But all my problems seemed trivial in the light of the most important task facing me: keeping Birgitta alive, safe, warm, well fed and away from prying eyes. Perhaps if I got her to Springrise and took her to the press, all would be well. Then Morphenox and the nightwalker phenomenon could be scrutinised, questions could be asked, Birgitta studied. But that bred a bigger problem. Food. Ninety-one days of food. If I let Birgitta get hungry, she’d revert to cannibalism, and I’d be first on the menu. I tried to think of a credible scheme whereby I could access the well-guarded pantry and snaffle some food, but before long my trail of optimistic thought dried up. Her discovery was not a question of if, but when. And when she was discovered, that was me done for good. Prison, out of a job and worse, far worse, the lasting disapproval of Sister Zygotia. I’d end my days as a community Footman, wandering the Winter on a capped ten euros per hour, waiting for my luck to finally turn sour.
I needed escape, and when I found it two hours later, it was trebly welcome. It relieved my fatigue, removed me from my troubles, and returned me to Birgitta. Not to the living nightwalker Birgitta locked in her room, whom I would protect with my life and reputation, but the dream Birgitta lodged within my subconscious.
On the Gower.
Again.
Dream again
‘ . . . Study of glaciers revealed year on year advancement, but few politicians ever wanted to get behind the notion of climate change, and policy lagged accordingly. The inconvenient truth was that at current estimates and without a coherent strategy, everything North of the 42nd parallel would be ice sheet in two hundred years...’
– Surviving Snowball Earth, by Jeremy Wainscott
It felt as though a bar or block had lifted in my mind and that my dream cogs, long gummed with disuse, had finally found a way to move. I dreamed of the white-softened town, the snow pure and unsullied after a recent fall. I saw Jonesy dressed as the front half of a pantomime horse and surrounded by her collection of thumbs, all sixty-three of them, then Mother Fallopia glaring at me severely, standing over a sleeping Birgitta, amongst dozens of paintings of Charlie Webster also looking at me severely.
And then I was outside and could see Aurora moving amongst the drifts entirely naked, her body hair a light mousy colour, no more than an inch long except where it thinned to the naked strip of skin that ran along her spine in the shape of a poplar leaf, the linea decalvare so beloved of classical painters. She turned and was suddenly Toccata, sitting at a table with me on a large platter, basted in honey glaze and with an apple in my mouth.
But while these were all a little odd, they were just plain, standard dreams. I knew they were dreams and they were dismissed as such. I had been waiting, as though labouring through endless trailers and adverts at the cinema, knowing that finally, with a burst of sound and light, the main attraction would begin and I could settle down, and relax, and enjoy.
And it did – with a joyous blur of colour and light, away from the lower subconscious and into the exaggerated reality of the higher Dreamstate.
We were back in the Gower, the Argentinian Queen on the beach by the shoreline, the blue paintwork showing through the rust, cable stays loose and swinging in the breeze. Everything was precisely as it had been before, like watching a movie for the second or third time – predictably familiar and unwavering in the precision of its repetition. The sand, the sun, the large orange-and-red parasol of spectacular size and splendour, Birgitta in her one-piece swimsuit the colour of freshly unfurled leaves. She looked at me, pushed her hair behind her ear, smiled, and everything at that moment was perfect once more. All was Summertopia, and nothing could shake the sense of overwhelming bliss. The child ran past with the beach ball and the peal of laughter, and that was her cue. The same words, the identical inflection.
‘I love you, Charlie.’
‘I love you, Birgitta.’
And despite the disjointed Dreamstate I found myself in and the impossibility of the situation out in the real world, I did. Not for what I could see in front of me on this lazy weekend a decade in the past, but here and now, secure in the knowledge that I was loving her in a protective way, deep within the dreary midwinter of Sector Twelve and the shabbiness of the Sarah Siddons. Hiding her, looking after her needs, attempting to find a way forward into something that might resemble survival and justice.
I looked at my hands again and touched my symmetrical head, the rasp of stubble against my fingertips. I felt my nose: straight, aquiline, distinguished.
‘I like being Charles,’ I said.
‘You’re Charles now, my Charles,’ said Birgitta with a delightful giggle. ‘Try not to think about the facility and HiberTech Security. Just today and tomorrow, forty-eight hours. You and me. What Dreams May Come.’
It was the same line. Repeated word for word.
‘What Dreams May Come,’ I replied, then, by way of experiment, added: ‘While Krugers with Lugers take potshots at hotshots.’
Birgitta frowned.
‘What?’
‘ . . . is enough to make mammoths with a gram’s worth of hammocks feel down with a clown from Manchester Town.’
I then did a cartwheel in the soft sand. I hadn’t done one for a while and saw stars for a moment, but when I looked at Birgitta again she had an expression of such abject confusion that I felt quite concerned.
‘You’re Charles now, my Charles?’ she said in an uncertain tone.
‘I am for the moment.’
‘You and me? What . . . Dreams May Come.’
I’d changed the dream. Not just lines, but actions. And I’d changed Birgitta’s responses, too.
‘What Dreams May Come,’ I said.
‘Happy snap?’ said the photographer. ‘Proper tidy you’ll look and as—’
‘—reasonably priced as they come?’ I said. ‘Was that what you were going to say?’
‘Well, yes,’ said the photographer, looking at Birgitta, who shrugged. I knew that I was now leading the dream, and not just being a passenger within it.
‘We’ve not much time,’ I said, feeling the shadow of the blue Buick dream fast approaching our beach idyll. ‘I want to see more of you and me, away from the beach. When and where did we meet for the last time?’
The smile dropped from her face.
‘You don’t need me to tell you, Charlie, you already know.’
It was true, I did. It was in the Cambrensis, a week prior to Slumberdown, three years before. But just then, the little girl approached with the beach ball and the gurgle of laughter but she didn’t pass by this time; she stopped and stared at me.
‘Be careful, Charlie,’ she said. ‘If you look into someone else’s dreams, all you ever find are nightmares.’
And she ran off with her beach ball.
I readied myself, then jumped to another dream, a dream-within-the-dream. I didn’t know I was able to do this, but I could. Like finding you can play the piano when you’re eighteen but somehow you always knew – astonishing and expected, all at the same time.
I was outside a dark, cheerless Dormitorium, dismal and forbidding in age-darkened stone. The dream, like the dream I’d just left, was hyper-realistic, distinguishable from reality only because I knew it wasn’t. I’d seen this building before, out in the real world. It was the Geraldus Cambrensis.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glazed panel of the door and saw Charlie Webster staring back at me. He looked harder, more weary, older, stressed. I pushed open the door, wondering where my subconscious was taking me.
The style of the interior was from the thirteenth century, when only the clergy and aristocracy used Dormitoria and slumber was inextricably linked with death, renewal and religion. A curved staircase led up behind the lobby towards the central void, but modern sofas were positioned either side of the central desk, where the porter was doing some paperwork. Zsazsa was reading a copy o
f the Ludlow Vogue while sitting on one of the sofas, while on the other I could see Agent Hooke partially hidden behind a newspaper. There was a third figure in a phone booth to one side, which looked as though it was either Aurora or Toccata, but impossible to say which.
‘Good evening,’ said the porter.
‘Good evening,’ I replied. ‘Any messages?’
The Consul Charlie part of me didn’t know him, but the Birgitta’s Charlie part of me did.
‘Just one,’ he replied, and handed me a note from my pigeonhole.
There will always be the Gower
It wasn’t the porter’s writing. It was Birgitta’s, and meant only one thing: they were on to me, and I should get to the safe house without delay, stay quiet, await instructions.
I thanked the porter, turned, but instead of making my escape as Birgitta had suggested, I trotted up the stairs to the first floor. I heard the rustle of a newspaper being folded and footsteps on the stone floor below, but I did not quicken my pace. If I could hear Agent Hooke, he would be able to hear me.
The building was demonstrably ancient, gloomy and in a poor state of repair. Buckets had been scattered around to catch the leaks in the vaulted corridor, and large blooms of mould had erupted across the damp plaster. I moved on around the curved corridor, entered room 106 and cautiously locked the door behind me.
The room was not large, had an arched ceiling rendered in plaster and was panelled in pine linenfold, some of which had been repaired poorly, and in haste. There was a single sash window which opened on to a fire escape and, upon the wall, a clock set inside a multi-spiked star with its hands frozen at 10.55. There were no books, no personal ornaments, no pictures, no photographs. Webster seemed to me either a man without a past, or a man eager not to have one.
Without thinking, I reached into the leather satchel slung from my shoulder, and removed a round cardboard tube of the sort used to carry music or Dictaphone cylinders. It was the recording cylinder that I’d been told to get to Kiki. But I didn’t know who Kiki was, nor how to get it there, nor where I’d got it. I was part Charles Webster, not all of him; I was only witnessing a small window into his life. I crossed to the fireplace and pushed the cylinder onto a handy ledge high up inside the chimney. This done, I took a match to the note the porter had given me and watched it burn to ash.
I was just beginning to wonder when Birgitta would turn up when – predictably enough, given this was my dream – there was a tap on the window, and I saw her wave at me from the fire escape outside. But she wasn’t the Birgitta from the beach, it was a serious Birgitta, a late-season Birgitta, a bulked-up-make-baby-in-the-Spring Birgitta, a worried Birgitta – and not, I think, for herself.
‘For God’s sake, Charlie,’ she said when I opened the window and helped her climb in, ‘didn’t the porter show you my note?’
But at least she was there, even if pissed off. Her dark hair was loosely bunched up in a ponytail, and beneath her parka she was dressed in paint-spattered dungarees.
‘I did get your note,’ I said, going along with the narrative, enjoying the frisson of danger. I’d seen the Cambrensis in the distance, knew where Webster had lived; I’d seen his address on file. I was filling in the gaps. This was a dream to be savoured, an experience to enjoy. The adventure was wholly in my head, and I was going to enjoy every moment.
‘Then why didn’t you go to the safe house?’ she continued, her anger rooted more in concern than annoyance. ‘Kiki would have arranged your evacuation.’
The dream was becoming more like a spy thriller by the second: Birgitta and I were not in the Douzey as economic migrants. We were engaged in infiltration work for the Campaign for Real Sleep. I was in deep cover at HiberTech, working my way up the unskilled labour chain to gain access to sensitive information.
‘I’m just an orderly. I’ll act dumb. They’ve got nothing.’
‘Not this time. She was there, in the phone booth, when I walked in. She knows.’
I didn’t know what I was meant to say right then, but it was okay; Birgitta spoke for me. And when she did, it was pretty much as expected.
‘Kiki needs the cylinder.’
Of course. She would say that. I was still filling in the blanks with whatever was to hand. I’d said it before: a dream is just the subconscious mind attempting to form a narrative from a jumble of thoughts, facts and memories.
‘It’s safe,’ I said, meaning the tube I’d just hidden up the chimney, ‘and I’ll come back for it, I promise – and get it to Kiki.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m not leaving Sector Twelve until you do.’
There was a thump on the door. It was expected, but we jumped, even so.
‘Webster?’ came a voice that could have belonged to either Toccata or Aurora.
‘Who’s there?’ I asked in an innocent, sing-song sort of way.
‘Who do you think?’ came the voice again. ‘The Gronk? Open the sodding door.’
Birgitta and I looked at one another.
‘They’ll search the place,’ I whispered, ‘there must be nothing linking you and me. Here.’
I reached up and plucked a faded photo from where it was hidden beneath the star-shaped clock. It was the Polaroid of us both, a wafer of time from that perfect and now distant moment back on the Rhosilli. I handed it to Birgitta.
‘You kept it?’ she said. ‘Seriously bad move. I’ll destroy it.’
She shoved the Polaroid in her pocket and we stared at one another for a few moments. If the beach had been the high point, this was the low. It would be the last time we/they’d see one another, and I think we/they both knew it. Our final words came easily enough.
‘I love you, Charlie.’
‘I love you, Birgitta.’
We said the words tonelessly, without feeling, just as the nightwalker Birgitta had been saying them to me out in the real world. She hadn’t been saying them in a dull monotone, she was repeating them exactly as she’d last said them. Unhurried, an expression of fact, not an anthem of passion.
And then she was gone, back out of the window and away down the fire escape. The door wobbled as someone outside loosed off a Thumper, and the lock flew off with a loud report and embedded itself in the far wall. A second thump reduced the door to a cloud of wood splinters and—
* * *
* * *
— I was under the oak tree, sitting on the jumbled heap of scratched boulders, the air heavy with the scent of Summer, the sky an azure blue, the light filtering through the spreading boughs to scatter a dappled light upon the ground.
Like before, there was no transition, no warning, nothing. One moment I was in the Cambrensis about to get busted, the next I was under the oak. I sat up and looked around. I wasn’t Webster any more, I was Don Hector. My skin hung slackly from my jowls, my limbs ached and my vision felt dim and constricted. The fuzziness was still there on my left-hand side, and deep inside my chest I could feel a rattle that I knew was not a passing infection, but a funeral march.
I climbed unsteadily to my feet and looked around. The blue Buick was there, the Morpheleum was there on the horizon, the picnic was all laid out – and Mrs Nesbit was there, the wavy bluish aura crackling around her.
‘We know of a remote farm in Lincolnshire where Mrs Buckley lives. Every July—’
She didn’t get to finish. Her voice was abruptly cut out by the other voice, the hectoring Mrs Nesbit that didn’t match the mouth of the shimmering vision. This time, I recognised it. The Notable Goodnight.
‘Worthing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you there, under the oak, in the sun, the blue Buick and the picnic close by?’
‘Yes,’ I said, staring at where I could see a hand hiding behind a flower a few paces away.
‘Where did you go just now? You were dreaming of something. Was
it relevant to our search for the cylinder?’
‘No,’ I replied quickly, ‘just some stuff from the Pool – a memorable game of indoor cricket when Billy DeFroid knocked the hand off the statue of St Morpheus, then mended it with chewing gum while sitting on the shoulders of Ed Dweezle.’
‘That’s very interesting,’ said Mrs Nesbit.
‘Is it?’
‘No. It’s probably the least interesting thing I’ve heard. There’s only one dream I want to hear about, and that’s the one that contains the cylinder. We need to know where it is. We need it back.’
I knew now what the cylinder was, at least physically: a recording cylinder, probably made of wax and with an audio soundtrack, and hidden up the chimney back at the Cambrensis.
‘The one that Kiki is after?’ I asked.
There was a pause.
‘That’s right, Worthing. The one that Kiki is after.’
‘What’s on the cylinder?’ I asked.
‘Nothing that concerns you. Just try and remember who Don Hector gave it to, or where it is now. It’s important. Try and get to the Morpheleum. You may have better luck than the others.’
‘Others?’
‘I meant . . . the other time you tried.’
But I wasn’t really listening. I knew Webster had been given the cylinder but I wanted to know where he got it. Close the circle, if you like. What was more, I knew that I had to get to the temple of Morpheus, the one I could see on the horizon. I climbed down from the boulders as fast as my limited mobility would allow, then limped off across the open ground towards the Buick, feeling in my pocket for the rabbit’s-foot key ring. I kicked away a hand that had grabbed my trouser leg, then yanked open the car door and climbed in. There was little short-term gain; within a second the hands were swarming across the bonnet in an aggrieved manner, their skin squeaking on the glass as they tried to squeeze in through the slot at the top of the driver’s jammed window. Their numbers were soon so great that they appeared less like hands and more like finger-sized maggots writhing in a tin.
Early Riser Page 28
