Turquoise Dreams

TURQUOISE DREAMS

John woke with a headache and back pains. He was angry that he’d fallen asleep on the sofa for the third night in a row. The TV was still on showing three adults with scary smiles and brightly coloured jumpsuits singing something inane. John knew the words and realised he was in trouble. He hadn’t left the house for three weeks, he’d been living on takeaways and frozen food; and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d washed.

    He hadn’t been able to paint for over two months. The longer it went on the more he tried to distract himself with computer games and mindless TV. Sometimes he bought things he didn’t need, to amuse himself.  He found the internet was ideal for this. Recent purchases included a remote control mini zeppelin and a robotic vacuum cleaner.

    His agent had phoned last week to see if he could expect to see something soon. John had dismissed him with vague promises but it was another reminder that he really needed to start working. He daren’t check his bank balance but knew it must be low. He couldn’t afford these rash purchases but it didn’t stop him. When he first came across the Dreamviewer advert he wondered who would be stupid enough to fall for it. According to the blurb the Dreamviewer could record your dreams then play them back on your TV.

    A few weeks later he was desperate for a diversion. It was only £49.99 so he bought it. When he opened the box it was just a video recorder. The only addition was a pair of soft rubber headphones which were to be attached to the temples whilst sleeping. He went through the motions that night just for something to do. When he woke he took the machine downstairs and plugged it into the TV.  He made himself coffee, came back to the front room, switched it on and sat down.

         He was in a classroom writing something on the blackboard, dressed in a long flowing turquoise gown.

         ‘Ok class, I want you to read this chapter for your homework,’ he said.

         On the board he’d written in large red letters:

         ‘Oxford English Dictionary, Chapter One.’

         A rough looking girl at the back of the class shouted out.

         ‘Sir, are you losing your marbles or somethin’.

         A few giggles from the class.

         ‘How dare you speak to me like that Sanderson. For that you can do the next chapter too.’

         The classroom exploded. Several boys fell onto the floor and rolled about on their backs clutching their stomachs. A thin girl near the front threw up onto her shiny red shoes; a girl with a big ginger Afro stood on her chair pointing derisively at John with tears streaming down her face. Soon the whole class followed suit, standing and pointing and screeching with laughter.

         John sat and stared at the screen for a few moments. Then he rewound the tape and watched it again pausing to take a close look at some of the images, particularly those of himself. He hardly slept again that night but still recorded his dreams.

        He was on an empty train reading. Again he was dressed in Turquoise, a bowler hat, track suit and trainers. The train pulled in to a station. Quite quickly it filled with talking people. A women sitting opposite him with bad teeth began shouting to someone at the other end of the carriage. John walked across the aisle, grabbed her by the throat and shook her until she became floppy and lifeless.  He continued shaking until her head fell off and turquoise stuffing sprang from her neck.

He started painting again. He had no idea what he was aiming for but felt quite driven, sometimes working late into the night. He recorded his dreams every night.

      Each morning he would watch the previous night’s dreams then immediately begin painting. He worked flat out trying to keep pace with the flight of ideas that consumed him. Sometimes he was forced to rest and would flop down on the sofa in the middle of the day and sleep for a couple of hours. As soon as he woke he would start again. He began to record during these naps too. He would play them back on waking, before resuming his painting.

      Eventually he moved his bed down into the front room and cleared everything else out, except for the TV, the recorder, his paints and his brushes. Blue, Green and Turquoise dominated his paintings. He painted the walls, rolled up the carpet and painted the floor. His clothes were covered in paint and even his tangled hair had been splattered. None of this concerned him. Images of hands and fingers, clenched, pointing and  grasping began to emerge. On the floor he painted an enormous open palmed hand with long bony fingers and blackened fingernails.

         To avoid leaving the house he ordered food online, mostly ready meals and snacks. John was convinced that he recognised the delivery man from one of his recent dreams. His agent phoned more frequently. When John told him about his latest work he wanted to see it, offering to visit him at home. John didn’t really want him there. He put him off a few times but eventually he arranged to meet him at his office with a few samples.

      When the time came he felt quite nervous. By then he hadn’t left the flat for six weeks. Outside it was cold and grey. There were lots of people about, heads down, walking fast. He joined the steady stream in the direction of the station. He didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone so he focused on the pavement, only occasionally looking up to avoid obstacles.

         He stopped at the corner shop for a paper, it seemed different but he wasn’t sure what had changed. He picked up a paper and made for the till. The usual old lady wasn’t there. In her place was a thin young woman with orange hair.          

         ‘Where’s Mrs O’Driscoll, he said.

         ‘Mrs who’, she said.

         ‘Mrs O’Driscoll’

         ‘Sorry I don’t know who that is’.

         ‘She’s the old lady who owns this shop’.

         ‘Sorry, I don’t know her. I’m new here.’

         He fumbled around in his trouser pockets for change to pay for the newspaper. All he could find was a twenty pound note in his wallet.

         ‘Sorry’, he said.

         ‘I don’t have any change’

         ‘That’s ok’, said John, anxious to leave.

      He sensed a queue forming behind him.

      ‘Look, just forget about it,’ he said and ran from the shop.

      Outside the volume of people traffic had increased. He leapt amongst them managing to stay upright by holding onto the arms of two people either side of him. Neither of them looked at him or said anything. At no point did they slow down and nor could he, the momentum carried him to the station. He waited for the crowds to die down before attempting to board a train. That’s when he heard the voice,

      ‘Excuse me’.

      He looked round and saw a young boy approaching.

John looked at him, waiting. The boy was holding something out towards him and small turquoise letters spilled out of his mouth and curled into John’s ears.

      ‘Look, you left your wallet in the shop.’

      John understood. He smiled, and grabbed the boy by the throat; it felt exciting to be in control. Tiny turquoise letters dribbled down the boy’s chin.

      ‘please’.

      He threw him to the floor and ran out of the station. As he ran he glanced back and saw an enormous turquoise

      ‘STOP!’

        hurtling towards him.

      At home he had to barricade himself in. The ‘STOP!’ had followed him all the way. It crashed into the door a few times and once tried to slide under. He blocked the gap and ran round the house making sure there were no others. That’s when the big guns came out. Using the megaphone seemed to increase both the size and weight of the words and the initial

      ‘MR BARRETT, THIS IS THE POLICE’

      battered the front window with such force he knew it would soon break. He locked himself in the cellar, only slightly reassured by the knowledge that he would eventually wake and be able to watch all this back. He hoped that would happen before they found him.