by Rob Kinsman
“There’s more important things.”
She burrowed down under his arm. He stroked her hair, slow and calming.
And they stayed that way, huddled close to each other, talking quietly until sunrise.
Six
The stairs to the dungeons were dirty chunks of stone. While the rest of the castle was built from lavish, extravagant materials, this part was dank and depressing. It descended into the squalid bowels of the mountain beneath the castle, a world away from the crystal towers which punctured the sky.
The dreamers emerged into a torture chamber, its walls lined with a row of cells which afforded prime views of the most exquisite instruments of pain. The blades had dulled over the years, but they were still sharp enough to maim or kill. Devices to stretch and crush fragile bodies stood idle, but remained as efficient as the day they were forged.
Despite the horrors this part of the building implied, the dreamers accepted it with glee. It was just a part of the grand tour they were being taken on; a glimpse of life in the castle during a more brutal age.
The whispers were more worrying. They were quiet enough that it was still just about possible for people to convince themselves it was only the sound of the wind singing through the corridors. Frightened children who awoke in cold sweats were told not to worry. If it happened again, they just had to remember it was only a dream. When they were awake, nothing could harm them.
Lost in the bubble of themselves, Zoe and Nick had pushed away all thoughts of the outside world. Their very real fears – such as the man who had attacked them – had taken back seat to a peculiarly truthful kind of small talk. The intensity of their experience had led to an accelerated getting to know you process, their shared fear bonding them ever closer.
When an appropriate amount of time seemed to have passed, Zoe had asked more about the suspiciously blank gap in Nick’s memories. She was initially inclined to believe the supposed amnesia was just a ruse, but if he was a liar then he was at least a good one. He spoke with hurt and conviction about the missing period in his life. His memories until just over a year ago were fine, but then there was a fortnight which existed only as a fog of half-images and fragments of memory.
Shortly before his memories ended he had been planning to run off with someone’s wife. This revelation didn’t exactly make Zoe’s heart sing with joy, but at least it had a whiff of honesty about it. He had been having an affair with a woman called Amelia, whose husband was apparently a powerful but vindictive thug. The two lovers had secretly planned to escape together, but something had gone wrong.
The man who’d stabbed Nick the previous evening seemed familiar: he was possibly one of the people responsible for the attack which caused the memory loss in the first place. Nick claimed that the specifics were lost in the fog of the past, but he believed he’d been assaulted while waiting at the place he’d arranged to meet Amelia.
Zoe didn't doubt that the frustration he felt wrestling with a memory tantalisingly out of reach was true, she could see the pain burning in his eyes. His earliest memory since the period of amnesia cleared was finding himself in hospital. In amongst his belongings he’d found a note warning that Amelia would pay the price if he went to the police.
Despite this, he had returned to Amelia’s home, only to discover it empty and deserted. And so, as soon as he was well enough, Nick had come to London. This was where they had planned to flee to; perhaps if Amelia ever managed to escape her husband then she would come here. He had spent the past year visiting places he thought she might be, hoping for some small miracle.
Zoe sadly deduced that this must have been the reason he was at the event by the canal when she’d met him. While this made her feel slightly used, a stand-in until he found the woman he really wanted to be with, she couldn’t help but be touched by his dedication. He, in turn, claimed that he only wanted to know that Amelia was alive and well. He could live without her if he only knew that their affair hadn’t caused her to come to harm.
Nick told Zoe he’d never spoken about this to anyone and made her promise to keep his secret. She swore. He then swiftly turned the conversation back around to her. She spent the next hour fearing he was building up to the inevitable question about why she didn’t want to discuss the dream. He had shared his dark secret, how could she refuse to tell him hers? By comparison, she reflected, maybe her fears were unfounded. She may be ridiculed if people knew the truth about her, but it wasn’t life or death.
The question never came. Instead she found herself telling him tales of work and childhood and past loves. As they passed the hours together the memory of all that had happened slowly felt lighter and less oppressive.
The sun rose and the magic of their intimate space began to dissolve. Gradually the dreary reality of having to go to work and earn a crust began to rear its unwelcome head. Shortly before 7am Zoe’s phone vibrated on the bedside cabinet, a freakishly early text from Nigel informing staff that everyone was still expected to turn up as usual this morning. There had been no protestors left outside by the close of business yesterday, so unless that situation changed everyone was expected to carry out their duties as stipulated in their contracts. Nigel was the sort of man who bought porn mags so he could masturbate over the small print.
Although Nick’s wound seemed to be healing nicely it clearly still pained him. Zoe told him to stay in bed while she flitted about getting ready. By the time she was dressed he looked exhausted, so she told him to stay in bed while she had breakfast. If he was lucky she might bring him some coffee, she teased.
She went to the kitchen and got herself a bowl of cereal. As she started to eat it her mobile rang. Probably Nigel phoning to follow up his text, a practice he reserved for those ‘with a statistically lower attendance rate during periods of atypical activity,’ i.e. wasters like Zoe who’d see running out of staples as an excuse to bunk off for the day. No caller ID showed up on her mobile, but that didn’t mean anything. The work numbers were deliberately withheld so that nobody would ever be able to locate anyone they’d previously spoken to.
“Hello,” mumbled Zoe, her mouth still full of corn flakes.
“Is that Cassandra?”
She didn’t recognise the voice.
“Who’s this?”
“I saw your post on the internet.”
A rising terror gripped her throat.
“How did you get my number?”
“You didn’t reply to my emails so I traced your IP address. From there it was easy. If you know how.” There was a self-satisfied smile audible in his voice.
“Tell me who you are or I’m hanging up.”
“Please don’t do that, Zoe.”
Christ, he knows my name.
“Can we meet?” said the voice. “It may not be safe to talk on this line.”
“Who are you?”
“Call me Skyhawk.”
Zoe noted to herself that the man sounded youngish, maybe in his twenties. “I’m hanging up.” She spoke slowly to make sure no rogue emotion slipped into her voice. “If you phone me again I’ll call the police.”
“I can help,” the man pleaded. “Don’t you want to know why you’re different?”
Her finger hesitated over the disconnect button.
“I’m not,” she said. “I’m just like everyone else.”
She hung up. The phone rang again. This time she didn’t answer.
She paced the kitchen, plagued with doubts. What if this person really had known something?
He’s just a crank.
Probably nobody really knew what was really going on, she reasoned. After years spent working for the council she knew that most failures were due to incompetence rather than malice. She’d probably just been left off the dreaming rota because some alien administrator’s tentacle had slipped and pressed the wrong button when they were setting the whole thing up.
And even if there was a reason why she was different, what was she supposed to do about it? She was someone
who worried about meeting men, paying the mortgage and avoiding unnecessary contact with her work colleagues. She certainly wasn’t up to solving the world’s problems, not that many other people seemed to feel the dream actually was a problem.
On edge, she went back through to the bedroom with the promised coffee.
“Who was that?” asked Nick, taking a tentative first sip.
Zoe couldn’t have looked more guilty if she tried.
“Nobody. Just work.”
“Early.”
“I think the HR guy sleeps in the basement or something.” She ventured a nervous laugh. Nick winced as he shifted position. “Are you ok?”
“Yeah, it stings a little,” he said. “Do you mind if I stay here this morning? I just need to get some sleep.”
“As long as you’re still here when I get back.”
“Deal.”
He smiled at her, warm and content.
Once she got to the office things started getting weirder.
“We need to clarify our policy on dreaming,” said Overlord Alan.
Various people around the table nodded agreement with their boss. These inter-departmental meetings tended to involve a lot of nodding, especially from those who didn’t really understand what was going on. Which was everyone.
“Does anybody have any immediate thoughts?”
Zoe certainly did, but with uncommon diplomacy she kept them to herself.
“Don’t be shy,” said the Overlord. “It’s important we’re seen as taking the lead on this issue. We need to provide a non-partisan response to the concerns of the local community, which also reflects the broad demographic of the borough. And what’s more, we need to do it in a swift and efficacious way.”
More nodding.
Overlord Alan was technically only some relatively minor employee, Head of Facilities or some-such. But as the most senior member of staff who wasn’t signed off with long-term stress he’d become acting head of the whole organisation by default. He’d taken to his new role with relish, a bit like a bullied child at school who suddenly discovers he has superpowers. Unfortunately Alan’s entire management technique had been based around a hastily-booked weekend training scheme in Leeds entitled ‘Talk the Talk and Walk the Walk’.
No-nickname Martin raised his hand.
“Shoot.” Alan clicked his fingers and pointed at his minion.
“Why is it our problem?” asked Martin.
Everyone stopped fidgeting. In these meetings it wasn’t customary for people to do much more than nod, let alone question the orders being handed down from on high. Zoe wondered if she might be about to assign her first positive nickname. Straight-Talking Martin?
“It’s our challenge because we’re the council,” explained Alan patiently. “People look to us for guidance.”
“We never needed a dreaming policy before. We can’t control what goes on inside people’s heads,” said Soon-to-be-Unemployed Martin.
“Once upon a time we didn’t need a policy on racial discrimination either. Those days seem like the dark ages now we look back at them. Why, only twelve years ago this very council had no official line on disabled people.” Everyone tried very hard not to stare at Lopsided Peter. “This council looks to the future, not the past. Equal dreaming is here to stay.”
“But what’s the point of the policy?”
Everybody stared intently at their pens and paper. This was getting out of hand, nobody ever challenged the Overlord. Not because they were afraid of him – he was a little man who looked like an angry beaver when he lost his temper – but because it meant these interminable meetings would drag on even longer than necessary.
“The point of the policy is to clarify our position,” snapped Alan, as if explaining to a cold caller why he didn’t give a shit who his energy supplier is. “The important message to get across is that whatever people are feeling about the dream, they’ll be treated equally.”
“But not everybody’s experience of the dream is the same.” Zoe cocked her head, viewing Martin with newfound interest. “An insomniac is not going to dream as much as someone who gets ten hours sleep a night.”
“But in our eyes, there’s no difference.”
“There’s a world of difference! My son was teased at school because he’d woken up with a fever and missed half of Thursday’s dream. People are cruel and selfish, and no amount of stupid policies are going to change that.”
Martin fell silent, his arms crossed. Zoe viewed him with newfound respect, and not just because he’d articulated what she wished she’d been brave enough to say herself. Where had this surge of passion come from in a man she’d barely heard speak before? And was he really old enough to have a son? When he’d first shown up in the office she’d presumed he was the work experience kid. When he was still there two years later she’d realised that she may have been mistaken.
“I understand and respect your thoughts on this issue,” said Overlord Alan. “And it’s our job to help reassure people who may be feeling threatened by recent events.”
“By just telling them they’ll be treated equally?”
“The council’s role is to suggest a utopian vision of how we want dreaming in this borough to be viewed.” Zoe grudgingly respected the skill it must take to say these things without laughing or realising what a massive tit he sounded. “Unfortunately, life sometimes doesn’t live up to the standards we try and set. But if we don’t reach for the stars, we’ll spend our lives staring at the ground.”
Dismayed, Martin looked around the table for support. Zoe wanted to stand on the desk and nominate Martin as the official voice of reason. He was right. People are cruel to those who are different; she should know because she seemed to be different to everyone on the planet and it terrified her.
In the event, however, she just cleared her throat and avoided eye contact. Realising nobody was going to come to his defence, Martin sank his head.
God I’m a coward.
“So are we all happy to move forward with this policy?” smiled Alan. Most of the people around the table nodded, even though none of them could actually remember the bit where they’d formulated anything resembling a policy. “Zoe, can you draft a document outlining the key features of what we discussed?”
“Sure.”
“Good, I’ll dot the T’s and cross the I’s.” He sniggered, as if the people around the table hadn’t heard this affectation from him a million times before. “Peter, once I’ve given it the green light can you upload it to the website?”
“No problemo.”
“We need to get moving on this sharpish. Once the policy document is up and out there we’ll refer all future enquiries to it. I think that should take the heat out of this particular fire. Good job people.”
Zoe sat at her desk deciding which policy to adapt. She plumped for Gender Equality and opened the file on her computer. All it took was a quick cut and paste job, removing all references to ‘men or women’ and replacing them with ‘people who dream’.
Since her boss seemed blind to the fact that he’d just asked her to reinvent the wheel, Zoe used the opportunity to do a bit of private detective work on company time. She logged in to Cassandra’s email and fished around in the deleted messages folder. It didn’t take long to find the emails from Skyhawk.
‘We need 2 talk. U sound v. interesting. Please respond. Skyhawk.’
It sounded like the sort of bland response she used to get from socially abnormal men when she was doing online dating, no wonder she’d blanked it out. She opened another message.
‘Still waiting fr response. I need 2 know why u r different. Skyhawk.’
He, whoever he was, had sent a dozen other emails along the same lines. Zoe had wanted to put out feelers, but on her own terms.
He’s just some lonely internet weirdo wanting to talk to a girl. Nothing to worry about.
But she did worry, of course. If he could find her phone number then he could probably suss out her address too
. Hell, he even knew her real name. She’d often though that Facebook had taken all the art out of stalking, but maybe this guy was an old fashioned pro.
Martin came back into the office. He looked like he’d been having a little cry in the toilets. Zoe wanted to let him know that, despite appearances, she wasn’t as apathetic about what he’d said as everyone else.
“I didn’t know you had a son,” she said, trying to initiate a conversation.
“You never asked.” He shrugged and sat back at his desk.
Hey, I’m on your side, Zoe wanted to scream at him. But she didn’t.
She closed Cassandra’s email and spent some considerable time contemplating what she should do. To the outside world this mistakenly appeared as if she was playing Minesweeper on her antiquated computer.
The council’s new policy on equal dreaming was approved and on the website by 3pm. Half an hour later the protestors returned.
“I told you this would happen,” sighed Martin. “They wanted us to do something, not just tell them they’re all equal.”
“They’re not going to keep us in again, are they?” said Julie. Zoe wasn’t surprised she was concerned: if the siege lasted there was no question of who’d be first for the slaughter if it came to cannibalism. The rest of them could live off her for months.
Zoe peered out the window at the street below. She could see about twenty people milling about near the entrance area, and estimated their average age to be about three hundred. Hardly an imposing crowd. Behind her, Nigel strode into the tiny office with a sense of purpose he rarely exhibited. Times of civil disturbance was when HR really came into its own.
“You may be aware that there’s an incident in the reception area again. The police have been informed and are on their way.”
“What’s Alf doing?” asked Peter. “Surely this is the sort of thing he’s supposed to sort out.”
“At present nobody has been able to locate the security department.” Zoe immediately liked Alf more than ever. “I’ll keep you updated on events, but for your own safety I suggest you all remain at your desks. Just keep calm, and I’m sure it will all be over in no time.”
