Dreamrider

by Barry Jonsberg

  The school was a network of stairs and walkways, snaking along the outside walls. Guard rails, as high as my shoulder, stopped anyone falling. On a hunch, I took the first set of stairs I came to. I found myself on a walkway that ran past C Block. Directly ahead, another flight of stairs led up to D Block. Yellow security lights glowed above the stairs. The sense of being watched grew stronger. I knew someone was up there, tracking me. I stopped and craned my neck. The latticework of walkways and rails stretched towards the blackness of the sky. Plenty of places to hide. I watched for shifting shapes within shadows, but couldn’t see anything. I took another step forward.

  I’m not sure if it was the movement or the noise that alerted me first. I caught a scuttling flash of movement down to my right. At the same time there was a cry of ‘There!’ I took a halfstep towards the railings and glanced down. A boy was running from the hall, his arm outstretched, one finger pointing towards me. Then more kids emerged from the shadows. Two, three, four boys converging on the staircase. I couldn’t make out their faces. One had a red baseball cap. Another had red hair.

  I glanced along the walkway. I had no time to get back to the stairs, let alone down them, before they’d be streaming up. I cursed myself for coming here, a place where there was nowhere to run. I looked up again. It was the only place to go and I had wasted enough time. Already I could hear the pounding of feet on metal stairs. I pushed my hood down and ran towards the flight of stairs leading up to D Block.

  Even as I raced up the stairs I knew my choices were limited. Face them or get off the building. They were faster than me – outrunning them wasn’t an option. There were doors leading off the walkways into classrooms, but they would probably be locked. There wasn’t even time to check. As I ran I glanced around to see if I could double back. Each level had two sets of stairs, one at each end. If they followed my exact path, maybe I could get to the level I had just left and from there to the ground. But they had split up. Two were racing along C Block, below and slightly behind me. The others had reached the bottom of the stairs I had just taken. They were covering all exits. Driving me upwards.

  Sweat was pouring off me, dripping into my eyes, making them sting. My vision was blurred. There was no more shouting, just the clang of shoes on metal and the harsh sound of my own breathing. I got to E Block, but my legs were heavy, muscles binding and locking. I couldn’t keep this up for much longer. I had to make a decision.

  I made it to the end of the walkway and stopped. The running feet behind me were getting closer. They were on the same level, half-way along. Jamie Archer was leading. I could see the set of his jaw, fists pumping up and down as he sprinted towards me. No time to think.

  I climbed up the metal bars of the guard rail, next to the stairs. There were four bars. I stood on the top and steadied myself with my left hand against the stair rail. I stooped to keep my balance, swaying slightly as I centred my feet. The bar was hard and narrow under my shoes. There was only blackness beneath and a dizzying drop. Slowly I raised my head. Only seconds remained. The clatter of running feet behind me was loud. I could sense Jamie reaching out for me as I bent, took a deep breath, and pushed away from the bar, sailing up and out into the darkness.

  My hands grabbed the edge of the concrete ledge and clung on as my body pounded into the wall. It felt like a giant hand had slammed into my stomach, punching the air out. I closed my eyes as a wave of nausea spread through me.

  The gap between the buildings was not great. Less than two metres, probably. But I hadn’t been able to take a run up. It was a standing jump and the roof of the other building was slightly above my head. Perhaps the adrenalin helped. Now I hung by my fingers down the wall face. Jamie could almost touch me. Almost. I could hear him and the others behind me. Maybe they were willing me to fall. Maybe they were stunned by what I’d done. But there was no shouting, no insults. All I could hear was a faint rush of air, their panting breaths and my own heartbeat.

  My arms started to ache. I tried to pull myself up before the pain robbed my muscles of strength. I opened my eyes and saw only the blur of grey concrete. My feet scrabbled at the wall, but couldn’t find any grip. If I could hook an elbow over the parapet I’d have a chance. But my body was a dead weight. I could feel the veins on my neck stand out. My face was slick with sweat and my hands were clammy. I held my breath and strained upwards, willing the muscles of my arms to one final effort. For one brief moment, I thought I’d made it. My right elbow scraped the top of the wall. I was millimetres from hooking it over, when my arms collapsed. One moment they were bunched, the next I was at full stretch again. But this time I had nothing left. My fingers, slippery with sweat, were losing their grip. I was seconds from falling, with no strength to do anything about it.

  I’ve read that when you are about to die, you feel calm and peaceful. That didn’t happen. All I felt was a surge of panic that bloomed and filled me. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t breathe. There was no room for anything other than the rush of adrenalin. My mind focused on slick fingers and their slow slide. I felt no pain. Not then. A hard knot of determination kept fingers locked and everything else at bay. Time was almost frozen. Small frames that passed with painful slowness.

  The hands gripped my wrists, just as my fingers loosened. Maybe I had a second or two left, maybe as many as ten. Impossible to tell. I felt the hands, cool and hard, and suddenly that dark force of gravity weakened. I pushed my feet against the side of the wall and they found traction. My left elbow locked over the parapet, then my right. Hands grabbed the neck of my cloak. I was hauled up and over and onto the flat, safe surface of the roof. My breathing started again. I was tearing at the air, forcing great gulps into my lungs. My fingers were cramped and knotted.

  It took me a few minutes to recover enough to get to my feet. Martin was standing there. He was smiling and shaking his head.

  ‘Call yourself a Dreamrider?’ he said. ‘You’ve got no idea, mate. No idea at all.’

  I flexed my fingers. Feeling was returning. I could tell from the pain. My arms hung limply. I stared at Martin. He didn’t have a hair out of place. My breathing showed no signs of slowing.

  ‘And what was that performance with Jamie?’ he continued. ‘Breaking the fingers on his left hand? His left hand? Well, top marks for stupidity, mate. I mean, cool. I give you that. “Sinister.” That was a nice touch. But you’ve got to learn, Michael. No pity. Because pity results in situations like this. Jamie has a good hand. Now he’s going to use it. And do you think he’ll take pity on you? You blew it, mate.’

  I couldn’t think. His voice washed over me. Somewhere deep down, I knew what his words meant. But I wasn’t ready to face that. Not quite yet. I pushed myself up straight and flexed my arms. I felt weak.

  ‘Good job I’m here to teach you,’ said Martin. ‘I told you. I told you I’d be here to help you. We’re almost there, Michael.’

  ‘Where’s Leah?’ I croaked. ‘If you’ve hurt her . . .’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Martin. He snapped the words out. ‘I wouldn’t hurt Leah. She’s a part of me as much as a part of you. She’s safe, okay? Now, if you’ve had enough of a rest, I think it’s wise to move on. There’s company on its way and it’s not friendly.’

  He pointed behind me and I turned. Jamie and the others had left the walkway. They were roaming the stairs, scattered around the building. Searching for a way across. I knew that it was only a matter of time before they found it.

  I ran across the metal sheeting of the roof. Martin was ahead of me and I tried to keep up with him. But my legs were tired, my lungs straining and the gap between us widened. I couldn’t work out where we were. I was confused and the darkness was profound, the sky heavy with clouds. Rain spun into my eyes. Martin became a moving silhouette, a darker wedge against a black backdrop. My muscles were burning again, but I kept my legs moving.

  I didn’t see the wall until I was right up against it. I locked my feet against the slick surface of the roof an
d planted my hands in front of me as it loomed up. Even so, it was a painful blow when I collided with it. Exhaustion flooded through me. I leaned against the wall, head bowed, muscles twitching. Over the sound of my own gasping I heard the drum of urgent footsteps. Getting closer. I forced myself away from the wall and moved along the roof, to my right. There was no sign of Martin now.

  I wasn’t prepared for the lights. I turned a corner and there was another roof below me. It was ablaze. I stood for a few seconds, blinking, before I realised it wasn’t fire. The roof of the hall. The Social. I heard excited voices, the familiar thud of the bass. Coloured lights shone along the wall below me, to my right. Three or four skylights glowed with pulses of light at evenly spaced intervals in the dark expanse of corrugated iron.

  The drop to the hall roof was about two metres. I had nowhere else to go. I could hear footsteps closing. I stepped up onto the narrow ledge and jumped. When the metal sheeting hit me, pain shot through my left leg. I fell heavily to the side, scrambled to my feet and limped away. The noise was louder here. The roof vibrated to the music and the yells of students. I passed one of the skylights and peered down. It was a twenty metre drop. I was above the stage area. The DJ was bent over his machine. The number of dancers had swelled now. A sea of heads swayed.

  I passed two more skylights. This time I didn’t look down. My gaze was fixed on the last skylight. It seemed important to get there. My progress had slowed, the pain in my leg getting worse. Wherever I looked there was only roof. No stairs, no exit. Nowhere to hide. Five metres short of the last skylight, I stopped. Above the noise of the Social I heard the clatter of feet landing on metal. I turned.

  The boys were at the far end of the roof, fifty or sixty metres away. Jamie Archer was in the centre. The other boys fanned out to the right and left. They walked slowly towards me. I backed away, my feet inching across the roof. I kept my eyes locked on the semi-circle of approaching boys. Only when I scuffed up against the frame of the skylight did I stop.

  I felt hands take mine. I glanced quickly to each side. Martin was on my left, Leah on my right. We stood there and watched Jamie and his mates close in. They were forty metres away now. Jamie was smug, lazily confident.

  ‘You’re dead, Terny,’ he said and his voice, though soft, carried.

  5 .

  Forty metres.

  ‘You made us in your own image, Michael,’ said Leah. ‘And we’re here to help you.’

  Martin chuckled.

  ‘Bit of a Scrabble buff, eh, Michael?’ he said. ‘Move those tiles around and Michael Terny becomes Leah McIntyre, Martin Leechy. Like magic. I reckon I got the worst deal, though. Leechy? Something that clings and sucks and has no backbone? You’ve got to admit, mate, that isn’t me. But I guess there’s only so many variants you can make out of the letters of your name. I forgive you.’

  Jamie was in no hurry. He knew, as I did, that there was nowhere for me to go. Beyond the last skylight was another ten metres of roof and then a high, featureless wall. He strolled, arms swinging gently. I tried to focus on his left hand, but it was lost in shadows. He kept his eyes fixed on mine.

  ‘You never mention your step-mum’s last name.’ Martin’s voice was calm, controlled. No sense of urgency. ‘Mary what, Michael? I don’t have your skill at anagrams, but here’s an educated guess. Cheltine? Enelitch? Enelitch sounds Eastern European. Not that it matters, of course. Three of us. Born of your hopes and fears. Quite a feat, Michael. Keeping the three of us close, satisfying your needs. What a trinity!’

  ‘I don’t need you, Martin,’ I said.

  He laughed. ‘You’re wrong. You need me most of all. I mean, Leah’s a lovely girl. Gentle, kind. But she’s not a lot of help in this situation, is she? When things get nasty. “Turn the other cheek, Michael.” “Let’s save the world, Michael.” And Mary’s a sweetheart. I’d be the first to admit it. A sweet heart. But me, I’m your reality check. The others are good at touchy-feely. I’m the one who deals with boys with ice in their eyes and violence on their minds.’

  ‘Still talking to yourself, Wrenbury?’ said Jamie.

  Thirty metres.

  I could feel the lip of the skylight against my heels. Leah gave my hand a firm squeeze but didn’t say anything. Maybe Martin was right. I couldn’t see how she could help me now. But it felt good to know she was there. Martin’s grip was firmer. He was hurting my hand.

  ‘I said I was going to show you. Here, at the Social.’ Martin’s voice held no hint of anxiety. ‘The Dream. That’s the key. Power. How to wield it, not just when you’re asleep, but all the time. All the time, Michael. And you were so close. That idea about the Möbius strip. Twisting the two planes so they connect. That was good. Clever.’

  Twenty metres.

  ‘But you haven’t got the trick yet, have you? To travel between those two worlds whenever you feel like it. Yet the solution’s been staring you in the face all this time. Literally staring you in the face. Do you know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘I think you do. I know you do. How could I know if you don’t? The problem is, you’ve buried it, Michael. It’s time to do some digging.’

  Ten metres.

  ‘You’re a crazy bastard, Wrenbury.’

  ‘Look behind you, Michael. Look down.’

  I did. The glass filled my vision. Framed by a metal edge the glass was dark, but shapes were moving deep beneath the surface. The beat of the bass was like a distant ticking. Colours bloomed gently at the edges. Martin’s voice seemed to come from a very long way away.

  ‘What did you call it, Michael? A gateway from the Dream to the real world. But you didn’t step through it. You watched. Just like you watched when your mother died. You didn’t have the guts then and you’ve never had the guts since.’

  A flash of yellow bathed the corner of the glass and then a seed of red. I knew what would happen. The colours would explode, fill the glass. And just before they did, I’d see what was there, beneath the surface. Any moment now. I tore my eyes from the glass, looked over my shoulder.

  Five metres.

  Martin’s voice continued. Goading, pricking me towards that final twist of greatness. ‘But when you’re through, the planes connect. The loop complete. Fixed. And who knows? This time you could stop the flames. Maybe your mother doesn’t have to die. The Dreamride, Michael. Forever. Where you can make the world as you want it.’

  The colours grew. It was slow at first. It’s always slow at first. Then they mushroom, explode. Jamie’s arm was slow, too. His fist traced an arc through the air, slicing the night. And then down. Picking up speed. Mushrooming speed. I ducked, came up under the slice of the punch. I grabbed Jamie, hugged him like a lover, my arms locked against his back, my face close to his. I didn’t need to turn. His movement took us. I felt my feet leave the floor and then the glass giving, the explosion of noise and colour, bathing us in fire.

  We fell, like angels.

  I made that final twist. Jamie’s face was beneath me. I could see his eyes. There was no fear in them. Just deep bewilderment. Then the crack as we hit, the crash of a collapsing cave. And another crack, not loud, but final. We lay on the floor, me and him. No other sounds. His face was pale and freckled. His acne stood out like sparks, his neck twisted at a strange angle beneath the fire of his hair. There was nothing in the eyes now.

  As I kissed him gently on the cheek, the pain bloomed within me. Along my arm and leg. It took away the light.

  There is something wrong with the light.

  I focus on the people who float around me. Some have names attached to them. Others don’t. There are people in white. They drift in and out. They control the pain. Making it worse and, once or twice, getting it to fade. Not entirely. I hug the pain to me. I see again the glass and the colours. I can’t remember what it means. Faces appear sometimes. They swim into vision. I can see their eyes. Most times, there is nothing in them except curiosity. No emotion. It gets dark for a while.
/>
  There are faces from a long time ago. I remember. Mr Atkins. His mouth moves but if there is any sound it is sucked up before it reaches me. My arm and my leg are still and the pain has nearly gone. And so is Mr Atkins. He is there one moment. I see the whiteness of the ceiling framing his face. Then he’s gone. Like a vanishing trick. Instead there is a stain on the ceiling. It’s shape resembles a map of Australia. I stare at it. I have something important to do, but I can’t remember what it is.

  Miss Palmer is there. She has a kind face. I can’t hear what she is saying, but I listen to her eyes. There used to be fear there. I remember. Fear of me. Now, I don’t know exactly. It might be pity. The stain returns and is replaced by Dad. I watch his face. His nose has a grid of broken veins. Like the maps we used to draw of river systems in a school a long time ago. His breath is sour and there’s fear in his eyes. I can’t mistake that. It makes me feel good to know he’s scared of me. He should be. He should be. But I don’t know why.

  It’s quiet now. And dark. I can’t see the stain. I’m lying in a bed but I can’t move my head. There are straps over my legs and chest. I feel them as a dark pressure. If I swivel my eyes as far as I can I see a metal rail on each side of me. Just enough light for that, but no more. I’m tied down. Locked in. My body can’t move. Not yet. But they can’t tie my mind down. They can’t lock that in. Memories are coming back to me.

  It’s almost completely dark now. I can’t even see the ceiling. But I hear. I can hear fine. And I can think fine. Mary is sitting at the foot of my bed. I know it’s her. I don’t need eyes for that. She doesn’t say anything. Nothing at all. But she doesn’t need to. I know she’ll always be here for me. I feel that in the pressure at the end of the bed. No words needed.

  An image sits behind my eyes. A strip of paper, twisted and joined. Stapled. In my mind I trace the journey over the plane. One plane now, where there used to be two. I go round and round. One to the other and there is no difference. I know what I can do. It’s all clear now. I feel the power within me. Waiting to be released. Waiting for me to use it.