Page 49 of Serenity Falls

It was only as I pored over the log that some of those names and faces started to come back to me. And not just a few, dozens. People I used to see regularly who had just slipped from my mind. The more I looked, the more I noticed just how many abandoned houses there were in Serenity Falls. Houses where people had simply disappeared.

Now, most folks would be surprised by how many people die every year. You notice that as a mailman. But usually, it’s old people. People you kind of expect to pass away at some point. You see it in their houses as you do the rounds. Gradually the garden gets less well kept. The car doesn’t make it out the garage and the blinds are drawn more often. Then one day, you might spy a house-clearance van outside, or if you miss that, a ‘For Sale’ board goes up and a new family moves in.

But it struck me that I hadn’t seen those things. In fact, I didn’t think I’d ever seen a ‘For Sale’ board outside any house here. Houses just got struck off the route. People were here one day and gone the next.

I thought about asking Garth about the log, but I didn’t want to get myself into trouble. I was Cash. I didn’t rock the boat. Didn’t ask questions. I just did my job and was happy to do it. And all of that was still true.

But sometimes, some things just don’t sit right. And this was making my brain ache. And until I took more of a look at it, I knew it would keep nagging away at me. So, I came to a decision. I resolved to cycle round to all those addresses and see for myself. Just take a look, check that there really was nothing strange or suspicious. Just my imagination working overtime – which was kind of funny, as my dad always said my mind was ‘dull as a ditch of muddy water’.

Satisfied, I finally closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep. Happy that I had a plan. I would set my mind at rest and get on with my job as usual.

Of course, that’s not what happened at all.

14

I’m not a fanciful man. Sadie oftens tell me I have ‘like, zero imagination’.

I guess that’s why I’m an English teacher and not a bestselling author. I believe that most things have a rational explanation, and if there’s stuff we don’t understand, then I’m certain one day scientists will work it out. I don’t need to fill in the gaps with gods or ghosts or magic.

Life is incredible, but that doesn’t mean it’s part of some grand design. If you believe that God is clever enough to create the symmetry of a butterfly’s wings or the complex mechanics of the human eye, then you must also believe that he’s cruel enough to create parasites that eat their insect hosts from the inside out. Can’t have it both ways. Nice guy or sadistic fuck. Take your pick.

But sleep. Sleep has always baffled me. Some writer – I forget who – called it ‘a small death’, and that stuck with me. Our body shuts down but keeps breathing. Our brain goes into standby mode yet somehow knows when to wake us up again. We never fear this won’t happen. We surrender ourselves willingly to the void every single night. Blackout. For hours. And it’s universal. Billions of small deaths, every night.

Except for me. I’ve always been an insomniac, ever since I was a child. Either I can’t get to sleep, or I find myself wide awake at two in the morning. Some nights I don’t sleep at all. It got so bad in my teens that my mum got me an appointment with a specialist doctor: Dr Smart. I always remember that name because it sounded like the name of a doctor in a kid’s book. Mr Bump and Dr Smart. Anyway, I spent a couple of nights in a sleep clinic, wires stuck to my head, reading or watching TV while the wires fed back information about my brain.

Afterwards, Mum and I sat in a small office with Dr Smart, a kind-faced man with oddly plump lips and Brillo-like black hair.

‘Studying Daniel’s brain activity, it shows many traits we see in other insomniacs.’

‘Such as?’ Mum asked.

‘In people with insomnia, the locus coeruleus is more sensitive to – or receives more input from – the salience network and related circuits when it should normally be sound asleep.’

Mum and I just stared at him.

Dr Smart smiled. ‘This may ignite a downward spiral of insufficient overnight adaptation to distress, resulting in accumulating hyperarousal, which, in turn, impedes restful sleep.’

‘How about in English?’ Mum said.

The smile dimmed. ‘The part of Daniel’s brain that controls responses to distress is over-sensitized to input from the section that perceives internal and external stimuli. This causes Daniel to experience something akin to “sleeping with one eye open”.’

I let his words sink in and then leaned forward: ‘So, you’re saying I can’t sleep because my brain is scared something bad might happen.’

He smiled. ‘In a nutshell.’

I’ve got used to it. I’ve managed to condition myself to speed-nap in the day. To not worry about sleeping at night. To make use of the night-time instead. We all say there aren’t enough hours in the day. I’ll often mark essays, catch up on paperwork, pay bills, read assignments. But still, sometimes I feel it. Every living thing needs sleep, whether they want it or not.

This morning, when I open my eyes, I’m disorientated. For a moment, I can’t remember where I am. Sunlight is seeping into the room – so not Manchester, obviously – but I’m not in my bedroom. I’m in the living room, lying on the sofa. I blink blearily. What time is it? I can’t see my phone, but there’s a clock on the wall: 7.15 a.m. What the hell? I’ve slept through the entire night. That never happens, not since … well, last night.

I rub at my head. I guess it’s been a stressful couple of days, but stress normally fuels my insomnia. Although I did have, what, five beers last night? Plus, jet lag. Yes. I seize on that. A combination of exhaustion, alcohol and jetlag. I’ve unwittingly discovered the cure for insomnia. All I need to do is take a transatlantic flight, drink a six-pack and find a dead body in a swimming pool every day.

I slowly ease myself into a sitting position. My head aches and I feel a little fuzzy. But nothing a strong coffee and some painkillers won’t sort out. There’s a throw draped over me. Did I do that? Unlikely. Sadie must have come down and found me. I feel a flush of guilt. Did she think I was drunk? Christ, I hope not. Why the hell didn’t I go up to bed?

My muddled brain tries to think back and reconstruct the hours before I passed out. I was outside, sinking a few beers. Then I came in, drank some water and … my phone. There was a notification on my phone. The motion sensor. A figure outside. Arnie. This time with a different but equally weird and creepy sign. I remember opening the sliding doors, more cautiously this time, but just like the night before, the yard was empty.

I look around for my mobile and finally locate it on the floor. It’s out of charge, predictably. I stand and shuffle across to the kitchen to find my charger and plug it in. The sudden vertical motion makes my head swim, and my vague headache gains more of a grip. I locate the charger discarded on the kitchen worktop, along with the hire-car keys and my wallet.

While the phone charges, I pour a glass of water, glug it down and then set up the coffee machine to make a double espresso. I swig the espresso, make a longer americano and check my phone. Enough charge to turn it on. I immediately bring up the app Serenity Home, log in and go to notifications. I stare at my phone. There are no notifications. I tap the icon just to be sure, but there’s nothing there, no images. Nothing. Just like the previous night.