A pretty road snaking through a snatch of countryside. On the right, a low hedge and fields that roll as far as the eye can see, blanketing the ground in shades of brown, straw and green. There’s the odd patch of bright yellow, too, vivid in the sunshine; rape fields. The grass verge below the hedge is scattered with wildflowers, some I know the names of, some not: purples, blues, yellows and whites, tangled among the overgrown greens of the various grasses. Daisy, foxglove, cow parsley, forget-me-not. I’m happy that they’ve been allowed to grow. Tree branches hang over the road forming a canopy, shade from the dazzle of the sinking sun. To the left a high hedge flanks the road, taking the twists and turns of this section as if marking the way from this part of town to the next. Above the fields, birds wheel and cruise on the thermals, wings spread wide. The air’s thick with the happy chirruping of even more birds I can’t see; those hidden in the hedges and trees, nestled with their food, their eggs and their babies. The scent of summer hangs in the air; with it, the sense of possibility, of longing, and the potency of adventures still to come.

But then the light goes flat and grey, as if the sun’s slipped behind a cloud, only it’s more than that and it’s terrifying. Even in the dream, I know something monstrous is coming and I know what it is, and it paralyzes me with terror.

I wake up trapped in a silent scream, my heart pounding, my limbs pinned to the bed, a film of sweat icy on my skin. I know that, gathered in the hollow at my throat, will be a pool of sweat, deep enough to splash my fingertip. I wait, as I always do, for my heart to slow and my body to unfreeze itself; for reality to impinge once more on my consciousness. I breathe in through my nose, like I’ve learned; I hold the breath while I count to five, then exhale slowly. I repeat the calming breath, then I open my eyes and take in the familiar night-time shapes of the bedroom: the wardrobe; the dresser; Rohan’s T-shirt slung over the easy chair; his work shoes, twin rats, just visible on the floor; the white rectangle of the door; the slug of the door handle. Outside, the moon is bright, backlighting the curtains.

‘You’re in bed, at home,’ I say out loud, as I always do, though perhaps not that convincingly. ‘Everything’s fine.’ It’s a mantra, a routine, that means little to me anymore. When I can move again, I turn my head and see the dark bulk of Rohan, fast asleep. My terrors stopped waking him years ago.

Fourteen