Sweet Dreams

by Tricia Sullivan

  I swivel my head around and see the two of them conferring in a recess by the lift doors. O puts something into the carer’s hand and the carer immediately transfers it to one of those big pockets that nurses have in the front of their uniforms, for holding all their medical bits and bobs. They nod to one another. I duck out of sight – I don’t even know why, but something about their body language suggests secrecy. Maybe O is slipping the staff tips to take extra care of her sister? But that doesn’t make sense. This is a private facility, top-notch, totally professional – or am I being naive again?

  My Spacetime pings. It’s Shandy.

  ‘I’m redecorating your channel and I need your opinion on these wallpapers.’

  ‘Not now, Shandy—’

  ‘Yes, now! You’ve got to start treating this like a proper business, Horse.’

  I hate it when she calls me Horse, but she’s right about the channel. She designs virtual environments for a living and is always quick to suggest updates when anything in Spacetime is starting to look tatty.

  ‘OK, but make it fast.’

  ‘First thing. We’re changing your job title. I ran a survey and I’ve already got the domain. Your new job description is Dreamhacker. I’ve registered it with the Alternative Whatsits People as well.’

  ‘Council for Holistic Medicine?’

  ‘Thingie. You’re a dreamhacker. Don’t argue, just adapt.’

  ‘I don’t know, Shandy. It sounds so aggressive and . . . and technical. I’m a therapist, not a hacker.’

  ‘No, you’re a hacker. It will discourage the porno types, too. If you don’t trust me, I can send you the marketing numbers.’

  ‘I trust you.’

  ‘Also. About our friend Bernard. Don’t you think it’s interesting that he’s working in the sleep field now? And after he blew you off when you said you had narcolepsy! I’m thinking about slashing his tyres this weekend.’

  ‘Don’t do that!’ I know she’s not kidding.

  ‘Maybe I’ll find out more first. You could have a legal case. It’s very, very interesting.’

  ‘Don’t read too much into it. I don’t sleepwalk, I have narcolepsy.’

  ‘Narcolepsy and sleepwalking are both sleep issues. And doesn’t your new client sleepwalk?’

  ‘A client sleepwalking is a different thing. Apples and oranges.’

  ‘I have to go. Back to my real job, eh? I’ll let you know if I come up with a way to get even without being caught.’

  ‘Don’t—’ She’s already gone. O is beckoning to me, so I step back into Daphne’s room.

  ‘We have to go, now, Daphne, but it’s been so lovely to see you. Take care and have a good afternoon.’

  Daphne gives a jolt and eyes me suspiciously.

  ‘I’ll see you at night,’ she says. ‘In the darkness. That’s where I’ll be.’

  I manage a weak smile and back away, nearly falling into O’s lap where she’s waiting for me in the doorway.

  ‘Come on. I’ve just had the project manager on my tail about the report I turned in. Someone claims to have spotted an error, which is absurd, because I don’t submit work with errors. I must clear this up.’

  As we head out to the hog, I want to ask about the medication that’s causing Daphne to ‘noctambulate’ but I’m not brave enough. O clearly didn’t want me to hear that, or why else would she have staged all the coughing? But to my surprise, O declares, ‘Now you know how I know so much about sleepwalking and experimental treatments. Daphne’s case has been peculiar. She has vascular dementia, but it’s not Alzheimer’s. We use a combination of medication and biofeedback involving AR as well as robotics. It’s all meant to prompt her memory and keep her brain active. I know about Bernard’s work because I’m familiar with BigSky and their research. My sister used to take a treatment they designed. I suppose you think I was wrong not to tell you what I knew.’

  ‘Bite your tongue, O,’ I say, blood rushing to my face with shame, because I actually have been wondering whether O knows more about BigSky than she lets on. ‘Your family life is none of my business. You don’t owe me anything. I’m only sorry that you have all this on your shoulders. Were you and Daphne ever . . . close?’

  ‘We were as thick as thieves,’ she says, with a tone of finality.

  TRANSCRIPT

  [Continued]

  RP: I think she’s waking up.

  DC: Hey, Sleeping Beauty! We’re in the middle of an interview here.

  RP: Have some water, Charlotte.

  CA: You guys, you guys! I get it now. You’re Mulder and you must be Scully.

  RP: I wanted to be Scully.

  DC: A person is dead. I don’t think jokes are appropriate.

  CA: I do think it’s my fault, in a way. I know I’m not supposed to say that. This isn’t a confession, OK? But I feel like I should have stopped it somehow. I was right there. I didn’t know she was sleepwalking. But I should have been on my guard, after what happened with the water.

  DC: What happened with the water?

  CA: I told you. She was asleep with her face in a bathtub full of water. In real life. In the dream, though, he was holding her down.

  RP: He? Who?

  CA: I don’t know. He had a mask on. I should have . . . I don’t know! I was going to say I should have called somebody, but who do you call?

  RP: Ghostbusters? Sorry.

  DC: Us. You call us. That’s our job.

  CA: That’s what he said. The Creeper. He said, ‘Who are you going to call, the Dream Police?’ I thought he was being snitty, but what’s the actual deal with you lot? Do you know what’s going on here? Have there been other cases? What do you know about this stuff?

  DC: Can you remember anything else about him, Charlie? This man in the dream.

  CA: Hard drugs, that’s the only way. She should have been treated by a doctor. I never imagined it could come to this. You’re right. I’m responsible. I don’t have insurance for this kind of thing.

  RP: None of us can change the past, Charlie. We can’t bring Melodie Tan back. But we can investigate and if there’s been a crime, we can pursue the criminal. That’s why we really need you to remember.

  CA: How do I know you’re not in on it?

  DC: What?

  CA: You guys came up to me in the hotel lobby. You said you were with Special Branch, but here we are in a kebab shop in Stratford. Even Mulder and Scully had offices. And they wore nicer clothes. Or are you BigSky? Shandy says they don’t have proper offices, just a bank of servers in Shoreham. Even the execs float around. Are you guys BigSky?

  RP: No, we’re not BigSky. Cutbacks, Charlie. We’ve all got to tighten our belts.

  CA: Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be unkind, Roman, but the way you’re packing away that kebab, your belt is going to need an extra notch.

  RP: That actually is unkind. I’m an emotional eater and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t fat-shame.

  CA: Sorry, mate, don’t know what made me say that. I was out of line. What are you feeling right now, then? Can I help? We could work on your dreams.

  DC: Obviously he’s feeling deep existential despair brought on by the content of this interview. Have some chips, Roman, you’re going to need them.

  Copernican Principle

  ‘But why does she call you Horse?’ O wants to know. She has got her reading glasses on the end of her nose and she’s scrutinizing my now-defamed business card that just says Dream Therapy. It is Sunday and we are in the kitchen, where I am trying to make an omelette. Edgar stands on the counter inspecting the eggshells.

  ‘I can’t even remember. We were at school together since we were eleven. I used to call her Chickie Nugget but I’ve matured.’

  O snorts. ‘Well, Chickie Nugget is right about your job title. Dreamhacker is much better. I’ll print up some new ones today. Meanwhile, what are you going to do about the noctambulatory harpist?’

  ‘She’s gone to see her doctor. I’m out of my depth, O.’

  �
��And this Antonio character . . . ?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Does he strike you as controlling?’

  Uh-oh. I know that tone. It’s her rhetorical question tone, viz.: ‘Is it rubbish collection tomorrow?’ and ‘Did you want that pie?’ by which she really means: Put the bin out, lazybones, and Your pie was delicious, respectively. Now she means Antonio is dangerous.

  I clear my throat.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve given you quite a clear picture of Antonio,’ I tell her. ‘He’s a warm, light-hearted guy. He’s sweet.’

  ‘And he brought you in to treat Melodie. Why?’

  Indignant, I say, ‘Maybe he thinks I’m good at what I do.’

  ‘Darling, I meant why didn’t Melodie address this for herself? She must be a very capable woman if she has a solo career as a classical musician. Surely she knows how to call a therapist.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘He was there when you did the session. You said you had to wake him. Is it possible that he is the Creeper?’

  I squirm. It’s not like I haven’t sort-of considered it, but . . .

  ‘What possible reason could he have for undermining Melodie’s career? You should see them together. He dotes on her.’

  ‘Mm-hmm. Darling, you’re burning the omelette.’

  The flat’s buzzer rings.

  ‘That’ll be Lorraine,’ O says. I check the camera feed. It is Lorraine, plus her grandson Stack. Yum. I buzz them in and shovel up a forkful of omelette while I wait for them to ascend five flights of stairs.

  ‘She working nights again?’

  ‘No, she’s off today. She said she’d come check on my wrist.’

  O’s mate Lorraine is a physical therapist at the Royal Free. She’s easily seventy-five but can pass for fifty and somehow looks glamourous even after a long shift at work. Stack reminds me of a young Idris Elba, all smouldering and cool at the same time. Maybe this is a set-up, I think hopefully. Take my mind off my problems. Stack isn’t interested in me – he made that clear the first time we met – but you never know. One lucky day I might be in for a pity shag or a bit of a drunken grope. A girl can hope.

  Except he’s on Spacetime. He waves casually but keeps talking to someone we can’t see. Something about a party. Sigh.

  ‘Don’t mind Stack,’ Lorraine says in her gravel voice, dumping her coat in his arms. ‘He’s helping me with some errands today. How is the wrist feeling? Did you take your arnica?’

  I repair to the sofa to eat my eggs while the two of them talk about which of their mutual friends has died lately and the side effects of medications. I fall asleep listening to them and one of my own snores wakes me with a jerk. Drool is leaking out of the side of my mouth. Stack is sitting opposite me, his sleek bare arms rippling with every little move as he delicately drinks a cup of coffee. I catch his micro-expression of disgust before he looks away. I scramble upright, wiping my face.

  ‘Sorry!’

  ‘Isn’t it nice that you have Charlie here, O.’ Lorraine beams at me. ‘You know, Charlie, O has taken in a fair few young women over the years and all of them were very nice, but you are the most real.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say faintly. ‘Sorry I fell asleep.’

  ‘You can’t help it, I know. O tells me everything.’ There’s a gleam in her eye, and I feel myself blushing though I don’t really know why. ‘I hope you aren’t using anything on the black market.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For your narcolepsy. The smart drugs. They’re easy to get, but you have to be careful. I see people all the time, they come into A and E. It’s not like the old days. Too much modafinil will make you sick, but too much Xanadu can damage your hippocampus. There’s a lot out there what hasn’t been properly tested. Not worth the risk.’

  I glance at O, thinking of her warnings of Neo-Victorian-potting-shed-scientists. But she is studying her fingernails as if they hold the secret to the origin of dark energy. (I should confess that I’ve only heard of dark energy because Shandy makes me watch Physics Goats Tour the Galaxy.)

  ‘I don’t take anything,’ I inform Lorraine. ‘As you can see, I just fall asleep in my food.’

  Lorraine looks like she’s going to say something else, but O surfaces from her private thoughts to interrupt.

  ‘Charlie, are you working on Melodie tonight? Do you want Stack to come along?’

  Stack and I look at one another in alarm.

  ‘Uh . . . no offence, but what is use Stack going to be?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got plans anyway—’

  ‘For protection,’ Lorraine says solemnly. ‘In case this Antonio gets out of hand.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Antonio is not dangerous. This person in the dream can’t be really real.’

  ‘Why not?’ Stack says.

  ‘What?’ I am giving him my frightened-wildebeest face. I can feel it. Damn.

  ‘Why can’t it be a real person? If you can hack people’s dreams then presumably a lot of other people can, too.’

  ‘What?’ My vocabulary seems to have got stuck on that one word.

  Stack says, ‘Copernican principle. Humans don’t occupy a special place in the Universe. Applies to everything, but Western postmodern narcissism blinds us to reality. If you can dreamhack, ten to one there’s some nasty people who can do it, too.’

  Copernican narcissism WTF is he even talking about?

  ‘I am actually aware of that,’ I say as haughtily as I can, which, after saying ‘what’ two times running, is unconvincing. ‘It doesn’t change the fact that it’s only a dream. Nobody is in any physical danger.’

  Stack shrugs and returns his attention to his Spacetime.

  ‘I hope it’s not a cat hacking your dreams, bruv,’ he mutters.

  I try to ignore him, but I have very good hearing.

  ‘Because cats are vicious predators and they already control the Internet.’

  The Dark Side

  Wet London. Monday crowds. People walk too slowly, and sometimes I want to drop down and crawl between their legs; I swear it would be quicker. The Tube strike means the buses are packed and I hate crowded buses. Having all those people around me is so exhausting, especially since I got this dream thing. It’s like the separation between me and other people is even thinner than it was before, and I can almost hear their thoughts. I pick up feelings all the time. So, even though I’m already late, I take my bike off the rack and cycle wobblingly out into traffic, narrowly avoiding an AR horse-and-carriage driven by a Loan Shark.

  Last night I finally caught up with the anxious hairdresser; that dream went well. No Creeper in evidence. Then, just when my confidence was returning, this afternoon a botmessage from Melodie. Her performance on Saturday was ‘off’ according to the conductor. The livestreamed concert is tomorrow and she’s desperate. So here I am with my new business cards and a Spacetime full of informative links that O sent me during the night for my perusal.

  As I’m trying to get control of my bike, the Loan Shark turns in the carriage seat and yells back to me: ‘Don’t forget, you can use Dougal’s Head all month absolutely FREE! Brought to you by BigSky, the pop-up tech company. Think of us like a five-hectare hallucinogenic shroom.’

  Dougal’s Head is one of BigSky’s paid apps that puts AR in full colour and reality in greyscale so you don’t confuse the two. The ad is crude but perfectly timed; I call up the app. The last time I went for a night out in town with Shandy, we were too cheap to use blockers and Shandy got in a fistfight with what she thought were AR-bots but turned out to be US Navy SEALs on leave. Then we had to wait on trolleys in a corridor of the Royal Free for eleven hours with the injured SEALs, one of whom thought Shandy’s black eye was sexy and kept hitting on her even though she’d kneecapped his mate.

  I’m sure it wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t both been drunk and Shandy also high, but even stone sober it’s always hard to be sure whether you’re looking at a real person or an AR intrusion. Especially if
you’re a touch near-sighted like me and especially if it’s raining (which it usually is). I activate Dougal’s Head knowing that it will probably trigger my narcolepsy, but since it’s free for thirty days, I may as well. I haven’t used this app in a long time, but now that it’s on again it reminds me of Dream City, where other dreamers show up in greyscale. Now, making my way across London to Mel’s hotel, I realise that by that logic, all of us fleshmuppets are dreaming and the AR is awake. Lovely dark thought.

  The main difference between reals and ARs is that real people don’t usually get up in your face the way the intrusions do. Shandy told me that most AR bots are coded in the US and have to be redesigned for the UK market to make them less rude and loud, but only high-end advertisers can afford to do that. Which means that crossing Central London at rush hour you’re seeing a riot of colourful clothes, hearing mostly American accents, and getting distracted by AR literally singing and dancing for your attention as you try to move unobtrusively through the stream of grey commuters. For someone like me – who passes out when overstimulated – avoiding this kind of thing is a matter of basic street defence. It’s one reason I bike, the other being poverty. As it turns out, cyclists are divided into the haves (who cycle for fitness and conscience) and the have-nots (who cycle for lack of bus fare). That means I only ever have to fend off the lovely AR designed for rich people, because nobody bothers trying to sell to the destitute.

  I’m actually glad for the chance to cycle off some of my nervous energy. It will help me deal with Melodie better. Even her botmessage was overwrought.

  ‘I’m scared to go to sleep. They put me in a new suite because of the bathroom door. But I can’t settle down.’

  I don’t have any bots (can’t afford) but I messaged back, ‘Have sex. Drink chamomile tea. Watch a silly movie.’

  Have sex? What is with me? Why do I not think it’s a little inappropriate for me to be commenting on her sex life with Antonio when she may not even know that me and Antonio used to be a – well, I’m not sure what we were, really. Not an item. A thing? A thingie? Anyway, sometimes I think I’m missing the region of the brain that is supposed to give you discretion.