stamped on the accelerator and sprang away from the lay-by, shooting up through the gears till I hit eighty-five miles an hour; knowing they surely must be running back to their car – who, who were they? – I took the junction at sixty, nearly hit a signpost on the corner, took control again, breathing hard, and floored the accelerator again driving west as hard and as fast as I could, taking every corner, dodging, twisting, turning.
Hunted.
15
Lissy
I stood by the bedroom window, wrapped in a nylon seventies bedspread, watching rain flooding across the glass, hammering the lawn outside, pouring from the branches of that yew tree, splashing into the weed-choked lake.
Who were they?
There was a small crack in the top left-hand corner of the window that someone had tried to seal with brown parcel tape, and a cold breeze snaked around the room. I pulled the bedspread tighter around my shoulders.
They were just having a party in the woods, students or something
, I told myself angrily.
Don’t be so stupid. He thought you were someone else, that’s all
.
I knew I was lying to myself.
I went to draw the heavy velvet curtains and that’s when I noticed it: a darker patch in the cream paint, just above the window. I looked closer. It was in the shape of a small cross. A crucifix had once hung in this room, just like downstairs by the front door. Now it was gone.
Cold, irrational fear shot through my body as I drew the curtains, half afraid I might
see
something outside. I stumbled across the room, tripping on the bedspread, and scrambled into bed. I lay there listening to the rain, and I slept with the light on. I should have known the dream would come: it always does when I’m feeling even more trapped, more hemmed in than usual, or sometimes just upset and confused. The dream has always been with me, like a birthmark on my skin, a visitor who arrives in the hours of darkness.
The dream says a lot about me.
It starts, as usual, with the clear limitless light of a blue sky on a hot day. And the sky is all around me, air rushing past my face, between my outstretched fingers, into my wide-open screaming mouth, because I’m falling. I look down and watch the ground coming closer every second, the patchwork of green fields and darker smears of woodland, the glittering trail of a river, cars inching along a motorway, the grey sprawl of a town staining the beauty of it all—
I’m falling and I’m going to die.
Then that physical sensation across my back: muscles stretching, lengthening, something
unfurling
. I squeeze my eyes tight shut. And the lift, that incredible lift, warm air beneath, pushing me up, higher and higher. I want to open my eyes again, to look down and see those fields and forests, that ugly town, but I know what will happen if I do. I soar, wind rushing past my face, and when I can stand it no longer, I open my eyes and—
And I wake. It’s always the same. Just at the moment I can’t resist the urge to look, I’m jerked out of sleep, away from the dream. Back to the ordinary world: our dorm at school, Alice muttering in her sleep, bundled in the bed beside mine, or in the back seat of my dad’s car, even a train carriage, wherever I might have fallen asleep. The usual feeling of flat disappointment washed over me: one day,
one day,
I would defeat my waking body. I would open my eyes still in the dream and
see
—
Disappointment was chased away by fear. I was cold all over, every inch of my skin tingling.
I sat up in bed again, leaning back against the pillows, the bedside lamp still on. Yellow electric light filled the room. Still half asleep, I stared at the dark brown curtains looped back against the wall. Someone had opened them, come in. Mum? Why would she do that in the middle of the night? The rain had eased, but the window glittered with trails of water. I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t even quite two in the morning. Not her, then. So who had opened the curtains?
I became aware of
Hunted.
15
Lissy
I stood by the bedroom window, wrapped in a nylon seventies bedspread, watching rain flooding across the glass, hammering the lawn outside, pouring from the branches of that yew tree, splashing into the weed-choked lake.
Who were they?
There was a small crack in the top left-hand corner of the window that someone had tried to seal with brown parcel tape, and a cold breeze snaked around the room. I pulled the bedspread tighter around my shoulders.
They were just having a party in the woods, students or something
, I told myself angrily.
Don’t be so stupid. He thought you were someone else, that’s all
.
I knew I was lying to myself.
I went to draw the heavy velvet curtains and that’s when I noticed it: a darker patch in the cream paint, just above the window. I looked closer. It was in the shape of a small cross. A crucifix had once hung in this room, just like downstairs by the front door. Now it was gone.
Cold, irrational fear shot through my body as I drew the curtains, half afraid I might
see
something outside. I stumbled across the room, tripping on the bedspread, and scrambled into bed. I lay there listening to the rain, and I slept with the light on. I should have known the dream would come: it always does when I’m feeling even more trapped, more hemmed in than usual, or sometimes just upset and confused. The dream has always been with me, like a birthmark on my skin, a visitor who arrives in the hours of darkness.
The dream says a lot about me.
It starts, as usual, with the clear limitless light of a blue sky on a hot day. And the sky is all around me, air rushing past my face, between my outstretched fingers, into my wide-open screaming mouth, because I’m falling. I look down and watch the ground coming closer every second, the patchwork of green fields and darker smears of woodland, the glittering trail of a river, cars inching along a motorway, the grey sprawl of a town staining the beauty of it all—
I’m falling and I’m going to die.
Then that physical sensation across my back: muscles stretching, lengthening, something
unfurling
. I squeeze my eyes tight shut. And the lift, that incredible lift, warm air beneath, pushing me up, higher and higher. I want to open my eyes again, to look down and see those fields and forests, that ugly town, but I know what will happen if I do. I soar, wind rushing past my face, and when I can stand it no longer, I open my eyes and—
And I wake. It’s always the same. Just at the moment I can’t resist the urge to look, I’m jerked out of sleep, away from the dream. Back to the ordinary world: our dorm at school, Alice muttering in her sleep, bundled in the bed beside mine, or in the back seat of my dad’s car, even a train carriage, wherever I might have fallen asleep. The usual feeling of flat disappointment washed over me: one day,
one day,
I would defeat my waking body. I would open my eyes still in the dream and
see
—
Disappointment was chased away by fear. I was cold all over, every inch of my skin tingling.
I sat up in bed again, leaning back against the pillows, the bedside lamp still on. Yellow electric light filled the room. Still half asleep, I stared at the dark brown curtains looped back against the wall. Someone had opened them, come in. Mum? Why would she do that in the middle of the night? The rain had eased, but the window glittered with trails of water. I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t even quite two in the morning. Not her, then. So who had opened the curtains?
I became aware of
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