Читать книгу Julian - Larisa Jakeman - Страница 4

I did not sleep well that night, but instead lay awake listening to some ghostly owl hooting somewhere. Its cry sounded rather scary and disturbing like some banshee. Subconsciously I awaited Julian’s phone call whilst I tried to understand what could have made him disappear in that way.

I tried to imagine what could possibly have happened to him and wondered where he was at that very moment. In attempting to understand his feelings and thoughts, I tried to remember all our meetings and conversations for the last two to three weeks. Something had worried him, I could tell from the tone of his voice, and not for the last time, I cursed my selfishness in wanting some solitude for my composition that prevented me from obtaining a suitable explanation for his actions. Something should explain his sudden disappearance, something out of the ordinary, something that had upset him… then it hit me!

“Last Tuesday week! It happened exactly last Tuesday!”

I suddenly realised I had shouted out aloud to myself in the dark, and feeling a little foolish, I switched on the bedside light and tried to recollect my thoughts.

I was at the studio rehearsing when I was called to the telephone. I remember it quite clearly as my producer had been rather irked by the interruption, but the caller had said it was urgent.

It had been Julian, and I remember he sounded rather agitated.

“Michael, could you come over when you finish up tonight?” Before I could answer he added a plea, “Please, I think something may be wrong with me.”

My producer Matthew made winding up motions in the foreground and pointed to his watch to indicate our allotted studio time was running out. The last recording had just not sounded right, and we were on the fifth attempt. Nerves were frayed all round.

“Julian, I can’t at the moment….things are not going right here, it will have to be tomorrow. Is that OK?”

Julian mumbled something about me doing my best and hung up almost as abruptly as he had called.

The next day had been almost as bad as the previous, and we agreed to postpone the recording until I made some changes, although I had no idea at this stage what they were to be. I had been so preoccupied with this that it was only much later in the day that I remembered Julian’s telephone call.

When I finally arrived at Julian’s mother’s house, he answered the door immediately. His eyes had an almost maniacal brightness, but he looked generally rather pale and drawn. Whatever was troubling him had apparently kept him up half the night, and it was starting to show. He hooked an arm over my shoulder as he ushered me in and I felt him trembling as he rested his hand on my arm. I feigned a cheerful voice in a feeble attempt to cheer him up, “What’s wrong with you, mate? Are you ill, or in love?”

Ignoring my remark, he instead led me across to a chair before making a move to get another glass. “He is in a right state!” I thought to myself noticing a half-empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table. Julian rarely, if ever, drank alone.

After having offered me my drink, Julian stood in front of me with his hands clenched behind his back. He then took a deep breath, as if he was about to confess to the Schoolmaster of not having done his homework, he began.

“Well… it’s just that I have been having dreams. Horrible ones really”

I was puzzled. “Everyone gets nightmares, its nothing to get worried about!”

Julian shook his head, dismissing my comment with a wave of his hand the instant I uttered it.

“These are different. I am sure it’s real, and that it really happened.”

His brow was covered in perspiration; he really appeared rattled by this. I leaned forward, “Dreams of what?” I asked.

Julian turned and paced to the other side of the room. He looked as though he was deciding whether to tell me. That he was possibly being foolish? The trouble was that by now, he had me hooked so I added:

“They say that telling someone else makes it better. You know, kind of trivialises it and makes it easier to analyse in the cold light of day.” I started to struggle for something else to say, so I ended with:

“Tell me about it.”

Julian’s voice took on a low steady rhythm as he tried to recount his dream. I listened intently, not interrupting. It was important, I told myself, that he gets it all off his chest.

“Can you imagine a large public square? There is a huge bonfire, and there are lots of people around, but there is a mood of fear. This is not a celebration; rather the people don’t seem to want to be there.”

Julian gulped his scotch before continuing.

“The language is foreign, Spanish or Portuguese sounding. Some people are just staring at the bonfire; others are huddled together talking quietly. I do not understand what they are saying. Then I turn to see what everyone is looking at and I see a man dressed in a brown soutane.”

“In a what?” I regretted the interruption as soon as I had blurted it out.

“A cassock, or in this case more like a monk’s type of habit. You know! A soutane!”

I didn’t know, but I indicated that he should continue with his story.

“This man looked like evil personified. He had an ugly leer on his face and his eyes appeared to be scanning the crowd looking for a reaction, trying to make eye contact, but no one would look at him directly. He seemed to command the crowd. Then he looked straight at ME. I am ashamed to say that I too looked away. He started to scream directly at me, I really felt as if I was the focal point of his abuse and I felt afraid. I did not understand what he said, but I know he did not mean well. Then I looked towards the fire.”

Julian’s eyes had flicked up to mine transfixing me with a steady gaze.

“Michael. It was horrible. They were burning a person! They were burning another human being on the fire!”

Before I could say anything, Julian had broken eye contact with me and turned to pace the room, continuing with his story.

“I started to scream. In my dream I mean. I felt that I knew who the man on the fire was. He was linked to me somehow. I could see the man writhing in the flames, but he made no sound. I was the one screaming!”

Julian had reached the end of the room and then spun around abruptly.

“This is important Michael, in my dream I knew this person. It is just that I cannot remember who he was now! I was asking the people to stop, to free the man. I was crying and then I ran forward to the fire and the ugly man reached into the fire and pulled out a burning brand and struck me here.”

Julian lifted his hand to the side of his head.

“I probably lost consciousness because I can’t remember anything else.”

I waited for more.

Julian just shrugged, “Then I woke up.” He sat down heavily in the chair.

“For Christ’s sake Julian! You dragged me over here to tell me that!” It had never been like Julian to make a mountain out of a molehill. I had expected much worse. I was more than a little annoyed as I had cancelled a dinner engagement with a particularly attractive lady to see Julian that night.

“So, what! It was an ordinary nightmare, nothing special. I’ve had even more horrible dreams, believe me. Just forget it! Bloody hell!”

Julian did not react at first, and then he stood up and came towards me.

“Wait, Michael! Look! Let me show you something.”

Julian bowed his head and pulled apart the black shiny hair on the side of his head. Through the parted hair, I could glimpse his scalp and could make out a dark patch, a birthmark. It was the size of a child’s palm and was pinkish-brown in colour.

“He hit me right here, Michael! Exactly here! I felt the unbearable heat on the side of my head; I could even smell my skin and hair burning!”

I looked down again at Julian’s birthmark. In a strange way, it did look a bit like a burn mark. This was silly I told myself. Julian was surely pulling my leg?

I straightened up and told Julian in no uncertain terms that I felt he was over reacting;

“So, what? You discover this birthmark when you are 23 years old and suddenly you wonder how it got there. It starts to bother you and you start to brood over it. Your subconscious mind takes over and you have some stupid dream!”

I was rather harsh, partly because I felt making light of his fears would help dismiss them, and partly because (and this was probably the real reason), I was still more than a little annoyed with this childish and unusual outburst. For Julian, it was totally out of character. I did not really know how to react, so I finished cruelly with:

“Forget about it! Just be thankful it’s not on your face.”

Julian looked at me strangely; I don’t think he had been listening to a word I said.

“Why should it be on my face? He didn’t strike me in the face, did he?”

I was dumbstruck, and not for the first time suspected Julian was somehow taking me for a fool. Was he really serious? I countered:

“Who? What are you talking about, for God’s sake!” my voice seemed to raise several octaves. Julian answered calmly; seemingly oblivious to the discomfort I was in and with a deadly serious undertone in his voice like a preacher verbally underlining the important part of his sermon for a slow and backward congregation he told me:

“Michael, the problem is, I did not find this birthmark until after my nightmares. I know it sounds crazy, but I couldn’t stop myself checking my head after my dream. If I had found nothing I would have laughed it off. I probably would never have told you, but I did find it! It does look a bit like a burn mark, does it not?”

Suddenly, I felt very sorry for Julian. He had apparently been rather unnerved by this whole episode, and I hadn’t helped him in the slightest. I believed his story to be nothing more than a delirium. Impulsively I had reached out and gripped his shoulders, gently shaking him, in symbolic gesture of solidarity.

“Julian, you scare me! You cannot seriously believe what you are saying, I’m sure. Look. Just relax. What you need is a good rest. Take some time off. Go abroad! Florida or the Bahamas are nice at this time of the year.”

I needed a more instant solution and added, “But for now, let’s go to the club and chill out! I would stay off the booze for a bit though if I was you”. I nodded in the direction of the empty whiskey tumblers.

We spent the rest of the evening socialising at the club with friends and he didn’t mention his dream again. Julian looked his normal self and even cracked a few jokes. Whatever had been weighing on his mind appeared to have vanished. By the end of the evening, having ignored my own warning on the liquor, the entire episode had slipped from my mind.

Trying to return to sleep now was impossible. The confounded bird had decided to rhythmically hoot somewhere outside my window. By re-running the conversation with Julian in my head I felt rather strange but was confident that he would attempt to contact me soon. I planned to see Pamela in the morning and tell her …what? She would think I was mad, or worse, that Julian was! Then again, I mused, maybe she may know about his nightmare already! Had this happened before I wondered? With these thoughts in my head, I made a mental note to tread carefully. Eventually I fell into a troubled sleep until morning.

It was the shrill of the telephone that woke me. I knew instinctively that it was Julian, which proved to be right on the button. Julian was brief and very insistent. He begged me to not ask any questions, and not to tell his mother anything other than to cover for his disappearance. He seemed to know that she would be enquiring about him. He also added that he would be back soon and promised to explain everything to me on his return. Then, as abruptly as he had called, he hung up. I checked the number and found the call had come from overseas but could not determine from where. At 7a.m. I telephoned Julian’s mother, and she immediately invited me over for breakfast.

I arrived at the Winfield residence and Pamela answered the door herself. She looked very bewildered and concerned, I was not the only person who lacked sleep it seemed. Putting on a brave face, I entered the house confidently.

“Good morning Mrs Winfield! Julian rang me last night!” I explained that it had been late and that I did not want to disturb her, although I immediately sensed she would have preferred it if I had.

“He’s alright, believe me. He said he was a little down and had decided on a whim to go to the South of France. Apparently, he intends to stay a while until his mood has lifted.” I hoped she would not see how transparent my tale was.

I intended to leave it at that, a little vague to give me room to manoeuvre, but in the true tradition of all white lies I nervously compounded my tale, painting myself into an increasingly tight corner.

“He is much better now and will probably be back in two to three days” I finished lamely.

To my surprise, Pamela started to cry. I had no idea whether it was out of relief, joy or sadness. With women I generally found it impossible to tell. I guessed it was the latter as she looked so depressed and miserable. Not knowing what else to do I asked if she wanted me to fetch a doctor. That made her smile through her tears, and she immediately composed herself.

“I am so sorry, Michael!” She wiped her eyes with a small lace handkerchief, “You are sweet. I’ll be fine!” Pamela turned briefly to look at herself in the mirror, and I busied myself by examining the oil painting mounted on the opposite wall.

“Thank you, Michael, for your help and support. You must stop this ‘Mrs Winfield’ nonsense. It’s Pamela. I’ll be fine when Julian is safely home again. As you know, I lost my husband last year. It was a great loss to me and the thought that Julian may not be safe….”, she left the sentence hanging, then concluded, “I can’t take another loss. Sorry, but I am babbling a bit!” Pamela used her hanky to blow her nose daintily, and then absent-mindedly tucked it into her sleeve just as my mother did. “I just want to see him back safely as soon as possible”.

At this moment, I could have killed Julian for what he was putting his mother through. It was now out of the question to mention my conversation with Julian on the previous night, concerning his nightmares and his birthmark.