What had been new information was learning that sleepwalkers had open eyes, and that they retained their motor skills, despite the myth that somnambulists often stumbled and fell. Michael read that sleepwalkers could not recognise faces, so that any people they ‘saw’ in their sleep were considered to be strangers. At this revelation he determined that he would not share a bed with Poppy until he had a handle on his condition, for fear of attacking her without realising who his victim was.

  He moved on to newspaper archives, searching for stories about somnambulists. The first few reports that he came across were light hearted tales of people carrying out mundane tasks in their sleep, getting dressed, making a cup of tea, doing the washing up. Their harmless activities had often become a source of amusement for their families, leading partners or children to take photographs or record video of the family member who had been sleepwalking, pictures and movies that they then sent to their local newspapers or to television stations for a laugh and a quick buck. Had Michael not been suffering from an extreme version of sleepwalking himself he was sure he would have found these reports humorous. A tale about an old woman who had taken her dog for a walk in the middle of the night and woken up to find herself standing in a duck pond at the local park had in fact made him laugh out loud. And the pages on sexsomnia caused him to raise an eyebrow. But digging deeper he soon found reports that turned his blood to ice.

  Stories about tragic accidents befalling sleepwalkers were worrying, tales of people falling downstairs in the middle of the night and breaking an arm, a leg, or worse a neck, but these reports were far from being the most disturbing accounts that he unearthed while trawling the internet.

  Seeming to confirm his fears, he found accounts of injuries and even deaths caused by sleepwalkers. In fact, there was a whole host of information about homicidal somnambulism, also known as sleepwalking murder.

  The earliest recorded case he came across was from 1846, the so called ‘Boston Tragedy’. Michael read how a socialite, Albert Tirrell murdered a prostitute, Maria Bickford, but was acquitted because of the defence of ‘sleepwalking’.

  Moving forward to accounts from the 20th and 21st centuries, one of the most brutal cases he reviewed was from 1987, the case of Kenneth James Parks. Parks was a married 23-year-old Canadian man with a 5-month-old daughter. He had a very close relationship to his in-laws, with his mother-in-law, Barbara Ann Woods, referring to him as "her gentle giant." The summer before the sleepwalking events, Parks had developed a gambling problem and fallen into deep financial problems - covering his losses with money from his own savings and then from his employers. In March 1987, his embezzling was discovered, and he lost his job. On May 20 of the same year, he went to his first Gamblers Anonymous meeting and made plans to tell his grandmother and in-laws about his gambling and financial difficulties. Early on the morning of May 24, Parks drove 14 miles to the house of his in-laws. He entered their house with a key they had previously given him and used a tire iron to bludgeon his mother-in-law to death. He then turned on his father-in-law, attempting to choke him to death, an attack the man managed to survive. Parks got back in his car and, covered with blood, drove straight to a nearby police station and confessed, turning himself in, stating, "I think I have just killed two people."

  Parks' defence was that he was asleep during the entire incident and was not aware of what he was doing. This defence was disputed, even by sleep specialists, however, careful investigation revealed no other explanation. Parks’ EEG readings were highly irregular, even for a parasomniac. This scientific evidence, alongside the facts that there was no motive, that he was incredibly consistent each time he gave an account of what he remembered, that the timing of the events fitted perfectly with the story, and that there is no way to falsify EEG results, led to a jury acquitting Parks of the murder of his mother-in-law and the attempted murder of his father-in-law. The Supreme Court of Canada upheld the acquittal in 1992, and the case was the inspiration for the movie ‘The Sleepwalking Killing’ with Hillary Swank.

  Michael also read about the more recent case of Brian Thomas who in 2008 had strangled his 57-year-old wife to death while on holiday in a camper van. Thomas had suffered from sleepwalking since childhood and on a recording of a call to the emergency services was heard saying ‘What have I done? I’ve been trying to wake her. I think I’ve killed my wife. Oh my God. I thought someone had broken in. I was fighting with those boys, but it was Christine. I must have been dreaming or something. What have I done?’ The Thomas’ had moved on from a campsite earlier in the day, due to the noise from a group of boys. Brian Thomas was freed in 2009 by a judge who found him not guilty of murder.

  Michael ran his hands through his hair, making it stand up in uneven spikes as he contemplated the possible harm that he could cause without being aware of it. His palms were slick with sweat, even though he felt frozen to his core. What scared him the most was that he might have already committed crimes in his sleep, unknowingly and without premeditation. He sought comfort from the fact that he would surely have been caught either at the scene of the crime or at least afterwards, trapped by evidence unwittingly left behind. Unless of course his crimes had remained undiscovered.

  Chapter 18

  Even as the credits began to roll, the young man was up and out of his seat, leaning down to his date to tell her he would dash out to beat the crowds, hail a cab and then wait for her outside the theatre. The blond woman blushed, caught off guard by the man's gallant nature. She knew she'd have been lucky if her last boyfriend had taken her on a proper date at all, let alone picked her up, paid for everything and got her a taxi to take her home. Stan had only really been interested in one thing and had inevitably gone out to a bar by himself whether he got what he wanted or not. She scowled at the memory and then stood quickly, shuffling along the aisle after her date. The woman had to push past a couple of people who were half out of their seats, eyes glued to the massive screen as the seemingly endless list of best boys, key grips and the like continued scrolling past. Getting their money's worth, the woman thought, not unkindly. It was an activity she herself usually indulged in, prolonging the escapism of a trip to the cinema for as long as possible. On this occasion her recollections of Stan had soured the atmosphere quicker than a one-eyed witch can sour milk, as her mother used to say, and now all the woman wanted was to be wrapped in the warm and protective embrace of her new - and much improved - beau.

  Hurrying on, she flung open the doors to the lobby area, almost bowling over a young usher holding a broom. 'Steady on miss, where's the fire?' Blushing for the second time in five minutes, the young woman muttered an apology and then pushed on into the busy entrance hall. 'If it’s a rush you're in, best take the side door to your left. Beat the hordes that way miss.' The woman turned to thank the usher, but he'd already gone, swallowed up by the still dark interior of the auditorium.

  A short corridor and a heavy fire door led the woman out into an alley, presumably running the length of the old brick building that housed the Empire Theatre, unless she had lost her bearings in her haste to leave her memories behind her in screen 2. 'Which should mean, I need to turn left' the blond spoke softly to herself, popping a piece of popcorn in her mouth as she considered her surroundings. The alley was dimly lit and lined with large dumpsters. Puddles, scraps of rubbish and god-knew what else covered most of the ground, presenting the woman with a treacherous and unsanitary obstacle course between her and the well-lit main road. She couldn't even see the end of the alley because of a large iron fire escape about ten metres to her right. 'This is such a bad idea' she whispered to herself, turning back to re-enter the theatre, and facing the door through which she had exited moments before.

  The woman pushed futilely against the metal, even as she visualised herself pushing the door open from inside and remembered that it was a fire exit, and therefore unlikely to be able to be opened from outside. A quick examination of the featureless surface of the door confirmed her fears. Leaving just one option.

  The woman turned back to face the alley. The narrow passageway looked as uninviting as before, dark, rubbish strewn and smelling faintly of urine, but, the woman tried to convince herself, it was just an alley, not the bullet strewn fields of a warzone. Still she paused, taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly, quietly, gathering her nerve for the short walk that lay before her. Looking left and right she was unable to see any movement in the alleyway, straining her ears all she could hear was the sound of her own breathing. She began walking to the left.

  The blond had walked a little more than five metres before a scream broke through the silence at her back. Spinning towards the sound she almost lost her footing, her heel twisting in a grate in the ground. And then she saw the source of the sound.

  A cat, blacker than the night, but glimpsed briefly in the pale-yellow light from the lamp above the doorway. Just a cat, slinking away having realised that the acoustics in the alley were not conducive to its virtuoso singing. The woman's body sagged as she let out a sigh of relief, but as she turned back to face the way she had been walking she immediately noticed that the scene had changed.

  Fog had begun to fill the narrow alleyway. Silvery, white, almost luminescent, it was creeping towards her, moving slowly but with purpose, as if in a cheap horror movie from an earlier age. As the mist rolled forwards, the woman took a step back, a move dictated more by instinct than by common sense. She turned again to face the way from which she had come, knowing what she would see. The path she had trodden upon exiting the theatre was already shrouded in mist, even though it had been clear moments before, revealing the black cat that had almost scared her to death. The woman could no longer make out the solid, reassuring shape of the doorway, although a dirty yellow hue to the fog suggested its existence. Or at least the position of the lamp above the portal.

  The woman turned a fourth time, taking two hurried steps towards the main road. Towards freedom. The fog continued to roll forwards, filling the alley and chilling the air. But it had not yet reached the woman. An area of perhaps five metres lay untouched, waiting for the tendrils of fog to find it, the woman hurried across this gap, towards the fog.

  A brief pause and then she stepped forwards into the fog, determined to rush through it to the safety of the street. The young woman was surprised at the drop in temperature within the fog, amazed at how quickly her clothes became soaked but, shivering, she hurried on. Until a new sound filled the night.

  Footsteps, heavy, unrushed, their sound undistorted despite the thick fog. There was one other feature that the woman noticed about the footsteps, they were coming closer. One thought entered the woman's mind 'He wears a trench coat'. And then she turned, running blindly through the fog, not stopping until she reached the doorway, hammering with her fists upon the cold hard metal, screaming for help even as her voice was swallowed up by the fog.

  She heard the footsteps, immediately behind her, felt his breath on her hair. And as she turned, spellbound, unable to resist him the fog solidified, wrapping around her body like a shroud. And...

  Jess dropped the book she was reading and let out a squeal of shock as she heard a sound in the hall outside her room. She had been tired when she’d gone to bed, snoozing for a few hours, but jet lag had foiled any attempt at sleeping through the night, so instead she’d been reading the trashy paperback that she had picked up in the airport in California. She sat stock still in bed for a few seconds before chastising herself. ‘Of course, there are sounds.’ She whispered. ‘Michael’s here.’ She shook her head and got out of bed, padding across the carpet to the door, intending to go to the bathroom and then maybe grab a snack.

  The sound of a door opening shocked Michael awake. It took him a second to realise that he was standing in the hallway of his flat, a step away from his spare room, where Jess was staying. He took a sideways step and slipped into the lounge, not wanting to scare his sister on her first night in a strange place. He froze just inside the doorway as Jess, seemingly half asleep and oblivious to his presence, shuffled past to the bathroom.

  Letting out a sigh of relief he brought his right arm up to check the time, three am. As he slowly calmed down, he realised that he was holding something in his left hand, guess I’m still holding my pen he thought as he looked down. ‘Oh shit.’ He breathed almost silently, taking in the sight of a 10-inch carving knife held tight within his grip.

  Chapter 19

  Michael had not slept since waking in front of the door to his spare bedroom at 3am and had left the flat soon afterwards, keen to put some distance between himself and his sister. He’d left a note for Jessica explaining that something had come up and that he’d be out all day, a lame explanation for his absence but the only one he was willing to give.

  He hoped to avoid telling Jessica about his latest somnambulistic activities. He did not want to scare her to death, but he did know that he needed to talk to somebody about what was happening – and fast. The increase in frequency – one a night for the last three nights – and escalation in intensity of the incidents was worrying, to put it mildly. The fact that he was no longer living alone, was now in danger of hurting someone else, made him even more determined to find a solution.

  He had called Elizabeth at 8.30am, planning to leave a message on her phone but surprised when she had answered on the third ring. Without preamble he had asked, or rather begged, the psychologist to meet him to discuss his case further. Perhaps it was the desperation in his voice; possibly it was professional curiosity in his case, either way she agreed to meet him at short notice.

  ‘So, is he hot? Is it a hot date you’ve got lined up huh?’

  ‘What?’ Elizabeth paused, her head in a filing cabinet drawer as she replayed James’s sudden question in her mind ‘I mean, what?’

  ‘You’re blowing off the chance of joining me for cardboard sandwiches and weak swill masquerading as coffee in the hospital canteen. Tell me it’s for a hot date and not just to do some work?’ James was waving a Post-it in the air in front of her face.

  ‘Oh,’ Elizabeth looked from the note to James’s face, checking if he was annoyed or just teasing her. She had left the note on his desk a few minutes before he came in to the room, in case she had not seen him before they were due to meet for lunch.

  ‘I mean, I struggled to read the note at first – you have such a doctor’s scrawl – and then I spent a minute or two trying to comprehend what it meant. But I think what you are doing is blowing me off, am I right?’ He was wiggling his eyebrows and grinning as he spoke, determined to make his colleague squirm a little and making it hard for her to get a word in.

  She plucked the note off his finger, suddenly uncertain as to whether her note had included any ambiguity. The small square of fluorescent yellow paper contained just eight printed words:

  SORRY GOT TO CANCEL LUNCH, WILL REARRANGE. ELIZABETH.

  ‘Would a picture have helped you Dr Booker?’ She reached past him to her desk, picked up her pad of Post-its and drew a quick sketch of a sandwich and a drink. Next, she put a cross through the picture and drew an unhappy face next to it. Finally, she pulled off the note and slapped it down on James’ desk. ‘Better?’

  He smiled, feeling relaxed as he sat on the edge of Elizabeth’s desk. He was enjoying their banter, which was starting to feel a little like flirting as he sensed he was getting closer to becoming friends with his colleague. A move that he assumed would be a prelude to a date. ‘That’s much better. You learn fast partner. Still, shame about lunch, what’s up?’

  ‘Well, you know Wednesday mornings are always manic? Trying to recruit new subjects, encourage old ones to stay in the study and actually give us some data to research, yadda yadda.’

  ‘Yes, so you are brushing our date off to do more work. Shame on you Dr Byfield!’ James was starting to look slightly annoyed.

  ‘Well, yes I am.’ She blushed, finding references to their lunch date as being a ‘date date’ very uncomfortable. While James was clearly attracted to her she absolutely did not feel the same way. In fact, the rushed phone call from Michael Manners asking for another meeting had been a relief, if a little unorthodox, offering as it did an opportunity to cancel lunch.

  ‘But it is because I am following up on a potential subject whose case appears to be really interesting, and who clearly needs help.’ She saw James’s mouth open and for the first time managed to interrupt him before he could speak. ‘And yes, he’ll definitely give us some useful data for the Portable EEG machine as well.’

  ‘Well that’s something at least.’ James grumbled as he pouted, reminding her of a petulant child. ‘And it’s ‘Peggy’. You know all inventions need a cool name?’

  Elizabeth frowned, genuinely unsure how he had managed to qualify as a doctor. ‘OK, sure Peggy…. that’s…. cool.’

  Chapter 20

  ‘Have you eaten anything today?’ Elizabeth sat opposite Michael, sipping a latte and watching with a look of concern as he drained his large take away coffee cup.

  ‘No, I don’t think I have to be completely honest.’ He smiled sheepishly, his stomach gurgling as if to confirm his answer.

  She smiled back uncertainly ‘and I know it makes me sound like your mum, but how many coffees have you had today?’

  ‘Three, maybe four cups. And believe me, you do not sound like my mum.’

  Elizabeth nodded slightly, storing away his last comment for a future line of inquiry. ‘And I’m sure you know that caffeine stimulates the brain and prevents people from getting to sleep?’