Writing for Fun
December 2015
Heaven Sent - Pete Norman
John's eyes opened onto a completely different world.
Gone was the white inferno which had seared his eyes to blistered slits, had burnt his face raw – in its place a soft beam of early morning Essex sunshine was creeping apologetically through a chink in the curtains tracing a thin smudge of light on the far wall.
Gone was the endless expanse of yellow death stretching to the horizon, which, with every step, had sucked his feet deeper and deeper, had filled his lungs with its hot dust – in its place white cotton sheets and a sumptuous duvet enveloped him in soft, warm comfort.
But when he sat up in bed, his heart was pounding, his brain racing, his breaths rasping in quick terrified gasps. He snatched the glass of water from his bedside cabinet and gulped the cool liquid down so fast that he choked back the last mouthful with a hacking cough.
A hand clasped his arm. 'Darling, what's wrong? You're burning up.'
At the sound of her voice John spun around in disbelief, but the sight of her anxious face dragged him back to reality, pushed the horrors of the night back where they belonged. He flung his arms around her and pulled her close, drawing consolation from her warmth.
'Was it a nightmare?'
John nodded his head slowly. 'It was horrible, really horrible. I was . . . I was lost in the desert and I couldn't move, it was like walking through treacle, and all the time . . . all the time I was thinking I would never see you again. The sun was so hot, it was baking me alive, I just knew I was going to die.'
'You poor thing. Wherever did all that come from?'
John mumbled into her shoulder, 'I've got no idea, but it was absolutely terrifying.'
'Never mind, darling, you're safe now; it's all over.' Angela gently eased herself from his grip. 'Come on, I'll make you a coffee.'
Sitting at the kitchen table snuggled in his purple dressing gown the last vestiges of the dream had all but evaporated, but the overwhelming feeling of hopelessness and despair would not let go quite so easily and he stared at his drink, unable to raise his spirits despite all of Angela's efforts to lighten the conversation.
John took a sip of the hot coffee, but the feeling of the heat on his lips brought back such a horrible feeling of déjà vu that he let the mug sink back onto the table again. 'I was totally helpless; no matter what I did I couldn't get out, it was just burning hot sand in every direction for as far as I could see.'
Angela smiled. 'It's not like you to have inadequacy dreams, now is it, big guy? You're normally the one firmly in control of every situation.'
John shook his head. 'But I wasn't this time . . . nowhere near.'
'Put it away for now, darling. Forget about it. Cheer up – we've got the barbecue with Jane and Michael to look forward to this afternoon, remember?'
John did remember and the thought of enjoying good food and a cold beer with his best mate suddenly sounded like the most wonderful thing in the world, but at the back of his mind, for some inexplicable reason, the prospect made him feel just a little uneasy.
'You can drive.'
'What?' Angela laughed as she picked up two bottles of Merlot and slid them into her bag. 'You are joking aren't you?'
John shook his head, he saw nothing funny about it at all. His eyes flicked from the Range Rover to the Mazda and back again. He really did not want to drive, especially the Range Rover . . . not today. However, he knew the barbecue routine well enough and was in no mood to push the point.
'Ok, I suppose I'll drive – if you want to get mullered – but we'll take your car, ok?'
Angela shrugged her disinterest and threw him the keys.
Michael's barbecues were legendary – mainly because the marinades Jane created from her secret recipe book were to die for – but also because Michael was such an easy going and agreeable host. However, today Michael was definitely off colour; he was not his usual chirpy self and was already well down his first four-pack when they arrived.
The girls disappeared into the kitchen where, in-between glasses of red delight and juicy gossip, they fussed about with a sumptuous selection of side dishes. John settled down in a bright red Director's chair and cracked open a Kronenburg. He tried to make polite conversation, but in his present mood this was an effort and he was getting very little cooperation from the other side.
The food was superb, only a very light shade of black, and they all ate heartily, throughout which the girls chattered away happily, but the two men were uncharacteristically subdued, somehow lost in their own thoughts. Both seemed to be drinking heavily and when, a little earlier than they had planned, Angela decided that it was time to go, she rang for a taxi as there was no way John was fit to drive, especially her precious Mazda.
All the way home John was silent and Angela ignored him; she was furious that they had had to leave early, but there was definitely something troubling her husband – he was not his usual self - but she hoped a good night's sleep would sort him out.
* * *
John's eyes opened onto the pleasant familiarity of their bedroom; he tried to sit up but his brain was struggling to make sense of the image of normality which his eyes perceived. He let out a strangled cry and
dropped heavily back onto the bed. Angela rolled over, throwing a protective arm across his body. 'Not again, sweetheart?' John nodded grimly.
'Same as yesterday?'
He was at a loss to put into words the abject horror of the nightmare; it was true to say that it was in the same vein as yesterday, but this time it was worse . . . much, much worse. He flung his arms around his wife and soaked up her compassion while his heart rhythm slowed to a less dangerous rate.
'Want to tell me about it?' she probed, gently, but he just shook his head. All he wanted was for his conscious mind to lock the horror away in a box deep within his subconscious . . . and then throw away the key.
'Never mind, darling, you're safe now; it's all over,' she crooned, rocking him gently. 'Come on, we're going to have a lovely day – you always look forward to the racing. Anyway, maybe we ought to get moving, Michael and Jane will be round soon.'
John was passionate about cars – the faster the better – and a trip to Brands Hatch was usually one of the highlights in his life, but today, as they sat in the third row of the Pit Straight Grandstand the sight of the cars screaming past at unbelievable speeds, the whining of the engines as they powered into Paddock Hill bend, the overwhelming smell of the high octane fuel . . . everything seemed wrong; nothing could lift his mood.
The girls were chattering enthusiastically and cheering every time Hamilton's silver Mercedes flashed past the stand, but John was left alone with his thoughts; Michael had cried off at the last moment – apparently he was not feeling that good this morning. John had suggested that it might have been down to his own cooking skills, or even, he tentatively (and very bravely) suggested, something in the marinade. But he had been swiftly put down. Angela had eventually given up on him, called him a 'Grumpy old bugger' and left him to wallow in his misery while they enjoyed the entertainment.
When Jane eventually dropped them off, John retired to the computer in the study with a bottle of single malt and Angela left him to it.
A few hours later she opened the door and asked, 'Are you going to stay there all night or are you coming to bed?'
John lifted his bleary eyes and shook his head. 'Don't wanna go to bed. Don't wanna sleep . . .'
The unspoken 'I don't wanna dream,' hung heavily in the air between them. Angela shrugged and closed the door.
* * *
John tried to open his eyes, but failed – his eyelids were so sore and inflamed that all he could see through the narrow slits was the intense whiteness the like of which had been his instrument of torture for as long as he could remember, and even this small effort was agonising. He tried to sit up but his muscles steadfastly refused to obey him, however they were much more obliging in sharing with him the pain and suffering they had endured at his own hand. The old familiar feeling of helplessness swept over him, but this time the exquisite horror was that, even though he was apparently awake, the nightmare had followed him out into the conscious world.
For a few dreadful moments he tried to make sense of the situation, but then the murmuring of voices in the distance caught his attention. He could not hear what they were saying, but they were so calm and rational, so totally alien to the nightmare dreamscape he was wallowing in. He tried to call out but only the faintest croak escaped his swollen lips.
Instantly a warm hand gripped his, sending an excruciating shock wave up his arm, but he embraced the human touch with overwhelming joy.
'Oh, my God, he's awake. Jane . . . he's awake!'
Angela's voice was the very last thing he had expected to hear, but in his present confused situation, her silky smooth voice had a calming touch.
'Where am I?' he tried to say, but the mumbled words made little sense even to himself.
'Never mind, darling, you're safe now; it's all over.' The soothing voice of his guardian angel was heaven sent and he began to relax . . .
. . . until, that is, he heard Jane cut in. There was a tremor in her voice; she was close to tears.
'John. Where is Michael?'
From deep within the miasma of his bewildered brain came a single image, so excruciatingly painful that he struggled to cast it back into the pit of hell where it belonged, but he could no more clear the sight from his eyes than the devastating horror it invoked. He tried to say, 'I'm so sorry, Jane,' but the words were garbled. However, in her present situation Jane understood perfectly exactly what he was trying to say. Her hand flew to her mouth, a strangled cry escaped her lips and she surrendered to her despair.
He was unable to speak, but even if he had had that ability, he would have been totally unable at this dreadful moment to explain to poor Jane the exact details of the fate of her husband – his dear friend – who he had so recently abandoned.
John opened his mouth and tried hard to articulate the words clearly, 'Where . . . am . . . I?'
'You are in the hospital in Timbuktu. The Rally organisers had you airlifted here after the Tuareg found you out in the desert.'
A tall man in a dark grey suit with a mobile phone held to his ear appeared in his view. 'Yes, clever little buggers, they know the desert like the back of their hand. They have found the car, but they have not found your navigator yet.'
John closed his eyes, which, but for his severe dehydration, would be awash with regret and recrimination.
Angela moistened his lips with a sponge as he tried to talk.
'The sandstorm went on for hours and when it stopped we knew we were way off course. The Range Rover was half buried. Michael is good but even he couldn't get it going again.'
At the mention of his friend's name he stopped, trying to piece the memories into acceptable form.
'We tried to walk back towards the rally route, to attract the attention of a passing car . . .'
He knew he could not continue – how could he justify the terrible thing he had done? That he had abandoned his best friend when he had become too weak to walk and when John was too weak to support him. That they had sat in the burning sand and argued and argued until John had finally given in, promising his good friend that he would return as soon as he could with help . . .
He began to sob, deep, painful, desiccated sobs until the nurse intervened. 'He must rest. He is very weak. He needs sleep.'
John forced his eyes open wide in pure unmitigated terror, 'No! For God's sake, don't let me sleep!'
But he was powerless to fight the morphine which dragged him steadily down. His eyes closed and the voices in the room gradually faded. He was just hovering on the brink when the strident sound of a mobile phone dragged him some way back. It was only when he heard the magic words, 'You've got him?!' that he finally surrendered to sleep . . . deep and dreamless sleep.