Doppelganger Read Online Free PDF Page A

and was
constantly sending threatening texts and emails, warning me off writing the
book. I’d discussed things with the police, who’d admitted there was nothing
they could do about it. “Until,” the officer had cheerfully said, “they
actually attack you.”
    There was no alternative but to
carry on and try to forget about it. And, of course, keep my wits about me.
     
    *
* * *
     
    I woke up in the early hours,
sweating with terror. It was the nightmare I hadn’t had for years now, that I’d
hoped had gone forever. The one that always left me trembling for the several
still-terrifying moments after I sprang awake.
    It’s always daytime. The sun is
shining in a beautiful clear blue sky. Suddenly someone much taller than me
stops and looks down, blocking out the sunlight. I look up at them but I can’t
clearly see their face, just a dark shadow where it should be. And then I feel
pressure on my neck. The blind panic that follows is the worst part. The time
when I can’t breathe, when I’m fighting for breath and everything begins to go
dark...
    I hadn’t had that dream since
long before my experience with Van Meer, the man who’d tortured and nearly
killed me, or my terrifying stay in St Michael’s. I had no idea where it came
from, could barely remember when I’d first had it. All I could remember was the
flavour of the fear. And I hated it.
    As I lay there, my heartbeat
gradually easing back to normality, I tried to think back to how long ago it
was since I’d had that wretched dream. I couldn’t remember, but it had first
happened in my early childhood, and come back periodically ever since, usually
once every few years. Obviously the shock of finding poor Caroline on top of
everything that had happened in the past few days had had an adverse effect on
my subconscious, giving rise to that terrible, terrible dream that I’d hoped
was buried once and for all. The funny thing about the dream is that, as a rule
I’ve always found that with even the worst nightmare, there’s always one tiny
corner of my mind that stays apart, allowing me to know, deep down, that it
isn’t really happening, that it is only a dream. But with this particular night
adventure I could never do that. Every time, it’s as real as if I’m wide awake,
and doubly terrifying. I’m powerless , I’m dying , and there’s
nothing in the world I can do to fight back.
    Rubbing my eyes, I wondered
whether to get up and walk around, or just lie back and hope for a sweeter
dream to cleanse away my terror. Eventually I lay back and drifted off again,
thankful to enjoy oblivion for several more hours. I overslept, so that it
wasn’t until 10.30 in the morning that I heard the crash from downstairs. At
first I thought it was a dream.
    But the sound of tinkling glass
and the thudding footsteps on the stairs were real.
    I leapt out of bed, in time to
see the door slam back and bounce against the wall, and a tall figure wearing a
Coco the Clown mask. There were others behind him, moving fast, filling the
room. Before I’d worked out what to do, two of them were holding my arms,
pulling me up against the wall, while the others were systematically beating my
body with baseball bats. As I stopped struggling, they slackened their hold,
allowing me to slide to my knees. Then they really went to town.
    I had a close-up views of heavy
boots against my face, hard steel-capped toes, smashing into my chest and arms
and legs. It went on for what seemed like hours, but was in reality probably
more like minutes.
    When they’d finished I was
cowered on the floor, my hands up to protect my face. Between my fingers I had
a surreal image of Donald Duck’s face floating down to my level.
    “Listen, mate,” he rasped. “This
is your one and only warning. You stop writing Sean Boyd’s biography or we’ll
come back and bury you. That’s not a threat, it’s a promise. It’ll be quick and
clean. And you won’t know where or when.”
    As he said it, one