Remember. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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      The scream shattered her nightmare.

      It echoed around the bedroom and seemed to pierce her brain, almost as if she herself were screaming. Nicky sat up with a jerk, instantly wide awake, her face and arms bathed in sweat. She tilted her head and listened, blinking as she adjusted her eyes to the dimness of the room.

      There was no sound except for the faint ticking of the clock on the bedside table, the rustle of the leaves on the tree outside the window as they brushed against the panes of glass.

      Had she herself screamed out loud during her frightening dream? Or had it been someone else? Someone outside? She was not sure, and just to make certain she climbed out of bed and went to the window. She looked out. The sky was dark, cloudless. A full moon was slung high above the old stables, and it cast a silvery sheen over everything in the yard, throwing into focus the cypress tree, the old wheelbarrow planted with flowers, the garden seat, the flight of steps leading down into the orchard. But there was no one out there, so it was not possible that anyone had screamed. Except for her, of course.

      A small shiver passed through Nicky even though it was an exceptionally warm night. Turning away from the window, she went back to bed, troubled by the nightmare that had so frightened her it had brought that scream to her lips. And woken her up. Slithering down, she pulled the sheet around her bare shoulders, and tried to go back to sleep.

      But she had little success, and when she was still wide awake after half an hour she slid out of bed, slipped into her cotton robe and went down to the library. After turning on a lamp and the television set, she curled up on one of the sofas, deciding that since she could not sleep she might as well watch CNN.

      Once the round-up of international news was finished, and the programming changed to a local American story about farmers in the midwest, her mind began to wander. Not unnaturally, she discovered she was focusing on the nightmare she had just had. It had been awful, and try as she did to shake it off, it remained so vivid it was still dominating her mind. The nightmare had been about Clee, and she could remember every detail of it clearly.

      She was in a vast, empty desert. It was warm, pleasant, and even though she was alone she was not afraid. She felt content. She was walking up a sand dune, and when she was on top of it and looked down she saw an oasis below. Feeling thirsty, she ran down the slope of the dune and began to drink the water, scooping it up in her hands, until she saw that it was streaked with blood. She pulled back, filled with horror, and as she crouched on her heels she noticed a crumpled magazine splattered with mud and blood. It was Life. She picked it up, leafed through it, and came across a picture of Clee. The caption said he was dead, killed in action while he was on assignment for the magazine. But it did not say where he had died, or when. And there was no date on the magazine. She was frightened, and turned icy even though it was so hot under the desert sun. She got up and began to run, looking for Clee. She had this feeling that he was somewhere nearby. And alive.

      She walked for hours and eventually she was no longer in the desert. She was wearing thick winter clothes and it was dawn on a frosty day. All around her were dead men and the bloody signs of war and destruction. Clee walked towards her through the mist and took hold of her hand. He helped her to climb over the dead bodies. Suddenly they saw a jeep in the distance. Clee said, ‘Look, Nick! We can get a lift back with the retreat!’ He leapt forward, running. She ran, too, but stumbled. When she stood up he was not there. For a split second she was afraid, and then she went searching for him amongst the dead soldiers. But she could not find him. There were miles and miles of dead bodies, and everything was so silent she wondered if it was the end of the world. She saw two bodies lying close to each other side by side. She hurried to them, turned their cold, dead faces to see if either one was Clee. She drew back in shock. One of the bodies was Yoyo. The other was Charles Devereaux. She turned and ran away, stumbling and falling against the dead soldiers in her haste to escape the carnage. At one moment she looked down at her hands and clothes. They were covered in warm, sticky blood from the dead. A wave of horror and nausea swept over her, and just as she began to despair at not finding Clee she reached the end of the battlefield. Now she was walking along a white, sandy beach, and parked under a palm tree was the jeep she had seen earlier with Clee. It was abandoned. She looked towards the dark-blue sea. Not far out she saw a body floating. It was Clee. He beckoned to her. He was alive! She rushed into the water. It was icy but curiously thick like oil, so that swimming was tedious. And then she realized that the sea was not blue but red. It was made of blood.

      Clee smiled and held out his hand to her. She reached for it. Their fingers were inches apart. She struggled to grasp his hand. And then his body sank into the sea.

      At this moment the dream had ended and she had awakened because someone had screamed. It had been her, she knew that. Nicky shuddered. Goose flesh sprang up on her face and arms, and she pulled the robe around her, feeling suddenly so cold. Rising, she went over to the small bar next to the bookcase and looked at the bottles, reached for the Marc de Bourgogne. The label rang a bell. Of course, it was one of the brandies Charles had imported from France. With a small grimace she put the bottle down on the silver tray, then immediately picked it up again, poured herself a small glass and, taking a sip of it, she slowly walked back to the sofa.

      Nicky did not know a lot about dreams, but she was well enough informed to realize that her recent nightmare was simply a manifestation of things jostling around in her subconscious. Once, several years ago, her mother had told her that one dreamed one’s terrors, and that whatever truly frightened a person came to the fore in sleep, when the subconscious rises. And so it did not take her long to analyse her dream. She knew very well what it meant: firstly she was afraid that Yoyo was dead. Secondly, she was worried that Clee, a war photographer and in constant danger, might one day be killed.

      It’s all very understandable, she told herself, taking another little sip of СКАЧАТЬ