Meera pulls away from the telescope and sees me.
‘Well,’ she says. ‘You’re a fox now? Can’t bear to be indulged, petted by the sympathetic.’
I nod. My freedom may be all I have. Rather than give it up I can get by on energy drinks and kebabs and clients who genuinely need me. Too bad that the ones who really need me can’t pay and the ones who can pay are like Mrs H-W. Or Martin Elstree.
‘You’re scruffy,’ she says, looking me up and down. ‘And scrappy. And now you’re being hunted. What do you make of all this?’ She gestures to the Sweet Dreams platform.
‘I don’t want any part of it,’ I say boldly. ‘I think it’s manipulative.’
‘Really? How?’ Her eyes flash, challenging. Dream-Meera has the same wide face and strong cheekbones as the person I saw on video. She stands facing me squarely with both feet planted wide apart. Like someone who isn’t easy to budge.
‘I just don’t see the need to make dreams into something corporate. Back in the day, indie ASMRtists were providing nearly everything that Sweet Dreams does, for free. For love. Now the same thing is on offer from BigSky for a monthly subscription, and they can use AI that they don’t even have to pay to simulate caring about you.’
I didn’t know I thought that until I hear myself say it. I pace up and down the balcony, which is attached to an ivy-covered building below a lemon-yellow illuminated cycleway. The schuss and whistle of passing cyclists roll overhead like a tide. The balcony doors have been locked behind me.
‘We should really talk face to face,’ Meera says. ‘Soon you’ll be able to avoid Sweet Dreams altogether if you like. Your whole head will be a receiver.’
‘My what now?’
‘You know I’m curing your narcolepsy, right?’
I feel my breath go in sharply. ‘I was going to ask if you could try—’ I say shyly.
She waves a casual hand. ‘It’s already under way. Haven’t you noticed any changes? Think about it.’
There’s a sound of wings fluttering just over my head. Instinctively, I duck and cringe, and when I look up again, Meera is gone. But a swallow has landed on the eyepiece of the microscope. It pecks a few times, then dives off the balcony. I see it make a long, comma-shaped arc in the air, and then it disappears into darkness below.
There’s nothing for it but to look in the microscope. I’m nervous.
When I bend over the eyepiece, the microscope turns out to be a telescope after all. It gives me a view of the sideways building, some distance from the edge of the Sweet Dreams platform. I have never been able to see up there very well from ground level, partly because the glare of neon obscures the details of the building. But the microscope/telescope resolves individual tables that must be bolted to the side of the building; they never slide off. I look at one table and see the candle flame burning horizontally instead of vertically. There is a white-haired person in a wheelchair there – could almost swear it was O, but I can only see the back of their head.
My first thought is that it can’t be O. She doesn’t use Sweet Dreams. My second thought is to remember that I’m in a natural dream, no earring, so the Sweet Dreams platform isn’t even really here. My subconscious has put O up on that building, the one I’ve been trying to get into but can’t. Why?
Ever so slowly, the person turns towards me as if they know I am here. Anticipating a view of O’s grouchy face in the telescope, instead I see the Creeper’s mask with its chemical symbols.
I know that it sees me, too. I start to hyperventilate.
There’s a sound of drumming, angry, aggressive. Someone is pounding on the flat door.
‘Charlie! Charlie, wake up FFS!’
* * *
I wake to the distant honking of O saying words I can’t make out, then Shandy’s voice sounding breathless.
‘Let me in. I need her, we’ve got plans for this morning but she’s overslept.’
I hear Shandy’s footsteps coming down the hall.
‘I didn’t realise,’ O says mildly. ‘Will it take all day? I’ve booked Charlie with a client later this afternoon.’
‘It shouldn’t take too long,’ Shandy says. ‘I need her to help me with something. Family business.’
I’m struggling to sit up and wrap my hair when the door to my room bursts open and Shandy is there, holding her finger on her lips and rolling her eyes in silent command for me to go along with whatever she says.
‘Oh good, you’re almost ready!’ she cries. ‘Hurry up, don’t want to be late.’
* * *
Shandy refuses to answer my questions about what we are doing in Belsize Park, where Bernard Zborowski lives, but whatever is going on, I know it can’t be good. We get to Bernard’s road and walk past the house. Shandy has brought two shopping bags full of random groceries. She leans on a plane tree, pretending to rummage in her bags, occasionally glancing up.
‘What are you doing, Shand?’ I hiss. ‘Please can we just go before he comes home and sees us?’
‘The postie should be along any moment. Let me know when you see them.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Research.’ She doesn’t add ‘prole’ but she may as well have.
I try to look like I’m having a Spacetime chat even though I’m not, so that we’ll be less suspicious. Shandy is right, though. We’re only there for a few minutes when I see a woman with a red Royal Mail bag come swinging down the steps about ten houses up.
‘Post is approaching. Nine houses away. Now what?’ I say it out of the side of my mouth.
‘Follow my lead.’
Shandy times it so that the postie climbs the steps to Bernard’s building just as we arrive. The postie presses the buzzer. A woman’s voice answers.
‘I need a signature,’ says the postie. As the door buzzes open, we climb the steps. Shandy grabs the door with a breathless ‘thank you’ and we both pile in, past the postie. A door opens on the ground floor and an elderly woman comes out to sign for her parcel; meanwhile Shandy and me are on our way up the stairs.
‘How did you know she was going to get buzzed in?’ I whisper.
‘I sent something to the neighbour special delivery. It has to come by ten a.m., so I knew we were in.’
‘What did you send?’
I’m afraid she’s going to say vibrator or waxwork doll of Margaret Thatcher.
‘Chocolate, obvs. Now, let me do the talking.’
Shandy pounds on Bernard’s door so hard that plaster dust comes down in the stairwell.
‘I know you’re in there, Bernard! You can’t hide from me! I’m going to tell everyone in the building about your filthy little habit if you don’t open up.’
The door swings open. There he is looking exactly the way I remember him from the medical trial, except he’s only wearing boxers with a Planck Institute Surfing Team sweatshirt. He’s very tall and has the hairiest legs I’ve ever seen.
‘What filthy little habit? What do you want this time?’
This time?
‘We’re selling drugs, of course!’ Shandy. I shrink away from her. ‘Or no, wait, that would be you!’
He’s so angry, he’s spluttering. ‘Go away. Get treated.’
‘No, you get treated, you gambling addict!’
‘Whuh— I’m an engineer. I don’t need to sell drugs. I am not a gambling addict. Now please leave or I’ll call the police.’ While he’s talking, Shandy blows a purple bubble. Then she pops it.
‘Yeah, right, the police have nothing better to do than save six-foot-four neuroscientists from five-foot-one women. Are you going to let us in or not?’
‘Of course not, Darth Whackjob.’
Shandy turns to look at me and winks. ‘Tell him about the dreams, Chaz.’
At least she didn’t call me Horse.
‘Not interested!’ He tries to close the door, but Shandy’s already shoved her giant handbag in the gap and now they wrestle a little. The word ‘dreams’ seems to have set him off and some
of my faith in Shandy returns. I put my hand on Shandy’s shoulder to restrain her.
‘I know I signed a non-disclosure agreement and I know I can’t take legal action against BigSky,’ I say in my best professional voice. It works better on the phone, when no one can see how scruffy I am. ‘However, I understand you don’t work there any more and you might like to know that thanks to you, a woman is dead.’
‘Oh, bloody come in, then.’ To my shock, he suddenly swings the door wide and Shandy and I look at each other. Now we’re both wondering if we’re going to be killed and freeze-dried and used as ballast in a SpaceX rocket. But Shandy steps inside, brandishing her handbag like a potential weapon, and I end up following. I’m a good follower, I am.
It’s a nice flat. I can’t imagine ever being able to afford a flat like this. It’s got an entrance hall, a kitchen with a little table, a sitting room with lots of bookcases and a big monitor, and I count three doors along the hall. Two beds and a bath. It’s actually bigger than O’s flat, and in a fancier neighbourhood. My tail’s between my legs already. Who am I? I clean the pigeon cage, that’s who.
We sit down on his leather sofa and he sits down by the desk. The wall behind him is cycling a series of images, views of the Great Barrier Reef or something. The fish spill into the room.
‘Switzerland is landlocked,’ Shandy challenges. ‘How the hell can the Planck Institute have a surfing team?’
‘They don’t. It’s a joke.’
Shandy raises an eyebrow.
‘I’m not clear on what you two are after,’ he says, but he’s looking at me. Maybe that’s because Shandy is sparking and flashing at him, tapping her long nails on his Swedish furniture and grinding her boot heel into his organic carpet.
‘I got really sick after the study,’ I tell him.
‘Yes, I was made aware. That particular agent resulted in a number of unpleasant side effects. Once an engine starts re-arranging neural connections, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to stop it without causing damage to the host. But as you know, I’m no longer employed by BigSky and even if I was, I can’t be held accountable personally. That’s what all the small print was about.’
I’m looking around this gorgeous flat, wondering how someone like Bernard, only a few years older than I am, could have got so much farther in life while I’m still scrabbling and unsure about everything.
And that’s when I see the mask. It’s exactly like the one in the dream, except in negative. Instead of a white mask etched with white, it’s a black fencing mask. There are white symbols stitched on it. Some kind of complicated organic molecule. The only difference from Mel’s dreams is that with this mask, the eyes are covered by mesh, not plastic. It’s mounted on the wall over a pair of crossed foils, and there are big padded gloves hanging below it. I message Shandy and tell her not to look at it or remark on it. Her message comes back with a mocking tone: Afraid we’ll be kebabed?
I’m scared to hell, but also actually getting angry now. I didn’t think there was any point coming here. We’ve walked right into it. But he’s so mellow, it’s like he’d never hurt a fly.
‘And you’re working on sleepwalking these days?’ I manage to slip this in, and there’s a distinct shift in the mood. ‘Do you sleepwalk yourself?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘And do you lucid dream? I’m in dreaming, you see. I’m a therapist. So I’d be interested in learning more about your work.’
He crosses his legs and cocks his head with the first smidgen of interest he’s shown so far. ‘Well, we’re always looking for new subjects for our trials. Have you ever been in a sleep lab?’
I hate it that I can feel how clever he is. Like a smell on the air. It puts my back up. I’m poor, and narcoleptic, and unsuccessful. I feel like a dirty little animal in his posh flat with his posh ideas and his actual hardcover books – who can afford physical books? I’m so angry about the position I’m in, my own ignorance as to what was actually done to me freaks me out, and yet my anger feels like it’s a foul piece of excrescence and not allowed because rules. Or something.
Clearly, Shandy doesn’t share my sentiments, because she says: ‘Sleep lab, my arse. You should be so lucky. Chaz can enter people’s dreams and I think you already know that.’
‘How would I know that?’ Butter wouldn’t melt.
‘Because I’ve seen you,’ I blurt, and immediately regret it. ‘I’ve seen you in my client’s dream.’
What the actual fuck is wrong with me, why did I say that?
‘Yeah!’ Shandy puts in. ‘You were wearing a mask.’
I want to kick her but daren’t.
The corners of his mouth turn up. ‘If the person was wearing a mask, how do you know it was me?’
I swallow, hard. I look deliberately away from where the mask is hanging, in case he realises that I really do recognise his mask and could expose him and then decides to kill us both and feed us into a wood-chipper. I don’t know. Anything could happen.
‘She can sense it,’ Shandy says. ‘We know it’s you. Don’t mess about.’
I’m beginning to feel some small measure of respect for Roman and Donato. The two of them are elegant professionals compared to Shand and me.
‘OK, never mind that,’ I say. ‘It’s not why we came.’
‘That’s . . . good . . .’ he says carefully. ‘I’m sure you know that if you’re dreaming about me, that’s something between you and your therapist. And it’s definitely not an appropriate topic of conversation between us. You may blame me for your situation, but it’s not my responsibility.’
‘Maybe you can’t be held accountable, legally,’ Shandy says, leaning forward and fixing her glittering black eyes on his face. ‘But morally you must feel something. You trialled this therapy on my friend and she’s got long-term issues now and you feel nothing?’
‘I didn’t say I feel nothing. If I felt nothing I would have called the police and reported you for harassment – which, by the way, is well within my rights. You’ve stalked me at my home. I’m sorry that you had a bad experience, Charlotte, but please don’t demonise me. I’m not even at BigSky any more. I’m not in a position to help you.’
I say, ‘What do you know about a neural repair treatment given for dementia?’
‘This feels like an interrogation. BigSky has worked on several dementia treatments, but I’m not involved with any of them.’
‘And did any of them induce sleepwalking?’ I press.
‘Can’t say. Legally, I’m not permitted to discuss it with you.’
‘I want to know why you left BigSky and moved to a start-up,’ Shady says.
‘I was recruited.’
‘But you can’t possibly be making the same sort of money at a start-up as at BigSky,’ she challenges.
‘Money isn’t the biggest motivator. It’s the work that interests me.’
‘Or was it that BigSky sacked you when they found out about the cock-up?’
I step on her foot and interject in a rush, ‘I want you to introduce me to Meera Bhango.’ It’s the only thing I can think to say – anything to deflect from the accusations Shandy has made, accusations that are going to make him want to kill us if he is the Creeper.
His reaction surprises me. He’s taken Shandy’s allegations in stride – looked almost amused – but suddenly he won’t meet my eye and he fidgets in his ergonomic desk chair.
‘It’s not that I wouldn’t like to help you,’ he tells me, ‘but legally, I can’t. I shouldn’t even be talking to you. It’s not ethical. And you absolutely can’t have contact with Doctor Bhango. In fact, I have to warn you that any approach to Doctor Bhango by you in connection with the BigSky study will have to be reported to the police. As I’m sure you’re aware, there have been too many instances in the last several years of scientists being threatened by members of the public.’
‘You don’t mean those anti-progressive nutjobs protesting outside the Crick Institute, do you? Because we’r
e not like them.’
Bernard looks at Shandy with an expression that says we are exactly like ‘them’. He clears his throat.
‘Doctor Bhango is protected by some hefty legislation, as am I. I do regret having to say this to you, because I am basically sympathetic to your situation. But you signed up for the study, you were paid, and you were informed of the risks you were taking. If you’re hoping for a therapeutic correction to your side effects, you’ll just have to stand in the queue with everyone else who has a neurological condition. And now, Ms Aaron and Ms . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’
He stands, making ushering movements towards us.
‘It’s Doctor Lady Reverend to you, Mac,’ Shandy says, eyes flashing, and Rodney skewers the virtual Escher etching hanging above the virtual fishtank, so that Bernard visibly cringes and recoils. ‘Well, we had to try, right, Chaz? We’ll just show ourselves out, mate. Get back to your surfing practice. Oh, and if you need any design work, here’s my card—’
She makes a flicking gesture and shoots him her virtual contact details, then exits the apartment in a swirl of purple and gold AR.
‘What a tosser,’ she says in the stairwell. ‘He’s going to need sorting.’
‘What do you mean?’
She laughs. ‘I have to get back to work. What are you doing?’
‘According to my schedule I . . . ooh, looks like I have a new client. What do you mean, sorting?’
‘We’ll talk later. Let me think on it, babe.’ As she puts me on the Big Green Bus back to the flat, Shandy kisses me on the cheek, and Rodney winks at me, and then we part ways.
* * *
I’m home with a couple of hours to spare before my next client – one of the new bunch acquired since I became ‘famous’. Partly out of fear and partly because I have so much on my mind right now, I’ve been very picky about who I’ll take. This person lives in Highgate, so it’s an easy bike ride from O’s flat. Also, she offered to double my usual fee if I wouldn’t tell anyone anything about her because she’s famous herself, like for-real famous.
Sweet Dreams Page 17
