The Queen of Yesterday

by Rob Kinsman

  “You know where I live?”

  “Just down the corridor still?”

  “Yes!”

  They fell silent. This should have been Zoe’s cue to break free, but she felt a kind of pity for Crazy Sid as he looked up at her with his big, demented puppy eyes.

  “What time does it start?” she asked, to humour him.

  “What time can you get there?”

  “Like I said, it depends where we end up.”

  She put her hand on the door, hoping he got the hint.

  “On the radio they said everyone else saw my dream.” Sid puffed his chest out, proud. “This is the happiest day of my life.”

  Even he gets to be part of this, and he’s a madman who talks to his feet, thought Zoe, bitterly.

  It was dark outside. Zoe had long since silenced the television, switched off her mobile and disconnected the landline. She was officially incommunicado. If someone tried to send her a courier pigeon she was liable to shoot and eat it, world be warned.

  Not that she could entirely escape what was going on outside. To her bemusement she could hear people tramping up the stairs and heading towards Crazy Sid’s flat. They sounded happy enough, but if they turned into something more akin to hostages than guests then that was their problem. Zoe wasn’t getting involved.

  She stared out the window at the twinkling lights on the streets below, lost in thought. Even though fate / God / aliens had decided to exclude her from the party of a lifetime, she couldn’t help wondering what would happen tonight. Would the shared dream continue? She desperately hoped not. A one-off inexplicable event she could just about cope with. A kind of global Eastenders when her aerial was on the blink would be unbearable.

  In the distance, Zoe could see a nearby street party starting to tail off. Tonight it was going to be early nights all round.

  Hours passed and still Zoe didn’t move.

  Finally she realised she was going to have to bite the bullet and go to bed. Even though she hadn’t got properly dressed again following her afternoon nap, she went through her usual bedtime routine. The long soak in the bath; the cleaning and flossing of teeth; a cup of peppermint tea in front of the telly. Normally she’d watch the news so she could borrow some opinions in case she met anyone interesting the next day, but tonight she played it safe with a box set of Friends. At least a DVD couldn’t be interrupted by updates from the outside world.

  When it was finished she turned off the telly. The city was quiet. Even Sid’s flat was silent, meaning his party guests had either escaped or been slaughtered. It was bedtime.

  Zoe fidgeted in her armchair. Turned the telly back on. Just one more episode.

  When her alarm clock went off in the bedroom the next morning, Zoe was still on the sofa ploughing her way through episodes of Friends. She hadn’t slept a wink. Things had seemed better that way.

  She was going to be a wreck at work, of course, but chances were that nobody would notice. They’d all still be banging on about the bloody dream whatever she did. For a change she kept the radio off while she ate breakfast. The longer she could delay finding out what a great time everyone else had had the previous night, the better.

  On the tube she looked away whenever someone entered the carriage with a newspaper, the bold headlines a constant reminder of everything that was wrong with the world:

  ‘Mysterious Dream Continues!’

  And…

  ‘One World, One Dream!’

  Even…

  ‘The Dreamers' Ball! Everyone Invited!’

  Finally Zoe reached the office, feeling like a prisoner on death row. Sooner or later one of her colleagues was going to ask her about the dream, and she’d be revealed as the freak they’d always suspected she was.

  As she crossed the foyer, she saw that security guard Alf was buried behind a tabloid newspaper, blissfully unaware who was coming or going right in front of him.

  Zoe got as far as the lift… and finally it occurred to her.

  Of course. Idiot.

  She headed back.

  “Hey, Alf”.

  The security guard looked up at her, alarmed. Their relationship of mutual respect was based on the fact neither of them much enjoyed speaking to other human beings.

  “Have you nearly finished with that paper?”

  “Aye.”

  “Read everything you wanted to?”

  “Aye.”

  Zoe frowned.

  “Are you Scottish?”

  “Aye.”

  Zoe made a mental note to pay a bit more attention to the people around her in the future.

  “Can I borrow it?”

  Her breach of their unofficial code of silence clearly disturbed him. She could almost see the cogs whirring behind his eyes, trying to work out if she was about to stab him with a concealed weapon.

  “I’m not going to stab you,” she blurted out, remembering too late that it was generally best not to mention any of the crazy shit that went on in her head.

  Alf tossed the paper down on the counter, looking moderately frightened of her.

  “Thanks.”

  She sheepishly grabbed the paper and scuttled off to the toilet.

  “Incredible dream last night, wasn’t it?”

  The huddle of colleagues in the kitchen viewed Zoe with some suspicion. It wasn’t like her to get involved in their group conversations, but she needed to make her mark.

  “Wow, the water in that moat,” she continued. “Like a river of sparkling emeralds.”

  No response.

  “The eagles circling the battlements, reminiscent of guardians from days gone by.”

  In retrospect she wished she’d had time to put the stories from Alf’s newspaper into her own words.

  “It was fab,” she added, in her own words.

  The silence felt like it lasted forever as the others subconsciously debated whether to believe her or not. Zoe had never more craved the approval of people whose opinions she couldn’t care less about.

  “Yes, it was even more vivid last night,” agreed Acne Nigel.

  Zoe would have kissed him if she wasn’t worried he’d explode.

  She was still buzzing by the time she got back to her desk. So what if her sudden acceptance was based on a lie? At least she wouldn’t have to put up with their theories about what was wrong with her.

  As the morning progressed she tried to absorb everything she could about the dream. It was easy, she could even do her research in plain sight. Although Nigel had sent a memo round reminding people they still had to show up if they wanted to get paid, there was little pretence of any actual work being done.

  “They reckon it’s aliens,” said Martin.

  As with most of her colleagues, Zoe didn’t really understand what Martin actually did. Hell, he was enough of an enigma that she hadn’t even managed to devise a suitable nickname for him yet.

  “Who reckons?”

  “The Alliance for Extra-terrestrial Affairs.”

  “I’m guessing they chalk a lot of things up to the aliens.”

  Martin shrugged and continued surfing the web. Lopsided Peter waddled in.

  “Hey guys, there’s been some ace chatter on the social networking sites.” Zoe wondered if he’d ever spoken like a normal human being. “There’s something big going down near the canal, they say it’s like a mini-Glastonbury. Some cats said they’d meet me down there at lunchtime. Any of you dudes fancy it?”

  General murmurs of disinterest, except from one unexpected corner.

  “Yeah, sounds good,” said Zoe. Julie raised an eyebrow. “The world has changed, let’s go and embrace it.”

  Although Peter himself was sporadically insufferable, Zoe didn’t mind his “cats”; assuming, of course, that he meant his friends and not actual cats. She’d scored lucky once before when Peter had hosted a barbecue on a lonely bank holiday. With no better offers on the table, Zoe had turned up clutching a bottle of cheap wine. The other guests turned out to be not quite t
he bunch of freaks you’d expect to be hanging out with a man in his forties who used words like ‘fantabulous’ without irony. Zoe had got talking to this one surprisingly presentable guy, and they’d swapped numbers. The rest, as they say, was sexual history.

  She had another motive this time, of course. It was one thing trying to blag her way past the Muppets she worked with, but she wanted to see if she could join in the fun with people she might actually want to meet.

  “Ace,” said Peter. “We’ll go about one-ish. I’ll email you the details”.

  “But you just told me the details.”

  Peter leaned against the wall in a way that made him look even more unsteady than usual. He tapped away at his phone. A moment later Zoe received an email telling her that they’d leave at one-ish.

  “Yeah, thanks for that Peter”.

  “No worries.”

  Julie was staring at Zoe, deeply suspicious.

  “Reckon I’ll come and check it out too.”

  In all the years they’d worked together, Julie had never missed an opportunity to make Zoe’s life just that little bit more miserable if she could. She probably suspected something was wrong, what with Zoe suddenly not seeming to resent her colleagues for using up food and oxygen. Agreeing to spend her lunchtime with Peter was probably the final confirmation that Zoe was either minutes away from being sectioned or up to something.

  Bring it on! Zoe had every intention of ditching the pair of them once she’d found some more interesting people to talk to. It was time for her to join the party, she just didn’t want to show up alone.

  “That’s great, the three of us can go,” she said, flashing her hated colleague the falsest of smiles.

  Unexpectedly, the gathering by the canal was really quite good. The air of goodwill and camaraderie was palpable, and this time Zoe was a part of it.

  Together with Peter and Julie, she moved through the hastily assembled stalls and entertainments. Despite the pretext for the whole event being this remarkable shared experience, it certainly wasn’t short of people looking to cash in. Quoting Martin Luther King had proven to be the T-shirt quote goldmine. Meanwhile artists of every medium and ability were trying to recapture something everybody else had already seen.

  At one point the trio stopped to inspect a performance artist who’d decided to spend the next week in a Perspex box so people could watch him dreaming.

  “Load of shite,” said Julie.

  Zoe loudly tutted at her colleague’s cultural ignorance, even though she secretly agreed. But however strong her deeply ingrained cynicism, Zoe couldn’t help getting swept up in the atmosphere.

  Several people stopped her as she passed, wanting to compare experiences. Promisingly, nobody questioned her account of events or appeared to recognise that she was just quoting news reports. She’d grown more confident by now, anyway, and had started mixing up the different descriptions she’d read.

  “Are they here yet?” she asked Peter. “Your, um, cats.”

  “Oh yeah, look.”

  He showed her his mobile, which displayed a list of names besides which various people were ‘checked in’ at the canal.

  “We are actually going to meet them? Physically.”

  “No point. We’re all here.”

  To Peter this was clearly the height of logic.

  They ambled on through the crowd. Circus performers were setting up camp wherever they could find a free patch of ground. Musicians played a cacophony of songs in clashing keys. A small theatre company had brought forward their unrehearsed Christmas production of Sleeping Beauty by five months and were hastily staging it under a tree. It wasn’t very good.

  Peter seemed to be spending more time on his phone reading tweets about the event than actually looking at any of it. Julie wandered off to join the queue at a fast food van which had hastily rebranded itself ‘Sleep with the Fish… and Chips’.

  Zoe figured this was the time to fly solo. She was feeling comfortable in the crowd, and didn’t need her chaperones any longer. Even if they saw her slip off, they’d never catch up. For reasons not unrelated to their nicknames, Lopsided Peter and Fat Julie were far from nimble on their feet.

  Zoe slipped into a passing group of foreign tourists, and neither of her colleagues saw a thing.

  When Zoe was sure the others wouldn’t catch up, she slowed her pace. She wanted to enjoy finally being part of the crowd. She walked beside the canal, chatting to people she’d normally cross the road to avoid. It was liberating, a taste of how life would have been if she’d stuck it out at art school. Carefree and willing to embrace the mysteries of the world.

  As well as the wealth of arty types, the event had also drawn numerous office workers, tourists and pickpockets. Zoe greeted them all with a smile. Everyone seemed endlessly willing to relate their identical stories over and over again, each new telling feeling as fresh as the first. And for once Zoe was right there in the heart of it.

  Yeah, she was unstoppable.

  She’d never felt so lonely in her life.

  When she thought back to all the times she’d been an outsider before, there had always been a reason. And, though she’d be loathe to admit it, a lot of the time that reason was her. Too expressive. Too inexpressive. Too shy. Too confident. All of the above. But this time, as far as she could tell, there was no reason. She was just the butt of some cosmic joke, and she didn’t know how to make it stop.

  She started striding away, not able to deal with anyone else. The only thing that mattered was getting away from this wretched place and all these relentlessly happy people. The tears started rolling, unbidden, down her cheeks.

  She slowed to a halt. Some animal sense told her she was being watched.

  Sure enough, a man was standing slightly apart from the crowd, staring straight at her. It should have been unnerving, but Zoe actually felt intensely calm. She didn’t recognise him, yet he was somehow familiar. Like a melody that sounds as if it must have always existed.

  The man was late thirties, ruggedly handsome. Eyes so blue you could swim in them. He reached for something from his pocket. Zoe felt like a spectator, watching the scene from some ethereal vantage point. The man could have produced a gun, and she suspected she wouldn’t have moved a muscle.

  What he actually pulled out was a linen handkerchief. He walked over and offered it to her.

  “Here,” he said.

  Zoe silently took the handkerchief, and gave her nose a satisfying parp. The noise rather evaporated the spell.

  “Sorry,” she said, the heat rising in her cheeks.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Just been a long day. You know? Impossible miracles really knock the wind out of me.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Damn them.”

  Zoe was pleased to discover she was still capable of chuckling. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so,” said the man, with a hint of uncertainty.

  “It’s just, you were staring at me.”

  “God, I’m sorry.” He averted his eyes. “I just saw that you looked upset. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

  “Thanks, that was nice of you.”

  She tried to hand his moist handkerchief back to him.

  “You better keep it,” he said, grimacing at the sight of it.

  In retrospect, it really was soaked. Shit a brick.

  The man’s amusement broke cover, his ribcage rising and falling with barely contained mirth. Zoe looked sharply up, affronted that this stranger thought it was alright to mock her just because most of the things she did were ridiculous.

  But his smile was warm and without a trace of malice.

  Despite herself, Zoe laughed. Really laughed.

  God it felt good.

  A little while later, they found themselves sitting on a bench, still locked in conversation. His name was Nick, and Zoe was enjoying every minute of his company.

  “So how are you finding it all?” He gestured at the festivities going
on around them. “Having a good time?”

  “Yeah,” she lied. “It’s really, um, diverse. Full of life.”

  “It’s all a bit hippy for me.”

  You beautiful man!

  “Actually, me too,” she confessed. They shared a warm, confidential smile. “Are you bunking off work to be here?”

  “I pick my own hours,” he said casually.

  “What do you do?”

  “This and that.”

  Unemployed, secret agent or drug dealer, figured Zoe. A 33% chance that he’s a catch.

  Behind them, a ukulele player began a shaky rendition of ‘Sweet Dreams’. Zoe felt the bubble she’d been briefly in burst. They’d gone this long without discussing the elephant in the room, but that was surely about to end.

  Unless…

  “Can we make a deal?” she asked tentatively. “Can we not talk about the dream?”

  Nick raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m sick of it. I mean, I realise it’s amazing and all that but, you know…”

  She watched his face, waiting for the look of disgust. Surely this was her giving the game away. Of course he’d want to talk about the dream; it was an extraordinary event that would surely change humanity forever.

  But, sweet bliss...

  “I think that’s a great idea.”

  “You do?”

  “I’ve already had the same conversation forty times today. It’s wearing pretty thin.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No thank you.”

  Suddenly the sound of the ukulele bothered Zoe a lot less. Sometimes the world could be a kind place, where it was possible to tolerate even the most ludicrous of instruments.

  “So, did you come here alone?” asked Nick.

  “Yes.”

  And, right on cue, Julie appeared.

  “There you are.” Julie eyed Nick up and down like a lion examining a particularly juicy gazelle.

  “Julie,” said Zoe. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  A true friend would take the hint and play along. Unfortunately Julie wasn’t even a false friend.

  “You ran off. We were looking for you.”

  Oh, you grade A listed bitch.

  “Who’s your friend?” Julie asked, plonking herself down unnecessarily close to Nick. Julie was the most outrageous flirt in the office, despite the fact that she looked like a deflated walrus. To add insult to injury she was even married. She rarely spoke about her husband, so all Zoe knew about him was that he was presumably robust.