Thieving Fear

face – perhaps just the knowledge that he must be doing so. He gaped like a dying fish as he screamed again and again. At last he seemed to hear the faintest whimper, so feeble that he scarcely recognised his own voice. He dragged in a breath and screamed once more and crawled up the lifeline of the pathetic noise into wakefulness.

His face was buried in the pillow, and the quilt was draped over his ears. His fingers were digging into the mattress. The awkwardness of the position surely explained why his body had relinquished many of its usual routine sensations. When he moved his limbs, regaining any sense of them took rather longer than it should. At least he was able to unstick his eyelids and identify that the bedroom was bright enough for late morning, which his boyhood clock – one of the very few items he'd taken from the house in Huddersfield – confirmed it was. Although its large circular face was crowned with bells, he hadn't heard the alarm several hours ago. He reached for the glass of water on the floor beside the mattress and canted his head up to take a drink. Surely he needn't be concerned that he could scarcely taste the water, even if it would ordinarily have been more of an event on his palate. He planted the blurred glass on the vague floor and blinked his vision clearer as he located his phone on the board pierced by a knothole that snagged one groping fingertip. He held the mobile above his face while he fumbled for the button until the display lit up, accompanied by an unexpectedly muted electronic fanfare. Within the last hour he'd missed a call from Hugh.

Rory levered himself into a sitting position, splaying his legs across the floor, which felt no more immediately solid than the pillow under his fist. He succeeded in regaining more sensation by dealing the wall a good thump with his shoulders to prop himself up. Perhaps the lingering dullness had slowed his mind down, because as he thumbed the key to retrieve Hugh's call he remembered that he'd had a version of the nightmare once before, when Charlotte's sleepwalk had wakened him. Hadn't he dreamed he was in a house but unable even to judge whether it was dark? The memory seemed less important than discovering that Hugh had left no message, or if he had, it was wholly inaudible.

'Don't mess me about,' Rory grumbled and poked the key to call Hugh. Straining his ears eventually rewarded him with his brother's voice – just Hugh's name inserted in the Frugone answering message. 'Don't just ring and keep your gob shut,' Rory protested. 'I've got enough problems. Call me back.'

He held the mobile in his fist while he kicked off the quilt and made for the bathroom. Once his belated ablutions were behind him he tramped still naked to the kitchen. While the coffee percolated he gazed out of the window at the unforthcoming view of green hills slotted into a straightforwardly cloudless sky. The first taste of coffee enlivened him somewhat, or the jab of caffeine did. If Hugh wanted to speak to him, he'd had ample time to ring back.

Should he have called Ellen or Charlotte instead? Rory thought he would feel better for a few sharp words with Charlotte about Ellen. Within three simulations of a bell she said 'Rory. You're a surprise.'

'I try.'

'You don't have to with your family. What's up? Not that anything needs to be.'

'Has Hugh been in touch?'

'Not for a little while. Today, do you mean? Not even this week.'

'He rang this morning and didn't say why and now I can't get him.'

'I expect it won't be too important then, would you say?'

'I wouldn't, nothing like. You mean because he isn't?'

'Not at all. I'd never say that, and I'm sure I've never given that impression. If anyone – I haven't, that's all.'

'You're making out I have.'

'I should think you're how a lot of brothers are.'

'One of a mob, you reckon.'

'You're a bit of a hedgehog today, aren't you, Rory? Are you worried about something?'

'Can't you speak up? That's not helping.'

'How's this? I'm in the office, you understand.'

'If you want rid of me just shout.'

'I don't. I asked you what was wrong, if something is. Why do you think Hugh would have called?'

'I know why he should have.'

'Do enlighten me.'

'About Ellen.'

'Why, what's wrong with her?' Charlotte said urgently enough for him to resent it on Hugh's behalf. 'What have you heard?'

'Stuff you mightn't want us to. We know how you're messing with her book.'

'I wouldn't put it that way, and I don't believe Ellen would. She's turning out to be quite the pro.'

'Maybe that means something different where I live.'

'As far as I'm concerned it means professional.'

'I wouldn't know.' When this was met by a silence even more muffled than her voice kept growing, Rory said 'I wouldn't, are you saying?'

'I wouldn't, no. I'm sorry if you've somehow run away with the notion I think I'm better than you. I don't believe I've ever given that impression.'

She was giving it now, Rory thought; her language and her tone were. 'Anyway,' she said, 'I should be getting back to work. How's yours?'

'I'm working on an idea,' he retorted, and at once it ceased to be a lie. 'I'll say ta-ta. Hugh may be trying to call.'

'Let's hope,' Charlotte said and left Rory with silence, which was just what he seemed to need. It felt like the seed of a project based on his dream. Only one visitor at a time would be admitted to the installation, a lightless room. The visitor would have to don a face-mask and earplugs and padded gloves and other special clothing – anything that would muffle their sensations. Or could this be done less cumbersomely? In any case cameras would monitor visitors while they explored the room as much as they dared. It would be entirely empty and no doubt a good deal smaller than they imagined, since the experience was about stimulating the imagination – indeed, letting it loose to perform. Nothing and Nobody seemed to be the ideal title, not least because it felt capable of describing Rory himself. It was close to reviving his nightmare, and he decided to leave developing it further until he'd dealt with his very probably needless anxiety about his uncommunicative little brother. He took a tasteless gulp of coffee as he called Hugh's number, but the only answer was the message with Hugh's voice almost lost in it. 'Still me. Still waiting. If you've got owt to say, for buggery's sake get it said,' Rory urged and moved up the list to Ellen's number.

He was doing his best not to lose patience by the time she interrupted the distant bell. 'Rory? Yes, it's me.'

'No need to sound ashamed of it.'

'If you say so.'

'I bloody do, and you ought. Has anyone been saying different?'

'I suppose not,' Ellen admitted, and with even less conviction 'Not that I've heard.'

'That'll be because they haven't been.' When he didn't hear agreement Rory demanded 'Has Charlotte been making you feel bad about yourself?'

'Charlotte,' Ellen said with an approximation of a laugh. 'Why would she want to do that?'

'Doesn't want to doesn't mean she hasn't, the way she's been getting you out of shape. Sounds like she's treating your book like she owns it just because she paid for it. Watch out or there'll be nothing of you left. You won't recognise yourself.'

She was silent for so long that even Rory wondered if he'd said too much until she spoke. 'They haven't paid me yet.'

'Then they're treating you like you're their slave and you shouldn't bloody let them.'

'Oh, Rory, I truly don't think so,' Ellen said, more in the manner of her old self. 'Charlotte says it's how publishers have to work. I think she's helping me find out there's more to me as well.'

He might have been persuaded by her enthusiasm if he hadn't caught a laugh, so odd that he didn't recognise her voice. Rather than acknowledge it he said 'Have you heard from Hugh?'

'What about?'