Sweet Dreams

by Tricia Sullivan

  He smiles grimly. ‘The body isn’t here, obviously. Forensics have been and gone. You’ve been asleep for fifteen hours.’

  My stomach makes some incredible curdling noise as though it’s only just been informed of the passage of time and needs to run updates.

  ‘Have I been here all this time?’

  ‘You were in Donato’s car for a while.’

  ‘But why would you bring me here? You can’t really think I did anything to Bernard. I told you, he’s the Creeper. He’s got to be. Maybe somebody did us all a favour.’

  ‘Maybe they did,’ Roman says, a little too cannily.

  I wonder what he knows that I don’t, or whether he’s the bad cop after all and has just been messing me about. My head is starting to throb.

  ‘I’m going to make you some toast. Then I’ll need the recording of the dream. And any other dreams that might be connected with Bernard. Even if we can’t run the material, we may be able to identify his neural signature.’

  The security system pings. There’s someone outside the flat. A smooth, bass voice comes through the intercom. ‘I’m here to represent my client, Charlotte Aaron. Please let me in. I’m a solicitor and she has a right to representation’

  That voice is familiar, rich, silky like melted chocolate . . . Where have I heard it before . . . ?

  Shandy elbows me. ‘Who’s that?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t have a solicitor,’ I whisper. I go to the camera feed. It’s an awkward angle, but I recognise him immediately all the same. ‘Oh, no! That’s bloody Martin Elstree. Please, make him go away!’

  Shandy folds her arms and glares at Roman. ‘Let him in. You heard the man, he’s Charlie’s lawyer.’

  I’m pulling at her sleeve like a toddler at playgroup. Hissing in her ear: ‘But I hate him, he’s horrible, and he’s only a patent—’

  ‘Let him in, Roman.’

  Roman looks out of his depth. He buzzes Martin Elstree in, and the next thing I know we are all having coffee over the dead man’s coffee table, a heavy slab of glass in which are floating a collection of vintage Zelda game covers. Elstree shakes my hand and smiles as though we’ve never met. I must be making my frog face. I just know I am. He doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘We need to put him in the Cone of Silence,’ Shandy says, and then has to explain the app all over again to Elstree.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he says. ‘I have a professional tool for confidentiality. I’ll enshroud all of us here. It will block mics in the room, cameras, everything, as well as any watchware that you may be carrying without knowing it.’ He glances at me and I look away. I can’t stand him, and then for some stupid reason I feel guilty that I can’t stand him and maybe I should give him another chance just to be polite, and this is one of the many reasons I am an idiot. But it’s who I am, OK?

  Shandy says, ‘Yay for your professional tools. But Charlie only talks if there’s Cone of Silence, so either take what I’m squirting you or go home, kthxbai.’

  Elstree cracks a big, handsome grin. He wags a finger at her. ‘I like you,’ he says. ‘Fine, squirt away.’

  He likes her. I shudder.

  Two takeaways plus tea

  I’d like to wipe from memory the hour spent deflecting Martin Elstree’s questions whilst simultaneously fending off unsubtle attempts by Roman to get hold of all my Secret Diaries ‘for my own good’. I don’t think Elstree found out too much, but I’m left with an oily feeling on my skin and a sense of crawling unease that goes much deeper. I find myself keeping Cone of Silence on just so I won’t have to deal with anyone.

  By the time I get home, it’s nearly midnight. The flat is silent and O’s light is switched off, so I make tea and creep into my room. Edgar joins me; usually he sleeps on O’s bed but if he’s too playful she locks him out. He dashes around my floor chasing a rubber band.

  I have to talk to O about Daphne and this ‘Agency’ and their pigeon messages. I’m haunted by the dream of the vengeful dead people – especially Daphne. I can’t believe the way she blithely walked him in front of a train. It was nothing less than an execution.

  I shudder thinking about all the other ‘suicides’ that Roman told me about. Did Daphne kill them, too? Why? And what about Mel?

  My brain is spinning. O doesn’t sleep well; she’s usually up by four. I decide to use the time until then to get my facts together. I open a notepad.

  If Bernard killed Mel and now he’s dead then we’re done.

  What if he didn’t? The fencing mask doesn’t prove anything. Why did Daphne really kill him? Who gave her Bernard as a target?

  Why would anyone want to kill Mel in the first place?

  Roman says study participants have been getting killed by sleepwalking. But Mel wasn’t in a study. Is someone trying to turn the general population into sleepwalkers? That points to BigSky because Sweet Dreams is their platform. But why Mel?

  Suspects

  Bernard – Had access to brain tech and BigSky. Had fencing mask. Motive?

  Meera Bhango – Unknown. Can O help?

  Daphne – Killed Bernard on orders of Agency. But Agency is a game with O – right??? Who else knows about it? Must tell O what happened.

  Dream Police – Seem nice but what if they are working for BigSky or for one of BigSky’s criminal arms? They are so keen to get my recordings. But who are they?

  Antonio – Had access to Mel but not Bernard. Could be lying about money, maybe someone paid him. Why did he hire me?

  The Creeper told me to butt out of Mel’s dreams. Again and again. Why didn’t he want me there? What doesn’t he want me to see or do?

  About here, I get stuck. Well, I can try to find out more about Antonio. I deactivate Cone of Silence and fire up Spacetime. A little flood of messages comes in, but I don’t look at them right away; I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve. Instead, I Spacetime Antonio. I’ve little hope of actually speaking to him – O suggested he was forced to leave the country and I now feel sure she knows stuff I don’t about all this. So when he picks up I get flustered.

  ‘Charlie! So good to see you! I’m taking off for Australia tomorrow. I’ve been invited to teach at a retreat in the desert. How are you doing? Those kebab guys aren’t giving you trouble, are they?’

  ‘I’m good, it’s all fine,’ I lie, smiling. ‘Hey, Antonio, something’s been bugging me and I was just curious.’

  ‘Sure! Of course! Anything you want to know.’

  ‘When you contacted O to hire me, you called my business line.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I wanted to approach you as a professional.’

  ‘But how did you know about the business? I wasn’t advertising. We hadn’t spoken. Who told you I was a dreamhacker?’

  ‘Ah! Well, I guess somebody must have, but I can’t remember who. All I can tell you is that the night before I called you, I had a vivid dream about your business card – you know, the one that says “Dreamhacker”? – and how I was going to call you. So when I woke, I looked you up and there you were. Dream therapist, same thing, right?’

  ‘It actually said Dreamhacker on the card in your dream?’

  ‘Yeah, definitely. Why?’

  ‘It’s just that I didn’t start calling myself that until after Shandy ran the marketing numbers for me, which was after you called. I gave Mel a card when I met her. Maybe that’s what you remember.’

  Or maybe you’re lying, Antonio.

  ‘That’s really strange. But I definitely dreamed it. I am always one to listen to the intuition, you know, Charlie? That’s why I reached out to you.’

  Then he tells me he’ll send me a postcard from Australia. I end the conversation as quickly as I can. He’s either very clueless or a great actor, and if he were the latter I’m sure with his looks he would have a lot more money, so I’m going with clueless. Which means that someone tampered with his dream. I was brought in to work with Mel by someone other than Antonio, someone who already thought of me as a dreamhacker. Who?
r />   I send Shandy a quick message to ask her how exactly she got those marketing numbers and where the name ‘dreamhacker’ came from. By now the pile of messages is jostling for my attention. Lots from clients, nothing from O, but one from Meera and three in quick succession from Muz, of all people.

  Meera’s says simply: Come to my lab asap. We need to talk in person.

  She’s as bad as O. She hasn’t mentioned anything about Bernard’s death, but she must know by now. Everyone must know. Well, her message was left several hours ago and there’s no way she’s going to be in her lab in the middle of the night.

  I pick up Muz’s messages.

  6.10 p.m. At Princess Grace Hospital. Got dizzy, had a fall. Come over when you get this.

  I’m confused. Why is he telling me he’s in hospital? Is he trying to reach O? I wonder if she’s switched off her connections again . . .

  I get out of bed and open my door. I’ll have to wake her up. Then:

  8.32 p.m. No head injury, probably low blood pressure. OK but bruised and weak. Keeping her in for observation. Can you bring toothbrush, nightclothes, etc.?

  He’s talking about O! I knock on her door, then push it open. The bed is made. No sign of O or her wheelchair.

  8.34 p.m. Never mind, Jez is on it. Call me when you get this.

  I Spacetime him but he’s offline, so I leave an apologetic message and then Spacetime Jez, who is wide awake.

  ‘Oh, hi, yeah, she’s OK. Well, not OK but not at death’s door. Apparently she’s anaemic and has low blood pressure, and when she tried to get up she fainted. She’s a little bruised but not complaining.’

  This is bad. This is very bad.

  ‘Are you sure she fainted? She wasn’t . . . erm . . .’ I’m trying to think of a way to ask whether O could have been sleepwalking without bringing Jez in on all the developments. ‘Did anyone else see it happen, or is this just her memory of what happened?’

  ‘No, Lorraine was there. She said O was having a kip in her recliner and for some reason took it in her head to try to stand and walk across the room, which of course was a bad idea. Lorraine couldn’t catch her in time, apparently.’

  ‘Oh no.’ It’s everything I’ve been afraid of. And now, looking back on the wrist injury O just had, I wonder if I got the full story on that or not. It feels too coincidental.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jez sings. ‘She’s not cross with you. She gets it that you can’t be around her all the time. I’m going in the morning, anyway. Just need to finish knitting socks for my dog. You can’t access Spacetime past the hospital firewall, by the way.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw the signs. Thanks.’

  I make tea. They won’t let me into the hospital in the middle of the night, but the sooner I get this over with, the better. Not only do I have to tell O that her sister has killed a man, but it’s possible that someone is using the same technology to come after O as well. Something as simple as a brief faint could be a serious thing if she hit her head on the way down.

  Still. Clearly, O has been anticipating something. She put Stack on my tail and if Lorraine was here, then O has mobilized her resources to protect herself. But what does O actually know that she’s not telling me?

  I’m working on answering client messages and trying to figure out my schedule when the outside buzzer for the flat goes. The video link shows a woman in trackies and a hijab carrying a big paper bag. Meera Bhango looks up at the camera and waves.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you and I ended up speaking with Olivia this afternoon,’ she tells me after she’s run up the stairs. She’s not even winded. ‘She told me you’d been tied up all day. As soon as I saw you’d received my message, I came over.’

  ‘But it’s almost three o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘I know, and I won’t stay long. I wanted to speak with you in person.’

  The paper bag turns out to be a takeaway from the 24-hour Malaysian restaurant a few blocks away. She has even brought tea.

  As we tuck in, she says, ‘I know it’s weird for me to just show up here. It’s a long story, but my company is involved in an ugly litigation with BigSky and I don’t really trust any digital form of communication. That’s why I suggested meeting in person. But you didn’t show up.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘It’s OK, I got your message. Today when Olivia told me that this flat is secure, I thought it would be best if we just spoke here.’

  ‘What’s the litigation about?’

  ‘Oh, it’s intellectual property. You know my colleague Bernard? I’m not sure if anybody told you, but he brought research from BigSky to Little Bird and the solicitors are fighting over whether all of his work belongs to BigSky or only some of it. And now that he’s dead, it’s even more complicated because nobody can find a will. I hope this doesn’t sound too cloak-and-dagger.’

  I say, ‘It would be impossible to overstate how cloak-and-dagger this is.’

  ‘Listen, a lot of this stuff I just can’t talk about. I’m bound by all kinds of confidentiality agreements and ethical considerations. But I wanted you to know that I’m on your side and I’ll try to help you. I think Bernard treated you and the others very shabbily. I told him as much, too. Believe it or not, we’ve been trying to make it right.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything about that when I saw him.’

  ‘OK, then. I’ve been trying to make it right. I can’t get my head around what happened with Bernard last night. He didn’t have a lot of feeling for his fellow humans, and I had no idea he was feeling so guilty, much less close to suicide.’

  I stop chewing.

  ‘Is that what they told you? Suicide?’

  ‘Well, he was on the railway tracks – they told us that much. I understand you were in the building at the time. Do you know something I don’t?’

  I put my teacup down very carefully. I can’t afford to trust her. Hello-my-name-is-Meera-I’m-going-to-help-you.

  ‘Meera, you said the litigation with BigSky is ugly. Have you taken steps for your own personal safety?’

  Her voice is sharp: ‘What do you mean, my personal safety?’

  ‘Everyone knows there’s a shady element to BigSky, that’s all.’

  ‘Do you really buy that sort of talk?’

  I shrug, and her lip wobbles.

  ‘If you know something, Charlie, you had better tell me right now. I’ve got children at home.’

  ‘I think you should talk to Roman Pelka. I’ll give you his contact information.’

  ‘I already got a call from him and another from someone called Donato something.’

  ‘Call them back,’ I say. ‘Ask for their help. Thanks for the food. You’d better go now.’

  She nods. ‘OK, I get it. I was only trying to build bridges, but I can take a hint.’

  ‘I meant what I said about your safety,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t trust anyone right now and nor should you. Why don’t you come back when you’re ready to break your confidentiality agreement and tell me what’s really going on?’

  I’m trembling all over when I lock the door behind her, but at least I’ve managed to stay awake throughout the confrontation. I drink the rest of my tea, now cold and a little sour, and fall asleep on the sofa while Edgar picks at the satay prawns left on the coffee table.

  I arrive at the Princess Grace just before lunch. It’s unlike any hospital I’ve ever seen. For one thing, it’s quiet. O has a private room on the first floor with a couple of nice armchairs and a small table and fresh flowers beside the bed. She is sitting in one of the armchairs playing chess on a holographic board, and I don’t know if it’s the lighting or my imagination but she looks older and her face is drawn. The blue patches under her eyes are exaggerated.

  ‘I brought you soup,’ I announce, tapping on the open door. She doesn’t react at first and I wonder if she’s heard me. She moves a rook and then says, ‘Did you make it?’

  ‘It’s takeout from Marylebone, you cheeky woman.’


  ‘Let’s have it, then. It looks like I’m stuck here. Waiting on test results.’

  I pull up a chair opposite the holographic chessboard and open the lid on the takeaway soup. It’s still really hot.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been here before this. I had a pretty bad narcoleptic attack yesterday.’

  She doesn’t look at me. All her attention is on the board.

  ‘Birds OK?’

  ‘Yes, they’re all well and accounted for.’

  ‘I sent Muz home. He’s tired. Jez has been helping.’

  ‘And you? How are you feeling? What even happened? You fainted?’

  ‘I stood up to go to the loo. I thought I’d be all right to walk but you know how low my blood pressure is sometimes. It was just a miscalculation.’

  ‘You’re sure you didn’t doze off, O? It’s important.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  I’m fairly sure she’s lying. Why? To spare me worry, probably.

  I try to think of something to say that doesn’t sound patronising. I want to say, What were you thinking? Don’t do that, etc., but it’s not my place to tell her what to do, and even if it were, she would surely bite my head off.

  So instead I tell her about Bernard. How he sent us packing, how I tried to dreamhack him and he ended up dead. I omit the part about Daphne. I think she senses I’ve skated over something because she looks at me oddly, but she doesn’t pursue it. She’s sipping the soup, both hands curved around the paper cup, shaking.

  ‘O, are you all right with that? It’s hot.’

  She puts the soup down and blots her upper lip. She doesn’t mince words.

  ‘So he’s dead and you think the Creeper did it.’ Her gaze is flat. No way to tell what she’s thinking.

  ‘I was there for the whole dream. He was sleepwalking. He thought he was in a formal garden, not a railway station. Roman says it’s hard to tell from the CCTV whether he was awake. He doesn’t seem to have spoken to anyone, but he went through the fare scanner fairly normally.’

  ‘And one gathers the police don’t have any evidence it was anything other than suicide or foolish error.’