Dream

A shaft of silvery moonlight, creeps across the floor, sneaks around the edge of the partially open door. It lit the carpet. Not tatty, but well worn, a shifting collection of yellows, reds and greens its gentle caress brings the colours to life, making the patters squirm and move in deliciously sensual movements. It finds the dust under the bed. Undisturbed in ages, it has settled into a comfortable layer. Except at the deepest, darkest corner where the bed meets the corner of the wall and they spoon against one another. In that dark, dark corner, the dust has been disturbed, the worn floor boards are exposed, the bed was forced into a corner to allow passage of bare feet passed it and into the smelly, dark and cramped loo. The cistern leaked water slowly into the toilet causing the valve to hiss malevolently as it parsimoniously parcelled out rusty water to stain the porcelain.

A gentle lullaby sounds accompanied by a buzz and a flash of blue light. A vague hand slaps around, finds the cell phone and silences the alarm.

"Arrgh." the figure on the bed moves, and cautiously opens their eyes, looks around to reassure themselves it was all a dream.

The bed is a huge king size bed, residing in the middle of a huge king size hotel bedroom. The curtains are partially open and beyond a flash if white sand and blue sea is visible. The figure on the bed sits gingerly up, looks around, sees a figure exiled to the other side of the bed and not stirring.

She, for it is a woman shakes her head, scratches disordered hair and shouts. "Wake up. Time to move."

She gets a grunt in response so she throws a pillow at the figure on the other side of the bed. The pillow hits the figure, describes a neat arc over the edge of the bed and disappears. The sleeping figure doesn't move.

"Drunken sot." she mutters, gets up and heads for the bathroom. She looks in the mirror and immediately wishes she hadn't.

"Damn." she mutters and heads unsteadily to the shower.

She opens the taps and closes her eyes. A surge of ice cold water hits her above, she opens her mouth to shout, but gets a mouthful of foul tasting water. She opens her eyes and the clean modern, glass enclosed shower is gone. In its place is a bath, a grubby shower curtain and rusty shower which is spasmodically coughing red grey water down on her. She retches, throwing up some of the grubby water into the bath at her feet. She steps back out of the range of the shower, turns the water off and clambers out of the bath reaching for the towel which is thin, patchy and grey. She shudders as she dries herself.

The only thing that has carried over into this dream is the hangover and the resultant headache pounds at the inside of her skull like, in the words of an ex-lover, "someone kick starting a Harley".

Almost involuntarily she looks into the cracked, pealing mirror. It takes a few moments and a rapid look over her shoulder to accept that the woman staring back at her is actually her. Grey lank hair, thinning in places. Sagging breasts, a paunch and bowed legs. In the mirror she looks as old as she feels right now, about 70. The face, haggard, blotched and aged reminds her of someone but identity eludes her.

She edges back into the room and for a long while stares at the unmoving figure on the rumpled, soiled bed. The room is a melange of offensive odours, cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, bad drains and something else, vaguely remembered, tantalising.

Cautiously she steps around the bed opens the thread bare curtains slightly and looks at the man's face.

Vague memories of a night on the town and violence, flashes of memory taunting, fleeting and uselessly flitter in a chaotic stream through her slow moving brain. It takes some time before she sees the jagged cut under the man's chin, the puddle of congealed blood and it takes moments for the whole ugly situation to become clear to her. She covers her mouth, closes her eyes, turns away and whimpers softly.

She shrieks out loud for the first time as a hand grabs her shoulder and she thrashes away from the unknown threat.

"Steady, steady. Bad dream?"

The voice is concerned, recognisable.

"Paul?" she manages, unwilling to open her eyes, she sees the dead man again.

"Yes. Its me."

Keeping well away from the voice, she slowly opens her eyes. The huge king size room is back, the huge bed too, with clean linen, a thrown pillow and the only thing in common with the other room is the rumpled bed clothes, and the hangover of course. The Harley is still kick starting in her head.

Cautiously she looks toward the mirror. Paul is there and so is she. The "she" that she recognises, thirty something, body in good condition, no sag, no paunch, recognisable. Then the memory of the dead man comes back, overlaying Paul's face, it is just time that makes the difference and she remembers the recognition she felt in the bathroom. She just makes it to the toilet, clean, white and spotless until she kneels in front of it.

She kneels there for some time, eyes shut, shuddering and it is the malevolent hiss of the cistern that jerks her out of her state of relief. The smelly, dirty bathroom is back, the stench of her vomit drives her to her feet and she heads to the basin, opens the tap and splashes some water on her face braving the reluctant stream of warmish water. She does not look in the mirror as she takes a mouthful of rancid water, rinses and spits it out in the bowl and watches without emotion as the drain slowly disposes of the water.

"Dress. Get out of here." Somehow she knows the room is not her permanent home. She carefully enters the room, collects clothes from where they had been tossed and hides in the bathroom to change.

She opens the door to the flat and a flood of warm air, bright sunlight and the smell of the ocean overwhelm her. She looks down at herself, instead of the shabby, worn clothes, she is in a dressing gown, beneath which is a bikini, and a pair of snow white slippers are on her feet.

"Sheila? Where are you going?"

"For a swim, a glass of ice cold white wine and I think I shall lie in the sun and work on my tan." The switch is almost automatic and she walks steadily and with as much composure as she can muster out toward the swimming pool.

"Are you OK?" Paul asks as she leaves, she waves airily over her shoulder and keeps walking.

A pool attendant wheels a lounger into a perfect spot to allow her to watch the sea and the pool. The attendant returns with the glass of wine and she sips gratefully. The alcohol hits her empty stomach and the alcohol hits her bloodstream running, the Harley kick start in her head slowly fades.

"Bite of the hairy dog." She mutters softly to herself, closes her eyes and dozes in the warm sun.

And hour later, the heat has gotten to her and she slides off the lounger and into the water, kicking off the side and gliding gracefully under the water.

Suddenly the water is turbulent, it hurls her about, breaking her graceful glide into a tumble. She opens her mouth and gets a mouthful of bad water, she tries to spit it out but fails and has to swallow it. A pair of strong hands grab her and drag her up, out of the water and onto wooden decking. She rolls onto her stomach, spitting the last of the foul water out of her mouth, slowly resignedly she opens her eyes not wanting to see what she knows she is going to see. The sun is gone, it is dark and she is in the worn dress she donned in the grubby flat.

"You should be careful Grandma. You drink a skinful and then go walking along the docks you gonna get into some sort of trouble. Lucky I was here and saw you go in. You weren't trying to off yourself were you?"

She shakes her head.

"Thank you. You saved my life."

She looks around at the boat, a simple fishing boat, sails and oars. Sitting in the stern at the tiller is rugged, red faced man, a pipe stuck into the side of his mouth, big bushy beard, a blue jersey, some rough workmans pants and a pair of solid boots. He looks, solid, prosperous and cheerfully trustable. She looks to the distant bank which is moving passed at a rapid speed.

"Can you put me ashore?"

He shakes his head, "Sorry, Grandma."

"Sheila." she corrects him.

He grins at the correction.

"Sorry, Sheila. I am using the tide to get to the fishing grounds, we would battle to reach the shore and would also miss the fishing. You will just have to wait till the tide turns. You owe me that much at least. There is a towel and spare clothes in the locker behind you. Get yourself dry before you catch your death of cold."

She dries herself, changes into rough, but warm clothing and sits down next to him in the stern.

He is silent for a while.

"Jim. Jim Smith." he says and holds his hand out. His grip is rough, warm and gentle. She smiles at him.

"Hello Jim Smith. Well met I would say. Even fortuitously met."

He nods and continues steering the boat.

The warm clothes, the soothing rocking of the boat and the sunlight all conspire against her and she feels herself drifting off to sleep. She dreams of an ice white building, ice white towels and blue, blue sea. The gentle murmur of voices soothes her. A polite cough, and an even more deferential "Hello, Miss?" drag her out of the dream and she looks up at a man, curly black hair, neatly dressed in some sort of uniform. She stares at him for a moment, then recollects herself.

"Yes?"

"Please be careful. The sun is very sharp to day and you could get sunburnt."

Her skin is hot from the sun and she shades her eyes, assessing him. His eyes never leave her body and she starts feeling vaguely aroused at his rather candid stare.

"Can I fetch you an umbrella?"

"Yes, please. And another glass of Chardonnay."

"Any specific vineyard?" he asks, preferring to look at her.

"Any will do. I will leave it to your discretion."

"I am very discrete." he murmurs and his eyes slide away from her reluctantly. He walks calmly away allowing her to admire his strong legs and rather cute backside. He returns with a glass of wine and she gets another look at his sleek muscular form. He waits. She looks him up and down.

"What time do you get off?"

"Six."

"You know a discreet beach for nude bathing under the moon?"

He nods. "Down that path onto the beach, turn right. I will wait for your just past the big palm tree at about 7:30 and guide you further."

It is only after he is gone that she considers the man still sleeping off his hangover in the room.

"F*ck him." she mutters, then smiles. Yes, that might be a good way to pass the afternoon. Get nicely warmed up for her midnight swim. That waiter was quite distracting. She closes her eyes to review their conversation.

When she gets to the room, he is sitting in a chair looking out over the pool. As she enters he rises from his seat and hits her with a flat hand on her face, she staggers back, used to the unexpected violence, the next blow knocks her back against the door to the bathroom and before he can stop her, she dives into the bathroom, slams and locks the door. She leans back against the door eyes shut, breathing hard.

"B*tch. You gotta come out sooner or later." Then silence.

She slowly regains her senses, still breathing heavily, cheek stinging, she stays where she is. Slowly her eyes drop from the ceiling to the mirror in front of her. Instead of seeing herself, she is facing an old haggard woman. She reaches up and strokes her cheek, feeling for the lines she can see clearly on the face staring out at her. Nothing, smooth as she was this morning. The woman in the mirror doesn't move, doesn't raise her hand, just stands there, waiting.

"Who are you?" she finally stammers.

"You know of me, you know my name. Mary, Mary Jones. The hanged woman of the family. No, don't turn away. Look at me. Watch. Stay with me, don't run away."

The mirror darkens, she is back in the tatty, dingy, dark room. The man is alive again and hitting her. She collapses on the floor where she finds a discarded wine bottle, she grabs it hits him with it. It shatters and he crumples onto the bed unconscious. Instead of fleeing, she jumps on his back, fury, fear, unreason driving her on and she reaches for his dagger hidden under the pillow and without thinking about it, pulls his head back and hacks his throat open, blood gushes out and she rolls away, collapsing on the bed next to him. She is back in the clean bathroom, facing Mary her hands cover her face.

"He beat you regularly?"

Mary nods. "Just like your friend."

"You killed him?"

Mary nods. "And paid the price."

The mirror changes again.

There in a rapid sequence of images; she is in jail, in court and then on the gallows. The hangman puts the noose around her neck, the trap door opens and she falls to her death.

They are back in the white bathroom.

"Now, you know. You are not the first and you won't be the last. Get away from him. Find a good man, before you end up like me."

The old woman slowly fades leaving her staring at herself in the mirror. Fury rises in her. She stares at herself, at the bruise on her cheek that he will expect her to cover up. Her fingers trace the imprints of his hand, the tender, bruised flesh. She smashes the big, ornate vase in the corner, takes a shard, opens the door and walks out into the sun filled room.

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