Читать книгу Silent As The Grave - Paul Gitsham - Страница 24

Chapter 13

He’s walking down the garden path again, the coffee cups balanced in his hands. He tries to stop, the feeling of dread mounting in him, but it’s useless. His legs, ignoring his desperate commands, carry him relentlessly towards the garage door. Towards what he knows lies on the other side.

No, not again, he cries out silently. He knows it’s a dream of course; the same dream that visited him every night for years. Almost a quarter of a century on, the dream comes less often now. But when it does, it’s lost none of its power.

The rusty hasp needs a tug, and the spilled coffee scalds him. As always, he tries to turn back, but try as he might, he’s committed, the same story playing out again and again. His ears are filled with the chugging of the car’s engine. His nose is clogged with exhaust fumes.

And then he’s at the car door, swinging the hammer with all of his strength. Please let it be different this time, he pleads, just this once.

But it’s not. The whisky bottle clatters to the floor as he reaches in to turn off the engine. But he’s too late again. The last thing he sees before he jerks awake, sobbing, is his father’s white, bloodless face…

“Warren, it’s OK. Warren, I’m here.” Susan’s voice was soothing, the warmth of her arms around his chest. Gradually his heart rate slowed, calmed by her gentle caresses.

“The dream?”

Nothing more was required. They’ve been together for eight years and she recognised its symptoms—the crying and the tears, the way he cradled his hand as if scalded by hot coffee. The dream comes to him just a few times a year now, usually around the anniversary or his father’s birthday. It doesn’t take a genius to work out why it’s chosen to come back tonight.

Warren nodded. Reached out for the glass of water on the bedside table and took a long swig.

“I’m OK now. It only ever comes once.” Despite the fluid his voice was croaky.

The bedside clock read three-thirty.

“Go back to sleep.” He kissed her on the forehead.

It’s true, the dream does only come once in a night and afterwards, Warren would sleep a deep and dreamless sleep and would awake in the morning fully refreshed. It’s as if it’s been purged from his system and won’t need to return again for at least a few more nights.

But tonight was different. In a few minutes, Susan’s breathing changed as she drifted back to sleep. But sleep didn’t come to Warren. Try as he might he couldn’t stop thinking about that night, reliving it again. Why? Why wouldn’t his subconscious let it go?

He started to obsess about small details. The way the hasp squeaked as he forced it open. The clatter of the whisky bottle as it hit the floor. His father’s pale, bloodless lips.

The hasp. It squeaked as he forced it open.

As he forced it open.

Suddenly Warren sat bolt upright in bed, realising that what Sheehy had told him must at least be partly true. If his father was inside the garage, who had closed the rusty hasp on the outside of the door?