I jump onto the banister and slide down gracefully, but as I approach the door, I still can’t make out the figure behind the glass. I reach up to open the latch, and then … nothing.
Either I’d wake up, or the dream would just fizzle out.
I started having this dream when I was about ten, soon after my dad left, so it doesn’t exactly take Sigmund Freud to figure out that it might have been about him; about me wishing desperately that he would come back.
Anyway, it’s a dream I haven’t had – haven’t even thought about – for decades.
Until now.
As soon as I raise the ticking watch to my ear, everything goes dark, and there I am again: in my bedroom at home, hearing the doorbell ring out downstairs.
As usual, I sprint out and see that shadow behind the glass. And as usual, I slide down the banister and run towards the door. But this time the figure is clearer – I can make out that he’s wearing a blue suit and some kind of colourful tie – and the dream holds together even as I reach up and place my hand on the latch.
But when I open the door, there’s no one there. It’s not even my front door – it’s the door to another room entirely, a room I don’t recognise, dingy and grey and sparsely decorated, with two people sitting on a sofa in the centre.
I realise instantly what I’m looking at, and even though part of me somehow knows this is a dream, the shock is still visceral.
It’s me, as an old man, and Alice as an old woman.
We’re sitting at opposite ends of the couch – so far apart that we might be strangers – our heads bent, not speaking.
I cry out – I’m not sure what I say – but Old Me looks up suddenly, and I feel the same jolt of panic as when Rich glanced round to see me in the park. This time, though, it’s not the shock of being spotted; it’s horror at the expression etched deep into my weathered old face. My eyes are glazed and vacant. I look tired and broken and defeated.
And that’s when the dream finally buckles and comes apart, the room starts collapsing piece by piece, crumbling and dissolving and melting until there’s nothing left except …
‘Ben? Ben … Are you awake?’
Chapter Forty-Eight
‘Ben?’
I try to lift my head, but I can’t; it’s too heavy.
I’m lying down, my face pressed against a hard surface, and my whole body feels brittle and stiff, like I haven’t moved in days.
There’s no motion sickness or dizziness like there usually is after a jump; it just feels like I’ve been asleep for about a decade, like my brain is floating slowly to the surface from the bottom of a deep, dark lake.
‘Ben? What the hell?’
It’s Daphne’s voice. Oh my God, Daff …
Something ignites inside me, and I manage to wrench my eyelids open. My surroundings swim gradually into focus, and when I look up, she’s standing over me, hands on hips, her face full of confusion and concern.
‘Are you OK?’ she says. ‘What are you doing up here?’
A burst of pure happiness surges through me like electricity. I can’t believe she’s really here. A sound comes out of my mouth that is part gasp, part groan. Am I hallucinating? Am I still dreaming?
‘Daff?’ I croak dumbly.
‘Were you sleeping up here?’
I stare around me, blinking stupidly against the light, my body still tense and heavy but starting to fizz with the exhilaration of what I think I’m seeing.
I’m … I’m in the attic. I’m with Daphne in the attic in our flat. Next to me, a biscuit tin lies open to reveal various items: a ticket stub, a tattered programme for a play, and a fake plastic revolver.
Relief crashes over me in a tidal wave, and I stare up at Daff in joyous disbelief, my heart battering against my ribcage.
‘Ben … Hey – what are you doing?’
I have no control over what I’m doing, and before I know it, I’ve wobbled to my feet and pulled her towards me in a tight, breathless hug.
‘Oh Daff …’ I stammer. ‘Oh my God … I can’t believe it … I can’t believe you’re really here!’
‘What … What is going on, Ben? What’s happened?’
I’m vaguely aware that I’m crying now – tears spilling hotly down my cheeks, soaking into her hair as I hold her – but I can’t help it. I thought I’d never see her again. I thought I’d lost her.
‘I thought I’d …’ I try to tell her, but the words collapse under a sob.
‘All right, Ben, seriously, this is getting weird now. What is going on?’
She pulls away and holds me at arm’s length, looking even more perplexed than she did before. My God, she’s beautiful. With another rush of euphoria, I realise she is wearing the exact same shirt and jeans she was wearing on Christmas Eve 2020, before I went to meet Harv in the pub. I’m still not entirely sure whether this is all real or I’m imagining it. I feel like at any moment the whole scene might crumble and dissolve, just like that room did in the dream. I can’t bear the thought of her disappearing, and I’m about to take her in my arms again when she spots the biscuit tin next to me.
Her worried frown morphs slowly into a surprised smile. ‘Oh my God …’ She kneels down, laughing softly. ‘Why were you looking through this old stuff?’ She picks up the gun and the programme. ‘Haven’t seen these in years …’
I want to reach out for her again, so badly, but instead I hear myself say, ‘I can’t believe you kept it all …’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Yeah, well, there’s more where that came from.’ She reaches into the box behind me to dig out another, larger tin. Then she pulls the lid off and holds it out so I can see what’s inside.
The electric charge pulses through me again as I process what I’m looking at. Among the various letters and postcards and photos, four items stand out: a fully opened advent calendar featuring twenty-four pictures of Larisa Oleynik; a chunky glass award that says RISING STAR across the bottom; a cheap snow globe depicting the Dodo Manège in Paris; and a delicate dried white lily plucked from a funeral wreath.
I try to work some moisture into my parched mouth. Daff takes the award out and turns it over slowly in her hands. ‘I don’t think I ever even told you about this …’ She looks at me and sighs. ‘So, is this really how you’ve spent the whole evening? Getting pissed and maudlin and taking a trip down memory lane? I notice the tree still hasn’t been done …’
Without thinking, I pull her towards me again, the breath exploding out of me as I take in her feel and her smell. She smells like her. She smells like home. ‘Oh my God, Daff,’ I whisper into her neck. ‘I missed you so much.’
‘Oh-kay.’ She laughs uncertainly. ‘I was gone all of five hours, Ben. How much have you had to drink exactly?’
I move back and look at her. ‘What day is it?’
She laughs wearily at the question, and slips her phone out of her pocket. ‘Well, since you ask, it’s actually Christmas Day. Five past midnight on Christmas Day, to be exact.’
She holds up the phone. The date reads: 25 December 2020.