Before I Go to Sleep: A Novel

I was nervous, though I didn’t know why. The journal felt forbidden, dangerous, though this was perhaps only because of the care with which I’d hidden it. I glanced up repeatedly from its pages to check the time, even closed it quickly and put it back in its tissue when there was the sound of a car outside the house. But now I am calm. I am writing this in the window of the bedroom, in the bay. It feels familiar here, somehow, as if this is a place where I sit often. I can see down the street, in one direction to a row of tall trees behind which a park can be glimpsed, in the other to a row of houses and another, busier road. I realize that, though I may choose to keep my journal secret from Ben, nothing terrible would happen if he were to find it. He is my husband. I can trust him.

I read again of the excitement I felt on the way home yesterday. It has disappeared. Now I feel content. Still. Cars pass. Occasionally someone walks by, a man, whistling, or a young mother taking her child to the park and then, later, away from it. In the distance a plane, coming in to land, seems almost to be stationary.

The houses opposite are empty, the street quiet apart from the whistling man and the bark of an unhappy dog. The commotion of the morning, with its symphony of closing doors and sing-song goodbyes and revved engines, has disappeared. I feel alone in the world.

It begins to rain. Large droplets spatter the window in front of my face, hang for a moment, and then, joined by others, begin their slow slide down the pane. I put my hand up to the cold glass.

So much separates me from the rest of the world.

I read of visiting the home I had shared with my husband. Was it really only yesterday those words were written? They do not feel as if they belong to me. I read of the day I had remembered too. Of kissing my husband — in the house we bought together, so long ago — and when I close my eyes I can see it again. It is dim at first, unfocused, but then the image shimmers and resolves, snapping to sharpness with an almost overwhelming intensity. My husband, tearing at my clothes. Ben, holding me, his kisses becoming more urgent, deeper. I remember we neither ate the fish nor drank the wine; instead, when we had finished making love we stayed in bed for as long as we could, our legs entwined, my head on his chest, his hand stroking my hair, semen drying on my stomach. We were silent. Happiness surrounded us like a cloud.

‘I love you,’ he said. He was whispering, as if he had never said those words before, and, though he must have done so many times, they sounded new. Forbidden and dangerous.

I looked up at him, at the stubble on his chin, the flesh of his lips and the outline of his nose above them. ‘I love you too,’ I said, whispering into his chest as if the words were fragile. He squeezed my body to his, then, and kissed me, softly. The top of my head, my brow. I closed my eyes and he kissed my eyelids, barely brushing them with his lips. I felt safe, at home. I felt as if here, against his body, was the only place in which I belonged. The only place I had ever wanted to be. We lay in silence for a while, holding each other, our skin merging, our breathing synchronized. I felt as if silence might allow the moment to last for ever, which would still not be enough.

Ben broke the spell. ‘I have to leave,’ he said, and I opened my eyes and took his hand in mine. It felt warm. Soft. I brought it to my mouth and kissed it. The taste of glass, and earth.

‘Already?’ I said.

He kissed me again. ‘Yes. It’s later than you think. I’ll miss my train.’

I felt my body plunge. Separation seemed unthinkable. Unbearable. ‘Stay a bit longer?’ I said. ‘Get the next one?’

He laughed. ‘I can’t, Chris,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

I kissed him again. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know.’

I showered, after he left. I took my time, soaping myself slowly, feeling the water on my skin as if it were a new sensation. In the bedroom I sprayed myself with perfume and put on my nightdress and a gown, and then I went downstairs, into the dining room.

It was dark. I turned on the light. On the table in front of me was a typewriter, threaded with blank paper, and next to it a shallow stack of pages, turned face down. I sat down, in front of the machine. I began to type. Chapter Two.

I paused then. I could not think what to write next, how to begin. I sighed, resting my fingers on the keyboard. It felt natural beneath me, cool and smooth, contoured to my fingertips. I closed my eyes and typed again.

My fingers danced across the keys, automatically, almost without thought. When I opened my eyes I had typed a single sentence.

Lizzy did not know what she had done, or how it could be undone.

I looked at the sentence. Solid. Sitting there, on the page.

Rubbish, I thought. I felt angry. I knew I could do better. I had done so before, two summers previously when the words had flown out of me, scattering my story on to the page like confetti. But now? Now something was wrong. Language had become solid, stiff. Hard.

I took a pencil and drew a line through the sentence. I felt a little better with it scored out, but now I had nothing again; nowhere to start.

I stood up and lit a cigarette from the packet that Ben had left on the table. I drew the smoke deep into my lungs, held it, exhaled. For a moment I wished it was weed, wondered where I could get some from, for next time. I poured myself a drink — neat vodka into a whisky tumbler — and took a mouthful. It would have to do. Writer’s block, I thought. How did I become such a fucking cliche?

Last time. How did I do it last time? I went over to the bookcases that lined the wall of the dining room and, with the cigarette dangling between my lips, took down a book from the top shelf. There must be clues here, surely?

I put the vodka down and turned the book over in my hands. I rested my fingertips on the cover, as if the book were delicate, and brushed them gently over the title. For the Morning Birds, it said. Christine Lucas. I opened the cover and flicked through the pages.

*

The image vanished. My eyes opened. The room I was in looked drab and grey, but my breathing was ragged. I dimly registered the surprise that I had once smoked, but it was replaced by something else. Was it true? Had I written a novel? Was it published? I stood up; my journal slid from my lap. If so, I had been someone, someone with a life, with goals and ambitions, and achievements. I ran down the stairs.

Was it true? Ben had said nothing to me this morning. Nothing about being a writer. This morning I had read of our trip to Parliament Hill. There, he had told me I had been working as a secretary when I had my accident.

I scanned the bookshelves in the living room. Dictionaries. An atlas. A guide to DIY. A few novels, hardback and, from their condition, I guessed unread. But nothing by me. Nothing to suggest I had had a novel published. I spun round, half crazy. It must be here, I thought. It must. But then another thought struck me. Perhaps my vision was not memory but invention. Perhaps, without a true history to hold and ponder, my mind had created one of its own. Perhaps my subconscious decided that I was a writer because that is what I always wanted to be.

I ran back upstairs. The shelves in the office were filled with box files and computer manuals, and I had seen no books in either bedroom as I explored the house that morning. I stood for a moment, then saw the computer in front of me, silent and dark. I knew what to do, though I didn’t know how I knew. I switched it on and it whirred into life beneath the desk, the screen lighting up a moment later. A swell of music from the rattling speaker by the side of the screen, and then an image appeared. A photograph of Ben and me, both smiling. Across the middle of our faces there was a box. Username, it said, and beneath it there was another. Password.

In my vision I was touch-typing, my fingers dancing over the keys as if powered by instinct. I positioned the flashing cursor in the box marked Username and held my hands above the keyboard. Was it true? Had I learned to type? I let my fingers rest on the raised letters. They moved, effortlessly, my little fingers seeking the keys over which they belonged, the rest falling into place beside them. I closed my eyes and, without thinking, began to type, listening only to the sound of my breathing and the plastic clatter of the keys. When I had finished I looked at what I had done, at what was written in the box. I expected nonsense, but what I saw shocked me.

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

I stared at the screen. It was true. I could touch-type. Maybe my vision was not invention but memory.