by K. Booth.

The blade, a silver flash, spins sideways; blood, a warm gush, welling thickly from your neck as the fine, fine edge slices deep.

The child awakes, flung into consciousness, pulls a desperate gulp of cold air down into his lungs, scared body tense.

“Caspar?”
“Gerome. It’s okay. I’m here.”
“What...? Did you...?”
“Yeah, I felt it. It was just a dream. Go back to sleep.”
“But Mum was...”
“It was just a dream!”
“You’ll stay awake?”
“Yes. Night, Gerome.”
“Night-night.”

* * *

She awakes in a rush, sweat wet on neck, armpits, thighs, cold between her breasts, clammy on her ribs. The sheet is tangled damp around her. This is what she was fighting in the night. Now it restrains her, enwrapping her body, binding wrists and calves to the bed. What a dream – passion, anger, fear, that axe-blade spinning, chopping; her children, dear children screaming, helpless!

Just a dream, a dream, a dream. Go back to sleep. No, best look in on them: cold air embracing her body as she steps from the bed, pulling her gown about her. Down the hall... Gerome and Caspar... sleeping, quiet, no snoring. Unusual... Rebecca... Her door squeaks just a bit... something else to do – must remember to oil it. She’s not asleep, but lying still.

“Rebecca?”
“Mum?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah... Mum?”
“A bad dream?”
“...Yeah.”
“Well, it’s over now. Can you sleep?”
“I think so.”
“Okay. See you in the morning. G’night.”
“Night.”
House returning to quiet. Sleep. Tranquillity.

* * *

The tea rattles the breakfast cup a little as it falls from the spout, slopping a brown puddle in the saucer. She pours three orange juices and sets the plastic cups in their places. Then she picks up the knife and begins to butter toast.

“Come on, kids! Breakfast-time! You’ll be late.”

Rebecca comes first, sliding into her place and glancing swiftly up at Mum as she reaches for her juice. Then the boys, oddly quiet, something conspiratorial in their movements; none of their usual clamour. Something’s isn’t right. Got to break the mood. On with her freshest breakfast face:

“Wakey, wakey. Come on, rub that old sandman sand out of your eyes!” Gerome comes out of the spell first:
“Mum?”
“Mmm?”
“My dream – it wasn’t a real dream, was it?”

So Gerome had it too! That blasted dream! And that means Caspar... but let’s not jump the gun. “Of course not, dear. Dreams are just dreams. Of course they aren’t real.”
Rebecca takes the cue:

“Anyway, how can you have a real dream? Either it’s real, or it’s a dream. It can’t be both. Can it, Mum?”

Thank God for Rebecca. “No, of course not. Now let’s have less talk of dreams and more eating of breakfast. I don’t want anyone late for school, today.”

* * *

Only later, clearing away the breakfast things, gushing water into the sink with a squeeze of detergent – one hurried moment of consideration before rushing for the job: did we all share the same dream? It wouldn’t be the first time, but God, how hideous. Why something like that? It doesn’t bear thinking about. Twenty minutes to. Time to get yourself moving. I honestly can’t be late again.

* * *

Caspar is standing at the gate, his friends are going off. He is kicking a scrunched-up drink can across the gravel, using the gate-posts as a goal. Through, kick it back out, aim... and back through. He feels the sunlight on his neck, on his legs. Dust in the road. Dust on his shoes. Here comes Gerome. Let’s have a game – put Gerome in goal. One. Two. Three. Come on, Gerome. Try harder, can’t you? The boy easily dodges around his younger brother who has no skill at all. It’s no fun playing with Gerome. And again. Four. Five. Let’s just forget it. Collapse against the fence. See if you can’t make a dent in the wire links. Where’s Rebecca? Always late. Probably blabbing to her friends. Come on, it’s twenty past already. Everyone else has gone home. Finally. What took you so long? Had to talk to the teacher. Aaron Jacobs was pulling her hair. That’s why she couldn’t be quiet during reading time. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to squeal on other kids? Makes you a pimp. Come on. I want to get home fast. I want to see Dragonball.

“Caspar? Did you have the dream last night too?”
“Are you still on about that old dream, Rebecca?”
“I had it. With Mum in it? It was scary. If you weren’t there, Caspar, I don’t know what I’d have done.”
“See? Gerome had it. I had it. Did you have it, Caspar?”
“Yeah, I had it, but it was just a dream.”
“But it was really scary. Not like the other one. What if this one happens?”
“It isn’t going to happen, Gerome. It was just a dream. The last one didn’t happen.”
“Yes, it did. The one about Brown’s Island? We went there.”
“Yeah, I know we went there, Rebecca, but it wasn’t the same. Do you remember what it looked like in the dream – and the feeling? The place was the same, but the feeling wasn’t. And we didn’t do the same things.”
“I didn’t like it when we went there in real life” says Gerome. “It was too hot and we had to walk for ages. In the dream it wasn’t like that. In the dream it was really fun.
“Listen,” insists Caspar, “Mum took us there because we all had the dream and it was totally different, the dream and the real thing. So you would know it wasn’t real. It’s not as if Mum’s going to do this, is she?”
“Mum would never do that, would she, Caspar?”
“Of course she wouldn’t. Just forget all about it, both of you, why don’t you?”

* * *

There they are, the three of them, together, crouching, trembling, terrified. This will show them. Make them see. Anger boiling up. A little respect, that’s all I want. To teach them. They can’t hear, but I can. I can hear their breathing, the breath of young lungs, rasping with the fear of it. It’s good for them to feel a little respect. Closer now, footsteps in the grass. Now they hear, start to turn, to see. But it’s too late. Too late for you, my children. Tiny heads begin to turn, swing round. As I swing back, thin, tender necks swivelling. Eyes wide, mouths opening ridiculously wide. I see the scream gathering way down there behind their tender, pink tonsils and then I swing down, a joyous arc, teaching a little respect!

Their screaming tore the night in two like an air-raid siren stripping peace from a dark countryside. She awoke, was immediately bolt upright in bed and at the same moment running down the hallway towards their rooms. Now she could hear Caspar shouting, trying to silence Gerome. Rebecca crying from her room. Into the boys’ room to see Gerome paralytic with fear.

“Gerome...!”
“NO!” and Caspar holding him, “Get away!”
Seeing their terror and simultaneous revulsion.
“What’s the matter? Boys? I’m not going to do anything. Please! It’s only a dream!” Caspar, holding down his fear, but screaming at his mother:
“Go away! Get out of here! Get away!”

God, this is too much. Rebecca is wailing with fright, responding to the chaos in the boys’ room. Across the passage to Rebecca. “Darling, it’s okay. It’s only a dream!” Rebecca sobbing, alone on her bed, but cowering, cringing away from ME! For God’s sake, these are my children! How can they be scared of me? Standing in the passage. I’ve got to get everyone quiet. Calm down myself. Deep breathing. Relax your shoulders. You calm down and they’ll calm down. Emotions washing through me: Anguish and despair. Fear. Horror. Feeling what they feel as a physical charge, I am plugged into a wire that blasts their frenzy at me with no resistance. Everyone is sobbing now. Tears hot on my face, breath hot in my breast. I just want to scream along with them “We do not deserve this! What have we done?” I must be calm.

I take a step into Rebecca’s room. Her eyes widen hopelessly. For God’s sake, I’m your mother! Lightening urge to slap her for this silly attitude, for being more beholden to an imaginary vision than to her own mother.
Quickly I grab her, hug her, hold her close to me and I feel our natural bond kick in, the flesh and blood link that does not lie. She knows, still knows, that I am here to protect her, just to protect her and will never do her harm. Now she knows it, feels it in her body. She’s trembling, but calming down. Breath shuddering in her tiny ribcage. I soothe her. It’s alright. I’m here. Mummy’s here. I’m not going to do you any harm. We’re okay.

I pick her up and cradle her in my arms, rock her, feel her hug me and know that she trusts me, still trusts me, the best feeling on earth. We must go in and see the boys. I can hear Gerome wailing, his brother silent. I carry her into their room. They stare at us, eyes small and dark – four, small, black beads of fear accusing me. What have I done? How have I betrayed them?

“Caspar, Gerome...”
“No...! Stay away!”
I appeal to Caspar, hoping those two extra years of his might make him a whole generation more mature. He just looks at me, scared, hugging his brother.
“Caspar. Gerome. That was just a dream. It isn’t real. We’ve all just shared some nasty dream. I don’t know why, but please believe me, it isn’t real. None of it is real. I would never ever do anything to harm you, any of you, in any way whatsoever. I love you.”

I force myself to convey the utmost sincerity, to communicate my love for them through my words, but I see their rejection in their fear – flat chalky faces dotted with shiny, beady eyes. They cannot trust, are too scared to give in.

Then without thinking, in one movement I launch myself across the space, Rebecca in my arms, hear them shriek, we all shriek and tussle, struggling in each others’ arms, but I know what I want and hang on for dear life. Eventually I get it. These three young bodies have a combined physical strength that is stronger than mine, but I have the force of my love. I hug them hard against my body until little by little their flailing begins to weaken and I feel them relax against me. Finally we all lie quiet, exhausted limbs and heaving lungs in repose. We are one warm, breathing pile upon the bedclothes of Caspar’s bed. I croon to them, rock them, sooth them. It’s all right, everything is all right. Mummy’s here. There’s nothing to fear. That was just a nasty dream.

Caspar’s doing his best to control his tears, trying to be the man about things. I’m afraid I depend on him for that role. I know he’s too young, but I need his help. I wipe his tears away. I need him to be strong for his brother and sister.

“Now let’s get some things straight here, folks. I don’t know why it’s happened, but we’ve all been sharing that dream, a little like the one we all had about Brown’s Island. Only this one isn’t nice, it’s horrible, a nightmare. I hope it isn’t going to come back, but if it does, you must all realize, it isn’t true – there’s nothing true about it at all. Just as there wasn’t anything real about the Brown’s Island dream. Do you remember? We dreamed the place, but the dream was all different from the reality. Remember, I love you all a lot. I’m proud to have three such lovely, strong, healthy, talented children around me. But you all have to help me. If the dream returns, you have to tell it to go away, to get out of your sleep because it has no place in our lives. No place at all. Do you understand that?”

They nod, tears drying on pale cheeks.

“And you, Caspar, you’ve got to be especially brave, since you’re the eldest, and look out for your brother and sister. Okay? Don’t get carried away with a lot of hysterical nonsense.”

He looks mournful, ridiculously young for such a responsibility, but he nods and accepts.

“Right, now it’s late. Tomorrow, you’ve all got school and I’ve got to be at work on time. We’re all going to go to sleep, sleep soundly and forget all about any of that silliness. Close your eyes now and go to sleep.”

Gerome starts to protest, to ask something, but I quieten him with a finger to his lips and whisper to him to sleep. We remain on the bed, Caspar’s bed, all in a heap as I sooth them and rock them back towards the land of dreams. Dear God, just allow us some real sleep without dreams for what remains of the night. My alarm call to get the kids up and myself off to the office is already looming ominously close.

Yet almost immediately they are all three sound asleep in what looks like a deep, dreamless state. I pick Rebecca up and carry her through to her own bed, tuck her in. Coming back, I find Gerome and Caspar slumberously entangled in each other’s limbs. So I leave them be and just pull up the eiderdown to keep off the chill. Finally I retire to my own sweat-drenched sheets even as I sense Dawn maliciously paling the night around my closing eyelids.

* * *

A second later, the alarm screeches facetiously, pulling me back into the world of children, school homework, house-cleaning, rushed breakfasts of spilt orange juice and burnt toast, low-paying jobs held by a hair and the memory of an insane, Stephen King-style night of blood-lusty dreams. For the slightest moment that seems like a beautiful solution, but then I crawl from bed, sleep-deprivation weighing my limbs with lead, and manage to croak down the hall:

“Come on, kids. Time to get up. You’ll be late for school!”

All four of us are grumpy and out of sorts as we congregate around the breakfast table. The boys haven’t brushed their hair, but I have more urgent priorities on board. They’ll have to convince their peers their dishevelled look is some new fashion statement they’ve invented.

Caspar’s face is closed as he sips his juice, what I would normally take for a sulk about something. Today I let it go. I haven’t got time to pry into child psychological subtleties. Gerome is equally silent, leaning into his brother, following Caspar’s cues dumbly like some kind of robot – a sip when Caspar sips, a bite when he bites. Rebecca starts to whine about burnt toast and before I know what I’ve done I’ve snapped at her:

“Just shut up and get it down you, or go to school hungry.”

Her face crumbles into a silent howl, which I refuse to see because I’m already plunging dishes haphazardly into the sink with one eye on the clock. Washing up can wait for the evening news. How can I explain to my boss that my kids have made me late again, the third time in a fortnight? He’ll have social services down around my ears before I know where I am.

“Come on. Let’s go. Time to be off.”

For one long minute as I’m hustling them out the door, I think we’ve achieved the miraculous and that we’ll all actually arrive at our respective centres of daily incarceration on time. But it couldn’t last, could it? Right on the doorstep, Gerome realizes he needs his book on fighter planes for a talk he has to give, which makes Caspar realize he’s left his maths homework upstairs where he was doing it in front of the telly. While they are away, Rebecca begins to unpack every single thing from her satchel that has gone into it in the last forty days because she’s remembered there’s a paper I’m supposed to sign about the end-of-term excursion to the transport museum.

I stand in the doorway and raise my face to the morning sun. I want to howl at the bloody injustice of it, but I know God’s ISP has been down for the last 24 hours and all his other angelic little do-gooders are still boycotting me for taking their Nancy-boy-names in vain when my supermarket bags split in the street right on top of that dog-turd last Wednesday.

* * *

Caspar scuffs his feet in the gravel and then looks at his brother and sister who stand waiting expectantly. He has no idea in what way he must take control, but knows that they are relying on him. All day he has been haunted by a new image of his mother, one that has chilled him to the deepest recesses of his young existence. He doesn’t know how to exorcise this monster that has erected itself in the solid, protective place his mother has always occupied, yet the evil being is now there in the front of his mind, much more real and menacing suddenly than his ten years’ experience of the kind, strict, maternal figure who has always nurtured him and provided for him.

“If it happens again...”

They stare at him unblinkingly. He does not know how to finish the sentence.

“If it happens again... come into my room. The three of us together will be all right.”

That sounds strong, purposeful, but he has no clear idea of what the three of them together might achieve, or how, or against who, because the common enemy is their mother and it is their mother who has always formed the solid, glowing background of every experience they have yet lived in their whole lives. The enemy is their mother and yet it isn’t her. Even that morning, when she was bad-tempered and yelling at them, she was still their mother, the protector, the provider. But the enemy is their mother; she is the distended presence, pulsating with black menace that is there in the night, terrifying their sleep.

Somehow though, all three children feel that whether their mother is their mother, or whether she isn’t, their protection must consist in their togetherness, in the three of them remaining a group, against whatever the outside world might bring.

* * *

At home, while Gerome and Rebecca are sprawled in front of the television, night-time visions unremembered and unheeded, Caspar begins to prowl around the house. In the backyard, he approaches the woodshed through ankle-deep grass, cold in shadow. There is the old stump, hacked and chipped by thousands of blows into a bedraggled aspect. There is the axe they are forbidden to touch, do not even remember unless it is winter, perched in the stump as if abandoned by some racoon-wearing frontiersman, the worn, sweated handle making an isolated statement at forty-five degrees into the empty, afternoon air.

Caspar approaches it. A full-grown man has, with his last blow, driven the fire-engine red head hard into the stump. A ten-year-old boy should not have the strength to move it. But with persistence, Caspar works it free. He is rather frightened by its ominous heaviness when he finally holds its iron and willow weight in his two small hands.

While Rebecca and Gerome lie oblivious before the television Caspar carries the axe up into his room. He sits for a while on his bed, the cruel head in his lap, wondering what the next step might be. After serious consideration he places it on the floor underneath his bed, the immutable head directly below his pillow and the long, willow body stretching down the length of the bed, hidden from view. Then he goes back to the lounge and begins to watch TV with his brother and sister.

Their mother, arriving home, finds them muted, immersed in white noise. She is tired. The day has not gone well and she has suffered from the lack of sleep in the night. She uncorks the sherry bottle and pours herself a largish one, taking advantage of the television’s hypnotic mastery to give herself a few minutes’ respite. But she can’t relax. Gazing around the empty kitchen she can’t repress a tiny mote of irritation that Caspar hasn’t got the vegetables on yet. It would have sped the process up a little, taken a small burden off her, instead of always being responsible for every damn thing. She gets up and goes to the bench, scrunches the breakfast dishes haphazardly into one corner and begins to prepare dinner.

After dinner she sends them to bed early. There is squabbling, arguing at the injustice of her actions, but she doesn’t care; she needs some time for herself alone. She tells them they can sit in bed and read for an hour, or do their homework, but she wants them upstairs. She sits in the living room with another sherry and watches a programme on adopted children.

* * *

The silver blade spinning, sweeping, singing arc-like downwards. Teaching them all respect, respect to the first-born, the oldest. Little valiant one. Stupid son of a father who shot through after a quick fuck in the dark. Well, here’s a shafting your father didn’t get in. Not enough strength in those ten-year old limbs to hold back the smiling blade as a single, straight hit peels back your tender skin in a leery grin. Blood flowing, hot and intense. Bright and shining. Pain starting. And with the pain, the shadowing weakness, blackness. Darkness entering your mind.

Entering the bedroom she finds them, all three, huddled together on the bed. This time the dream hasn’t thrown her. She knew it would come. So did they, since there they are – scared, but they seem to have rallied, formed a unity from which she is excluded. She feels the injustice of it, their judgement of her – she hasn’t done anything! And they are her children!

Exhausted, in emotional turmoil, she doesn’t try and approach, but sinks down on the foot of Gerome’s empty bed and they watch each other – two opposing camps, searching for some kind of peace settlement.

“Kids, I can’t keep this up. You have to trust me. This dream is just a dream, believe me. I can’t go on like this. There is nothing I can say that will convince you. Unless you decide to trust me – because I am your mother and, believe me, I love you – then we are lost. Our family is just going to fall to bits.”

Tears stream down again, finding their customary channels down her hot cheeks in what feels like their natural path these days. She is tired and closes her eyes, drops her head on the bed – smelling Gerome’s familiar, sweet smell in the bedclothes. She lies sobbing for what feels like minutes before she feels a tiny warm hand against her back. She knows it is Rebecca as she knows the sound of her own heartbeat. She pulls her daughter into her arms without opening her eyes and they lie comfortably together on the bed. It takes a few more minutes and then Gerome slips in beside them. She thinks, knows, she has her children back again.

She is aware of Caspar just as a shadow against the light on her closed eyelids. He remains standing beside the bed for a long minute – so long that she opens her eyes as she finally reaches out towards him – and sees the axe – held high over his head – the shining blade already descending – a heavy downward sweep – straight at her skull – only an instinctive, open-handed punch – she did not know she was capable – her body driving up – its full force behind her hand – hits the willow handle (just under the heavy, red head) – saves her – sends the weapon flying – away behind Caspar. It thuds into the wall above his bed.

“Caspar!”

She shrieks, the tears are already gushing down his face as he begins to realise exactly what he has almost done. The enormity of his act enters him and he begins to bawl loudly even as she is shaking him in terror, in fright, in shock. Then she has him clasped tightly in against her as his body is convulsed by sobs of pure childish terror and the other two have joined him in howling fear so she gathers them around her as well. Again, they are one unit. They are again her children and, even if it is fear of the unknown, fear of each of their unknown capacities for hurt – to hurt and be hurt, this raw emotion has been able to bring them together in a single bond of family love once more.

She sinks down onto Gerome’s bed, her children around her and slowly their sobbing and their fear, their trembling and gibbering begin to subside in response to her soothing and crooning. She calms them, holds them close, rocks them for a very long time until some kind of normality has re-established itself in their family grouping.

“How would everyone like a cup of hot milk with some honey and cinnamon and then we’ll see if we can get a little shut-eye?”
The children nod and she wraps them up together in Gerome’s feather duvet. As she leaves the room, she picks up the axe and takes it with her. Caspar gives her a guilty look as she examines the new dent it has left above his bed. She winks at him to let him know there will be no consequences from his action.

Downstairs, while she is waiting for the milk to warm, she takes the axe and locks it away in the woodshed, safely out of the way of inquisitive fingers – something she should have done long ago. There is a feeling of finality about the action. She doubts the dream will return again, not this particular nightmare, anyway. She knows this has been the crucial night and now the crisis is over.

She delivers the milk in three plastic cups up to her babies and after they have drunk it, she tucks each one up into his or her proper bed, giving them a kiss Good night. Downstairs again, she rinses out the cups and pours the last of the milk, now cooled, back into the milk bottle. She shakes it up a little so that any drops of milk inside the bottle will be thoroughly mixed into the other and then she puts the bottle away into the fridge, ready for the analysis it will eventually undergo. She picks up the empty yellow carton of pills and sets it alight in the sink, nudging it with the lighter until only cinders remain, which she washes away down the sink, making sure not even the smallest speck of black remains. Then she thinks for a moment about what she has just done and Rebecca’s words come back to her:

“How can you have a real dream? Either it’s real, or it’s a dream. It can’t be both.”

Yet there is a certain reality that all dreams seem to convey. After all, they did go to Brown’s Island in the end, even if it did all seem very different from their dream. The details were different, but the essential reality remained the same.

Yet now she is tired and she must sleep. Tomorrow the final act opens, which she will need all her strength to play well: the discovery of her babies; the panic and consternation that turn to unfathomable grief. The authorities must discover the milk bottle and some anonymous saboteur in the milk company will have to be found and blamed. She will be the one who demands justice, honing that iron edge on her grief until she gets it. It will all need a lot of energy and for that she needs her sleep. And thankfully, in the end, she feels that tonight, for the first time in many more nights than she can possibly recall, since before Caspar was conceived even, she will sleep soundly… dreamlessly.

Auckland, 1994-5
Barcelona, March, 2002.