubbling deep in the bones over many years…
…A wood. Night-time, the sky caught in sharp relief, the moon pale and clear, unobscured, encircled by a million stars.
The trees were tinged silver-grey, touched, so it seemed, by a dark magic. The air was chilled. Stark walked a snaking path. He thought he heard a stream somewhere. His steps felt sluggish. This was a journey he had no desire to take, but yet, he was compelled. He came to a clearing. In the clearing was a single tree. A cherry-blossom tree. In that strange moonlight, the leaves seemed to glow. Beside it, standing solemn and still, was a woman. Slender, a mere wisp. She gazed upwards, at the night sky. She was crying softly. Stark had never felt such sadness. Time passed. Stark could not tell how long, in that timeless place. The crying stopped. The woman nodded pensively, as if she had reached a clarity of thought. She touched the trunk of the tree, the tips of the leaves, and in the silver glow of the moon, she hung herself.
Tears coursed down his cheeks. Stark sank to his knees, dug his fingers into the cold earth. Something floated down, to land on the grass beside him. A local newspaper. The date was clear. The front page was emblazoned with the marriage of Prince William and Kate Middleton. Stark opened it, to page eighteen – a variety of happenings. A factory gone bust; a footballer pictured drunk at a nightclub; and tucked in a corner, a single paragraph, the sad story of a young woman who, tragically, had taken her own life in Chatelherault Woods.
Stark woke with a start. The dream remained vivid in his mind. The details were clear, the images fresh. He sat up, ran a fretful hand through his hair. He felt cold. His heart thumped, like he’d sprinted two hundred yards. He waited, expecting the events to drift to nothing, as dreams do, dissipating like mist under a morning sun. They didn’t. He looked at his watch. It was 2am. He could hardly believe he had slept that long. He got up, made himself a coffee, sat at the kitchen table.
The dream had shaken him. He sipped his coffee with a trembling hand. The scenes tumbled over and over in his mind. He knew he wouldn’t sleep. He toyed with the idea of eating the takeaway, but the thought made him nauseous. He checked his watch again: 2.10am.
Since the shooting massacre at the hands of Alfie Willow, Stark had suffered episodes. Panic attacks, his psychiatrist had explained. Also, nightmares. That he was locked below the ground, unable to breathe. Manifestations of post-traumatic stress disorder. A natural consequence of dramatic events. As time wore on, the panic attacks diminished, though the nightmares persisted. When it got bad, his first reaction was to phone his sister. He hated himself for doing it. But she was all he had, and she was always there, with her smile, and her grit.
He made a decision, and pressed her number on speed dial. It was answered almost immediately.
“After 2,” she said. “Just as well I don’t sleep.” She sounded breathless.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Just finished. Walking to my car as we speak. Another shift over at the zoo. What’s up?”
He faltered. He was embarrassed. There was really nothing up. But the dream wouldn’t go away. He saw the shadow crawl under the little girl’s covers. He saw the woman crying by the cherry-blossom tree.
“I… nothing. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”
Her voice was stern. “Don’t bullshit me, little brother. I’ll be over in half an hour.”
She disconnected. God, he loved her more than anything in the world.
She was there twenty-five minutes later. Dressed still in her blue scrubs, under a worn beige leather jacket. Hair tied back, somewhat severely, for functional purposes. Slung over her shoulder, a rather shapeless satchel, passing barely as a handbag. She looked tired. She was tired, he knew. He felt guilty and selfish. All this, over a stupid dream. But its impact was profound, and despite everything, he was glad she had come. As indeed he knew she would.
They sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table.
“Are you going to eat that?” she asked, nodding at the untouched bowl of chow mein.
“All yours.”
She got a fork from drawer, returned, started to eat.
“Aren’t you going to heat it up?” he said.
“Nope. Haven’t eaten anything since lunchtime yesterday. Starving. Taste is irrelevant. As long as it fills my gut. Now, Jonathan. Tell me what compelled you to phone me at two in the morning. Despite the chewing and swallowing noises, I’m listening.”
Stark had to smile. “I know.” He relayed the dream. He found he remembered everything, from beginning to end. No vagueness. No gaps. The details were crisp in his mind, which in itself was unnerving.
“I was there,” he said. “I mean, that’s how it felt. That I was actually there. But more than that. I could feel the emotion. Of the child, of the woman. Their terrible suffering. I knew their thoughts. I knew everything about them. And I shared the dreadful burden they carried.” He faltered, as he pondered their plight. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. I can’t shake it off.”
“I don’t know much about dreams,” Maggie said. “But I do know a bit about reality. Or at least as much as the next person. And the reality in your case is that five years ago, you were left for dead. But you didn’t die. You survived. And like any survivor from something deeply traumatic, you suffer consequences. You had headaches for months. You suffered depression. You had anxiety attacks. You lost confidence. And no fucking wonder. And you had nightmares. Time passes. Things improve. Bit by tiny bit. But they do improve. And they have improved. Every so often, there’s going to be a… relapse. And you know why? Because we’re not machines. We’re flesh and blood. You had a nightmare. It was going to happen. And it has happened. And no doubt it will happen again. But we see it for what it is. And we do our best to move on. That’s all anyone can do. Move on.”
“The newspaper,” countered Stark. “I can remember every detail. Page eighteen. I could write the contents of each article on that page. It’s like…” He raised his hands in frustration. “…branded into my mind!”
Maggie frowned and pursed her lips. “Fair enough. Pen and paper please.”
Stark looked at his sister, held her stare. “Seriously?”
“We’re going to see this through. Humour me, please.”
Stark took out a pen from his inside jacket pocket, opened a kitchen drawer, got a pad of notepaper. He placed both items on the kitchen table.
She picked the pen up.
“An experiment. You’re suggesting your dream was more than a dream. That you experienced something almost… what? Mystical? Supernatural? In which case, let’s put it to the test. Tell me the name of the newspaper?”
Stark shook his head. “It was just a dream.”
Maggie continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Name please.”
Stark released a sigh. “The Hamilton Bugle.”
“Never heard of it.” She scribbled it down.
“I can write it,” said Stark. “There’s no need.”
“There’s every need. I can’t read your writing. No one can. The date?”
“April 29th, 2011.”
“Okay. Page eighteen?”
“Yup.”
“Give me the headline of each article on the page.”
Stark did as requested. He saw the words clear in his mind’s eye. Maggie kept writing.
“Now, tell me, exactly, the specific item about the young woman’s suicide.” Stark closed his eyes, allowed the image to appear in his head, slowly read it out, word for word. The process scared him. It was unnatural. Maggie finished writing it down. Her face had paled.
“That was damned specific,” she said.
“Sure was.”
She straightened, folded the paper, tucked it into her satchel.
“I have a day off tomorrow. Instead of spending it with my darling husband who I rarely see, and whose face is a distant memory, and whose first name I can barely remember, I will take these scribblings to the Mitchell Library. In particular, the archives, which has every copy of every Scottish newspaper ever printed. And then, little brother, once I have proved that you had a dream and not a visitation from God – or the Devil, for that matter – then perhaps we can ‘move on’. What do you think?”
Stark couldn’t help smiling. He raised his hands. “I concede. It was only a stupid dream, and I’m a needy brother. Spend the day with your husband. I’ve moved on already.”
Maggie sniffed. “I can assure you, a day in the library is considerably more exciting.”
Stark laughed. Maggie laughed with him.
“You’re the boss,” he said.
“Sure am. And don’t forget it.”