In his nightmare he saw the sinking ship lurch before the bow dipped beneath the angry waves. The stern remained above the water for the last few seconds, and then plunged downwards. He reached down searching for his mother’s hand and the lifeboat pitched perilously as he lunged into the murky darkness. He could feel the oily seaweed entwine his fingers as he reached down into the icy waters one last time.
He screamed out into the empty night as he felt himself slipping. He snatched his arm from the water and stared down at the bloodied stump where his hand had once been.
Then nothing… only the roar of the laughing sea as it reached up to swallow him.
**************
Mr Nutley locked the bedroom door and sat at his dressing table staring at the cutthroat razor. His heart was racing.
A beam of sunlight swept the room as he rubbed his fingers slowly down the spine of the razor. He felt the cool surface of the ivory handle and sensed the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he recalled a moment from his past. He stared into the mirror and wondered what it felt like to die. The nightmares always gave him headaches. Dr Saud had prescribed Remeron a while back, but the effects were always the same. At first he had resisted the pills, but Dr Saud insisted that in time he would feel the benefits.
He shuffled towards the balcony and looked down over the lawns. He watched the gardener crouch low over the hedge as he gripped the silver rule in his hand. The sun shone on the metal as he took the secateurs from his back pocket and gently clipped at the hedge. The action was staged in one precise movement like a ballet.
Mr Nutley frowned as he recalled the garden the day he had moved in. There had been no sense of order, no light or space, merely a vast jungle which engulfed the house; keeping it captive from the outside world. He had slowly nursed it back to life, and planted the palm trees. These became the birthstone of the garden, allowing the sun to restore the earth and correct the balance. But it was the hedge he loved most. The smooth, comforting angles suggested rank and order. Late at night, he imagined the hedge reaching up beyond the palm trees, as if in homage to the dark skies above. Mr Nutley was a rich man, he had written five novels, all of which had sold millions. He had everything he needed, except for friends. He had been lonely ever since his wife Emily died. His only companion was an old black cat called Bozley. From the moment Bozley had sauntered up his lawn one Sunday afternoon, he had never left his side. Yet it never occurred to him to question why the cat had chosen him.
Each night Mr Nutley went to sleep, the nightmares came for him. The dark horses galloped into his sleep like a herd of demons. He suffered visions of sharp faces peering through the windows of his mind. He slumbered on a sea of threat and menace that at times made him tremble in his sleep. In the shadowy corners of the night, the demons crept up on him. They came from under the door frames, and squeezed between the polished oak floorboards, they kept on coming until he woke up. When he did, he lay there, breathless, with both hands clasped to his neck, half-dead, half-alive. Trapped between sleep and the balmy air of a new dawn.
He got up and rushed into the bathroom, clawing at the air in front of him. He splashed his face with water and then, hearing the voice behind him, he glanced up into the mirror, half-expecting to see the eyes of his demons staring back.
Mr. Nutley was 77-years-old and had enjoyed a charmed life. He desperately missed his wife, and no longer felt the urge to write. The future, he felt, held very little. That all changed when Bozley began to talk.
The voice was primeval. There was no discernible accent and the words resonated off the walls like thunder in the night. He sensed the bile rise in his stomach and was overwhelmed by a terrifying sickness. His body stiffened as he slowly turned to face the voice, his mouth fell open, and his arms flopped loose at his side. The prescient part of his mind saw Bozley before he knew he was seeing him. He did not want to believe what he already believed. He would rather believe he was still asleep, still trapped by the nightmares. Though in his heart, he knew the truth.
At first, the light was dim in the bedroom. He could make out the outline of the cat upright on the oak chair that stood at the side of the bed. Then, gradually, a spectral glow began to spread through the room. The light appeared to emanate from the cat and the eyes blazed with mesmerizing power.
Mr. Nutley stared at the cat. ‘Who are you?’
‘I have come to help cure your nightmares.’
Mr. Nutley rubbed his face and stared straight at the cat.
‘I’m talking to a talking cat.’
‘Why do you find that so difficult? Allow me to speak in your own tongue….
‘You gotta ditch the dough.’
‘What?’
‘Quit the cash. Get rid of the money.’
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘You are lonely because you are full of self-pity. That is why you no longer feel able to write. The nightmares are of your own making. If you start writing again, your nightmares will disappear overnight…so to speak.’
‘I don’t want to write anymore.’
‘Then you will die a lonely man.’
Nutley manoeuvred himself around the cat and started to get dressed. ‘So be it.’ he shouted, pulling on his robe, ‘I have written five books and made a fortune from them.’
Bozley suddenly jumped from the chair and landed with a thump, close to Mr. Nutley’s feet.
‘Yes, you did – but you made the fortune for YOURSELF, and all it has done is make you unhappy.’
Mr Nutley took two paces back. He wanted to get as far away from the cat as possible. What if I ran, he thought. Would the damn thing follow me?
‘You need to give away your money. I will show you how. True happiness is never gained from money. You humans are so dim?’
‘For God’s sake. You are one crazy cat.’
‘You are the one with the crazy nightmares! Do you want me to write the book for you?’
Mr. Nutley snapped. ‘No thank you. I would rather you stop talking and allow me to carry on going mad on my own.’
‘Has it not occurred to you that I have just handed you the best story idea you will ever have?’
In the brief silence that followed, Nutley stared at the cat.
So there it was, the sudden realisation that he had dreamed up a book idea by talking to a cat. Each morning, straight after breakfast, Mr. Nutley could be found writing in his study. This time, he did not have to search for inspiration for the story. The story was there waiting. All he had to do was write it. So from 6am until dusk, he wrote. It was only on the seventh day he realised he had not had a nightmare since the day he started writing. During the day, Bozley never troubled Mr. Nutley. He amused himself by taunting the gardeners and jumping in and out of the hedge. In the evening, he joined him for dinner on the terrace at 7pm prompt. They talked over the book, and sometimes Bozley would suggest a twist or change here and there. Otherwise, he thought it best to leave the writing to him.
Eight weeks later, the book was complete, and he called it Mr Nutley’s Nightmares. It was to become a much loved and treasured fable read by millions of children all over the world, with the bulk of the revenues going to the children’s charity that Bozley had helped him set up. On the day of publication, Bozley had suggested they organise a party in the grounds of the house. Hundreds of children came from all over the city and Bozley watched as the author proudly handed out signed copies of his book. The children laughed and danced around his feet, and for the very first time in years, Mr. Nutley smiled.
That night, Mr Nutley slept soundly, freed at last of the fear of nightmares. He never once woke up. In fact, he was still sleeping as Bozley crept out of the bedroom and slipped silently down the stairs to wait for the gardeners, and the sun began to dawn on a bright new day.
Later that afternoon, when there was still no sign of Mr Nutley, Bozley went to check on him. He opened the door and jumped up on to the bed. He stared down into the grey decaying face. There was no sign of movement, his eyes were closed. In one hand, he held a copy of his new book, his fingers still caught between the twisted pages. Bozley stared at the silent bedstead, and imagined, for a moment, that he saw the trace of a smile on Mr. Nutley’s face. He then pushed up the duvet with his paws so that it was close and comfortable around his neck. He was suddenly filled with a deep sadness. The time, he thought, had come.
Bozley closed the bedroom door and turned down the lamp in the hall. He crept gently down the stairs and out through the kitchen window. The grey light was waning fast and the garden already veiled in deepening dusk. He walked along the soft green lawn without once looking back. His work, he felt, was now complete.
tonycowell 
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