being able to fall asleep anywhere. Planes, trains and automobiles, friends’ sofas, back seats of cars, motel rooms — it makes no difference to me. I put my head down and I’m out like the proverbial. No shallow sleep states for me. I’ve never experienced a stage one myoclonic jerk in my life; though I’ve had plenty of experience with the other kind. With only a brief pause at stage four, I plummet straight into stage five: REM deep dream mode. According to Sean I start sleep-talking in under thirty seconds.
Started, I mean. Sean is past tense. Present tense Robbie hasn’t mentioned my odd sleep behaviour yet. Maybe that’s the kind of conversation we’ll have if we move in together, and whether the lawns need cutting and the fridge defrosting. Or maybe not. Most people, normal people, rotate from deep stage five sleep back up to stage two and then slowly back down again throughout the night. Not me. Once asleep, I pretty much stay there, way down the hole with only the occasional holiday up to stage four for a couple of minutes’ light relief. When my brain decides it’s time to wake up I rise to the surface like an abyssal diver in need of air, straight up and awake. Just like that. But try and wake me before my brain says it’s ready — well, that’s not easy.
The reason I know all this is because when I was a kid specialists studied the hell out of me. The end result of all their prodding and probing and sleep-wave monitoring was to be told my condition has no adverse effects — on me, anyway; in fact, it apparently gives me all sorts of health benefits I’m supposed to be thankful for. When I’m dreaming of flying or winning lotto it’s an enviable little trick, alright.
But there is a downside: nightmares. When I’m in a nightmare I’m there for the long haul. I can be forced awake, jolted back to consciousness, but it takes a concerted effort. Meanwhile, until my brain says it’s time to wake up, I’m stuck in nightmare-ville. Believe me, that’s no fun place to be.
The dream started off just fine. I’m swimming through clear, lucid water. Fingers stretching ahead in long easy breaststrokes. Forehead breaching like a ship’s prow. My timing is perfect, rhythmical. I take a deep breath in, my forehead dips into the iciness. I lift my chin and breathe out as the stroke comes around again, weightless, like flying; blissful. I fill my lungs with air, flip and kick down into the deep cold. Hands clasped together, arms out in front, I dolphin kick down further and further, undulating my body through the liquid. The water parts in front of me and then folds back as I slice through. It’s spectacularly easy. No drag. No effort. No struggle for breath. It’s like I have gills.
Then I glimpse something below. Something in the murky depths. Something falling. Bubbles nibble my skin as they rise past me to the surface. One hard kick and I’m closer. It’s a car. A car is falling below me in slow motion. Another kick down. Closer now, I make out a little white moon face, framed in the back window — Falcon. His eyes are wide; his hands are flattened against the glass. His mouth is a big ‘O’.
And then in one of those time jumps that happen in dreams, it’s me in the car. I’m not Falcon. I’m in the front passenger seat. The belt is tight across my chest. I’m wearing a pale blue cotton dress with lace trim on the hem. My knees are the knees of a young girl. Falcon is yelling something at me. He’s yelling in another language, or he’s yelling something I can’t make any sense of. The car is still falling. Lake weed droops past the window. An old supermarket trolley lies on its side in the muddy bed. We’re nearly at the bottom. We’ll stop falling soon. There will be a bump. I wonder if it will hurt. Dying — I wonder if it will hurt. The water is as thick as mushroom soup. As if an un-mute button has been pushed, Falcon yells ‘No!’ as loud as a fire alarm. Over and over he’s yelling it, ‘Nononononono!’ as if it’s one word. His little arms are tight around my neck. I want to remind him to put his seatbelt on. Stupid. The car lands, thud! A soft landing,