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SEVEN
‘That doesn’t sound like. . .’
My mother was on the phone to Nanna G. I was listening down the line, eavesdropping on their conversation about the nightmares I’d been plagued with ever since we’d moved to London. In the beginning, she’d let me crawl into bed with her, but once Matty had started staying over, everything changed.
‘The bed’s too small for three.’
Matty shifted across, made space for me to get in.
‘It’s fine, Ams. I can lie on my side. . .’
My mother was firm.
‘Sophie’s a big girl, she needs to sleep in her own room.’
‘I’ll be so quiet. Please.’
‘I said, no. Now back to bed.’
‘But I’m scared by myself.’
‘How about I sit with you till you fall asleep?’ Matty said, swinging his legs out of bed.
‘Will you sing “On Raglan Road”?’
An Irish folk song about enchanted roads and carrying on in the face of danger. My grandfather used to sing it to me back in Newton.
‘Sure I will. Trust me, I’ll have you snoring in no time.’
‘I don’t snore.’
‘Your mam says the same thing. But she’s like a train coming through.’
‘Nightmares are the brain’s way of processing fear,’ Nanna G was saying now. ‘Has Sophie come across anything to make her afraid?’
Something in her tone jarred, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what.
My mother started to answer, ‘No, of course not. I—’ She broke off. ‘Sophie Brennan, are you listening in on my phone calls again?’
‘No.’
‘Put it down. Now.’
That night it was more of the same. A dungeon. A dragon. No one to hear me scream.
I woke up, heart thrashing, pyjamas damp with sweat. The dark room changed the shape of everything, brought the dream to life. The branch tapping against my windowpane was a witch’s gnarly finger. The clothes on my chair, a crouching monster.
‘Just a tree. Just a chair,’ I whispered, my night-time mantra.
But could I be sure it was just a tree, just a chair?
I began to pant, to shake.
‘Just a tree. Just a chair. Just a—’
I stopped, ears pricked. Graveyard still.
What was that?
