Chapter Thirty-eight.

'How did you sleep?' Arlo asked casually from a m.u.f.fle of pillow, waking at the scent of breakfast in bed which Petra had just brought in. Hot b.u.t.tered toast. Sod the crumbs.

'Oh fine, fine,' Petra said. 'You?'

'Terrible.' He noted that she looked momentarily panicked.

'Why? Oh G.o.d, do I snore?'

'No,' he laughed. 'It's just I don't sleep very well. Haven't done so for a few years. A sort of insomnia, I suppose. No matter how tired I am, I lie awake and stare at the ceiling. Sometimes for hours.'

'Perhaps you should paint sheep on your ceiling to count?'

'Believe me, I've thought of that.'

'Things on your mind?'

'Not really that's the problem. If there were things on my mind I could try and work through them. But I just lie there, not sleeping, with adrenalin caught at the base of my throat sometimes my heart races. Do you remember that feeling when you had an exam the next morning? That mixture of doom and excitement? Antic.i.p.ation and dread? It's like that.'

'Arlo, that's terrible. You know, I read somewhere that if you're lying in bed and you can't sleep, then you should leave the room.' Petra leant over and took a sizeable bite of Arlo's toast, having finished two slices of her own. 'You should only a.s.sociate the bedroom with being a sanctuary of sleep. If you're not getting any then go to another room for a while. If it's really bad, perhaps consider a course of cognitive behavioural therapy it's meant to be brilliant for insomniacs.'

'I'll take your advice,' Arlo said, though he was tempted to say, You're a fine one to talk, just to see how she'd react. However, he'd sensed that, wherever it was she went while she slept, it was private territory and if he barged in just now, he'd be trespa.s.sing.

They went to Whitby that morning, by mini-bus again. Petra was transfixed by the ruined Abbey. Then as they meandered through the town, Arlo had her in st.i.tches with lurid tales of Dracula, pulling her into doorways here and there to kiss her dramatically along her neck. As they browsed the jet and marvelled at the goths, she told him all about Kitty and how much she'd love Whitby. Why don't you invite her up for a weekend, Arlo suggested. I might just do that, Petra mused. On their journey home, they interviewed each other for their Desert Island Discs. Arlo just about allowed her to take Robbie Williams. And Petra let Arlo take Marcy Playground, wherever that was or whoever they were. Petra chose Jane Eyre as her book ('I'd never have guessed I had you down as a sci-fi girl,' Arlo said drily, laughing when she bashed him) and her tools as her luxury, having first ascertained that her island would be replete with natural reserves of precious metals and gemstones. Arlo chose a razor as his luxury, not that he minded growing a beard (he'd had some success with a goatee in his twenties) but because he confided to Petra that he was relatively obsessed with keeping his hair closely cropped. 'You vain poof,' Petra laughed but she affectionately stroked his head all the same.

The first Arlo knew about it was the scream. A desperate scream of gla.s.s-shattering purity. It jerked him out of his sleep with the force of an electric shock and he sat bolt upright, noticed in a glance that Petra was missing, and knew instinctively it was she who had screamed. But now there was only silence. It was eerily quiet as if the scream had come out of the night and had been instantly swallowed up by it. It was now so quiet that momentarily Arlo wondered if he'd imagined the sound. Sometimes, he dreamed musically the images and emotions described to his subconscious in bizarre terms of notes and rhythm that always made sense at the time and that sometimes he jotted down on awaking. But Petra was gone from his bed and it was she who had screamed and as Arlo scrambled into his clothes, he called her name. She was not in the bathroom. Nor was she in the sitting area. She wasn't in the kitchen. No sign of her at all, no evidence of her having even been there, apart from the ominously open door. 3.02 a.m. He cursed himself for having actually been asleep.

'Petra?'

Arlo shuddered. In the thin air of the small hours, the trees loomed a little menacingly, ominous silhouettes clawing at the night sky. The silence was thick and oppressive but Arlo didn't dare break it with audible footfalls, for fear of damping out any further sound from Petra. He tiptoed across the path to the safer surface of the gra.s.s. Called her name, over and again.

Nothing. Arlo shivered. It was surprisingly brisk. Though the paths were lit well enough for errant schoolboys to be caught sneaking out for a crafty f.a.g after lights-out, they were not lit well enough for somnambulant females to be found.

'Is anyone there?'

There was a rustling. During numerous insomniac sorties of his own, Arlo had become well acquainted with the wealth of wildlife which claimed the school grounds as their own at night. But right now he didn't care for badgers and owls, he just wanted to see Petra.

'Petra. Petra Flint?'

'Arlo?'

It was her. Somewhere. Her voice, thin and desperate and fogged by tears.

'She's here.'

Who the f.u.c.k is that? A male voice. That direction.

'Where's here?' Arlo called out.

'Here.'

No, this direction.

He ran, calling her name, calling hullo, calling that he was coming. Petra, I'm coming.

There she is. Sweet Jesus. Buck naked. Arms closed defensively around her body. Head downcast with shame. Knees buckling a little with fear. Or with cold. She is flanked by two men. There's a Walley Brother on each side. Christ, thinks Arlo, foxes would be better than them.

'She yours, then?' asks one Walley with a leer at Petra, a sneer at Arlo.

'Yes,' Arlo says, striding up close while pulling his top over his head, drawing Petra close against him, wrapping his sweatshirt around as much as he can. 'She's mine.' He kisses her head gently, holds her body very tightly, whispers, 'You're fine, Petra, you're fine.'

'We found her,' Walley Two is saying, 'asleep in the gra.s.s. We didn't know what she was at first, did we? Walk around like that often, does she? In her birthday suit? All hours?'

Petra buries her face deeper in Arlo's chest.

'Had to prod her to wake her.'

'Couldn't wake her. Had to turn her over to see if she was dead.'

'Wasn't. Could see her breathing.'

'Could see a bit too much. You never heard of a nightgown, miss?'

'Pyjamas, miss?'

'Lucky it was us, really. You ought to count your lucky stars. Don't want the boys coming across this. A sight for their sore little eyes.'

'Their sordid little eyes and filthy little minds.'

'Thank you, Mr Walley, thank you, Mr Walley,' Arlo says. 'I'm grateful you were around. We both are. She's fine. You're fine, Petra. Everything is OK. You can leave her with me. You can leave now.' Arlo knows you have to spell things out for the Walley Brothers. They may claim to be simple folk but they're sly enough to twist what they find and scatter seeds of malevolence across the school grounds. Like when Head of Maths Mrs Goode's son turned up from Cambridge University halfway through term. Kicked out, came the word from the Walleys. Glandular fever was the truth. And when Mr Henderson crashed his car. Drunk as a skunk, said the Walleys. Minor stroke, said the hospital. And when Simeon de Vries failed every GCSE the Walleys rolled it out that it was down to the kid smoking too much wacky baccy. Not so, said the doctor, diagnosing ME soon after.

'She was asleep,' Arlo tells them clearly. 'She doesn't know she does it. She sleepwalks. She cannot help it.' He feels Petra pull back a little, he can sense her staring at him, then he feels her think better of it as she sinks back into the safety of his arms. 'It's an affliction,' he says. 'It's a serious condition and it is not, I repeat not, gossip.'

The Walleys look a little put out. You don't want to get on the wrong side of them. Creepy and in the background they might be, but you don't want to give them voice.

'I can't thank you enough,' Arlo suddenly says. 'Thank you so much both of you. No really. Thank G.o.d it was you who found her. Poor Petra. We're so pleased it was you, Mr and Mr Walley. Can you imagine if it was someone else? Someone who didn't understand these things someone who isn't as discreet as you two, nor as wise? We are so grateful.' Arlo is making a mental note to buy them a bottle of whisky, each, the very next day.

'Well, all right then,' says Walley One, a bit miffed to be praised rather than insulted.

'As you say, good job it was us,' growls Walley Two.

'Lock your door,' Walley One says as he mooches off into the dark.

'Keep the girl dressed,' says Walley Two as he follows his brother into the murkiness of their night.

Petra is shaking. Arlo eases his sweatshirt onto her properly. 'Come on, you,' he says. 'Cup of tea. Let's get you back inside. Let's get you warmed up. I have chocolate too. Come on, Petra, chocolate tastes especially good in the middle of the night. I should know.'

She sips. Arlo has added lots of sugar, muttering something about sweet tea being good for shock. He has placed small chunks of milk chocolate on her knees which he replenishes each time she eats one, breaking them off from a very large slab. If she talks, she talks, he quietly decides, sipping a mug of highly sweetened tea himself.

'Thank you,' Petra says and she looks sheepish. 'I'm so sorry.'

'That's OK but are you OK?'

She shrugs. 'I'm appalled.' She casts her eyes downward. Her feet are dirty. She tries to tuck them in to each other. 'It's toe-curlingly embarra.s.sing,' she says. Literally she and Arlo both think.

'You sleepwalk,' Arlo says and it is not a question.

She darts her gaze up at him, and then away. 'Well sometimes.'

'More than sometimes. I've watched you you do it at the Stables, you do it here. You build towers out of loo rolls. You put houseplants in the fridge. You put shoes on the window sill. You bash into things yet you don't wake up.'

Petra buries her face in her hands.

'You go walkabout, starkers, through the grounds of one of the UK's leading public boys' schools.' Arlo says it so sensitively that he almost manages to raise the corners of Petra's mouth. But her shoulders droop and she looks absolutely defeated by it all. 'It must be b.l.o.o.d.y awful for you, Petra. Christ, it must be a strain.' And he really, truly means it. Petra can hear his utter commiseration in the timbre of his voice.

'It is,' she nods. No eye contact, as yet. 'I didn't know you knew.'

'I do know.'

'You didn't say?'

'I didn't think you'd want me to see.'

'I don't.'

They sit in silence. They eat more chocolate because it gives them something nice to share, something to do other than talk.

'Have you always done it? The sleepwalking? Is there anything you can do? That I can do? That can be done for you?' Arlo puts his mug down and walks to the kitchen. Comes back with the washing-up bowl full of warm water, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with soap suds. He kneels down, places her feet in the bowl, a towel across his lap. He can look up at her downcast face, catch her eyes, at this angle. He holds her gaze for a moment. Then, gently, he bathes her feet. Each toe in turn. This little piggy went to market, he says. This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy went sleepwalking squeak squeak squeak out into the big unknown. A teardrop falls to Petra's knee. Arlo puts his finger over it, as if it's an ant that is to go no further. 'Don't cry,' he tells her. 'You're safe with me.' He sits beside her, draws her feet onto his lap and rubs them tenderly, turbans a towel around them.

'I started when I was about eight,' she tells him. 'I've sleepwalked ever since. In some periods of my life more often than in others. I went deaf in one ear for five weeks when I fell down some stairs. I've found myself naked, locked out on the fire escape of a country hotel at my friend's wedding. I have wet myself countless times. I peed on a pile of toys belonging to a friend's kid sister. On my ex's armchair. I've walked right out of my flat and been picked up by the police. Clothed, thank Christ. I've had black eyes, grazed knees, bruised shins, sprained wrists, swollen jaw, split lip.' She pauses. She toys with a piece of chocolate until Arlo picks it up and places it in her mouth. 'I hate going to bed because I never know where sleep will take me.'

'Can't anything be done?' he asks. 'Can't anyone help?'

'I went for trials at the world-famous sleep centre at Loughborough University,' Petra says, 'and for more tests at the renowned sleep clinic in Harley Street. They monitored me, night after night. They glued electrodes onto my scalp, onto my body a polysomnogram which monitors brainwave activity, heartbeat, breathing. There was a CCTV which showed me ripping the pads off and I was really tugging hard. I had little bald patches after that.'

'I don't have the excuse of electrodes,' Arlo teases gently and Petra smiles.

'I've tried sedatives Valium and Xanax but they made me feel dreadful, drugged almost. I've tried internal alarms and buzzers on my doors and motion sensors in the room but I never wake up.' She shrugs. 'Just one of those things, I suppose.' She pauses.

'Have you tried going to bed early?'

'Doesn't help.'

'Staying up very late?'

'Makes no difference.'

'Therapy?' Arlo asks. 'Might it not be linked to some childhood trauma?'

'But I was only eight years old what does an eight-year-old have to worry about?'

'Your parents?'

'They were fine then. They didn't split up until I was fourteen.'

'Sorry I didn't mean to-'

'No one understands,' she says. 'My mum used to get quite cross. My ex would get so impatient with me as if I did it on purpose. And then he'd use the details for dinner-party conversation. My friends tease me mercilessly. As if I do it for their entertainment. For G.o.d's sake, would I truly choose to humiliate myself to this extent? Eric has always been very caring, Kitty and Gina worry for me Lucy too but no one can really help because I can't help it.'

'But Petra, why do you think you do it?'

Petra thinks long and hard but her expression says she's nowhere near an answer.

'Do you fear dreams? Nightmares? Are you afraid of the dark? Of silence?'

She shrugs. 'I don't think so. My dreams are mostly very boring usually just me returning to my childhood home and walking about. What I'd love most of all is simply to wake from having a really good night's sleep.'

'Me too,' says Arlo and Petra touches his cheek. 'What can I do?' he asks her. 'For you? What can I do to help? There must be something that can be done.'

'No one can do a sodding thing,' Petra says and she's petulant and fed up because she's starting to feel very very tired and more than a little sorry for herself. 'I'll always do it,' she confesses. 'I've resigned myself to the fact. There is no sodding cure.'

'I could put a lock on the bedroom door?'

'I'd go through the window.'

'I could lock that too.'

'I don't want to live in a prison. My dad put a lock on the outside of my bedroom door for a while. I hated it. It terrified me. I couldn't even get to sleep in the first place, knowing it was there. Say I needed to get out? Perhaps I need to get out, perhaps that's what it's all about.'

'But you don't want to spend too many nights being ogled by the Walley Brothers.'

'G.o.d, tonight was particularly awful,' Petra says. 'One of the worst. To be so out of control. That's what a specialist told me it's about brain activity. It happens within the first three hours of sleep the deep, dreamless, slow-wave sleep. It happens when the brain doesn't move from one sleep state to the next the cortex of the brain, responsible for consciousness, stays asleep, but the area controlling the sensory system and movement is awake. The conscious part may be sparko but the subconscious is up for action. It's called a hyper-arousal state, apparently. I've given up on a cure.'

'Lobotomy!' Arlo says it with relish, he wants to lift her mood, he wants to change the subject; he doesn't like to see her so despondent and dark.

Petra looks at him, very straight before softening. 'Thank you. And I am sorry. And if you get involved with me, you may have sleepless nights.'

'I am involved with you and I already had sleepless nights anyway. It'll be a nice change, having something other than the cracks in the ceiling to watch.'

'Listen.'

They listen. Birdsong.