by Rob Kinsman
“They’re not stolen, dear. They’re relocated.”
“Where? Why?”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
“I was kind of hoping to sleep in my bed,” stammered Zoe. “Where is it?”
“The church hall.”
“Why?”
“For the slumber party.”
Zoe suddenly wished she was back in her own flat, where all she had to worry about was the psychotic madman down the hall finding a skeleton key.
“A slumber party?”
“It’s a bit of fun.”
Zoe had never, ever known her mother do something because it was fun.
“I don’t understand.”
“All the best villages are having them this weekend.” Ruth bristled with pride. “The whole community are going to settle down to dream together. In the morning the vicar will explain the significance of what we’ve all witnessed. He didn’t want to do it at first, but the church committee – oh, did I tell you I’d been elected onto it again this year?” Only about seven thousand times. “Well, we managed to persuade him.” After a moment’s hesitation Ruth reluctantly added, “You could come along but I know you don’t, um… you’re not like other people.”
If my own mother thinks I’m a freak, what chance do I have with anyone else?
“Actually,” said Zoe, “I did have the dream. It was only on the first night that I didn’t, but that was because I took a sleeping tablet. Apparently it interferes with the dreaming process. I read an article about it.”
Ruth didn't even bother trying to hide her look of relief.
“You didn’t tell anyone?” added Zoe, wary.
“Of course not,” chuckled Ruth, who never laughed and so wasn’t very good at it. “I’ll have a word with the vicar, if you like. He might be able to squeeze you in.”
“I thought my bed was already there.”
“Oh it’s already taken, for Cynthia Harrison’s youngest. We’ll have to ask if she minds sharing.”
“Where does she normally sleep? Surely she has his own bed?”
“Don’t cause trouble, dear.”
Before they left, Ruth vetted her daughter’s choice of nightwear, insisting she wore something that made her look moderately to severely frigid.
“It’s not one of your fast dating nights.”
“Speed dating, mum. Anyway, I’m kind of seeing someone.”
“What sort of someone? Is he of good breeding?”
“Are you living in a nineteenth century novel?”
“I’m only looking out for my daughter. Where’s the harm in that?”
Zoe had only ever had one boyfriend who’d received the parental seal of approval. He’d been a well spoken man called Steven, who had dazzled Ruth with tales of stocks and shares being traded on the world markets. The fact he’d subsequently been imprisoned for insider trading had been conveniently forgotten in Ruth’s version of the story.
“What does he do?”
“I can’t reveal that information.”
Zoe hoped her tone implied she was hiding a secret vital to the defence of the nation.
“If we can’t discuss it then what’s the point of him having a job at all?”
And that’s my mum in a nutshell, thought Zoe.
The inside of the church hall had been arranged like some kind of emergency shelter from the Blitz. Rows upon rows of beds. There was a buzz in the air, the thrill of anticipation.
“What do you think we’ll see tonight?” asked an excited mother.
“The dungeons,” replied her young boy, with a ghoulish glint in his eye.
“I want to see the queen’s bedroom,” piped up his hormonal teenage brother.
“Hmmm,” agreed the father.
Similar conversations were being had up and down the hall, the speculation making everyone as thrilled as a child on Christmas Eve.
“Welcome Zoe.”
It was a familiar voice, warm and reassuring.
“Hello Arthur.”
Arthur Small, the ironically portly local vicar, was a kindly old man. His good nature had frequently made Zoe feel guilty for not believing in God.
“It’s been a long time since I saw you,” he said.
“Well, it’s hard. Living in London and all that.”
“I can imagine. Still, I’m glad that you could make it to our little gathering tonight. You’re always welcome here.”
“Thanks.”
Zoe always felt inadequate around Arthur. He seemed devoid of the dark thoughts which sprung into her own mind at the merest mention of just about anything.
Ruth stepped forward, evidently feeling that her daughter had already said as much as she could be trusted with.
“Zoe’s job does make great demands on her time. But that’s Westminster for you, isn’t it?”
“Your mother has told us all about your latest position,” said Arthur, his kindly smile never faltering. “Your work sounds most impressive.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”
Zoe wondered what spurious tale her mother had spun this time around. The previous year she’d dropped hints around the village that Zoe had invented the iPod but been cheated out of any royalties.
“If you want to make yourselves comfortable, I’ll be starting my introductory talk around nine-ish,”
Arthur toddled off, leaving Ruth glowing like an unemployed actress who’d just found herself networking with Spielberg at a party. Her eyes flicked around the room to try and clock which of the neighbours had seen her talking with the vicar. Zoe felt a flush of sadness for her. Even after thirty years Ruth still felt a desperate need to try and establish her position in the pecking order; which just proved that her real place was, and always would be, somewhere near the bottom.
Zoe scanned around and finally spotted her old, familiar bed. There was a young girl sitting cross-legged on it, playing with some model knights.
“Tell me you’ve found somewhere else for her to sleep.”
“You can top and tail,” said Ruth. “We’ll be doing that.”
A rare smile passed across George’s face.
“Guess I better go and meet my new bed-mate then.”
Neither of her parents seemed to notice her go.
“Hey, I’m Zoe.”
The child shrugged.
“Do you have a name?”
“Of course I do, stupid.” The girl didn’t look up from her toy knight.
“We’re, um, we’re sharing this bed tonight.”
If a young child could be a brutal serial killer they’d own the eyes which now pierced into Zoe.
“This is my bed!”
“Actually, it’s mine. I’ve had it since I was younger than you.”
The child searched around for a referee. Her parents, Howard and Cynthia Harrison, were unpacking their nightwear beside the next bed.
“Hello Zoe,” said Cynthia, sweet as pie. “How’s the government?”
“Still standing without me, I hope.”
“Now Sophia, let Zoe sit on the bed.”
Young Sophia, still seething, grudgingly moved her things aside.
“Thanks.” Zoe perched on the edge of the bed. “I haven’t seen you since you were this big.”
Zoe indicated someone not very big.
“I don’t remember you.”
“I’m George and Ruth’s daughter.”
Sophia frowned, processed this information and finally made the connection.
“You live in those ugly houses near the rubbish tip?”
“I used to. I live in an ugly flat in London now.”
Sophia gave her a distasteful look, then turned her attention back to the superior company of her inanimate toys. Zoe didn’t care, she’d done her best. She had a policy of cutting off friendships with any smug parents who wanted to share details of their new-born’s faeces. As a result, Zoe had spent almost no time with children past the age of six months, and so she had no idea how
old or stupid they were at different heights.
Sophia suddenly had a thought and peered up at Zoe suspiciously.
“Do you know when we’re going to see the people in the castle properly?”
“I don’t. Maybe nobody lives there anymore?”
“They do. They’re in the shadows.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re not whole yet.”
“How do you know that?”
Sophia just stared at her, unblinking. Zoe started unpacking her things, trying to avoid thinking of words like Shining or Redrum. She wondered why she’d even agreed to come here rather than getting on the first train back to the city.
Actually, she already knew. Even here, surrounded by lunatics and demon children, at least she wasn’t alone. She may not be about to share the same experience as everyone else, but at least she could hide in the crowd.
“I’m sure a lot of you have found this whole event a deeply spiritual experience.” Arthur was addressing the assembled villagers, who were now all perched on top of their beds. “I know I have.”
Around the room there were various murmurs of agreement. Zoe felt a devilish urge to yell ‘Hallelujah!’, but she managed to contain it.
“A lot of you have come to me for answers,” continued Arthur, “and I must warn you that I have none. I don’t know why the Lord decided to send us this message. Is it a glimpse of heaven? A message about Earth? I can’t say, and I know that frightens a lot of people.”
Out the corner of her eye, Zoe noticed Sophia subtly moving her things across the agreed boundaries of her half of the bed.
“I’ve noticed that some of the younger members of our congregation are among those least troubled by what they’ve seen. Maybe the rest of us can learn from them. To see the world with wonder again, free from the cynicism and burden of experience. But you’ve heard enough from me. It’s past some people’s bedtimes.” He smiled over at Sophia, who was still busy waging her war of attrition against Zoe’s sovereign territory. “So it only remains for me to say one thing to you all. God bless and sweet dreams.”
A tinkle of laughter filled the room. People started pulling back their duvets and sheets, settling themselves in for the night. Sophia’s toys continued expanding to fill every available inch of bed.
“Listen kid,” hissed Zoe. “Get your teddies and your knights and whatever else you’ve filled my bed with, and put them all back on your side. Either that or I’ll tell you something you’ll wish you hadn’t heard.”
Zoe hadn’t decided whether this would be the truth about Father Christmas or the likely identity of Sophia’s real father. Either way, she was counting on not having to actually follow through. With Sophia’s nominal parents just a few feet away, it was likely to cause an awkward scene.
Sophia relented, moodily scooping back her toys before settling down for the night. There was a good natured cheer as someone turned the strip lights off, one at a time.
And finally, the people of the village slept and dreamt together.
Zoe lay awake, staring at the flickering fire exit sign. Insomnia had become a close friend over this past week. All around was the sound of breathing, snoring, spluttering.
Sophia was out like a light. Her arm had fallen across the forbidden side of the bed, but Zoe didn’t care. It had been petty to take her frustrations out on a child. Zoe guessed kids were probably still pretty stupid at that height, so the poor girl couldn’t be held responsible. Sometimes it took being awake at 3am to help realise that kind of thing.
Zoe shifted position for the hundredth time, trying not to wake Sophia.
In the darkness, a faint sound was audible. The crinkle of tablets being popped from a blister pack. Zoe peered through the gloom, trying to follow the sound. Eyes shined back at her, reflecting the bright moonlight. They saw Zoe and flicked shut.
Zoe raised herself up on her elbows to get a better view. A few seconds later the eyes peered cautiously out again to check if they were still being watched. They were, and for a moment the kindly vicar was like a rabbit caught in the headlights. He nodded acknowledgement at Zoe, then rolled over. Even in this gloom, Zoe could see the deep breaths and heaving shoulders of a sleeping man. She wasn’t fooled. His movements were too large, too deliberate.
For a long time the two of them lay awake, the only people in the room not transported to a magical world.
Ba da daaa! Ba da daaa!
The theme from The Sweeny, or as Zoe better knew it, her ringtone. An ex had changed it for a laugh one day, and she’d never worked out how to swap the bloody thing back again. She fumbled desperately for her phone. The people around her began to stir, miserable and annoyed. Zoe finally got hold of the wretched device and stabbed the answer button.
“Hey,” came the voice.
Bloody Nick. He spends all day not replying to her text and chooses now – now! – to call her.
“It’s the middle of the night,” she hissed. Her eyes darted around the nearby beds. Fortunately everyone was easily sucked back into the whirlpool of the dream.
“Wondered if you were up,” said Nick, casually. “I can’t sleep.”
“I can’t talk. I’m in bed with a child and there’s a vicar watching me.”
The line went quiet for a long, long time.
“Some party you must have been to.”
“I’ve got to go,” whispered Zoe. “I’ll call you when I’m back.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
She hung up. This time the vicar didn’t hide the fact he was looking at her.
As sunlight started to creep in through the cracks in the curtains, the people in the hall gradually became visible again. They all looked so peaceful, so happy with what they were experiencing.
The early risers started sneaking out of bed as soon as they’d realised that sleep was behind them for another night. They didn’t want to wake anyone who was still lost in the wonder of the magical kingdom.
Zoe slipped out of bed, letting Sophia finally spread out across the whole mattress. She met Arthur in the doorway.
“Good morning,” he mumbled, without making eye contact. She muttered her own reply, and they headed swiftly away in opposite directions. It was as if they’d done something forbidden together last night.
The crisp morning air was a relief, broken only by a few smokers taking their first poisonous gasp. They were all talking about the dream.
“There was something moving. In the shadows behind the throne.”
“I saw it. It was clearer than before. Somehow more real.”
Zoe felt a chill crawl down her spine. Wasn’t that similar to what Sophia had said before any of them had fallen asleep?
Coincidence.
With Zoe’s ancient mobile having never heard of the internet, there was no immediate way of her finding the full details of last night’s dream. Not that it would be a problem. Nobody here was going to ask her what she’d seen, they were too wrapped up trying to recount their own experience. The only other person they wanted to hear from was the vicar, curious about his divinely-inspired interpretation of last night’s events. In fact that was something Zoe herself was very much anticipating.
Once everyone had woken up and got dressed – a discreet arrangement of hospital screens had allowed small changing areas for those not willing to wait until they got home – people reassembled for Arthur’s verdict.
“Good morning everyone.”
The perky crowd greeted him like the first audience of the panto season.
“Again, I think we’ve had a fascinating night.”
General murmurs of agreement.
“I know some of you here aren’t believers…” Zoe could swear she heard her mother tutting, even though she was at least twelve beds away. “I’m not here to convert you, but I will say this. This dream, this vision – whatever we choose to call it – has visited everyone, regardless of their religious persuasion.”
Maybe it was just paranoia
, but it seemed to Zoe that he was deliberately avoiding looking at her.
“Perhaps after years of conflict, of fighting over the truth of His message, we are finally being given a sign. Something to unite us where we are divided. To heal us where we are wounded.”
All very worthy, but he could have written that yesterday.
“Of course, some people are going to have difficulty dealing with what’s been happening. They’ll feel lost and lonely. That’s what it means to be human. And I don’t say that as a man of God, but as a man.”
And finally he looked straight at Zoe. In that moment she could have sworn they were the only two people in the room.
She gave him a sympathetic smile. When she’d come back in she’d snooped over near his bed and seen the packet of high caffeine tablets. It seemed Zoe wasn’t the only one afraid of going to sleep.
Five
“They’ve surrounded my office!”
9:15am on Monday and Zoe had already found an excuse to phone Nick.
“Who have?” he said.
“Protestors. The police said no-one can go in or out the building.”
“Shit! Are you alright?”
“Yeah. I’m not there.”
She lazed out on her sofa like a cat, imagining Julie being trapped inside for weeks.
“What are they protesting about?”
“Could be that leaflet I sent out recently about wheelie-bins. It was pretty radical.”
“Maybe I should tell them where to find the person responsible. Send them round to your flat.”
“You don’t know where I live.”
“So you better tell me.”
By the time the doorbell rang, Zoe had already changed outfits three times. She wasn’t sure of the etiquette of going on a date before midday and soon realised it was because no-one in their right mind would do it. By the harsh glare of the morning light all her casual clothing options made her look like either a hooker or someone on long-term benefits. In the end she settled on her usual attire of jeans and a hooded top, which was what she’d been wearing before she’d started fretting.
“Hi.”
“Come into my lair,” said Zoe, wishing she hadn’t.
