No matter which way he turned, John could not outrun the branches tearing at his hair and face and arms and legs. The faster he went, the harder they scraped against him, cutting his flesh to scarlet ribbons. The light that was guiding him seemed to be slipping away, and all he could think to do was stop. Stand still. Catch his breath. Try to ride out the pain. As he did, the branches pulled back, his wounds healed and the light grew brighter. He heard a voice that seemed to come from within his own mind: Stop running from the truth, John.
He opened his eyes to see Lola's wrinkled brow staring down at him.
"What was it this time?"
He must have cried out in his sleep. "Deadly branches."
She kissed his forehead. "Do you want tea?"
"I'll get it. You try to sleep."
Lola nodded and lay on her side. He listened to her breathing deepen before getting up. The laminate flooring was cool under his feet and he tried to move without disturbing Lola again. In the three years of their marriage, he had never slept through. Sometimes he woke up shaking, or crying. At first, Lola had been perturbed and tried to find a sleeping solution. They visited doctor after doctor, spent a week at a sleep clinic, but to no avail. John knew he would have to accept that a good night's rest would remain a pipe dream where he was concerned.
And yet. Never before had he been spoken to directly. He could still summon the voice and the cryptic message it conveyed. What truth was he supposedly avoiding?
He found himself standing in the study where the streetlight made a checkerboard on the carpet. Mr Whiskers was prowling along the windowsill, biding his time until he pounced on a Christmas beetle. John's eye snagged on the shelf where he kept his old prep school diaries. The one with the blue cover stood at an angle, and when he pulled it out, he noticed it had recently been shoved between two other books. He smoothed the cover, saddened by the folds and creases in what had been a pristine book jacket. After turning it over in his hands, he decided to return it to the shelf. Somehow, it slipped out of his fingers and landed, open, on an entry dated 11 April.
Dear Diary
Billy Folger is back from the sick bay. Nurse Mildred said the scarlet fever is beyond contagion and we should all be fine. I think she's lying. Billy has yellow bruises on his face and the medical journal in the library says nothing about scarlet fever and bruising. I don't know why, but Billy keeps giving me strange looks. Mr Erikson says I may be good enough to make the team for Saturday's cricket match. That is if I survive old Crookshank's Maths test tomorrow!
He smiled at the simpler times he had left behind, where his worst fear was the upcoming Maths test. He recalled that Billy Folger was the runt of their year. John hadn't thought of him in a long time. He also remembered the nasty bruises and Nurse Mildred telling all the boys to be extra nice to Billy because scarlet fever was no laughing matter.
As he nudged the book back into its place on the shelf, he was struck by a snippet of a memory. John saw his fist connect with Billy's cheek again and again. He dropped the book. What was that? Where did it come from? Surely he imagined it?
"Was this the first time you had a 'flashback' of this nature?" Dr Palmer steepled his fingers.
"Yes." John had only come at Lola's insistence. He hated psychiatrists.
"Why did it bother you?"
"Because I am not a violent man. In my final school year, I was given the 'World's Biggest Nerd' award."
"Tell me more about the dreams you've been having. When did they start?"
"About a month after I married Lola."
"Was there any specific event that you think may have triggered them?"
"I don't know. I initially thought it was my apprehension about being a father, but the dreams are always about me being trapped or running from something. Lately, I've tried to stop running and then the threats pull back. Two nights ago I heard a voice tell me that I had to stop running from the truth."
"Whose voice was that?"
"I don't know. It was masculine. I can still hear it in my mind."
"The subconscious is a complex place with much uncharted territory. Given the fact that your dreams and flashbacks contain some form of violence, I would say you're dealing with suppressed memories or emotions."
"If you're thinking of trying hypnosis, I'm going to stop you right there. I've been through all this before."
"Noted, thank you. No, I was planning on doing some role play. I'd like you to pretend to be Billy Folger."
"Me be Billy? But why?"
Dr Palmer grinned like Mona Lisa. "Humour me. I'll be you." He removed his spectacles and narrowed his eyes. "Hello Billy."
"Leave me alone." The words were out before John could stop himself.
"I only want to play, Billy."
"No. I don't want to."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't play fair. You're always picking on me." John seized the arms of his chair. "I can't do this, Dr Palmer."
"Who is Dr Palmer? I'm John."
"Go away! Leave me alone! You'll only hurt me like I saw you hurt Mr Whiskers."
"What did I do to Mr Whiskers, Billy?"
John became aware of half-moons at his armpits, but he could not stop himself from speaking. "You hurt him. You kicked him. You laughed when his back snapped. I saw you do it. I saw you laughing. You're evil John Nolan."
"I would never hurt you, Billy. That cat was a rascal."
"Then why did you hit me until my face was bruised? Why did you tell everyone I had scarlet fever? Why did you threaten to kill me if I told Nurse Mildred what happened?"
Dr Palmer replaced his spectacles. "John, is this true?"
John gripped the armrest.
"Did you hurt Billy and Mr Whiskers?"
John hardly heard Dr Palmer's voice over the roaring in his head as wave upon wave of images of Mr Whisker's broken body and Billy Folger's split lip surfaced in his mind. Then he saw something he didn't expect. It was of the prep school's priest, Father Pietro. He started shaking.
"What do you see, John?"
He was on the floor, clasping his knees to quell the shivers.
"John, speak to me. What do you see?"
"Pieces of a dream."
"Did you remember something?"
John nodded.
Dr Palmer placed a hand on John's arm. "You're safe now. When you're ready, get back on the chair and tell me what you remember."
That night, John arrived home after Lola. Her face was pinched and her nails were down to the quick.
"How did it go?"
"I don't think I will be having nightmares anymore."
"Really? I know Dr Palmer is good, but that is nothing short of a miracle."
"Yes. You're right." He held her tight. "Lola, I remembered something today about my childhood at St Matthew's."
"I take it this isn't going to be a story of how you hid the window pole from Mr Crookshank?"
"No. I think you'd better sit down."
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