comes true.’
Sam put the picture down. ‘Mr Randle, this is all very interesting, but I’m a lawyer. I deal with legal problems.’ He gestured towards the picture. ‘I just don’t see how I can help you.’
‘I didn’t come here for advice,’ he said softly. ‘I came here to warn you.’
Sam felt a flutter of nerves. ‘Warn me of what?’
The old man shook his head slowly, sadly. ‘I don’t know. But you’ve been in my dreams all the time lately, and they’re getting stronger. Really strong.’ He rubbed his eyes and his voice came out in a croak. ‘I haven’t slept well in months. I keep hearing things, awful things, people crying, screaming.’ He rubbed his eyes again. ‘And I hear children, but they don’t say much. But I feel their pain, like they are lost and can’t get home.’
Sam wondered what to do. He could ring the police, but then what would he say? An old man had painted a picture and dreamt about him?
But then Sam remembered how he had been waking up every morning lately, bathed in sweat, the same dream making him wake up scared, bolt upright. A dark house. A boy crying. Doors, lots of doors. Falling.
Sam held up his hand.
‘Mr Randle, I don’t…’
‘You’ve got children, Mr Nixon,’ he interrupted. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
Sam felt a burst of anger. This was more than a passing client. He had researched him, looked into his life before he came to the office.
Sam stood up quickly and got ready to march Eric Randle to the door.
‘It’s got a scientific name,’ Eric said as he looked up. ‘Precognition. It’s not just me, you see. There are a lot of people like me. Some people write things down, some of us draw. Some people just forget their dreams, until something happens and they think it has happened before.’ He leaned forward and became animated. ‘Have you ever had a dream that something awful was going to happen, and then, not long after, it does?’
‘I can’t say I have.’ Sam spoke through clenched teeth, one hand already on the door handle.
‘Perhaps you just don’t remember.’
‘And perhaps I just haven’t. Look, Mr Randle, you’ve got to leave. And if you don’t, I’ll make you.’
The old man looked anxious, waiting for a response. Sam didn’t give him one.
Randle stood up, moving more quickly than Sam thought he would. ‘You’re in danger, Mr Nixon,’ he said.
Sam stayed by the door, his eyes blazing now.
‘Keep that,’ Eric said, pointing at the picture. ‘It might mean something soon.’ He started to leave, and then stopped. ‘We have meetings.’
‘Who does?’
‘The people who have these dreams. We meet up and tell each other what we’ve seen.’ He put a leaflet on the desk. It had been done on a home printer, the colours dull on cheap paper. ‘The girl in the painting was in our group.’
Sam looked at the piece of paper again, curled up on the desk. ‘What, the dead girl?’
Eric nodded. ‘Her name was Jess Goldie. She used to write down her dreams. She had seen it coming, weboth had, we saw it in a dream, but we hadn’t known it was her.’
‘When did you paint this?’
‘There’s a date on the back.’
Sam walked over to the desk and turned the paper over. The picture was over three months old. Or so the date said. He looked at Randle, who shrugged his shoulders and then set his jaw as he clenched back a tear.
‘She was my friend,’ he said, ‘and I couldn’t stop it.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘I just want you to be careful, Mr Nixon, and promise me that you’ll listen to me if I call you.’
Sam thought about it for a moment, and then he realised that it was a cheap promise, one he could always break if he wanted.
‘Okay,’ said Sam. ‘Promise.’
Eric looked happy with that. Sam watched him as he gathered himself and then shuffled out of the office. When he had gone, Sam felt his forehead. He was sweating. He looked at his hands. They were trembling.
He laughed
Sam put the picture down. ‘Mr Randle, this is all very interesting, but I’m a lawyer. I deal with legal problems.’ He gestured towards the picture. ‘I just don’t see how I can help you.’
‘I didn’t come here for advice,’ he said softly. ‘I came here to warn you.’
Sam felt a flutter of nerves. ‘Warn me of what?’
The old man shook his head slowly, sadly. ‘I don’t know. But you’ve been in my dreams all the time lately, and they’re getting stronger. Really strong.’ He rubbed his eyes and his voice came out in a croak. ‘I haven’t slept well in months. I keep hearing things, awful things, people crying, screaming.’ He rubbed his eyes again. ‘And I hear children, but they don’t say much. But I feel their pain, like they are lost and can’t get home.’
Sam wondered what to do. He could ring the police, but then what would he say? An old man had painted a picture and dreamt about him?
But then Sam remembered how he had been waking up every morning lately, bathed in sweat, the same dream making him wake up scared, bolt upright. A dark house. A boy crying. Doors, lots of doors. Falling.
Sam held up his hand.
‘Mr Randle, I don’t…’
‘You’ve got children, Mr Nixon,’ he interrupted. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
Sam felt a burst of anger. This was more than a passing client. He had researched him, looked into his life before he came to the office.
Sam stood up quickly and got ready to march Eric Randle to the door.
‘It’s got a scientific name,’ Eric said as he looked up. ‘Precognition. It’s not just me, you see. There are a lot of people like me. Some people write things down, some of us draw. Some people just forget their dreams, until something happens and they think it has happened before.’ He leaned forward and became animated. ‘Have you ever had a dream that something awful was going to happen, and then, not long after, it does?’
‘I can’t say I have.’ Sam spoke through clenched teeth, one hand already on the door handle.
‘Perhaps you just don’t remember.’
‘And perhaps I just haven’t. Look, Mr Randle, you’ve got to leave. And if you don’t, I’ll make you.’
The old man looked anxious, waiting for a response. Sam didn’t give him one.
Randle stood up, moving more quickly than Sam thought he would. ‘You’re in danger, Mr Nixon,’ he said.
Sam stayed by the door, his eyes blazing now.
‘Keep that,’ Eric said, pointing at the picture. ‘It might mean something soon.’ He started to leave, and then stopped. ‘We have meetings.’
‘Who does?’
‘The people who have these dreams. We meet up and tell each other what we’ve seen.’ He put a leaflet on the desk. It had been done on a home printer, the colours dull on cheap paper. ‘The girl in the painting was in our group.’
Sam looked at the piece of paper again, curled up on the desk. ‘What, the dead girl?’
Eric nodded. ‘Her name was Jess Goldie. She used to write down her dreams. She had seen it coming, weboth had, we saw it in a dream, but we hadn’t known it was her.’
‘When did you paint this?’
‘There’s a date on the back.’
Sam walked over to the desk and turned the paper over. The picture was over three months old. Or so the date said. He looked at Randle, who shrugged his shoulders and then set his jaw as he clenched back a tear.
‘She was my friend,’ he said, ‘and I couldn’t stop it.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘I just want you to be careful, Mr Nixon, and promise me that you’ll listen to me if I call you.’
Sam thought about it for a moment, and then he realised that it was a cheap promise, one he could always break if he wanted.
‘Okay,’ said Sam. ‘Promise.’
Eric looked happy with that. Sam watched him as he gathered himself and then shuffled out of the office. When he had gone, Sam felt his forehead. He was sweating. He looked at his hands. They were trembling.
He laughed
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