Jason was woken with a start by a cold draught on his face. Something clattered down below. He heard the wind gusting. Lying still in the darkness, he was momentarily confused, unsure where he was. He felt anxious; something was wrong. He heard a man’s voice, talking, close by. It was a low, coarse, creepy, leering voice.
Jason heard his own heart pounding.
Eyes wide open, he peered at the clock radio beside him. The green digits were flashing ‘00.00’ repeatedly.
There’d been a power cut.
The voice continued. Monotonous. Intoning.
‘Oliver, Caro, Jade, Johnny, Rowena, Felix, Daisy, Harry . . .’
A voice he didn’t recognize. In their house or out on the street?
Shit.
It continued. ‘Brangwyn, Matilda, Evelyne . . .’
Did they have burglars? What could he use as a weapon?’
His brain raced.
Was something moving in the room? A man’s shape? There was another blast of cold air.
The voice droned on, repeating, ‘Oliver, Caro, Jade, Johnny, Rowena, Felix, Daisy, Harry, Brangwyn, Matilda, Evelyne . . .’
Right beside him.
He held his breath, scared.
Then he realized. It was Emily, talking in her sleep. Except it wasn’t her voice.
She said the names over again, in a continuous loop.
He reached out his left arm, found the bedside table and, careful not to knock over his glass of water, felt for his watch resting in the charger. He picked it up and looked at it: 2.33 a.m.
‘PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT!’ Emily suddenly shouted out, sounding very frightened.
‘Darling!’ he said quietly.
‘Oliver, Caro, Jade, Johnny, Rowena, Felix, Daisy, Harry, Brangwyn, Matilda, Evelyne . . .’ she intoned again.
‘Em,’ he whispered, not wanting to wake her, but needing to stop her.
She had often talked in her sleep in the past, and never believed him when he told her in the morning. He had an idea. Picking up his phone, he recorded a video of her.
‘Oliver, Caro, Jade, Johnny, Rowena, Felix, Daisy, Harry, Brangwyn, Matilda, Evelyne . . .’ she intoned yet again.
And again.
Then, in the glow of green light from the clock and from his watch face, he saw a figure moving across the room.
It felt as if electricity was crackling through him. He fumbled for the bedside lamp switch and snapped it on. The room filled with light and he blinked for some moments, with the realization the power was now back on.
‘Yrrrr?’ Emily said.
There was no one in the room.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, softly.
‘Whasser?’ she asked.
‘It’s OK, you were talking in your sleep.’
He heard a rasping snore. She was still asleep.
Jesus, her voice had scared him.
He turned the light off and lay still, his whole body pounding. Outside, apart from the wind, was total silence. Before, in Brighton, where they had lived on a busy street, the night was never completely silent. Traffic noise, the occasional wail of a police siren or of cats fighting, or urban foxes foraging through bins. Nor was it ever completely dark the way it was here.
He lay still for a long time. Emily stopped snoring and began breathing, rhythmically. He closed his eyes, tried to go back to sleep, but his mind was in turmoil. Images came in one after the other. Digits and letters on his screens. Roland Fortinbrass. The face of the woman.
Fretting, suddenly, about oversleeping and not getting to the framer in time, he sat up and reset the clock and the alarm. Then checked his phone alarm, too. David was shutting up shop at lunchtime and flying off to Inverness. If he didn’t get there in time that would be it. The two pictures of the dogs would not be delivered for Christmas. He was really pleased with both and was sure his clients would be happy.
He checked the clock and his phone alarm again. Then he closed his eyes, lay back against the pillow and slowly drifted towards sleep. A stern, female voice whispered into his ear.
‘You didn’t get my eyes right. They’re blue, not brown.’
He sat up with a start, wide awake again and in a cold sweat. Snapped on the light.
Nothing.
The room was empty.
Emily stirred in her sleep and rolled over.
He went back to bed, turned off the light and closed his eyes.
It seemed only seconds later that Emily was shaking him. Whispering urgently in a terrified voice. ‘Darling, darling, there’s someone upstairs.’
Above them he heard a loud, steady noise of footsteps.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
The sound of someone in heavy shoes pacing angrily across his studio floor.