by Helen Harper
‘Indeed. I keep forgetting. Do you know, we’ve never had anyone make their first apparation at your age before? Not that I’m suggesting you’re old...’
I note the speculative gleam in his eyes and laugh. ‘Of course not.’
He holds out his hand. ‘Ask anyone in the town about me. I’m one of the good guys.’
Every cell in my body is screaming at me to turn tail and run. Instead I place my hand in his. ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
I’m half-expecting Effrayant to follow us but when the door slams shut behind us, I realise that it’s just me and the Mayor. If I’d been hoping for a sign of any mares, I’m sadly disappointed. We’re in a long, narrow filing room with not so much as a sugar cube in evidence.
‘Ashley shouldn’t have taken you to the Bubble but I can’t really punish her for it. She’s very well-liked. It has rather forced my hand, however, when I’d hoped to ease you in more gently.’
I’m struck by his choice of words about Ashley but I focus on the important part instead. ‘Ease me in to what?’
‘This.’ He walks over to a cabinet and pulls open a drawer. Inside are cards after cards after cards. Using the edge of his thumb and forefinger, he pinches one and slides it out. ‘8423,9214. Those are the coordinates that correspond to the door number.’
‘You mean in the Bubble?’
‘Yes.’ He reads out. ‘Jones, Alan. Born Ipswich, UK, 1969. Engineer.’
I stare at him. ‘Find that door and you’ll find Alan Jones?’
The Mayor smiles. ‘You’ll find his dreams anyway.’ He replaces the card and points to another cabinet. ‘These are the latest acquisitions.’ He takes out the first card and licks his lips. ‘We found this one yesterday. A young up-and-coming backbencher.’
I start. ‘A politician?’
‘Yes. Labour – not that it matters at the moment. But he’ll be in a position of power one of these days. And we’ll be able to see into his head.’
I feel sick. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Imagine knowing what the government is planning in advance. Any government. If there are plans for an invasion or a military strike, you could inform the victims in advance. You’d save lives. In fact, we’ve done that in the past. How do you think so many terrorist plots are foiled? We see what those bastards are dreaming and we know what they’re going to do next. Of course, we can’t find all of them but I have a lot of people working on tracking the doors and creating these cards. It’s amazing what you can discover.’
He makes a convincing argument but the potential for misuse is terrifying. Forget CCTV cameras, phone hacking and Orwell’s Big Brother. This is snooping on a whole new level.
I wonder whether I’m any different for wandering into dreams in a similar fashion. I tell myself that I am; I’m not deliberately seeking people out, not to manipulate their real lives.
‘It’s hard though,’ the Mayor adds. ‘There are a lot of people out there and we can’t track them all. There are the old myths about dreamweavers, of course...’ I stiffen and he gives me a sudden, hard look. ‘A dreamweaver can change the fabric of the mind. Apparently.’
‘Sounds silly,’ I say, my mind racing back to Dante’s accusations.
‘You’re right. They’re probably myths. In the absence of dreamweavers, however, having a few mares around to send out and create nightmares...’ He laughs. ‘Not that we would. I’m as much one for animal rights as you clearly are.’
He’s still watching me carefully and I suddenly realise where all of this is leading. The Mayor also suspects me of being a dreamweaver. It’s obviously something to do with me only just showing up here in the Dreamlands despite my advanced age.
Regardless of his terrorism-foiling argument, I can’t see how he means well with his dream-mapping project. And it’s pretty bloody obvious why he wants the mares.
‘You could come and join us,’ he says smoothly.
I demur. ‘I don’t think this is for me.’
‘It’ll be better for you if you do.’
There’s something about his tone that puts me on edge. ‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Not if we’re going to be friends. You don’t want to cross me.’
I hold my ground. ‘I thought you were one of the good guys?’
‘Oh, but I am, Ms Lydon. And I have a lot of power, here and in the real world. Right now, I’m the only one controlling what dreams can be seen. Work with me and we can do a lot of good.’
‘You’re not taking the mares because you want to do good,’ I say softly.
His face twists. I bunch my fists. I’m not afraid of him.
Just then, I feel my whole body being tugged. I’m waking up. Goddamnit. I let out a howl of frustration that sounds both in the Dreamlands and my bedroom. I slam my fists down on my mattress and sit up. On the one hand, I’m amazed that I was mentally and emotionally strong enough to confront the Mayor; on the other hand, I’m bitterly angry that I couldn’t see it through. There’s something rotten going on and I’m going to find out what.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and push back my hair. Suddenly, I freeze. The Mayor. He called me Ms Lydon. All I’ve ever told anyone in the Dreamlands is that I’m called Zoe. How does he know my last name?
Chapter Eleven
Life is an unfoldment, and the further we travel the more truth we can comprehend. To understand the things that are at our door is the best preparation for understanding those that lie beyond.
Hypatia
I feel like I’m dying. Lights flash in front of my eyes and my chest is tight. I can’t breathe. Any sense of coherence has flown. I want to run and hide but my legs won’t work, though they spasm and jerk. I’m sure I’m going to throw up. Bile rises into my mouth. I choke and claw at my throat with trembling fingers. My stomach is empty – nothing more comes up. My face is flushed. One second I want to lash out, to beat down my invisible attackers; the next second I can think only of hiding. I’m seized with paralysing fear. They’re going to come for me and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to...
I think I passed out.
I stand up on shaky legs and make it to the bathroom. I splash my face with cold water and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look like a mad woman. There are red marks all over my neck and raised welts where my fingernails dug into my flesh. That attack was the worst yet.
I stumble downstairs and check the front door is still securely locked. I test each window three times. Only when I’m fully satisfied do I flick on the kettle to make a mug of hot, sweet tea. My hand lingers over the sugar cubes and for a moment I’m distressed by the thought of Pegasus tied up and bleeding. I don’t even know that it was Pegasus who was captured but it doesn’t make any difference. I squeeze my eyes shut until the kettle boils and try to regain my equilibrium.
When the tea is finally ready I gulp it down, even though it scalds the inside of my mouth. The sugar helps. When my breathing is under control, I go to the computer.
I don’t know what to look for. I press my temples and think; somewhere there has to be answers. Finally, I click on the link I saved to the Somnolence forum. The password request blinks at me.
I think about what Dante and the Mayor called me. Dream weaver. I bite my lip and try it. Access denied. I stare at the screen. Maybe it wasn’t dream weaver, maybe it was dream weevil. It sounds ridiculous but I try it anyway, feeling foolish when I’m denied access again. No. Dante definitely said dreamweaver. I think, then I take out the space. Dreamweaver. My finger stays poised over the return bar as I consider it. Eventually I press down and, almost immediately, my screen goes black.
For a heart-stricken moment I think I’ve inadvertently downloaded a virus but a second later the screen returns to normal. Except this time, instead of the password request box, there’s a message board. So the forum is something to do with the Dreamlands after all. I start reading.
B52: AH h
as gone. Just today.
Robocop: OMG. Why? What does it mean?
B52: Dunno. New statue in place.
Tam: Who?
B52: You won’t believe me if I tell you.
Robocop: ...? Come on!
Tam: Tell us!
B52: Salib.
I almost forget to breathe. It’s all connected, I just don’t know how.
Tam: M must be shitting a brick.
Robocop: His days are numbered. I told you.
Tam: Does D know?
B52: Haven’t seen him.
Robocop: D? You there?
Tam: He’s never here. Forget about him.
There’s no response. I check the timestamp. Two days ago – right after the statue changed. AH has to be Albert Hall. I wonder whether M is the Mayor. Could D be Dante? I scroll further down to a different day’s posts.
Tam: New girrrrrrrl!
Bluesky: Teen?
Tam: No. Adult. Twenties, I think.
Robocop: BS.
Tam: I’m not lying.
D: True. Met her yesterday. Not outlier.
Bluesky: Twenties? No way. Is she pretty?
D: If you like that sort of thing.
I frown. D is definitely Dante. I fold my arms across my chest, telling myself I’m not hurt by his dismissive words. I continue reading message after message. Most seem to be focused on M and what can be done to oust him from power. Interestingly, Dante advocates caution and the others defer to him.
I’m about to scroll down again when the top right-hand corner of the screen blinks, alerting me to a new message. Someone is posting. Excited, I flick back to the top. I’m not sure if I’ll let them know I’m present, especially not after Dante’s accusations, but the idea that someone is typing here as I read sends a thrill down my spine.
D: Shut down. This isn’t safe.
I tense, staring at the screen. Sixty seconds later, the message board is no longer there and my virtual self is forced out. I click on the bookmark to refresh it but all I get is an error message. When I track back to the website that originally sent me, the link has vanished. This is because of me; I asked Dante about the website and he thinks I’m some sort of spy so he’s closed it. He may even have seen me watching. I’ve been an idiot. If he knows about computers, he may be able to track my IP address. Now I don’t just have to worry about the Mayor knowing who I am; Dante might be able to find me in real life.
This time I don’t panic quite so much. Maybe my previous panic attack was so severe there’s no oil left in that particular tank. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful for it.
There’s just one more search I need to complete. There might be no trace of the mysterious Mr Salib in the area but I’m not entirely out of options. I should have thought about it before – after all, my mother had mentioned that he was Maltese but sounded Glaswegian. That is incongruous enough to send up red flags. It takes me all of twenty seconds to discover that Salib is Maltese for cross.
I massage my shoulders. On the eastern fringe of the town there is an old cemetery, high above the sea. I don’t think anyone’s been buried there for decades, not least because it was partially destroyed during the Second World War when a German bomber mistook it for the town’s gasworks. I went there several times as a child – there’s something deeply romantic and yet painfully tragic about old gravestones. It’s not the gravestones that are giving me pause now though – it’s the memory of the ramshackle building towards the back of the cemetery and the Maltese cross inlaid into the stone above its entrance.
I’m not sure I have any choice now about visiting it. It helps that I don’t feel safe within these four walls, not with the Mayor knowing who I am and my mistake in not masking my visit to the Somnolence page. But I’ve not been outside for eighteen months and if I step into the world, there’s no knowing what might happen. I’m not sure I can do it.
I start getting a bag together, not an easy task because I rarely use one these days. I root around in the spare room wardrobe and, when I find one it smells musty. A tiny spider scuttles across the once bright fabric.
I shake the bag then place some warm clothes inside in case I need to change. I add a torch, a bottle of water and a box of matches. I think some more and include the wrench I keep under the sink for plumbing emergencies, though not because I think I’ll be called upon to fix any leaky pipes. I throw in some nuts and a few bananas for energy. Some rope would be handy – I’m not sure why but every adventure story I’ve ever read has included rope. Unfortunately I don’t have any.
I heft the bag. It’s not too heavy and shouldn’t slow me down if I need to run. The thought of sprinting terrifies me. I might have done it a few times in the Dreamlands but I’ve been stuck indoors in the real world. My limbs are not going to be used to that kind of exertion. However, I open the small cupboard at the foot of the stairs and search for my old trainers. There’s still dirt ingrained in the soles from the last time I used them and a wave of nostalgia ripples through me. I pull them on, lace them tightly then find my old coat and shrug it on.
I take a step towards the door, and another and another. My legs are quivering and it takes everything I have to move them forward. Paper bag, I think suddenly. I’ll need a paper bag in case I hyperventilate. I go into the kitchen to find one, folding it up neatly and placing it in my pocket. Then I walk slowly back towards the door.
When I reach it, I simply stand and stare at it. Once I’m sure I’m not about to pass out, I unfasten the first lock. My fingers fumble and I pause to wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs.
I inch my way down, unbolting as I go. By the time I get to the bottom lock – the last one – my heart is thudding against my ribcage and blood is roaring in my ears. I swallow hard. I can do this; I have to do this. I slide back the lock and straighten up. Pinching my fingertips, one after the other, I start to hum. It’s a nonsense tune but it helps me to feel better. I concentrate on breathing, expanding my lungs and exhaling. When I’m sure I’m okay, I put my hand on the doorknob and twist.
Outside is the same as it always is. The oak tree is still there, majestic and noble. The path hasn’t changed. There are no cars and no people – just number twenty-five’s Labrador barking while a child laughs and shouts in the back garden. A light breeze drifts in, lifting the edges of my hair. It smells fresh and clean. It’s a beautiful day, although not the blinding sunshine of the Dreamlands; here it’s a softer light, and there are clouds passing lazily across the sky. It’s a day for being outdoors.
I raise my right leg. It hovers across the threshold, half in and half out. I focus on my breathing. ‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ I mumble. ‘There’s nothing scary out there.’
There’s a flash of movement and I throw my body backwards into the hall. I hear a meow and pick myself up, realising it is the Chairman who is sitting in the middle of the path and regarding me quizzically. I move back to the door, keeping my eyes trained on him.
‘It’s like ripping off a plaster,’ I tell him. ‘Need to do it quickly with no messing around.’ That’s easy to say. My feet are suddenly too heavy to move.
The Chairman, bored now, begins rolling around on his back. I count to ten in my head.
And I do it. I step over the porch and stand outside in the sun. My legs don’t give way and I don’t faint, although there’s a slight queasiness in my stomach and my pulse has speeded up. The sunshine warms my skin. This is okay. I can do this.
My eyes are still on the Chairman. He’s stopped rolling around now and is staring at me in surprise – not that I blame him. ‘Hey, kitty,’ I say shakily. I walk towards him.
He bounds up to me and snakes round my legs. A deep throaty purr buzzes from his body and I smile. I glance back at my house and realise I’ve left the door wide open. Rolling my eyes, I go back and close it. That’s when the panic really hits. My throat starts to close up and pins and needles prickle my skin.
‘Goddamnit,’ I hiss.
I pull out my k
eys and try to lock up. It doesn’t matter what I do though, I can’t get any of the keys into any of the locks because my hands are shaking so much. Then a door bangs from across the street. I look over my shoulder and see Mr Reynolds, the offshore worker who lives there with his wife and kids. He’s staring at me with his mouth wide open.
It’s too much. I jerk open the door and rush back inside, slamming it shut behind me. Without thinking, I fasten every lock again, then back away to my favourite step where I can sit and watch the door. Epic fail.
Dropping my bag on the floor beside me, I set my chin. Daytime is too much. Everything’s too wide and too open. There are too many people around. If I can wait until evening and head out under the cover of darkness, things will be much better. It’s not procrastination – it’s being sensible.
***
I should sit down at the computer again and do some work; Jerry will be starting to wonder what’s wrong with me. But I can’t blithely get on with coding when one of the mares is suffering out in the Dreamlands. If I’m going to be out all night at the cemetery, I should get some sleep now. Maybe I can find the mare on my own and free her.
I loosen the laces on my trainers but I don’t take them off. Instead, I lie down on my bed and close my eyes. It’s not long since I last slept but if I calm down, I should be able to send myself into a doze. I try some of my meditation techniques and most of my tension drains away, but it’s a long time before I finally drift off.
The moment I’m in the forest again with my ears prickling, I set off. I don’t want to waste any time. I stay alert; I have no desire to bump into Dante. I’m becoming more adept at moving swiftly through the trees and I make good time. It’s not long before I reach the first of my marked trees.
‘Zoe from the quiet lands,’ says a familiar voice to my right.
I blink. I’d almost forgotten about Lilith. I don’t particularly want to see her again, though, and talking to her will only hold me up.
