Sleep. C.L. Taylor
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I’ve let you down.’
‘You haven’t let anyone down. I’m not the person I was. I don’t think you are either. We’ve both changed. No one’s to blame.’
He looked at me steadily and said nothing. He didn’t have to.
We had beans on toast for dinner, the plates resting on our laps as we sat on the sofa and pretended to watch a film. It was better than the alternative, sitting across the kitchen table from each other, shovelling food silently into our mouths as we tried to think of something to say. We went to bed at the same time and automatically reached for our books. It felt as though we were in a bizarre sketch show, the couple who’d just split up but were acting as though nothing had happened.
‘Have you made plans, beyond living with your parents, I mean?’ Alex laid down his book but kept his gaze, and his body, facing forwards. A wave of sadness passed over me. It was real. We were splitting up. We no longer fitted together like pieces of a puzzle. Time had changed us. We’d become warped and incompatible.
‘I was thinking about moving to Scotland.’
‘Scotland?’
‘Yeah. One of the islands maybe. I …’ I discarded my book, twisted onto my side and pulled the duvet up over my shoulders. Looking at Alex’s side profile, I had a flashback to the first time I’d seen him – his long nose, strong brow and slightly recessive chin.
He looked at me curiously. ‘Since when have you wanted to live in Scotland?’
‘I’ve wanted to get out of London for a while, you know that. I told you when we first met.’
‘You said you wanted to move to the Cotswolds or Norfolk, not Scotland.’
‘There was a programme the other day, on the TV. I was only half watching it but I got sucked in. The Scottish Isles … they looked so beautiful and wild and remote.’
‘And cold. And rainy. And miserable.’
I shook my head. ‘No, not miserable.’
‘You won’t know anyone.’
‘Good. I don’t like people.’
He laughed. ‘And I don’t imagine they have a thriving marketing industry.’
‘I don’t want to be in marketing any more.’
‘So what will you do? Become a fisherwoman?’
‘I thought I might work in a tea shop or a restaurant or something. Or I could clean maybe, be a cleaner.’
‘Clean?’ One of his eyebrows twitched in disbelief.
‘Why not? I don’t want to do what I did, Alex. I don’t want the pressure or the … the responsibility.’
He looked grave for a second as my words sank in.
‘This is some weird kind of grief thing, isn’t it? Making reckless decisions. I read about it online.’
‘No, it’s not. I’ve given it a lot of thought.’
‘But …’ He looked at me steadily. ‘You’re the messiest person I’ve ever met. Who the hell’s going to employ you as a cleaner?’
We both laughed then.
‘I just want you to be happy,’ Alex said as he twisted round to turn off his bedside lamp.
‘I want you to be happy too.’
He didn’t reply. Instead he pulled the duvet up over his shoulders and buried his head in his pillow, shifting and shuffling as he made himself comfortable. I studied the shape of his head and the curve of his shoulder as his breathing grew slower and deeper. Then, when I was sure he was asleep, I slipped out of bed.
I lean back in my chair and stretch my arms above my head. 5.04 a.m. I rarely fall asleep before four. I’ve tried hypnosis apps, lavender, Night Nurse and Calms but nothing works.
I’ve just spent the last couple of hours searching for jobs in the Scottish Isles. There were more than I expected, particularly in Orkney, but where I want to live, the isle I fell in love with when I watched the BBC documentary, was Rum. The thirty-one residents are outnumbered by the animal life – deer, eagles and ponies – that run wild on the rough, rugged terrain. But there’s only one job available – ‘General Help’ at the Bay View Hotel. Duties including reception work, cleaning and website updating. The salary’s pitifully small and the hours are relentless. I’d barely get time to rest, never mind think. It’s just what I want.
As Alex said, I’m hardly qualified to be a cleaner but I worked in a hotel bar for a couple of years after school and I can do the website stuff standing on my head. I peer into the laptop screen, reread my application again, checking for typos or errors, then grab the mouse and click ‘Send’.
I stifle a yawn as I close the laptop and stand up. The sun is coming up now and a sliver of bright light slips into the room where the curtains don’t meet in the middle. Below a blanket of grey cloud the sky is streaked orange and red and I can just make out the arc of a white sun peeping between the buildings opposite and—
Movement in the corner of my eye makes me turn my head. Someone just ducked down behind a car at the end of the road, on the opposite side of the street. I steady my hand on the glass and squint into the distance. There’s a piece of paper fluttering under the windscreen wiper of my car.
‘Alex?’ I whisper his name then cross the bedroom and step into the hall, pulling the door closed behind me. I turn on the hallway light, pull on my coat, slip my feet into my shoes and grab my keys. Less than two minutes later I’m down the communal stairs and opening the front door. I pause in the doorway and glance along the street. There’s no one else here, just me and a large tabby cat that stares indifferently at me from a low wall, several houses down. I put the door on the latch and dart out of the house. It only takes twelve frantic strides to get me from the front door to the car. I snatch the piece of white paper from beneath the windscreen wiper then speed back into the house. I shut the door behind me, release the latch and unfold the paper. There are three words printed in the centre.
YOU WILL SLEEP.
In Memoriam
Emily and Eva Gapper
Emily Gapper, devoted wife and mother. Passed away on 13.2.2015 to be with our darling daughter, Eva Gapper. Knowing that the two of you are together is my only comfort. Forever in my thoughts, my beautiful girls. Love and miss you always …
I have always prided myself on my ability to read people; to interpret their body language, intonation and micro-expressions. It’s not so much a gift as a survival technique, an arsenal in my armour that was fashioned in my childhood – a necessity when faced with a mother as emotionally stunted as mine.
Take you, for example, Anna Willis, sitting in the window, lit by the glow of your laptop, then sprinting along the pavement with your oversized cardigan wrapped around your body and belted by your arm gripping your waist. I might have been too far away this time to study your face but I’ve been nearer. I’ve been close enough to study your pale skin, wide unblinking pupils, the sweat prickling at your hairline, your repetitive throat-clearing and the way you twist your hands. Your anxiety and your pain shine like a beacon but only to your nearest and dearest, sweet Anna. And, of course, to me.
I was going to retire. I was going to leave this life behind me and take up new pursuits. But he wants you gone and I couldn’t say no. I have never been able to say no to him.
I thought I’d want to hurry your passing, Anna, to get it over and done with quickly, but this will be the last time I ever do this, my final flourish,