Part 1: The Strangeness of Fredrick Street - Chapter Nine

In Chapter Nine, Mark is plagued by strange visions and secrets not even he knew he had.

9

Mark Fleming strolled down the corridors of the St. Vincent Memorial Hospital with a skip in his stride. He'd had a stellar morning, with a successful liver transplant already under his belt, no paperwork or unread e-mails piling up on his desk or his inbox and a baby scan with Kim to look forward too. The rate he was going at, he could probably even squeeze in enough time for a nap but he thought he best not push it. He didn't want to late for the scan and besides, if Kim found out he had napped without inviting her to join in the siesta, his life wouldn't even be worth living. Still rolling down the hospital hallway, shimmying past the odd gurney going at break neck speed or crash cart being thrown between nurses, he watched as all this life-saving activity roared throughout the hospital. At times like this, being surrounded by so much potential death and horror, Mark never felt so alive. As he skipped out of the way of another gurney, this one hosting a patient with a heavy blood flow from the head, he entered his office thinking how lucky he was; how they all were. The hospital had a fantastic surgical success rate and the lowest mortality rate in the country - 0 deaths from surgery in the entire time Mark Fleming had started working as a doctor here and every person who crashed through those hospital doors in immediate need of medical care was saved. Mark didn't take all the credit, but he knew for one thing though, any first day doubts he had about taking on the job, as Head of General Surgery were completely unfounded. He had a 100% surgical success rate, which had the earned him a lot of fans and admirers throughout the hospital, not to mention the country. He was treated like a hero and he was loving it. 

Sitting down at his desk, he had about 30 minutes to grab some lunch before his scan with Kim. Pulling out the brown paper bag she had packed his lunch in, (crunchy peanut butter with some raspberry conserve, a banana for snacking and – his one luxury item – a can of soda) he sat back in his chair, looking out onto the view his office offered of the city skyline and began to relax. Growing up, when he first decided he wanted to enter the world of medicine, he never thought he'd have the work-life balance that he currently had. It was deemed impossible by his lecturers, mentors and even his friends. But nothing was impossible for Dr. Mark Fleming. Not one thing. Finishing up his lunch, he turned back to the neat pile of files on his desk and noticed the mail from earlier. He had some time on his hands which meant he could go through these now, pay his bills, read any fan mail (admittedly a weird thing for doctors to receive but he was a celebrity in these parts) and save whatever endangered animal he was asked to save. As he had predicted, it was bill after bill after bill (a few new offers which would save them a pretty penny which he filed for later) and a few letters from the families of patients he had operated on and got back on their feet. The last letter in the pile however, was a strange one. He recognized the scrawl on the front of the envelope almost immediately as his own. Although he had no idea why he would be sending himself a letter. There was no earthly reason for it. It was something he used to do in the past, when he was so busy studying or chasing his medical license that if there was a pressing matter (even a reminder of Kim's birthday or his parents anniversary) he would send himself a little letter to remind him. But since striking the perfect work life balance, he had absolutely no need to do this. And he couldn't recall doing so since his student years. An uneasy feeling started to cloud the room, something that Mark wasn't used too and propelled him towards door, closing it quietly. Holding the envelope somewhat gingerly in his hand, he felt his heart start to race, the sweat from his hands cascading into the letter and almost opening it with the moisture. Sitting back down at his desk, Mark stared at the envelope. The strangest feeling was coming over him, like he knew what was inside the letter and didn't want to open it. The strangest feeling of dread and fear was coursing through him, pumping blood through his body so fast it felt like he'd run a marathon from a sitting position. He had the strangest feeling that whatever the words in this letter said, it would change his life forever, and he didn't want to open it. But he had too. Curiosity would kill him eventually, even if what was inside the letter didn't. Having a quiet word with himself to get a grip, he tore open the letter and read. 

Kim, Colleagues, Family & Friends. 

I'm sorry. For cheating. For lying. For not doing my job. For not saving people, for not saving you & for not saving myself. 

I'm sorry. 

Mark Fleming. 

Mark stared at the letter for what felt like an age. His head was swimming, his vision began to blur as the sweat from his forehead began to sting his eyes. But he couldn't shut them. He couldn't tear them away. He couldn't stop staring at the suicide note in front of him, written in his own hand. His own words. But they couldn't be. The letter spoke of infidelity, of not saving people but...what? Killing them? He didn't understand. He couldn't. Searching his memory, he had no recollection of ever putting pen to paper and writing this. He had no recollection of ever cheating on his wife, of ever losing a patient, of ever being the man that was written on this paper. There was nothing he could point to in his mind, in his current life that would suggest this. But all at the same time, he couldn't help but feel it was true. 

"Dr. Fleming?"

The sound came from outside the office door. Knock Knock Knock. "Dr. Fleming your wife is waiting with Dr. O'Brien, we'll be ready for the scan in 5 minutes. Are you in there Dr. Fleming?" 

"I....." He couldn't find his voice, noticing quite suddenly that his throat was dry and his words were coming out in a choked whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm just...I'm just finishing up some paperwork and I'll be right there."

Mark waited until he heard the footsteps moving away from the door and disappearing in the distance before tearing himself away from the letter that was stuck to his hand. He had to get rid of it. He had to think straight. It was clearly a prank, a jealous colleague or one of his friends from when he was a student, one of the ones that didn't make the cut, flunked out and was now living in his mother's basement. Of course it was that. Mark had never written the note, he couldn't have. None of it was true. But.....

NO! The word echoed around his head, as if not quite his own. The room was close to spinning; he couldn't think straight and was dangerously close to collapsing. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this letter. It had to be forged in his hand. He and his friends from University, they were always doing shit like this to get out of certain classes or helping with each other's essays. Yes. That absolutely had to be it. He had no idea who would do such a thing, but when he found out...

Still panicking, he yanked open one of his desk drawers to hide it in there when he saw something that made him spin away from the desk and knock the lamp crashing onto the floor. Inside the drawer, there were dozens, if not hundreds of the same letter. He picked them up, flicking through them, each one saying the exact same thing as the one he had opened. Each one written in the same handwriting. Each one a message from him to him. 

Trying to think, trying to get his head clear and stop the flurry of activity and voices rushing through his head, he let the letters slip from his hand as he noticed something blinking on the computer in front of him. Rushing forward, pressing his face up against the screen he watched as all his case files, every single one of the patients he had operated on flashing up on the screen. He watched in silent horror as their status turned from the green success to the words written in blood red DECEASED. Clicking at the computer furiously, he pressed as many buttons as he could, trying to stop the cases changing status. Trying to stop everything. But nothing worked. They kept flashing up, they kept changing, and they kept dying. He had to do something. He had to get out. He had too. But as soon as it had started it stopped. The computer screen went blank. The messages in the drawer disappeared. The door to his office swung open, the doorway empty. Breathing heavily, transfixed by whatever was going on around him, Mark started to move toward the door. Walking through it, the hospital corridor seemed different. It was a different place. There wasn't the same flurry of activity. There was nothing. There was nobody. Nothing and nobody except the different sounds coming from the rooms that lined the corridor. Slowly, as if hypnotised, he started to walk down the corridor, looking into the rooms as he passed each one. Seeing what he did not want to see, and hearing what he did not want to hear. In one room, he was standing over a patient, covered in blood while they lay on the table the shrill beep of the heart having flat lined reaching out and puncturing his ear drums. In another room, there was Mark with his trousers round his ankles thrusting against a woman who was bent over a hospital bed, a woman who wasn't Kim, the sounds agonizing to listen, to seeping out of each room. Every room was the same. Mark stood over a dead patient, Mark with a woman who wasn't Kim. Dead patients. Fucking strangers. Every room the same. So many of them. He walked past them all and looked in every one, until it all blended together in a tornado of noise. Sex and death. Death and sex. Reaching a crescendo, a fever pitch screaming and crying and flat lining all mashing together until—

--It all stopped. Everything disappeared and the real world came flooding back in. Mark found himself standing in the middle of the hospital corridor as the usual gurneys and crash carts, doctors and nurses, families and patients whirled past him. He felt his shirt and found it to be soaked through with sweat. Catching sight of himself in the reflection, he was as white as the coat he wore and his hand was trembling. Nothing made sense. He was frozen, unable to move. Unable to forget everything he just saw. Unable to clear everything from his mind. Unable to do anything. He stood there for what felt like forever, until he felt a hand on his back. 

"Dr. Fleming? Are you OK?" He turned around; it was one of the nurses. One of the nurses who just moments ago he had seen lying on a hospital bed with him lying over her. 

"I'm...I'm fine. Where is....Kim? The scan."

"She's just in Dr. O'Brien's office. You can go in now. They're waiting for you."

Mark nodded. "Thank you."

The nurse looked at him. He didn't even know her name. And she didn't look at him like she remembered what he had just seen. "Are you sure you are OK Dr. Fleming? You look a little, shaken."

Mark shook his head, wiping his palms on his head. "I'm fine. I just had a bad lunch. Thank you."

She hovered for a moment longer before nodding and leaving Mark to stand there alone. Kim was waiting on him. His beautiful Kim. How would he look her in the face after what he just saw?

Thinking fast, he headed back to his office, changed quickly into a fresh shirt (a second change of clothes was always needed in this profession) and splashed his face with some water. As he looked at himself in the mirror, some of the colour started to come back to him. 

"None of it was real." He heard his voice for the first time in what felt like forever. "None of it was real."

With that, he buttoned up his coat, left his office (locking the door behind him) and headed to Dr. O'Brien's office to find Kim. Knocking first, he entered, with Kim lying there on the table, waiting for the gel. He looked at her, everything he saw almost falling out of his mind. She smiled at him. But there was something off about her, like she'd had a day not unlike his. 

"Hey sorry I'm late. Got caught up." Mark strode across the room and planted a big kiss on her. 

"It's OK. I was running late myself." She stared at him. " You OK? You seem a little off."

Mark plastered a big smile on his face and shook his head. "I'm fine. Just busy. Hardly had a moment to myself. What about you? You seem—"

--"I'm fine too. Had a nap. Bad dream. That's all." Kim looked away. 

"You know what? I think that's what happened to me too. Serves us right for napping without each other right?"

Kim gave a weak laugh and smiled. "I guess so."

They stared at each other for a few moments in silence before Dr. O'Brien entered the room and shattered it. 

"Well then, sorry to keep you waiting. Let's see how our little one is doing then huh?" Dr. O'Brien rolled up her sleeves as Mark squeezed Kim's hand. Neither saying a word. 

Part 1: The Strangeness of Fredrick Street - Chapter Eight

In Chapter 8, Betty disappears from Albert, sending him into a blind panic. Where did she go?

8

Albert pulled into the car park of the local supermarket, and fought hard to find a space, finally threading the car into a tight spot between a black Range Rover and a White Sedan with the precision of an Olympic diver. Settling the car of the main road diving board and into his concrete pool, he looked to Betty sat in the passenger seat who had taken the 20 minute journey to carry on with some knitting of a tiny jumper. A pang of sadness shot through Albert there as he took in the miniature winter-wear that Betty was holding for an imaginary grandchild, both of them unable to have children of their own. But no sooner had that thought took place than it left his mind again and he forgot to feel sad and instead smiled at his wife's skill with a knitting needle. Of course it was for the kids, they had a four with children on their own. Why had he thought otherwise?

"You want to wait here while I go in and get the bread?" said Albert. The supermarket was handily placed right next to the local duck pond park where the two old timers had decided to embrace the cliché and have a weekly walking date while feeding the ducks. 

Betty folded away her wooly work in progress and stepped out of the car, popping her head back in before shutting the door. "I'll come with, I reckon you'll end up picking out some Gluten Free bread just to see what happens to the poor bastards if they eat that instead of some trusty white bread."

Albert laughed hard as the door shut. She was not wrong, he did have a slightly warped sense of humour and it wouldn't have been that out of the question if he were to do that. Although, it was more likely he would try out the Tippex on bread trick his friends in school had once boasted about, just to see if they could indeed turn their feathered friends into a feathered firework. But no, Betty would never allow it, and quite rightly so. She was never a fan of "fowl play". Chuckling again at his own pun, Albert got out of the car and took Betty by the arm as they headed into the supermarket, picked up a loaf of bread, a few snacks and drinks for themselves and then made their way over to the park. 

As they wound their way round the duck pond, stopping occasionally to throw in a few chunks of bread, Albert sucked at the air generously, favouring the cold nip of the October air. Winter had always been his favourite season. He loved it as a boy, staring out at the falling leaves making way for the falling snow from the warmth of his high chair. He even loved it from his judge's chair, glancing out in between presiding and ruling over court proceedings. Albert Molineaux simply loved watching as the year changed from warm hands to cold, from long bright summer nights, to dark cosy winter ones. Swimming trunks off, knitting gloves on. It was the time of the year he had most fondness for; duvet days in front of the fire & cosying up to his Mum as a boy and now Betty as a boy-grown. The season when the cold ran the roost, to Albert's mind, brought you closer to the ones you loved, emotionally, physically and geographically. When you had memories as warm as this, Albert thought, it was damn near impossible to feel cold.

Betty gave his hand a little squeeze just then, as the bag of bread's short life drew to a close. "What are you smiling about?" 

Albert raised an eyebrow, smiling. "Wouldn't you like to know, Mrs. Molineaux?"

Betty smiled back, meeting Albert's single eyebrow with a double eyebrow bluff (both raised to the top of her head and her head tilted slightly meant Albert's defense was broken). "Keeping secrets from me now are we Albert?"

Laughing, Albert shook his head. "Secrets are for those with no stories to tell. I've got plenty."

"Good answer."

"Always."

"What were you smiling for?"

"I was just thinking, about winter. I think it's my favourite season after all."

Betty laughed. "Do you? What's brought this on?"

Albert shrugged. "I don't know. I just think, I have a lot of happy memories from there. The scarf my Mum made me one Christmas, cosying up with you to keep heat, making snow angels and snowmen with the kids and—what are you laughing at?"

Betty gave him a peck on the cheek and screwed up his face in that way he liked, smiling that smile that made her eyes sparkle and she laughed. "Because you, Albert Molineaux, change your mind with the changing of the wind."

Albert eyed her quizzically, scrunching up the bread wrapper in preparation for the bin. "What do you mean?" he said. 

"I mean yesterday your favourite season was Autumn. The day before that, it was Summer and before that Spring. Pick one and stick to it will you!" She laughed. 

"Ah leave me be. I'm a happy guy, that's all." Albert, laughing now too, spun away as fast as his hips would carry and tossed the wrapper into the bin. Just as he was about to turn back round to take Betty by the hand, he heard a voice in his head that wasn't quite his own.

"How does she remember that? She shouldn't remember that detail." 

Holding the bin to steady himself, he shook his head, shaking the thought away. What did that mean? It was the strangest sensation. It felt like somebody else's voice inside his head and not one he altogether understood. Was he thinking about how she never had a good memory? No, Betty's memory had always been terrific – one that managed to keep him out of many a quarrel by ensuring he never forgot birthdays, anniversaries or any such event in his life. What was happening? Were the white hairs finally starting to become a burden? 

As Albert stood there, all of these thoughts racing through his head at an alarming rate, he felt a hand on his back. It was Betty's coming to make sure he was OK. He hated her having to see him in any signs of weakness no matter how many times she had given him a stern look in the eye and reminded him that what burden he carried she would carry also and he could be whoever he was going to be; even if that person was strong on some days and crying the next. Regaining his composure, filling his lungs with that cold air he loved so much, he turned to Betty, kissing her on the check. "I'm fine. Nothing but a little slip is all."

Then something strange happened. As he kissed Betty and pulled back from her to look her in the eye, to convince her he was OK, the face in front of him wasn't his Betty. He didn't know who it was. 

"Are you OK sir?" smiled the stranger, concern etched all over her face. Albert staggered back, crashing into the bin and falling over, the world starting to spin around him. The stranger he just kissed moved towards him to help him to his feet, other strangers started to descend upon him to give a helping hand while the ducks quacked a crescendo in Albert's ear. He pushed away the outstretched hands, violently, jerking out of their reach. 

"I'm fine. I'm FINE. Leave me alone," he shouted, anger twisting inside him like a black snake writhing. 

Dusting himself off, he tried to get up and look around the park for his Betty, but his legs wouldn't budge. He tried to breath and looked around for Betty. She was nowhere to be seen. Nowhere in sight. And he couldn't get up. The stranger he had mistaken for Betty had started to back off now but was eyeing him cautiously. Albert gave her one last look, the face so unfamiliar he could cry inside and die with the shame. His lips felt like they were burning, set alight by fire and poison all because the lips he kissed weren't his wife's. 

He tried again to get up, and this time his legs worked. Spinning away, Albert moved quickly through the park, limping and panicked, calling out his wife's name, scrubbing hard at his lips trying to wipe the poison off, trying to douse the flames, trying to stop the memory taking hold. He was running now, and his eyes had begun to sting; he realized he was crying now, the tears flooding his vision as he desperately searched every face in the park for signs of his Betty.

"BETTY! BETTY WHERE ARE YOU?! BETTY?!" he was screaming her name now, yelling it as loud as he could before his voice would become a hoarse whisper. He was shouting and crying and lost, hopelessly lost. And there was a voice in his head again, his but not his. Bring her back, where the fuck did she go? What's happening? We're not going to fucking lose another one in the same day fix this. Fucking find her god damn it! It sounded like someone else was looking for Betty too, or maybe it was just him. Maybe it was just his thoughts whirling around his mind as he searched frantically for the woman he'd loved for over 40 years but couldn't find. She'd always been by his side. Always. And now she was nowhere to be seen.

Reaching the park entrance, he stopped. If she were anywhere she'd still be in the park somewhere. Maybe she'd nipped off to get something from the shop. More bread for the ducks perhaps. Maybe. As he stood there, lost to his thoughts and in his panic, a man approached him. He wore a baseball cap, sunglasses and a scruffy beard. He had a friendly face, Albert thought, though fleetingly. 

"You OK sir?" The man asked. 

Albert looked at him, lost. "I've...I've lost my wife."

"OK. Why don't you just sit here and I'll go try and find her for you, huh?"

Albert sat.

"You got a picture?"

"Y...yes." He fumbled in his pocket and handed him a photo out of his wallet. "That's her there," Albert said as he jabbed the picture. 

"OK. You sit tight sir and I'll go find him." And with that the stranger was off looking for her, leaving Albert sitting there with no hope the man would ever return and he'd just lost his favourite picture.

Time ticked by and no sign. Albert didn't know what to do. Maybe if he just sat here on the park bench long enough and waited she'd turn up. Or maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she never would. Giving in, Albert started to sob. He put his head in his hands and sobbed hard. Part of him knew why he was crying, but the other part didn't, because she'd be along any minute now. She had to be. So he didn't know why he was crying. He never really knew why he cried, even as a boy growing up in Canada. Thinking back to his youth, waiting for Betty, he tried to remember if he cried a lot and why. Maybe it was because he was a pussy like the Old Lady Jane next door called him after she caught him pissing in her yard when he was 5 and he started pissing tears then. Or maybe it was because he was still the little boy inside not grown up a whole lot. Or maybe it was because someone once told him that your demons die in the rain and he liked the sound of it. If that's the case then he was going to sit here and cry good, cry hard and cry long until Betty came back. Because he was afraid. He was afraid that if he stopped crying and looked up then he would realized some of the demons survived and Betty wasn't coming back and he was going to cry all over again until he dried up dead and—

"Albert? Albert? Look at me."

Albert slowly, taking his head from his hands and wiping away the tears, looked up. Betty was standing over him, holding a carrier bag. "What's the matter? What happened?"

Taking a moment to find his voice, as croaked and grieved as it was, Albert answered. "I thought I'd lost you. I staggered and felt a hand on my back and thought it was you and turned round and kissed you but it wasn't you and I couldn't find you and I thought I thought.....I thought I'd lost you."

Betty sat beside him and pulled his hand in hers and brought it against her chest. "Feel that, you feel that?"

Albert nodded. "Yes."

Betty pulled it tight, letting the beat of her heart pulse through Albert's hand. "As strong as the day I was born. I'm right here Albert Molineaux. Stop being crazy."

"OK. Where'd you go?"

"I saw you stagger and told you I was going to get you a bottle of water and the nice girl that came to see if you were OK would look after you when I got back."

Albert searched his memory. "I'm....I'm sorry. I can't remember...I don't remember this." 

Betty gave him a concerned look. "Well, maybe your over-tired. You didn't sleep well last night did you?"

"I didn't."

"Well there you go. Nothing to go worrying about. You just got a little tired and took a tumble. You're OK now. Thankfully that nice man found me with the photo and took care of you."

Albert nodded, glancing up and seeing the man in question walking away giving Albert a little nod with his hat. Calmed almost immediately by Betty's re-appearance. Something was still niggling him though, yet he couldn't think to what it was. Not yet anyway. 

Betty stood up. "Now come on. Up you get. Let's get you home and rested. You don't have to go tonight if you don't want too."

"No no. It's fine. I'll go. Just need a little sleep before hand that's all."

Betty smiled. "Good." Then she nudged him. "And we'll address the fact of you kissing another woman later by the way. Little tiredness and you go all Casanova on me. Poor girl will never look after an old man again."

She laughed, her sense of humour as wicked as always and Albert did his best to do the same, but he still felt shaken. All he wanted was to lie down, and sleep and forgot today ever happened when tomorrow came around. 

Usually he did.

Part 1: The Strangeness of Fredrick Street - Chapter Seven

In Chapter Seven, a routine day turns into a nightmare for Sarah. Are those her memories? Who placed this order?

7

With the school run over and done with, Sarah's day opened up ahead of her like a California highway (or at least the way she pictured it due to the movies), but without the relative freedom that journey provides. She had much more menial tasks causing her a pit stop every half hour or so on her imaginary road trip down the coast. Driving into town, her To Do list for the day pinned to the dashboard in front of her, Dry Cleaners, Doctors, Butchers and Snacks - not listed in order of importance. Sarah permitted herself a few moments to bask in the intermittent silence afforded the car now that she'd dropped off the kids before the basking would turn to wallowing in the quiet and eventually the surge of guilt that she was enjoying a few moments alone of peace and quiet without the kids or her husband. Sarah was a creature of habit, who liked the idea of alone time more than actually being alone from her loved ones and whenever she was left in silence for too long her mind began to spiral, attempting to open doors to doomsday thinking. Quickly (trained in the art of quick distraction) she flicked on the radio and let the songs of the day fill the sullen and silent atmosphere of the car and push her thoughts of loneliness from her mind. 

Now that she'd planned the day, she was looking forward to the night's event more than she had been that morning. Maybe it was just over-exhaustion, her mental faculties and positive attitude run down with the lack of sleep and busy lifestyle. Despite her commitment to the early morning rise and run, she had found herself of recent nights tossing and turning, waking from strange dreams, the odd disturbing one, that ranged from round rooms, drowning in a tank of water and one particularly horrible nightmare wherein she seemed to be catching sight of her reflection in the bottom of glasses and in bar windows – the reflection a haggard, skeleton thin woman with skin the color of yellow pastel. It was perhaps this particular nightmare that made her push even further into her early morning routine and commitment to her self imposed healthy eating programme – the fear of becoming that woman gripped her all too strong. Although why the fear felt so prescient, she didn't know. She had no cause to worry that she was on that path or indeed ever had been. She never drank. She didn't do drugs. She didn't even eat fast food. But no matter how many times she told herself this, reassured herself about how fit and healthy she was, she couldn't shake that image she saw when she closed her eyes. And to make this fear even worse, the strangest thing had happened the day before which she had pushed to the back of her mind until now. 

Coming back from her morning run, there was a large delivery truck parked outside her house. Jogging toward the driver, leaning against the wheel wearing a fedora and a duster jacket (in this impossible heat no less), she unplugged her earphones and waited as he pushed himself away from the truck and moved toward her, breaking into a smile and taking off the hat. If it hadn't been for the slightly greying hair she would have sworn it was Idris Elba straight off the set of filming The Dark Tower (a fact she only knew because her son was such a huge fan of both King and Elba) complete with Gunslinger costume. He had a friendly face, startling blue eyes looking out from his dark skin. He took his hat off and checked his clipboard, still with that smile. 

"Sarah Barr?" he said, looking up at her from his clipboard. 

"That's me. What's all this?" Sarah asked, taking a swig of her water. 

"Looks to me like one hell of a party is what it is," he said, taking out a pen and passing over the clipboard. "Just give me a signature here and here and I'll get unloading all this party juice."

Sarah didn't take the pen, instead looked past him into the truck, confused. "Party juice?"

"My little word for it. Booze. Drink. Moonshine. You must be having the whole neighbourhood round."

Her heart had started to race, (which she accounted to the run) but nevertheless she started to feel a little woozy. "I didn't order any alcohol."

The man looked at her, taken aback. "You didn't?"

"I didn't. I don't drink. And the people coming to the party bring their own if they're so inclined."

The man scratched his head, looking back at the clipboard. "You are Sarah Barr though, right?"

"I am but I'm not the right one you're looking for."

He glanced back and forth at the clipboard and Sarah a couple of times and clicked his tongue. "Must be a mix up at the warehouse again. Mrs. Barr, I've very sorry to have troubled you with all this. I'll head back and find out what's what."

"It's alright. These things happen. I'm sure I'm not the only Sarah Barr."

He smiled wide then, in a way that made her a little uncomfortable. "I'm sure you aren't." He then leaned in conspiratorially. "You want one off the back of the truck? Nobody's going to miss one, see it as a token for all this inconvenience."

Stepping back a little, Sarah shook her head. "I'm fine honestly. Unless it's water you have back there, I'm not interested."

The man nodded and flipped his hat back on. "Right you are. You're a good woman Mrs. Barr. Apologies again."

And with that, he hopped back in his truck and drove off, leaving Sarah standing there, confused as all hell. It had been the strangest thing, the delivery turning up like that, right after those dreams had started. And even stranger was how thirsty she felt looking into the back of that truck, a thirst that, no matter how much water she drank couldn't quite be quenched. 

Her dream-like reverie on her nights of broken sleeps, the jaundiced food deprived version of her in the mirror & her weird moment with the delivery driver was interrupted slowly by the sound coming from the radio. As she pulled into the next lane and stopped at the red light, Sarah looked toward the speakers of the car and listened. Something about the song, the lyrics, stirred her into a hypnotic state. 

Bohemian Rhapsody. Queen. She'd been a fan in her youth. Had even cried when Freddie died.

All of a sudden, like a switch was flicked, images begun to flash through Sarah's mind, quick and violent, pulsing to the front of her brain and into the minds eye. Empty bottles. Syringes. Music loud. Powder on the table. A room full of pallid and paper-thin people. Cars. Traffic. An accident.

MMMMEEEEEHHHH.

Snapping out of her hypnosis, Sarah's mind rushed back to the present to the sound of pamping cars and angry drivers behind her. 

Driving quickly through the green light she'd been sitting idle at while the cars behind got angrier and angrier, she pulled over into the shopping centre car park and stopped the car, her breathing a little ragged and heart beating a touch too fast for someone who was only sitting in a car. What was that? She thought. She sat there for a few moments, wracking her brain as to what just happened inside her head. It was like scenes from a thousand broken movies, a film edit that was cut badly and jumped in places. Images, and scenes, playing in her mind like a memory. But from where? And who's? They're not my memories, she told herself, adamant. But was that true? The only way she could think to describe the experience was that it was like she was sitting down to watch a movie for the first time but as the opening credits started to roll, she realized she had already seen it. The empty bottles? Sarah didn't drink. And the syringes? She grimaced at the thought of a few painkillers and couldn't even bear to take a nasal spray, so why was she suddenly seeing scenes of excessive drug use in her head? And the accident, or whatever that was at the end. She had never had so much a parking ticket never mind being involved in any accident involving a motor vehicle. The whole thing happened so quickly and was so strange she couldn't wrap her head around it. One minute she had been sitting there, quite the thing thinking about the day ahead, about missing her kids and listening to a Queen classic. Then all of a sudden, it was like she was thrust into somebody else's mind to take an unwanted and unheeded trip down a particularly dark side street of memory lane. It made no sense to her. No whatsoever. 

Giving herself a quick glance in the mirror, Sarah touched her face. Healthy. Tanned. Just as it was supposed to be. Perhaps she was just fatigued. And, come to think of it, perhaps she'd not drank nearly enough water since her run that morning. Those two things combined with the fact she was filling her non-sleeping time with watching the 2am movies on the TV probably was filling her head with all sorts of images and her brain just was getting to sluggish about separating what was the truth from reality. She'd read about that in plenty of articles online about sleep deprivation and dehydration. That's itshe thought. That's the reason. No need to panic or run to Dr. Wyatt...no wait Fleming. She didn't have a Dr. Wyatt.

Popping open the glove compartment, Sarah took out a bottle of water and started to drink, trying to push that little wobble out of her mind. She was satisfied with her self-diagnosis and non-googled answers that she chalked it down to something that was nothing worth worrying about. She just needed more sleep and more water in her system. Nothing more. Nothing less. Stepping out of the car to the packed shopping centre car park, Sarah looked and saw that she was, somehow one of the lucky few to get a space so close to the door, despite the mid morning rush and the packed car park. Picking up her shopping list and locking the car, she headed toward the shopping centre, thinking no more of the images she saw and no more about the opening to that Queen classic that had started it all in the first place. She had a party to prepare for after all. 

Part 1: The Strangeness of Fredrick Street - Chapter Four

In Chapter Four, we meet Albert and Betty. Albert’s having trouble sleeping - the dream he keeps having, is it a dream at all?

4

Albert Molineaux slept like a baby usually. He would sleep a dreamless sleep and always woke to face the day with a clear head on his shoulders and a spring in his step. This morning, however, a Wednesday (or Hump Day as the youth of today called it, a term he found uncouth and harsh on the ears besides) he felt a touch more lethargic than he ought to. Maybe he'd had a bad dream or perhaps it was that extra glass of whiskey he'd afforded himself last night taking its toll. In fact, the more he thought about it he realised it couldn't have been whisky on the account that he never touched a drop. Perhaps it was because he'd cut himself a slice of Edam at twenty past the midnight hour and fell asleep in front of the TV. Yes, that'll be it, he thought, as he ground the coffee beans into the machine. His mind raced with more potential reasons why he wasn't his usual sprightly self just as Betty walked into the kitchen, lighting up the room and pushing all the worrisome thoughts aside, as she always did. Albert smiled at his wife as she practically glided over to him and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek and a gentle squeeze on the arm. She had always held such grace, which was why for the first 2 or 3 years of their courting he did nothing but question why she had deigned to fall in love with such an uptight rogue like him. When he asked her one day, she just laughed and said, "Somebody's got to do the devil's work, it may as well be me. Besides, it's not so bad." Albert laughed when she said that, he would ask her again every so often just to hear the response. Watching as she skipped around the kitchen, making herself a pot of coffee, he found her to look just as young as she did when they first met and he couldn't help but smile.

"Did you get the paper yet?" she asked.

"It's just there on the counter. Throw me out the sports pages and you can take the rest love."

"You don't want to keep up with what's going on in the world?"

Albert shrugged. "I don't like finding out about problems I can't fix. Besides, if it's need to know then I'm sure you'll tell me, won't you?"

Betty raised an eyebrow. "Sure I will. But what are you going to do when I'm not here to tell you?"

Albert thought for a moment before replying. "Well Betty, I guess when you do go, I'm just going to be a guy who knows a whole lot of nothing other than what's in front of him."

Laughing Betty hit him with the paper and passed him out the sports pages. Albert poured the freshly made coffee, the smell filling the room and unfolded the sports pages out in front of him. "Besides Betty, you're not the only one who has a deal with the devil. I've got that pact I made when we first started seeing so you aren't going anywhere less the devil's not a man true to his word."

"I knew you'd done some sort of black magic to keep me around this long." She smiled and took his hand. "You alright this morning?"

Albert plastered a reassuring smile on his face (all his own teeth despite being 70) and squeezed his wife's hand. "I'm good like a kid on Christmas morning. What makes you ask?"

Betty's brow wrinkled in concern, seeing right through the smile. "You were tossing in your sleep last night, muttering away to yourself."

Albert's smile faltered. This was perhaps why he didn't feel his usual self this morning. And, thinking on it now, he was restless during the night. He must have been in the grips of a nightmare but he couldn't think now what it was that'd shaken him up so bad. Something about a circular room and, yes, a few of the neighbours had been there too. But no Betty. There was no Betty in sight. 

"Albert? Are you OK?"

Bringing his mind back to the present, he squeezed Betty's shoulder and busied himself about the kitchen. "I'm fine, bad dream is all. And dare I say it was only bad because you weren't in it Betty Boo."

Unconvinced Betty rested a hand on Albert's chest, stopping from the kitchen tidying frenzy he was in the grips of, something he knew (and Betty knew) he only did when we was worried or stressed about something. 

"Albert Molineaux? Is there something you're not telling me? Cos you know I'll find out. It's a gift I have."

"One woman's gift is one man's curse," said Albert. 

"Less of the poetics. You got anything on that old mind of yours?" said Betty. 

Albert, doing his best to push the topic aside, took her hand off his chest and kissed it. "Betty, I can assure you there's nothing on this old mind but thoughts of you, a want to read the sports and the desire for a good cup of coffee and a plate of toast. I had a bad dream and it's gone now. If it happens again, you can lay me down on that couch there in the living room and go all manners of Freud on me. But believe me when I say I'm absolutely fine."

He placed Betty's hand back in her lap and took two slices of bread out of the packet and into the toaster. Well OK. But maybe you should speak to Dr. Fleming across the street if your restless nights keep up. I don't want to lose you before I'm ready." 

Albert laughed. Betty had one wicked sense of humour; she'd have done just fine on the gallows. "OK Betty. But I'm sure he doesn't want the worries of a couple of white haired fools who think anything out of the norm means Death's come a-knocking. I'm fine. Just shouldn't eat cheese so much before bed and watch so much TV." The toast popped. Albert took out the butter knife and started buttering, sliding the plate over to Betty. 

"Now drop this Florence Nightingale talk and have a slice of special Molineaux toast."

Taking the plate, Betty inspected the toast and looked up at Albert. "Albert?"

"Yes?"

"You afraid you're going to run out of butter or something?"

"I miss a bit?"

"More than a bit. Give me that butter knife. I'll show you how it's done."

And taking the knife out of Albert's hand, Betty carved out a chunk of the butter and started slavering it over the slice of toast. Watching her Albert couldn't help but think back to every breakfast they'd ever shared and smile. The thing he feared most was that she'd be the first one God would pick to join him upstairs. Not that he'd ever been a Godly man, but it was a nicer way to frame it than the alternative. 

Finishing her fix-up job, Betty slid the plate back, taking a slice for herself. 

"There, that's a proper piece of toast. Not a bit of the surface untouched."

Albert took a slice and bit into it, crumbs falling onto the counter. "Betty, I don't know how I ever took breakfast without you, do you know that?"

"Honey, I don't know how you did anything without me. Now go upstairs and look out your clothes for tonight."

Taking another slice, Albert raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Betty. "What's tonight?"

Rolling her eyes, Betty stood and took the plate to the sink and started on the dishes. "The BBQ Sarah's throwing for the street."

Albert nodded. "Sure, that's right. We got to stay long?"

Betty laughed. "Now Albert, be kind. It's a nice thing she's doing. But no, we don't. That's the great thing about growing old. We've got an automatic get out of jail free card."

Albert smiled and gave his wife a kiss. "I love you."

"Good job I love you too. Now move and get ready. I have a list for you. And it's growing by the second. The quicker you get ready the shorter the list."

"Will you be coming with me on this shopping mission you've prepared for me?" 

"I've not decided yet. I think I want to play at being a kept woman with a house husband today."

Albert bowed "As you wish, Madam."

"Less of the Madam. It makes me feel old."

Albert bit his lip which Betty frowned at.

"Don't even think of making a single comment, buster."

"I wouldn't dream of it," smiled Albert. "Besides, I always find it painful pointing out the obvious."

And with that Albert took his leave, skipping as quick as his hips would allow out of reach of her magazine. Heading up stairs, laughing all the way to the bedroom to get ready, Albert thought about just how dull his life would have been if he didn't have Betty along for the ride the whole time. He didn't know what he'd do without her and, praying to whatever God was listening, he would never have too.

Part 1: The Strangeness of Fredrick Street - Chapter Two

In Chapter Two, we travel to Fredrick Street to meet the residents and their perfect life. But is all as it seems?

2

Sarah's feet crunched the soft gravel as she jogged gently into the drive, finishing her morning run. Leaning forward, palms resting on her thighs, she started to feel the thin blanket of sweat that the morning run had wove on her back; like the foil for the runner who had just finished the marathon. Glancing down at her watch, she smiled. It was 7:45 and she'd just smashed her personal best. Not a bad start to the morning. Maybe even a perfect one.  Unclasping her sports bottle from her running belt, Sarah drank, the liquid was like a mini-waterfall wetting the dry rocks at the back of her throat. She felt good, like she did every morning. This was pretty much her routine every day (except a Sunday which was sacred for a quick morning cupcake before a walk with the dogs) but it never got old how good she felt. Looking around the street, each house semi-identical save the few personality flourishes from their individual owner, she could feel the calm of the early morning just on the brink of disturbance. It was one of the reasons she liked to get up so early; she liked rising with the morning and feeling the first weak rays of light struggle to conjure up a little warmth. That, and she had always found that when you woke up before everyone else there was a smaller chance that they could ruin your day from the start. It was something her father used to say. 

"Get up before the world honey. Because by 11 O'clock, chances are strong that somebody will have ruined your day." She liked to heed her father's advice and it hadn't steered her wrong yet. 

Letting her earplugs dangle and pump the surrounding air with a little music from her running playlist, she took in Fredrick Street. She breathed in the white picket fences and the front lawns as smooth as the icing on a wedding cake. The road looked fresh and free of cracks, as if it had only been laid this week. There was a cloudless sky overhead and the sun shone down, as it did most days, on the rows of houses like a family would their properties on a Monopoly board. It was, quite simply put, sheer perfection. Dreamland 101.

It was just over a year since they'd moved in, Morgan, her and the girls, but some days it felt just like yesterday. Today was no different. It had been a no-brainer really, the house had come on the market at a cut-price & they'd always dreamed of growing up in a little cul-de-sac where the kids could play in the garden, ride their bikes down the street and everyone waved at them in the morning. Regular house dinner parties, book clubs and civilised living with a civilised neighbourhood. Most times, when people came to live out in one of these little pockets of Suburbanity, away from all their family and friends and the memories of their past it was because they were running from something. But for them it wasn't the case. Moving to Fredrick Street, they were running toward something. A brighter future, the one they had dreamed of, complete with their picket fences and BBQ's on a Sunday. It was perfect.

Her jog down memory lane was just about complete when she saw one of the neighbours from across the street (you could see them all really, there only was the 12 rows of houses in this little slice of Suburban Solitude). It was Kim. She was taking out the bins. Sarah waved and Kim flashed a smile before making her way toward her. Watching Kim cross the street, Sarah noticed the slight sashay in the way her body led her forward, still looking so glamorous without a dot of make-up and her morning sweats on. She had the looks a movie star would most likely kill for and, being that Kim was a movie star, she half wondered if this wasn't the case. In a past life, Sarah was sure she would have been hit with that sickening and unpleasant rush of jealously, followed by a crippling guilt and anxiety about judging another human. Jealousy was nothing but an ugly shade on a person, even on the nicest of people, which Sarah considered herself to be. She was sure that jealously would grip the nicest person tighter because they don't know what to do with it and don't understand what it is. It was nothing but the mind playing tricks on you, because it doesn't understand life (and love) the way the heart does. Sad really. But it was OK, because Sarah wasn't the jealous type.

"Morning Sarah. Day and a half am I right?" said Kim.

There was a twang to the way Kim spoke, like she was trying out all the accents she'd acquired at acting school all at once. Sarah, still a little breathless, opened up her arms and breathed in. 

"Hell of a day to be alive Kim. Although every day is like that around here, am I right?" said Sarah. 

Kim nodded. "Better believe it. Think it'll hold for tonight?"

Sarah took a little glance skyward and squinted at the sun, more for show than any weather reading ability she had, and nodded. 

"I say it will, we've not had a bad day in a couple of weeks, Mother Nature's not let us down yet. You guys coming?"

"Wouldn't miss it. 7.30?"

Sarah nodded. "On the button." 

She paused, wanting to frame the question so as not to broadcast any party host insecurities, but Kim seemed to guess and gave her that movie star smile.

"Relax, Sarah. Everyone will turn up. It's a nice thing, celebrating us all moving in. And who doesn't love a free BBQ?"

"I've not seen The Hendricks or The Murphy's for a while. You heard from them?"

Kim shook her head. "Not seen either, but I'm sure they got your flyer. Just relax. It'll go swimmingly." 

Sarah smiled. "You've never seen Morgan try and cook a burger on the grill. If it's not tasty, it'll at least be entertaining."

Kim laughed and started to walk away. "I'm sure he'll do fine. See you tonight." And with that, she sauntered back across the street, her hips moving back and forward like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. 

Sarah almost regretted suggesting the idea of the BBQ now that the day was upon them. It was a year since the Fredrick Street housing estate had been finished and opened up for them all to move in. Well, all 12 of the finished houses anyway. There were still a large number of the secluded community homes to be built and the current inhabitants of Fredrick Street were anxious to meet their new neighbours, each and every one of them hoping the newbies wouldn't disturb their tranquil life. Although recently, it had seemed that all work on the unfinished houses had stopped and they were all now living a stones throw from a construction site. She had hoped that the houses would have been finished and tonight's anniversary celebrations would double-up as a welcome party. Regardless, Sarah thought it would be a nice thing for all the current residents to get together, raise a glass (for her a non-alcoholic cocktail – she wasn't putting on hold her clean living, not even for this) and celebrate the day they all met and started this chapter of their lives. So far, she'd only had RSVP's from 5 of the other residents. The Hendricks, The Murphys, the young newlyweds a few doors down (Pete and Liz Guthrie), Old Lady Charles from round the corner, Mr. and Mrs. Kingston and Gordon the Gopher (on account that he was the handy man of the neighbourhood) had all so far failed to get in touch. Perhaps they were too busy or not interested. Either way, Sarah was understandably anxious as to her hosting abilities and the lack of response for tonight wasn't doing much to fight her insecurities. First world problems she thought and shrugged the thoughts from her mind as easy as they'd come, replacing them with thoughts of how fantastic the night was going to go. 

Tearing away from the early morning calm, Sarah made her way back into the house ready for the chaos of the day to begin and into the kitchen to get the breakfast ready for the kids. The school run was a pain for some mothers, but not for Sarah, particularly today when it would take her mind off her worries for later on. It was the second reason she loved getting up so early. She got the chance to spend time with the kids before they went to school; kids incidentally that she never thought she would have. It's not that she felt like she loved her children more than the other mothers who griped at the school gates or was a better mother because she didn't use a nose peg to clean a shitty nappy but because she never felt the desire to moan about the things her kids made her do everyday. She never acted or felt like it was something she didn't want to be a part of. They were a gift as far she was concerned; a cheesy cliché but one she liked to roll out anyway. As Sarah prepared the lunches, she thought that some days she lived only for them. They were the centre of her little universe, and one of the main motivations behind her fitness regimes was the desire to be around long enough for them to grow up and start a family of their own. She smiled at the thought that in 10 or 20 years time, it might be the mother of their children doing what she was doing now; a thought that filled her with an enormous amount of hope and sunshine that shone stronger than the rays outside.

The breakfast bar armed and ready; Sarah retreated to the bathroom for a quick shower and gave her kids a little shout as she went, smiling as she heard the familiar groans of people who'd fallen in love with their duvets over night and didn't want part from them. It was the same start to the day she always had and something she wouldn't change for the world.