night was dark and gray, the air damp and cold. Fog, surrounding me. I was running to the river, blundering my way through the low-lying clouds that wouldn’t let me see, and then I was plunging into shocking, numbing cold.
She was in there, trapped in a car, and I had to find her.
I swam under water as long as I had breath, but there was nothing but cold, black emptiness, and a current that wanted to pull me down and swallow me. I surfaced, and then I dove again. Over and over, frantic now. Searching the darkness for something, anything that wasn’t water, my hands groping, finding nothing. Seeing the image all the same of her white face, her staring eyes, her dark hair drifting over her head, her hands pounding on the glass. Trying to get out, because she was trapped.
Because she was drowning.
My hands couldn’t find her. I was so cold, and I was losing my strength. And I couldn’t find her.
I woke up shouting. Sweating. Shaking.
The duvet was all the way off the bed. That was why I’d been so cold. The dream was about being cold, that was all. A nightmare. Stupid.
A whine from beside me, a sound of rustling and shaking as the dog pushed her way out of the heavy duvet that had fallen on top of her, and a warm nose was nudging my ribs. I put a hand down and felt her broad head, stroked the silky ears, tried to say something, and couldn’t.
A tap on the door, and my mum’s voice. “Gray?”
“Yeh,” I said, and the door opened, a wedge of dimness against the dark.
“All right?” I heard from closer in, and saw her there, outlined against the light, wearing her fleecy dressing gown, the one she’d loaned Daisy.
“Yeh,” I said. “Sorry. Nightmare, that’s all. I need a nightlight out there. You could’ve fallen down the stairs. Sorry to wake you.”
“I’m not going to fall down the stairs,” she said. “I turned my light on.” Another moment when I tried to think of something to say, and she asked, “Cup of tea?”
The nightmare still had its tendrils wrapped around me. Like Daisy’s wet black hair, floating around her white, panicked face. I shuddered, and Mum said, “Cup of tea.”
It got lighter, which was Mum switching on the fixture on the stairs, and I clicked on the lamp beside the bed, then climbed out, tore off my damp T-shirt and chucked it in the hamper, pulled on a clean one, and told Xena, “Bad dream, that’s all.”
I heard Mum coming up the stairs, because the old boards creaked. Something else to fix. She pushed the door open with her backside, came over to hand me my cup, and settled herself in the bedside chair with her own mug. I took a sip and said, “You found the whisky.”
“A splash, that’s all,” she said, putting her feet up on the edge of the bed. “Nothing like a splash of whisky to send the terrors on their way. This takes me back. You used to have bad dreams as a kid. Course, it was cocoa then, and no whisky. Except in mine, because I’m the mum. You’d tell me about your dream, and sharing would make the bad things go away.”
I said, “I remember that. It was a bear, usually. A grizzly. Or a murderer. I was terrified of grizzlies. And murderers with knives, for some reason.”
“And I’d tell you,” Mum said, “that there are no bears in En Zed.”
“Except in the zoo,” I said, just like I always had.
“So what was it this time?” she asked. “Is it about the brain again? Something worrying you? You having symptoms?” That was my mum, straight to the heart of the matter and no mucking about.
“No,” I said. “No symptoms. Well, other than wanting to kill that fella. You could call that a symptom, because the anger’s been pretty strong.” She’d put a fair slug of whisky in there, and the drink was hot, fragrant, and potent. I had no idea what time it was, but it felt late. Two o’clock, maybe, something like that.
“That’s normal,” she said. “Nothing wrong with a man wanting to kill somebody who’s hurt a woman he cares about, as long as you don’t actually do it. Not that I think it’d be a loss, but I’d rather not visit you in prison.”