Daemons
by Andrew Lee-Hart

 

 

Home

 

More and more often I wake up feeling confused and lonely. I lie in bed waiting for consciousness to come back to me, for my brain to recalibrate, and then my wife will stir next to me or one of our children will run into our bedroom, and I remember where I am and who I am.  Until one day I don’t.

 

I was woken by a strange, rather chunky girl, running into my bedroom, calling “daddy”; she had red hair and was wearing dark blue pyjamas. She was nothing like my daughter who is thin and has dark brown hair, or is it black? Suddenly I could not picture her, but this wasn’t her, I knew that.

“Daddy” the strange girl called again and jumped on the bed, and then someone stirred besides me, and a face emerged from the duvet, she was also red haired and with fair skin. She patted my chest.

“Morning Andrew, it looks like we have a visitor,” and she tried to kiss me on the lips, she was beautiful, but like the strange girl, she was a complete stranger.

 

“Who are you?” I asked pushing her off, “who are you? Where’s…” and then I realise I cannot remember my wife’s name.

“Had a sexy dream did we?” she asked, and then turning to the strange little girl, “come on Lisa time to get ready for school.”

She gave me a peck on the lips, before I had time to fend her off; “you have your shower whilst I get the kids up”. And then she left the room. She was lovely; and smelt of something which I found very attractive; but I had no idea who she was or what she was doing in my bedroom.

 

I looked around me as if for the solution to this confusion. Our bedroom was the same, or nearly the same; less neat than I remembered, and there was a still life hanging from the wall behind our bed, which did not seem to belong, and was the bedding the same? I got up and looked around and then out of our window; the street seemed as usual, but everything else was slightly “off”, colours, smells, even the light was slightly odd.

 

When I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror however, I saw my usual face, although I did look rather pale and tired, and perhaps a little bloated. And when I went downstairs there was our breakfast table but there was white toast and children’s cereal. I looked about for my usual muesli and yoghurt, but there wasn’t any, and I had no idea who the young boy was sat opposite me, watching me root through the kitchen, although he clearly looked like me, and chatted away as if nothing was amiss, and who called me dad.

 

“Morning Chris”, said the woman who had shared my bed, followed by Lisa, “I’m going to get dressed, hurry up and eat your breakfasts, I want you both ready by the time I get down.” And she disappeared, leaving me alone with these two children, whose ordinariness and acceptance of me, made them even more frightening.

 

 

Work

 

I would have liked to have gone back to bed, to see if everything would be back to normal after I had some more sleep, but I had no time. I got in the car parked in our drive, which I had the key to in my jacket pocket, but which did not look familiar, it was an Escort Estate, in a deep blue. I am sure I used to drive something different, but could not remember what. It smelt odd, as if it was new, and the seat felt slippery and rather unpleasant. And when I started the engine, there was something loud with electric guitars and bass playing from the c.d. player; not my type of music at all.

 

As I negotiated Harrogate’s one way system, on my way to the town’s library, where I work, I tried to understand what was going on. Was I ill? I had had a sort of breakdown a year or two ago, so perhaps this was the same. But I felt perfectly well in my body, if anything I felt in better shape that I usually did; with less aches and pains. I just hoped that once I got into work everything would be back the way it should be.

 

In the staff room three women and a man, none of whom I recognised, were sitting in silence, as if waiting for orders, and then as I walked in it was if a film director had called “Action” and they started talking amongst themselves, and a slim young woman put on the kettle.

 

“Oh good morning Andrew,” said the woman at the kettle; “would you like a coffee?” And then presumably picking up on my confusion asked if I was okay, but I just smiled, and muttered something about being a bit tired. Someone else addressed the woman as Moira, and made some comment about her tending to her “work husband”, which was presumably me. But I did not recognise her, pale and dressed all in black.

 

And yet I remembered that there was someone at the library who I was very close to, but when I tried to picture what she should look like I couldn’t, but I am certain that she wasn’t called Moira, it was a longer name…and for a brief moment her real name came to me and a picture of an older lady, who looked at me with a smile, but it was only an instant, and then the picture was gone without trace, and I was talking to a stranger.

 

Work was similar but not the same, but I was okay, sitting at my computer booking in books and then answering queries on the Reference Desk. It was all standard stuff, although once someone asked me where the Music Section was, and I sent them upstairs, whereas it was actually at the back of the building,…but I was sure…..

 

Fiona, the manager was a buxom brunette, beautiful in a way, and very flirtatious. She called me into the office after lunch, to tell me that my colleagues “are worried about you; you seem confused and just not your usual self.”

She sat next to me, very close and so our knees kept touching. She seemed a kindly lady and rather sexy, but I am sure my manager was not like this. Her office was the same, with the large desk (although I am sure it had been moved) and Adult Literacy Calendar held up by a drawing pin. But there was “Friends” poster on the wall behind her head which I didn’t recognise and the room was warmer than I expected.

“I am okay, maybe coming down with the summer flu or something. I will feel better soon.”

 

She touched my forehead with the back of her hand, leaving it there for a second or two, her hand was cool, and I smelt her perfume, something light and erotic.

“Uhm, yes you do seem a little warm.”

I longed to tell her everything; she was the only person today I felt that I could trust, but I decided that this probably wasn’t a good idea….so I sat there, wanting to fall into her arms, if only for protection, and at a loss as to what to say.

 

“If you want to go home you can do,” she said after a moment of peace.

I was about to refuse, but then thought that a long sleep might be what I needed, and hopefully when I woke up, everything would be back to normal.

“Thank you, I will” I said – rather to her surprise I think - and headed out of the library, Moira gave me a questioning look as I walked out, but I gave her a smile as if we were in on the same joke, which is what being a friend is I suppose.

 

My Wife was in the kitchen painting fruit. She was sitting at the easel and looked completely absorbed, so much so that I was able to watch her for five minutes or so before she realised that I was standing just behind her. She barely added any paint to the canvas, just the odd touch, but I had never seen anyone concentrate so hard, as if she was at one with what she was doing.

“What are you doing home so early?” she asked, once she realised that I was there.

I told her that I had been sent home, that I was not feeling well.

“Yes, you did seem very odd this morning, I was worried about you. Best get you to bed” she smiled at me lasciviously, “I might join you, if you are lucky.”

 

And join me did, beautiful and naked, but a complete unknown. As we embraced I muttered as if to myself.

“I don’t know who you are.”

I wasn’t even sure I had said it out loud, but clearly I had.

“What do you mean?” she asked looking at me; her eyes brown, searching deep into my soul.

“You are not my wife; these children are not mine. At work they are all different too. I don’t know what has happened, but this isn’t my life.”

“What are you talking about? Are you joking?”

“No, since I woke up, everything is strange. You are lovely but you are not my wife.”

“Well I have your ring, and Chris could only be your child.” She took me in her arms and held me to her, and we lay there.

 

 “See how you are in the morning, and if you are the same, I will get you an appointment at the surgery.” She stroked my head lovingly, “it sounds like another breakdown. It has been a difficult couple of years for you, I think you repressed everything which probably was not a good idea.”

She kissed me on the lips, and I managed not to flinch, and then she stroked my back slowly, she was warm and soft and I must have fallen asleep in her arms.

 

 

Doctor’s Surgery

 

“So do you recognise me?”

Doctor Jones, was my age, and well-dressed in an expensive-looking suit, but I had never seen him before, or certainly didn’t remember having done so.

“No, sorry.”

“You saw me quite a lot when you were struggling with depression and kept hearing voices. We talked several times and then you seemed to recover, or at least you cancelled further appointments.”

“I don’t remember that at all, I never go to the doctor. Nothing personal, but I just don’t.”

“It was after your sister died. You said that nothing seemed real, and that people were different.”

“But I don’t have a sister. I don’t have any siblings…or I don’t think that I do.”

 

He looked at me, very concerned “so what has happened now?” he asked gently.

“They are lovely, my new wife is beautiful and sexy and my children well-behaved and fun to be with; but I have never seen them before, I have no idea where they came from….”

And then I was silent, unable to carry on for a moment, whilst the doctor watched me, as intent as the woman I lived with had been on her still life the day before.

 

“And then when I went to the shops, this morning someone said hello, but I didn’t know if they were being polite, or if they actually knew me. Even Harrogate town centre looks different, I peeped into Betty’s and the waitresses were in different uniforms and it looked really downmarket, not like it really is, and there was a church I used to visit sometimes, it has become a carpet shop.”

“Betty’s is nothing special” he commented.

“Of course it is, it is where all the tourists go; it is a landmark of the town.”

He shrugged as if it wasn’t worth arguing about.

 

“I have made you an appointment” he told me” at the hospital with a psychiatrist, it should come through in a couple of days; I really think you need help. And I have written you a note so you can be off work for at least a fortnight. Just rest and see this psychiatrist. The mind is a strange thing; and just a little kink and everything seems changed. But don’t worry I am sure that things will get back to normal. I have got you a new prescription, these might help too, just a different type of anti-depressant from the one you have been using.”

 

 

Holiday

 

I had never taken time off sick before; my mother had been very insistent when I was a child, that even if I was feeling awful that I should go to school, and that if I was “really ill” they would send me home – although of course they never did - and that has never left me. Whilst my colleagues would ring in sick at the first symptoms of a cold, I would soldier on and then be shouted at for spreading my infection.

 

I tried to remember my mother, but for a few moments my mind was empty, and then a vague picture of a dark haired lady came to me, before disappearing back into the void. And she became just an anecdote, I could not even remember whether she was dead or alive, or my father either. I felt I was in a void, lost and alone. Deserted by family and friends.

 

Despite my initial sense of guilt I embraced being off; going for long walks and listening to opera. I was sure that I had all Mozart’s operas on c.d., but I could not find them anywhere, so I went to Cobb Records and bought the lot, and would lie on the sofa listening to “Cosi Fan Tutte” and feel happy. And yet nothing changed; these strangers were still here, seemingly very real, whilst my real wife and children had disappeared, just the occasional wisp of memory, which floated past for a moment and then was gone, before I had time to catch hold of it.

 

“Is this psychiatrist helping you?” asked my wife.

“I think so, he thinks I have never properly mourned my sister.”

“Yes, since she died you have not been the same.”

“So you remember her?”

“Of course I do. How could I forget her?”

“So what was her name, and how did she die?”

“Oh Andrew.”

 

She looked at me.

“She was called Rebecca and she died of the flu. She said she was feeling a bit rough, and we were going to visit her on the Saturday, but by then she was in intensive care and then she died on the Monday.”

“But I don’t remember any of that. I don’t remember my sister.”

And then there was a picture, and it was my sister, younger than me, and I remembered a funeral, and I felt overwhelmingly unhappy.

“Sorry I am still a bit confused” I told her, “but don’t worry I will be going back to work soon, I think that I have been off too long.”

“Are you sure? You just don’t seem right.”

“Honestly don’t worry. I will be fine,” and I kissed her on the lips.

 

 

Easby Abbey

 

One Sunday we drove up to Richmond and walked round the Abbey. It was something I had often done with my real family, I remembered this very clearly. The children complained but my wife seemed keen.

“It sounds a lovely idea, I don’t think I have ever been. And it will do the children good to get out for a change, instead of staying in and watching Saturday television.”

 

I found it strange driving these people, who I was beginning to get to know, at the wheel of a car whose flaws I now had the feel of. Somehow I knew that Lisa would read for the whole journey whilst her older brother Chris would chatter, whether anybody was listening to him or not. My Wife put on a Bruce Springsteen C.D., her favourite singer, and sang along boisterously, and I looked at her fondly as she did so.

 

The sky was grey when we got to Easby Abbey, but the rain held off as we walked around the ruined buildings. There were a few other families there, looking normal and I wondered if we did too; just an ordinary family enjoying a day out. And certainly, despite their earlier protests both children seemed to be happy, whilst my wife took my hand and squeezed it tight, and then when the children were otherwise engaged, she kissed me, her large bosom pressed hard against my chest.

 

There is a café a short walk away from the abbey which I remember well, and we sat there and ate lunch; it smelt of coffee and lavender, and was very busy. Our table was near the back and we enjoyed sandwiches and cake. And for a moment or two, as we chatted, I forgot that I did not know these people, but actually felt that I belonged with them, that I could remember the children being born, meeting my wife at university and all that followed. Had I succumbed to the lies I was being fed or was I becoming gradually better?

 

And then I saw them across the room, just getting up from their table; a tall dark woman, Asian – how I had forgotten that my wife was from India? – and our two children; Sam and Karen. Just as they walked passed our table, Maryam looked at me. Those eyes, so searching and curious, which I knew so well.  And that blouse she often wore; of course she always dressed very well, even for a day out with the kids. My wife, Maryam.

 

And then they were out of the café. Without thinking about it I hurried out after them; “Maryam” I shouted but she did not even turn, although I am sure I saw her pause briefly, and then I called for Sam and Karen but they held their mother’s hand tightly and ignored me.  I was breathless, as much with emotion as with my running.

 

I reached her, and there was that familiar scent of vanilla, and I almost swooned with relief, knowing that this was her and I had found her.

“Oh Maryam” I said as I put my hand on her shoulder, and then she turned and looked at me, it was that voice which was so familiar, and it took me a moment or two to realise that she was angry and scared.

“Go away, you are scaring us. Leave us alone.”

I realised that she was pretending not to know me, but could not understand why. This woman I knew so well.

“But Maryam, what has happened?” the children hid behind their mother, looking at me as if I was a madman. I stared at her, waiting for her to recognise me, and take me in her arms, and then we could drive back home together, but she continued to look at me with incomprehension, and then I saw – just for a heartbeat – a different kind of look, of fear, but a different kind….she knew me but for some reason she could not say anything.

 

“Maryam”, I called in despair, “what is happening?”

And then I felt someone push me away hard, and stand between my wife and me. A man about my size, but tougher looking and seemingly very angry.

“You should go” he told me, and he shoved me again, so that I had to take another step back.

“But she is my wife.”

“No mate, she definitely is not your wife, now go before I punch you.”

And they hurried away to the Nissan Micra which I recognised, as my car, the one Maryam and I had bought together and driven in all over the country. My family were disappearing and there was nothing that I could do about it.

 

And then I heard a voice call “daddy”, and I knew it was Sammy, calling for me, but the car drove away fast, leaving me behind. Whilst I shouted “Sammy” and then fell to my knees weeping.

 

As I knelt there, I heard a voice calling “Andrew” and there was my False Wife with my Daemon children, and after a moment I walked back to them and we drove home in silence.

 

 

Nowhere

 

“So how are we getting on?” asked Doctor Jones.

 I smiled, as I had learned to do, and tried to appear normal, as if I believed everything around me, was at it should be.

“I have been back at work over a year now, and seem to be managing okay. Perhaps I just needed a rest.”

“So you recognise everyone? Everyone is back to who they should be? No more incidents like that one in Richmond?”

I looked down at my knees, feeling embarrassed. “Yes everything is back to normal. I don’t know what that was, just a lapse.”

 

The Doctor looked at me intently, “I am glad, we were worried, you were almost sectioned you know.”

“Yes, that psychiatrist told me. But now I am okay, everything is okay. I was just tired that’s all.”

He continued to look at me, and then he smiled and his smile became a laugh, a most unpleasant laugh, “they’ve got you haven’t they, you have succumbed.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean.” And then he winked before turning back to his computer, and started jotting down more notes, as if nothing had happened.

 

I got into the car that wasn’t mine and started to drive, not home at first, but headed to The Stray, where I parked and walked through the freshly mown grass, avoiding the joggers and watching a young woman in a suit, walking her Alsatian.  After awhile she seemed to realise that I was looking at her and gave me a glare, and as there was nowhere else I could go I decided to go home. I left my car where it was and started to walk.

 

Presumably they were expecting to hear my car, because when I walked into the kitchen they all looked up in shock, obviously not having heard me open the door and come in. There were four of them; My Wife, “Moira”, “Doctor Jones” and a man in a suit whom I didn’t recognise, and who I could tell was in charge.

 

“Planning your next move” I said, as I looked down at them, “pretending I was going mad, but I knew, you just weren’t good enough at playing the roles.”

“Andrew, we are just concerned for you” said the Doctor, “we all care for you and hate to see you like this.”

“Oh fuck off. And where is Maryam and my children? What have you done to them?”

 

“Sit down” Andrew, said My Wife, but I edged towards the door, whilst the two men both came for me, Doctor Jones first, but I pushed him away, and then managed to open the back door, before the other bloke got to me. And there standing in front of me was somebody I knew, and loved.

“Maryam” I called, in almost a whisper.

For a moment our eyes locked, and she mouthed the word “sorry”, or at least that is what I think that is what she was saying. And then I felt a sharp prick in my buttocks and I fell into her arms, arms which let me fall as if they weren’t there.

 

 

And now I lie in a darkened room feeling drowsy and unlike myself. I see people staring at me through the window some of whom I think I recognise; people from work, Doctor Jones, even Maryam, who I am told isn’t real.

 

I call out to them, but they don’t react, just continue to stare and then they go away and I am left alone. And I lie here waiting for my wife and children to come and take me home where I belong. I just wish that they would hurry up, otherwise I think that I will go mad.

 

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