Maggie had no idea what woke her. All of a sudden she was lying there, blinking sleepy eyes at the ceiling, trying but failing to bring her surroundings into focus. Gradually she became aware of her body lying under the duvet, a slight sweat making her pyjamas cling to her back and thighs. Her arms akimbo, one under the covers, one on top, her right ankle tucked under the knee of her left leg for some reason, her left foot protesting with stabs of pins and needles. She dug around in the muzziness of her brain, trying to remember what day it was, but failing. In any case, the silent slumber of her alarm clock meant it wasn’t time to get up yet. She lay still for a few moments, breathing gently, trying to quiet herself and fall back to sleep. But something was insistently nagging at her, tugging her awake every time she drifted towards unconsciousness. She sighed. Perhaps if she got up and went to the toilet, maybe had a drink of water, then it would help her to settle down.
Sliding her feet out from under the warmth of the sheets into the cool night air, Maggie put one hand on the side of the bed and started towards the door. She couldn’t see anything at all, the blackout blinds that had cost so much money were doing their job well, blocking out the bright street lamps that used to disturb her rest even through the curtains. The wood of the bedstead was cool and smooth under her fingers. Reaching the end of the bed, she strode the last few steps towards the door, stretching her hand out towards the handle, with a confidence born from the countless nights she had navigated this path.
Only the handle wasn’t there. The door wasn’t there. Nothing was there. Confused, she took a few more steps, her hand fluttering in mid-air, until she stubbed her toe against the chest of drawers with astonishing force. Swearing softly, she sidled sideways, towards the door that must then be on her left, her hands moving along the surface of the chest of drawers, trailing over the rubble of unidentified objects deposited there. Groping out to the left, something suddenly fluttered along her cheek, setting her heart racing until she realised that she was at the window, the disturbed curtain billowing over her face and trailing on her shoulder.
Maggie’s head started to spin. She couldn’t get her bearings. Where was the door? Perhaps she should open the curtains and slide up the blinds, let in some light. But the thought of the neighbours staring in at her in her pyjamas, eyes bleary and hair on end, made her decide instead to find her way back to the bed and turn on the bedside lamp. Turning her back to the window, she bent low, sweeping back and forth with her arms as she moved forwards so that her hands would be the first to come into contact with the bed, her toe still throbbing painfully from the encounter with the drawers. But her hands didn’t meet the wooden side of the bedstead, nor the covers lying tangled on top. Instead, she felt a vertical surface. Running her hands over it, she finally discovered the reassuring outline of the door, and her right hand closed on the familiar handle. Breathing a sigh of relief, she opened it and stepped through.
The hallway was pitch black too. Odd, as normally the streetlight streamed through the bathroom window and the open bathroom door, casting enough of a glow up the stairs to her attic bedroom that she could see the way down, if faintly. Cautiously, she moved forward, hand outstretched ready to clutch the bannister, legs braced against the sudden jolt of the first step down. But, as she walked on further, the floor remained stubbornly flat beneath her bare feet. And her hand was met not by the polished wood of the bannister, nor by the textured wallpaper behind – but by another door.
Bewildered, Maggie ran her hand back and forth over the door, then down to the handle. Disorientation engulfed her like a murky cloud. Another door? How could that be? Her room was the only one in the attic. How could she have got down the stairs without noticing? Or had she managed somehow to turn in a full circle? But she hadn’t closed the bedroom door behind her. Her heart beat faster. She felt lost, vulnerable, helpless, like a child waking alone in a strange place to find their parents gone. She was inexplicably afraid of what might be behind the door. Pull yourself together, she told herself firmly. What are you going to do, stand here all night? Quite apart from anything else, she definitely needed the loo now. Steeling herself, she turned the handle, and walked through.
With a sigh of relief, she saw that the room in front of her was lit faintly by a few beams filtering through the window blinds. But she still couldn’t make sense of anything. The layout was odd, a jumble of half-seen forms that didn’t match the furnishings of any room in her home. In front of her was a low shape, rectangular, solid underneath but with light slanting through regular gaps in the side. Reaching out, she touched the slender shapes of bars. A child’s bed? Working her way up to one end, she found a headboard, her fingers tracing over oddly familiar curlicues of carved wood. Recognition flooded her – this was the bed she had slept in as a small child. As her eyes adjusted more to the poor light, she could just about make out the silhouettes of her cuddly toys at the foot, reflected pinpoints of light bringing their plastic eyes to life in a way that had always simultaneously delighted and terrified her. Scrabbling around, she located her favourite, raggedy rabbit and, lifting it to her face, breathed in its comforting smell. She must be staying over at her mother’s house, and had wandered into the storage room where a few relics of the past were lovingly preserved. Smiling, she put back the rabbit, giving it a little pat, and remembered her sense of achievement when she had outgrown this bed and been promoted to a ‘big girls bed’. After the old cot had been moved to the storage room, she had proudly announced, ‘I don’t sleep there anymore’. Turning, she quietly crept out of the room. She didn’t want to wake her mother, who slept lightly at the best of times.
Back in the corridor, she slowly made her way through the darkness, resting one hand on the wall to help keep her sense of direction. The floor was curiously tacky underneath her feet, more like neglected linoleum than her mother’s well-tended carpets. Under her hand, a piece of paper moved, and she quickly pulled her fingers back. Mum would be horrified enough to hear that the wallpaper was coming loose, without Maggie having to admit she’d ripped it. But further along was another loose paper, then another. Almost like posters. Then her questing fingers encountered a series of flat objects along the wall, small pieces of plastic following after each other in a line. One came off in her hand, and she turned it in her fingers curiously. It felt like a credit card, but who decorated their walls with credit cards? Then it dawned on her. The electricity cards! Of course! She was in her student flat, the walls decorated with free film posters and a line of the disposable cards they had to buy to run the electricity meter, all stuck up with blu-tac.
Wow, Maggie thought, pressing her hands to her forehead. It must have been a seriously good night out, that she had got so badly drunk. How long had she been wandering around the flat, believing herself to be in all sorts of other places? Thank God she hadn’t gone into any of her flatmates’ bedrooms. Then a chill ran down her spine – maybe she had. She had no memory whatsoever of going to bed. What had she done while drunk? Or what had been done to her? Whispered stories of women being raped while passed out forced themselves into her unwilling mind, along with the self-righteous reactions of the listeners – ‘she got what was coming to her, didn’t she? Getting totally pissed like that, going into his room…’. She pushed the thoughts away, trying to calm herself. That she couldn’t remember what had happened, didn’t have to mean that something bad had happened. Most likely she had gone to sleep in her own bed – alone – and simply been sleepwalking around the hallway. And at least now she knew where the toilets were. A quick pitstop, then back to bed. And pray that the morning didn’t bring any hideous discoveries. Shush, she told herself, stop it, you’re letting your imagination run wild. She must sleep well, she needed her rest. It had been stupid of her to go out drinking at all. Final exams were coming up soon, and she simply had to get good results. There would be fierce competition for jobs, and she wanted a good one. She had been dreaming of it for years. Doing important work, earning her own money, living in her own flat, finally independent.
Opening the door to the toilets, she froze. No. Oh God no. Icy water seemed to flood her veins, while her stomach twisted so violently that she thought she would vomit. Paralysed with fear, her breath came in short, panicky gasps while her heart pounded out a thunderous alarm. The double bed, standing at a perfect right angle to the wall. The familiar sleeping figure, the steady rasp of his breathing every so often shifting into a grunting snore that she would never dare to mention. Slumbering peacefully like a little child – no hint of the vicious tyrant he was when awake. She had better forget about going to the toilet, sneak into bed quickly and pray she didn’t wake him up. She could already hear his accusatory tones – “Margaret, what is this? Sleepwalking? Lot of weak-minded nonsense. If you don’t watch out you’ll turn into one of these hysterics. So selfish of you to disturb me. I have a very important meeting tomorrow. You don’t realise how much it matters, no one would care if you were sleepy at your work, they probably wouldn’t even notice if you never turned up at all, you useless cow”. Without even realising it, her head bowed down, her shoulders hunched over, her arms clutched across her body defensively, as she started to tiptoe towards the bed.
But what if she couldn’t hold on until morning, what if she wet the bed? “Disgusting, pathetic creature. Like some filthy little dog, no self-control”. The tirade formed itself in her head already. The trapped feeling of indecision, the impossibility of doing the right thing, that had steadily grown in the years since her marriage, now spread like a web of black mould through her bones, entangling her in its filthy threads, weighing her down till it seemed she would be crushed under the burden. The dream she had just been having made it all the worse. She could still vividly recall how she had felt when she was finishing her studies. The excitement and anticipation, the whole world spread out for her to explore. Not this daily tightrope walk over a pit of spikes, knowing he was watching everything she did, checking up on her every move. No higher ambition than to get as far through the day as possible before the inevitable misstep unleashed the hammer blows of sneering contempt. Her whole body started to tremble uncontrollably. She wished it were over, she wished she were dead. She pictured going to the bathroom, filling the bathtub, taking a razor from the cabinet…
NO. The word seemed to well up from deep in the core of her being. Determination grew within her, thrusting aside the despair. This was totally insane. She would not kill herself. She would leave. She would leave him. Then, the memory slowly emerged from her consciousness. She had left him.
Relief flooded through her, an almost unbearable joy, her limbs tingling painfully. She remembered how she had packed a few possessions, got on the train, rented first a hotel room, then a flat. Hung up when he tried to call, blocked his number, arranged to move to the other office location so he couldn’t turn up at her work. Ran the gauntlet of concerned, well-meaning friends – “He’s in a terrible state, it’s so sad to see. You two were so good together! I don’t know what happened, of course, but I’m sure you can work it out if you would only try…”. But Maggie stood fast, and started a new life without him.
Looking at him now, sprawled in the bed, she understood that she was still dreaming. As her composure returned, she straightened up out of the hunched posture she had unconsciously taken. “I left you”, she said out loud. Daringly, she stepped closer. “I don’t sleep there anymore”, she added, deliberately echoing her childhood words. She considered giving him a kick, but even in a dream that was going too far for her. She turned on her heel and left the room, slamming the door behind her, wishing she had sturdy boots instead of bare feet, to be able to stalk away more convincingly.
Back in the hall, she paused. Now she was aware that she was dreaming, which usually meant that she would wake up shortly. Probably she would hear her alarm clock in a moment. But in the meantime, she might as well keep going. She paced the hall until she found yet another door, which she unhesitatingly opened.
Gentle early morning light shone in through her window, which she left wide open at night ever since she’d moved out of the city, away from the glaring lights and constant noise. She could smell the salty sea air, and hear the faint, comforting rumble of the surf. The walls were painted in cheerful yellow, and the room was furnished with a few simple pieces of warm wooden furniture. Peace and happiness surged through her as the oppressive weight fell away. Her sanctuary. Her own place.
Maggie stood still for a moment, breathing in deeply, letting the calm tranquility fill her body. She had never been so glad to wake from a dream. As the tangled emotions provoked by reliving her memories drained away, they were replaced by a sense of utter exhaustion. She would go back to bed for a couple of hours, then get up and take her usual walk along the coast, let the brisk wind blow away the cobwebs.
She started towards her bed, tucked away in a cosy niche under the slanting roof, covered with a colourful batik throw, bunched up almost as if someone were already cuddled up there. Then she stopped dead. Someone was already lying in the bed. She hesitated to move closer, trying to suppress the dreadful understanding that was churning around somewhere in her subconscious. Then, reluctantly, she took one step, then another, until she could see over the mound of bedding.
An elderly woman lay there, silvery curls dishevelled on the pillow. Under the web of fine lines that creased her weathered dark skin, her expression was deeply contented, a slight smile touching her lips. She lay utterly still, no rise-and-fall of her chest, no breath stirring her nostrils. Maggie stood there, looking at herself. Horrified, she staggered back, mumbling frantically, “it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream”. But it wasn’t. None of this had been a dream. She knew now what it was, without a single doubt. She looked slowly and deliberately around the room, eyes lingering on each and every reminder of the happy years she had spent in this house. Coming home from work to gaze out over the waves, inviting friends over for summertime picnics on the beach and wintertime whiskies by the fireside, retiring to spend her days in taking nature rambles and pursuing her own projects for no other reason than the pleasure they brought her. She looked back at the bed, and the silent figure reposing there. Her voice cracking with grief, she said, half a statement, half a question, “I don’t sleep there anymore, do I?”.
On the far wall, a crack of bright light appeared, outlining a door that had never been there. The light intensified, the bright golden glow of sunset – or dawn.
Maggie took one last look around the room, saying goodbye to the happiest years of her life. Then she stepped boldly towards the door. She had no idea what lay behind it, but she was going to find out. Grasping the handle tightly, she turned it and opened the door, stepping through into what lay beyond.