SUNDAY
In my nightmares, I was buried alive. It was the same scenario every time. At first I never understood what was about to happen. Tight-lipped people held my arms fast and forced me to walk forwards. Not slowly, not quickly. It was night, and the sky was black. The air was warm and close. We were moving through what looked like an abandoned industrial estate. The outlines of huge, dark machines rose up around us, like shadows cast in iron. I wanted to ask where we were, where we were going. But the gag wouldn’t let me speak. It chafed in my mouth, tugging at the corners of my lips. The fabric was rough against my tongue. And there was something going on with my legs. They were tied together with rope, meaning I could only take short steps. I was forced to take many more steps than my guards. And that terrified me.
How many times do you feel afraid as an adult? Not many. Mainly because there aren’t all that many things that scare us. We know that most things sort themselves out, that it’s silly to get hung up on little things. It’s one of the blessings of growing older: escaping the constant paranoia and fears of youth and getting some perspective on things. The only drawback is that this liberation from fear makes us so painfully aware of what is really worth being frightened of.
The loss of our nearest and dearest.
The loss of our own health or life.
And, in rare instances, fear of pain or anxiety.
As I half-walked and was half-dragged through the abandoned industrial landscape, I knew I was going to die. That’s one of the most interesting things about nightmares in general. We often know how they’re going to end. Because on a subconscious level we already have an idea of why we dream the things we do. We know which real events and experiences have triggered different reactions inside us, and it’s partly from these events that fear takes its nourishment. Memory has almost unlimited power over our thoughts.
The nightmares started to torment me as soon as I got Belle back. After I’d been to Texas. In my sleep I tried both to resist and wake up at the same time. I never once succeeded. The nightmare continued without me being able to influence it at all. The silent, black-clad men moved as relentlessly as the tide. I chewed and chewed on the gag, trying to make some sort of sound. It was impossible. No one wanted to explain where we were going. No one wanted to tell me what I’d done.
Eventually I realised anyway. I started to recognise where I was. Understood what the machines surrounding us were, and what they had once done to the earth. I had been there before. I had never planned to go back. I started to howl and tried to resist. But the men just carried on. I was left dangling from their arms and my feet and lower legs scraped along the ground. The jeans I was wearing were ruined, and soon it started to hurt.
I never stopped trying to make myself heard. Not even when we were standing beside the hole that had already been prepared. I wanted to ask for forgiveness, explain that it had all been a terrible accident. But I couldn’t get a single intelligible sound out. That was when the sobbing would start. Hoarse, hot, corrosive. My whole body would shake as I pleaded for my life. No one listened. Instead I was shoved headfirst into the pit. It was deep, at least two metres. I landed hard on my stomach and felt something break. A rib? Two? Something caused a sudden flash of pain in my left lung and I tried to roll over.
By this point they had already grabbed their shovels and started to rain soil and sand down on top of me. They worked silently and systematically, burying me alive. They never slowed up. Not when I got to my knees, nor when I stood up. My hands were tied behind my back and I knew I wouldn’t be able to climb out. So I stood there and screamed silent screams while mortal dread galloped off with the last of my reason. I met death standing up. When the earth reached my chin my vision was already starting to fade.
I never woke up until the top of my head was covered.
‘What do you dream about, Martin?’
Lucy tried to catch my eye across the breakfast table. She had seen me sweat between the sheets far too many nights in a row. When I didn’t reply she went on: ‘It seems like the same dream recurring over and over again. Is that what it is?’
‘I don’t remember. Is it really so surprising that I’m dreaming a load of fucked-up nonsense after everything we’ve been through?’
After everything we’ve been through. A lie, but there was no way Lucy could know that. The dreams had a single source: Texas. I kept quiet about that.
I took a mouthful of coffee and burned myself.
‘Damn.’
Lucy was still looking at me.
‘You keep tossing about,’ she said. ‘Screaming.’
I put the mug of coffee down.
‘Really?’ I said. ‘So what do I scream, then?’
I asked mainly because she expected me to.
‘ “I know where he is.” You scream, “I know where he is.” But you don’t, do you?’
For a moment time stood still.
‘Martin, you don’t, do you? Where Mio is?’
I came to my senses and shook my head.
‘Of course I don’t.’
We ate the rest of our breakfast in silence. I thought about how secrets are like every other sort of shit. You can bury them as deep as you like, but sooner or later they find their way up to the surface anyway. Especially if you return to the scene of the crime of your own accord.
Lucy thought I was screaming that I knew where Mio was. Only I knew what I was really going on about. Who I was talking about.
‘I know where he is.’
Oh yes, I knew, alright. But the person I was talking about didn’t have a damn thing to do with Mio.
Or did he?