Man in the Lavender Pyjamas

After an hour of intense yawning, Benjamin Faraday made himself a mug of warm milk then went to the bathroom. In the mirror, he peered through the mist into the two lifeless dots that used to be his eyes as they disappeared into the distance. He cleaned his teeth, took a deep breath, then, just like every other night, he recited his affirmation.

‘I will sleep tonight’, he declared in unison with his reflection.

He repeated the pledge again and again until he collapsed, exhausted from the effort, into the toothpaste splattered sink. He stumbled into the bedroom, pulled on his lavender scented pyjamas, climbed into bed and turned off the light. His eyelids fell shut, and he smiled contentedly. He felt relaxed and started to drift off.

‘I will sleep tonight’, a voice whispered in his head. And then again, ‘I will sleep tonight’.

‘Yes, I will’, he agreed, as he pulled the duvet under his chin.

‘I will sleep tonight’, came the whisper again.

‘Yes, but that's enough of that for now’, he retorted, as he turned onto his side, avoiding the temptation to open his eyes.

‘I will sleep tonight’, said the voice a little louder.

’Shut up’, he said, being sure to not get too mad. But the voice would not shut up.

‘I will sleep tonight, I will sleep tonight, I will sleep tonight.’

He threw off the duvet, sat up violently and yelled ’SHUT UP !’

If repeated too many times the affirmation had the reverse of the intended effect, and it hounded him through the night. There was nothing about this in the book he was sure. He was resolving to write to the author for his money back when, without warning, his pent up anger brushed recklessly passed his threshold zone and, at the top of his voice he hollered, ‘I WILL SLEEP TONIGHT !!’.

He felt better, and he tried to remember his breathing exercise.

‘I will sleep tonight, night, night…’, came the echo off one of the bedroom walls.

‘Oh christ !’, he sighed, and he regretted the outburst.

‘Tonight, night, night, night..’ came the echo bouncing back again.

His bed had started to collapse a month ago, and the aforementioned book was in one of the piles holding it up.

’Sod the book’, he thought capriciously, making his way to the kitchen for a large shot of whiskey.

Back in bed, his body and his mind were briefly relaxed but unsteady. The large shot of whiskey was larger than he’d intended. Pub landlords up and down the country looked on in horror. He tried to close his eyes, not realising that they already were. His inner eyes were wide open watching a violent film which was being projected onto the back of his regular eyelids. He tried to ignore it and concentrate on the effect of the whiskey, but he suddenly felt stone cold sober. He slapped himself around his inner cheek with an inner hand, in an attempt to drive out any negative vibrations.

Half falling and half climbing, he got out of bed and went to the bookcase in the living room to see what was left to read.

‘This is good’, he thought. ‘It’s the kind of “counter-intuitive” thing an expert would advise’.

His spirits dropped when he realised that every single book he owned had been used for the amateur scaffolding bodge job. He went back to the bedroom, took out a torch from the bedside drawer and laid on the floor to view the secret library. He had done a fine job. The fiction pile was ordered alphabetically. Each book was the right way up and the right way round. Running a finger down the spines, he read out the titles aloud.

’Counting sheep, good night kiss, the big sleep. This is no good’, he tutted, ‘I’ll try the non-fiction section’.

The non-fiction section was a picture of disarray. Only a few of the books were facing the right way round, and only one was the right way up. The first title he saw was “Positive affirmations for weaklings”.

‘That can go for a start’, he moaned. He pulled it from the pile and threw it rebelliously into a corner then swivelled 180 degrees.

‘Oh’, he sighed, when he found the titles were still the wrong way up.

He swivelled back and wished he could swivel his eye balls. He settled for swivelling his head. The books were, “Washing up for beginners”, ”100 uses for utter rubbish”, ”Bonsai your budgie”… None of them were really what he had in mind. In the horticulture section, he noticed a dead spider’s leg protruding between “Pest and disease control for the faint hearted” and a book with no spine. He decided that the bed and the books would both have to go, when he found the time and the money. He sealed the decision with a yawn and, feeling like he’d achieved something, he stretched his arms and climbed back into bed. It was still warm and it gave way slightly due to the removal of “Positive affirmations for weaklings”. He drifted off, and the sandman kissed him goodnight on the forehead.

Then it started again. Just like every other night that week. He heard the familiar crackle in his head as his internal radio tuned in. He cursed the hellish device. He sighed as loudly as he could manage, and a parched eye squeezed out a single tear. The station was playing an irritating tune which would be repeated again and again on a special loop designed for maximum irritation. On a good night, it would start with a song he still liked, but it’s endless repetition condemned it to the gallows. All his favourite songs were dotted around his head like ancient ruins.

Some nights he would lay in bed for hours, flicking through stations, looking for the literal version of “The sound of silence”. During the crackling in between the stations, he would sometimes doze off for several minutes at a time. The DJ’s were even worse than those in real life. They would say things like,’Wasn’t tha-a-a-t gr-r-r-eat ?!!’, and repeat it over and over again until that night's worse than worthless ditty started again.

He found that he could drive out one song with another, when he had the strength. It was a risky business, though. Earlier in the week he had ended up with two completely different loops in his head all night. One in each ear.

Eventually, the station went off air, his mind went quiet and an out of tune tap drip-drip-dripped. He had looked in the “Yellow pages”, but there were no psychic plumbers listed. He didn’t dare to make any further enquiries as people would think he was mad.

Drip, drip, drip went the unfeeling tap until bird song announced daybreak. The sound was deafening to his ultra sensitive ears, and he cursed mother nature and her eternal racket.

His neck creaked as he turned his head to see what time it was. His bedside clock was glowing like a lighthouse, and it hurt his eyes. It was 4:30. He didn’t know if to cry or sob. His wide open eyes were too dry to do either. The night was gone, but he knew it would return. He longed for winter - when birds are on holiday in foreign lands and those remaining get up at a more reasonable hour.


And on it went… Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. In the end he was too exhausted to remember which day it was, and he was too weak to care. Doctors shrugged their shoulders and scribbled pointless prescriptions, anxious to get him out of the surgery before the hallucinations began. Sleeping pills, anti-depressants, tranquillisers, herbal teas, hypnotism, alcohol, marijuana, running headlong into walls, soothing music, counselling. The list went on. Nothing worked. Not even overdoses.

One Saturday night he reached the end of his tether. Neighbours on both sides were partying as he lay in his bed like a corpse and stared at the never changing ceiling. The noise would have been a welcome change, but the loop in his head was playing too. At the top end of the bed he could hear a relentless rave drum accompanied by a barely audible melody, and at the foot was Annie Lennox singing “Sweet dreams are made of these”. In the middle was Radio Hell. It was playing an eight-second loop of “Do it” by the Pink Fairies. Each component was as out of time and as out of tune as scientifically possible.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there. He didn’t know when he’d last eaten. His mouth was dry and the dryness was spreading all over his body and into his soul. He went to the toilet once in a while, being sure to not turn the light on. His eyes were evolving apace, and he could see, quite clearly, in the dark. He had moved the wardrobe so it covered the window and protected him from the daylight, but it would take a lot more than feng shui to deliver his salvation. If only he could get onto the roof and complete the unfolding tragedy…


A couple of hours later he dragged himself to the kitchen and gulped down whiskey like there was no tomorrow. Then a voice in his head called last orders, and he stumbled to the flat door. Outside, bees had started to buzz, and he winced as a shaft of sunlight pierced a window in the stairwell and burnt his albino eyes.

‘I will sleep tonight’, the voice whispered, and he joined in the chorus, filled with bitter joy.

On the roof terrace, the early morning sun warmed his cold white vitamin deficient face. Seeping through the neighbours walls, he heard the opening bars of “Taxman” from his favourite Beatles album. Most of it had been murdered by the never ending loops in his head, and he wouldn’t miss it.

A lone reveller, coming down in the garden below, looked up at the man above as he screamed, ‘I WILL SLEEP TONIGHT’.

And then, like a sack of potatoes with human limbs and unseeing eyes, he plummeted into the arms of peace howling ‘Wheee’.

The reveller, suddenly crashing to earth, swore morosely then wondered what to do next.


Climbing the stairs had been the hardest part. Falling to sleep had never been easier. The ambulance crew were perplexed by the faraway smile on the face of the man in pyjamas. They’d never seen anything like it before. In the air was the smell of whiskey and the scent of the crushed lavender bushes he’d landed in. And there he now laid like a new born baby. Through brick walls came the sound of a knees-up on it’s last legs, as the early morning party people made their way home, and a deceased man sang ‘I’m only sleeping.’