The Queen of Yesterday

by Rob Kinsman

  “Of course I won’t,” said Skyhawk without a moment’s thought. His attitude was far too casual for Zoe’s liking.

  “I mean it. The police will want to know why you kept calling me.”

  “So I’ll lie to them. It would damage my investigation if others were to learn of you before the appropriate time.”

  She disliked his air of precocious superiority, the way he went round talking like he ran the CIA. Zoe wondered why he wasn’t out doing normal teenage things, like getting drunk and discovering he was repellent to the opposite sex.

  “I want you to go to the police,” said Zoe. She didn’t really believe he was responsible for what had happened to Sid, but it couldn’t hurt to be sure.

  “I can’t interface with the authorities.”

  “Why don’t you talk like a normal human being?”

  “Who wants to be normal?”

  Skyhawk sucked at his straw. It gurgled like an bath emptying.

  “My neighbour was murdered. If you didn’t do it then go and see them, clear your name.”

  “They might set me up because of what I know.”

  “Which is?”

  Skyhawk tapped his nose confidentially. “Quid pro quo, Doctor Lecter.”

  Zoe threw her head back and sighed into the air, making sure he saw her display of frustration. “What’s your real name?”

  “Skyhawk.”

  “Don’t start all that again.”

  “It’s safer this way. In case you’re captured.”

  “Who the fuck is going to capture me?” She didn’t wait to hear his answer. “Name. Now.”

  He shook his head, defiant. Zoe wanted to slap him with her Mega Drumstick. She stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get some sleep.”

  “But I’ve questions to ask you.”

  “Talk to the police. When you’ve done that, we’ll see.”

  She made sure that he stayed where he was while she left. Better safe than sorry. As it turned out she had nothing to worry about, within seconds of her moving away he was absorbed in eating her leftover food.

  When she was sure she wasn’t being followed Zoe hopped onto her train home. As the carriage roared through the tunnel she found that she was feeling no more reassured about her situation than before.

  She just managed to catch the last train to her parents’ village; London held no joy for her at the moment. If she was going to work out why this was happening to her then she figured she’d better go back to the beginning. Maybe she’d been born on ley lines, or her parents had offended the Gods or something.

  As the train sped through the countryside, Zoe couldn’t see anything in the window except her own reflection. She looked old and tired. Shifting position, she leant with her back to the window. Better to stare at the grotty carriage than face reality.

  At a table on the opposite side of the aisle, a young woman had drifted off and was having a bad dream. The snoring businessman a few seats behind her was having the exact same dream. Both of them shifted uncomfortably in their sleep, a storm raging behind their eyes. Zoe felt the side of her mouth curl up into a guilty smile. The rest of the world were having a party without her, of course she was going to feel a bit smug if someone had turned off the music and called the police.

  She closed her eyes and waited for the train to transport her home.

  Like everyone else in the world, the people on the train were sharing another disturbing vision of the forgotten castle.

  In the great hall the figures started to move out of the shadows. They were malnourished wretches, more creatures than men. They limped across the hall, desperate criminals trying to evade the brutal justice of the king. But there was no escape.

  The suits of armour animated, striding towards their prey. Whichever way the hunted turned, a figure of rusted steel was waiting. Swords were raised, ready to do their fatal work. The king, still an indistinct figure of smoke and shadow, watched the sport from his throne.

  As neck after neck was severed, several of the dreamers – floating helplessly overhead – felt the need to rush forward and help. But they had no form in this realm and were powerless to prevent the massacre.

  Finally, when it seemed like the killing would never end, the king spoke.

  “Bring the jester.”

  The mighty amber doors at the far end of the hall swung open and two knights entered, a pitiful figure slung between their arms. Death was a luxury the king’s mages had taken from him.

  The knights slung the broken figure to the ground in front of the king.

  “Speak,” demanded the king.

  The jester looked silently up at him, his eyes mad and staring.

  “Where is she?”

  The jester started to laugh. His mad cackle filled the hall. Enraged, the king rose to his feet. Yet still the jester continued, and no amount of beating would stop him.

  When she was a teenager Zoe had been glad of the small station in the village, a gateway to the great world beyond. Somehow it had survived the endless cuts and closures which had affected the rest of the country. Local wisdom suggested this was the result of secret handshakes in the corridors of power, although Zoe thought it more likely that nobody had noticed the insignificant little station was still there.

  She disembarked – the only person to do so at this late hour – and headed through the dark streets without fear. Unlike London this wasn’t the kind of place you’d get mugged if you went out at night with anything of value, like your kidneys. She walked slowly through the familiar roads, glad of the peace and quiet.

  As Zoe headed down Church Lane she noticed the stained glass of the chapel was still lit from within. She quickened her pace. Last week the village had decided that sleepovers were a good idea, by now they were probably building a wicker man. She wanted no part of it.

  But before she got far, something caught her eye in the churchyard. A small red light in the dark. The tip of a cigarette.

  She peered closer and eventually made out the unmistakably plump outline of the vicar, Arthur. He saw her and the light of the cigarette promptly vanished, presumably stamped out on the floor. Zoe could just make out Arthur’s silhouette in the moonlight, heading furtively back towards the church. A brief flash of light as the door creaked open and then closed. Arthur was gone.

  He was certainly behaving strangely; normally Arthur was the most welcoming of men. Perhaps he was just embarrassed that she’d caught him pretending to sleep at the slumber party. Or, and once the thought had its claws into her it refused to let go, did he know something?

  Despite her better judgement, Zoe headed towards the church. She gently tapped on the oak door, which seemed the polite thing to do. Her small hand made almost no sound against the heavy wood. She turned the oversized handle, and the door swung gladly open.

  The chapel itself was empty, save for Arthur. He was busying himself checking through the hymn books for any discarded rubbish. It seemed an unnecessary task for midnight on a week day.

  “Hello,” said Zoe.

  Arthur had the look of a man about to be arrested for a decades old murder.

  “Zoe. This is a surprise. I was just doing some essential church business.”

  The chapel looked so peaceful and quiet at night, free from the bustling crowds desperate to improve their social status / make sure they didn’t burn in hell for all eternity. Zoe had never really noticed how beautiful the building was before.

  “You’re avoiding me,” she said.

  Arthur laughed nervously.

  “You live in London. I can hardly help it.”

  “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “Insomnia. The curse of the thinking class.”

  “You were awake during the sleepover last week too.”

  He squinted to examine her face.

  “And so were you.”

  Zoe made a concerted effort not to let her discomfort show.

  “You pretended you’d dreamt
that night,” she said. “The things you told the others were vague and general. They weren’t about what had happened.”

  Arthur perched on the edge of a pew, his whole demeanour heavy and burdened.

  “What is important is the message people take from the dream for themselves. My interpretation doesn’t matter.”

  “That’s not how they see it.”

  “Then they’ve missed the point.”

  Zoe sat on the end of the adjacent pew.

  “Are you scared of it? The dream.”

  Arthur though before he answered, perhaps realising these weren’t the idle questions of one of his normal parishioners.

  “Of course. Anyone who isn’t afraid of something like this is a fool.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a message from God?”

  He exhaled slowly. Zoe had never seen him so sombre.

  “I see messages from God all around. I don’t need these grand gestures to know what he expects of me.”

  “Perhaps some people do.”

  “I think as many people find it frightening as they do hopeful. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Zoe was surprised to feel herself shudder. With one look it felt like he’d seen right inside her troubled soul. “You’ve known me almost my whole life,” she said. He nodded, wise and kind. “What’s wrong with me?”

  Arthur made them a cup of tea, and Zoe cried her eyes out. For possibly the first time in her life, she was completely honest. She admitted that at night she hadn’t seen the magical kingdom but had instead been in the company of royal owls and singing ferrets. She told him about Nick, the conman who’d stolen her heart. And the stranger who'd calmly pursued them down the street with calculated violence in mind. Finally she told him about Sid. Poor mad, crazy Sid. Arthur listened with the natural patience of a good man who wants to help.

  “Who else knows about this?” he asked, when she was done.

  “Mum knew I hadn’t dreamt on the first night, but then I told her I’d started. I don’t know if she really believes me, but she’ll pretend. Anything to stop people thinking there’s something wrong with me.” Arthur smiled wryly, recognising Ruth’s behaviour in her daughter’s words. “And there’s a man from the internet who knows.”

  “I’ve never heard a good story that started with those words.”

  Zoe’s surprised laugh sounded small and hollow in this cavernous space.

  “He said he could work out why all of this is happening.”

  “And do you believe him?” Zoe didn't answer. “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “I didn’t plan to, I didn’t even know I’d see you. But it’s driving me mad. I don’t know what to do, why this is happening to me. If all these things are related or if I'm just having the mother of bad weeks.”

  “I only wish I could do more to help. But I can’t tell you why this is happening any more than your friend from the internet can.” His eyes were glassy and sad; in that moment he could have been a hundred years old.

  “Why are you scared of sleeping?” asked Zoe.

  Arthur thought for a moment. Not about his answer, but about whether he could trust her. Over the years he must have heard so many secrets; Zoe wondered if he ever shared his own.

  “Nothing about this fits in with the way the Lord taught me to see the world.” He let the thoughts trickle slowly through. “I worry.”

  “About?”

  “Whether I got it wrong. All of it.”

  And finally it made sense to Zoe. This was a man of God who could feel the rug being pulled from under him. He was doubting his faith.

  “Maybe it will pass.” It was all Zoe could think of to say. It sounded so pathetically inadequate.

  They sat in silence for a long time.

  Even before her neighbour had ended up smeared across her best rug, Zoe had been convinced that her inability to have the dream had singled her out as the most unfortunate person in the world. But perhaps that was just because she was blind to the problems of those around her. Maybe everyone was lost in their own quiet wells of despair. Mistaking herself for the centre of the world wasn’t exactly a new pastime for Zoe.

  Eventually Arthur sat upright, regaining his composure.

  “Why do you think you don’t have the dream, Zoe?”

  “I don't know. I just don’t want to be left out. Not of something this big.”

  “What’s happening is a plague. People think the dream unites them, but it will be blamed for wars and unspeakable crimes in time, mark my words. Before it came there were people like me to offer moral guidance. We used our faith and knowledge of God to help others understand the world around us. Now everyone’s an expert. They can interpret the dream to mean any dreadful thing they want. You’re lucky – you have to take responsibility for what you do. I wish I was in your shoes.”

  Zoe’s parents were in bed when she finally got home. She left a note on the kitchen table saying, ‘I’m back. I’m asleep. Don’t disturb.’

  The feel of her own, familiar bed was an indescribable pleasure, but even that couldn’t help her wind down. She lay awake contemplating Arthur’s words, still uncertain if she was blessed or cursed.

  Ten

  In the morning Zoe came down to an empty house. The note she’d left had disappeared, replaced with a ‘Please Leave Your Room the Way You Found It’ sign her mother had stolen from a hotel and put to good use ever since. Her parents had left no clue about where they’d gone, which was just as well. There was only so much space left for other people’s madness in Zoe’s life right now, she thought she ought to leave some free for emergencies.

  The time was 10.22am, and Zoe was not only late for work but also in the wrong county. Aware of the urgency of the situation, she sat with a bowl of cornflakes and stared out the window.

  Her mind skipped and danced, trying to make sense of what Arthur had told her. Since the dream began she’d always felt that she was on the outside looking in. Arthur seemed to think this was a blessing, a chance for her to remain detached and free-thinking.

  Skyhawk, on the other hand, had suggested that her apparently unique inability to see the dream meant she was somehow at the centre of this whole mystery, although she struggled to believe this. If there really was one person at the root of what was happening then surely they’d be the one who created the original dream; the template, as it were. Right now they’d be wandering around, their subconscious soaking up fragments of their mundane daily life and turning it into the forgotten heart of a dead kingdom.

  Other than the fact that Zoe didn’t actually have the dream, the whole thing just felt wrong. The imagery – a mystical castle, knights, dead kings – just wasn’t the sort of thing that interested her. She hadn’t even bothered sitting through the Lord of the Rings movies once she’d realised they were longer than pregnancy.

  Skyhawk?

  The dream certainly seemed more up his street. She could easily imagine he was one of those weirdoes who spent their weekends dressing up as a goblin and battering other misfits with foam swords. It seemed to follow that his dreams would be of the rescue-the-elven-princess variety, but when Zoe had met him he’d seemed as perplexed by the whole business as everyone else.

  This was all idle speculation anyway. Zoe was assuming that the person responsible was someone she knew, and there was no reason for that to be the case. Regardless, it was a comforting fantasy to hold onto for one good reason: if the culprit was close at hand then maybe she could do something about it. A week cut off from the rest of society was bad enough, but what if it turned into a month or a year? Hell, Jack Nicholson had only been isolated in that creepy hotel for few weeks and he’d started trying to chop his family up with an axe.

  Zoe gave up trying to make sense of it all. She checked the time – she really was going to be very late – and settled down for some daytime television. The next twenty minutes were blissfully spent watching an angry talk show host hollering at someone who claimed they’d been sleeping with the m
issing queen behind their girlfriend’s back.

  Zoe's mobile rang. It was DI Kent.

  “I just wanted to let you know that we’ve spoken to the individual who made the nuisance calls to your mobile.”

  “Oh.” Zoe remembered to feign surprise. “How did you find him?”

  “He came into the station.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t give you that information.”

  “I just want his name.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Did he say why he’d called me?”

  “Apparently he’s sexually obsessed with you.”

  Oh, bloody terrific. “Do I know him?”

  “No. He claims he saw your photo on the council website, and it caught his eye.” Zoe had always hated her falsely grinning picture on the misleadingly-titled ‘Happy to Help’ section of the site. “Apparently you remind him of a teacher he used to have a crush on. He apologised, said he wouldn’t do it again. If he does call you, let me know straight away.”

  “Do you think he was anything to do with Sid’s murder?”

  “His fingerprints don’t match any at the scene.”

  “Oh. Right.” With a heavy heart she realised where this was going. “Have you got anywhere searching for Nick?”

  “No.” Of course not. He could be anywhere, anyone by now. “We also haven't found out anything about the man you said followed you with a knife.”

  Zoe was sure she wasn't being any more paranoid than usual, but she could swear she heard Kent over-emphasise the word 'said'. Almost as if she didn't believe Zoe's story in the first place. Zoe wanted to tell her that she was busy juggling enough lies as it was, she didn't want to be accused of faking one of the few things she was actually telling the truth about. Fortunately, she had enough good sense not to try and argue the finer points of this with the suspicious detective.

  “There’s something else,” said Kent. “I suppose you saw him last night.”

  The blood rushed to Zoe’s cheeks.

  “Who?”

  “The deceased, of course.” It took Zoe a few moments to realise she wasn’t doing anything resembling speaking. “In the dream,” nudged Kent.