by Helen Harper
‘Ms Lydon,’ her voice says drily. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Unfortunately, I don’t yet have answers for you regarding the old man.’
‘Salib,’ I say distractedly, ‘his name was Salib.’
There’s a moment of silence before she speaks. ‘I don’t suppose you want to tell me how you know that?’
‘Later,’ I mutter. ‘I don’t think knowing his name will help you find out much about him anyway.’
‘Why do I get the feeling you have some other reason for calling?’
‘There’s a doctor, in Aberdeen, Dr Miller. He’s my doctor actually. I think he’s in trouble. I don’t know his home address, otherwise I’d call an ambulance to go there. You need to find him and see if he’s alright.’
‘I’m starting to worry about you. Are you part of some organised crime syndicate?’
She’s only half-joking. ‘Please,’ I tell her. ‘Just check him out.’
I hang up the phone and stare out of the window. Rawlins must be on night shift again. In fact, I’ve been stuck in the Dreamlands for so long that night is almost over; the sky is beginning to lighten as an insipid dawn arrives. So much for heading to the ramshackle cemetery under the cover of darkness. Now I have no choice but to go. I can’t wander back to the Dreamlands after what I’ve just done – not without getting some real answers first.
I’m not scared; I’m bloody terrified. I pick up my bag where I dropped it earlier and throw it over my shoulder. My breath is coming in short, sharp gasps. I have to conquer this. I have to.
I unfasten all the locks on my front door and open it. It’s still early enough for my little cul-de-sac to be silent and empty. I close my eyes and walk out, reaching behind to close the door. Keeping my eyes shut, I fumble with the key. I manage to lock the door, tugging at it just to be sure. I clench my fists, turn round, walk slowly down the path. It’s not until I reach the hard concrete of the pavement that I open my eyes and look around. There’s nothing sinister, no one with a gun, no one with a knife, no one at all. I’m still safe, even if I don’t feel that way.
I focus on a spot a hundred feet away, point my feet directly at it, then shut my eyes again and walk in that direction, counting in my head. When I think I’m close, I take a peek. Everything is good.
I keep walking in this manner. It’s slow and it’s ridiculous but it allows me to keep moving. The hardest part is when my house is no longer visible. At that point I almost lose it and race back to safety. Instead I pinch my fingertips, hum and concentrate on my breathing.
It takes almost two hours to reach the start of the path that leads up the cliffs to the cemetery. The later it gets, the more cars there are on the roads. Every time one goes past, I hunch and cower but I don’t stop. Even when I make it to the beach and almost collide with a woman walking a yappy little Scottie dog, I don’t scream or cry or panic; I simply move to the side and keep going. If I had a mobile phone, I’d call my mother and tell her to come and take a look at how well I’m doing but I cancelled my contract and threw the phone into a box when I stopped becoming, well, mobile.
I continue counting my steps. After a while, I stop doing it in my head and say them out loud. The sound of my own voice, especially over the frightening thunder of the waves crashing onto the beach, is reassuring. All the same, I’m relieved when I finally step onto the path and start climbing. The chances of meeting someone here are virtually nil.
It’s too dangerous now to keep my eyes closed so I’m forced to look where I’m going. I concentrate on my feet, one after the other after the other. When I reach a barrier with a sign from the council stating that due to rock slides, the rest of the path is out of bounds, I clamber over it. Frankly, an avalanche is the least of my worries. Small stones crunch under my feet and the tide continues to roar far below. I’m getting close.
After what seems like an eternity, I climb to the top of a small rise and see the graveyard in front of me. It’s a cold morning but the sun is out and the gravestones gleam in the sharp light. I focus on the ruins at the far end. Part of me wonders whether I’m still dreaming and if I’ve really managed to make it this far. For some reason, when I have that thought my breath shortens and I feel a familiar tightness in my chest. Damn it. Not now. Not now that I’m merely steps away.
I pull out my trusty paper bag and start inhaling and exhaling into it. It helps a bit – at least, it helps me to reach the crumbling doorway with the Maltese cross still visible above. I stumble inside. It’s only then that my legs give way.
Chapter Fourteen
If you’re going to ask yourself life-changing questions, be sure to do something with the answers.
Bo Bennett
It takes me some time to re-calibrate myself. The fact that the poor excuse for a sunrise has given way to brilliant sunshine helps; it reminds me of the Dreamlands town and makes it easier for me to get to my feet and look around. Even here, inside the derelict graveyard outhouse, sunlight breaks through the fissures in the walls and roof.
The floor is surprisingly clean; there are old flagstones with moss creeping over them but little evidence of dirt. I search around, checking the walls and the gaps for a sign of anything to do with Salib but there is nothing. I walk back outside, reminding myself to breathe steadily, and look up at the cross. I gnaw on my bottom lip then reach up onto my tiptoes to touch it. My fingertips brush against it and it feels like nothing more than simple stone. Still, I venture round to the side of the small building, where I know there are enough gaps in the old bricks to provide footholds, and clamber up so I can get onto the roof.
I manage to pull myself up. It’s much harder than scaling the side of the Department’s building. But, of course, this is the real world: I’m not dreaming now. It doesn’t help that the old wooden joists creak ominously when I move. I end up shimmying along on my belly to reach the carving at the front.
I let my arms swing down towards the cross. It’s an ungainly position but at least I can touch the damn thing. I grab its thin edges and push. Nothing happens. I try pulling but it still doesn’t budge. No matter what I do – twisting, yanking, gently teasing – the bloody carving is not going to yield. Eventually, I shift back so I’m sitting on the edge of the roof with my legs dangling over the side. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. There could be somewhere else in town that has a Maltese cross on it. Or, more likely, the fact that Salib’s name is Maltese for cross is just a coincidence and I’ve come here for nothing.
I throw down a broken slate from the roof in angry frustration. It bounces off the edge and through a hole into the small room below. There’s a satisfying clatter and splintering noise so I pry off another slate and do it again. And again. And again. Then I’m yelling and shouting as I spin round on my arse and start kicking more tiles downwards through the gap. Crash, crack, crash, smash. Thud.
I frown as I peer down at the mess I’ve created. I take another tile and, more slowly this time, aim it where the last one fell. It makes a definite thud. From this vantage point, it’s suddenly clear: one of the flagstones is different to the others. It’s newer and cleaner and there’s no trace of moss around its edges. Someone placed that flagstone there recently. It’s obvious there’s no restoration project going on – the crumbling stone and appalling state of the roof attest to that – so it makes no sense for someone to make improvements to the floor. Unless they were trying to hide something.
I descend, scraping my fingernails as I drop to solid ground, and go to the rogue flagstone. I crouch down and lightly trace over it with my fingers. It’s no wonder I didn’t notice it was unlike the other ones when I was standing here the first time; even with the shafts of sunlight, the shadows cast by the walls make it nigh on impossible to spot any difference. But when I touch it and compare it to the others, it’s clear: it’s much smoother.
I try to lift it so I can see what’s underneath. For a moment, I’m not sure I will be able to budge it but, as soon as I gain purchase at its edges, it comes up easily. I push it out of
the way, ignoring the frightened woodlice that scurry out from underneath. Then I swallow hard because there, wrapped up in transparent plastic to keep it safe and dry, is some kind of letter.
With my heart in my mouth, I carefully pick it up and turn it over in my hands. I make out some writing on the envelope but the plastic obscures the actual words. I tear the corner of the plastic bag with my teeth and tear off the wrapping, spitting out dirt as I do. Inside is an old-fashioned envelope made of heavy, embossed cream paper and there’s only one word on the outside: Zoe.
Like a paranoid fool, I glance around in case I’m not alone, then I carefully slide my finger under the flap and open it up. I take out the letter and unfold it. It’s covered in spidery blue handwriting. Quickly – and just to be sure – I check the second page to see the signature. When I see Salib’s name, I exhale loudly. Coming here has been worth it after all.
I turn back to the beginning and start to read.
Dear Zoe,
If you are reading this, and I hope you’re not, then my plans have gone awry. It’s important to have a back-up but one always wishes not to use it. It will be harder to explain matters to you here than it would be in person but I shall do my best.
You are what is known as a dreamweaver, someone who can not only enter the subconscious mind of others but who has the ability to manipulate and change what happens there. Few have ever possessed this gift and I do not know why it is yours. It may be that you will come to regret owning such power. Do not doubt for a minute that it IS power.
It is unlikely that you recall it but, when you were a small child, you visited us in the Dreamlands, the place where every Traveller who is capable of unlocking their mind can visit. It was obvious to me then what you were, and how important it was to keep you safe. Children are easily manipulated; anyone who recognised you for what you are could use you for their own ends. Therefore, I took measures to ensure you were kept away from the Dreamlands again. I put a block on your mind to prevent you from visiting. I hoped to help you return when it was time but matters overtook me.
Ever since your first visits, there were rumours that a dreamweaver had returned. The Mayor, the self-styled leader of the Dreamlands, determined to find you and keep you for himself. Forgive my actions but eighteen months ago I had no choice but to take drastic action to keep you safe. If you didn’t leave your house, there was less chance the Mayor would locate you.
It was not easy to supplant your natural instincts and make you feel enough fear to remain inside. I hope the experience has not been too traumatic for you. My plan was to remove the mind block and your fear when it was safe to do so. I assume that you are reading this because I succeeded.
The Department remains unaware of your true identity. I am confident that this is a result of my efforts to hide you, distasteful as they may have been for you. If you have this letter, then you are no longer bound by my protection or limited by those necessary strictures.
The Mayor himself will not hurt you; you are too valuable to risk. However, he is a dangerous man and he will use your abilities for terrible ends. He must be stopped.
I cannot show you how to harness your abilities. You must learn that yourself. Learn how to enter dreams and to alter the realities you find there; learn how to heal and how to live, and you will overcome the Mayor, the Department, and all that they stand for. We are all counting on you.
Your servant,
Dean Salib
‘That’s it?’ I exclaim aloud. ‘That’s what you have to tell me?’
I shake my head in disgust. Not only is there no useful information about how to do anything but it also seems that the reason I’ve been trapped inside my own house for the last year and a half was because of my ‘protector’. The shock I felt when he touched me before dying must have been when he removed his mind blocks. I stare at the words until they begin to blur. Sure, I’ve learnt to live with my agoraphobia, I’ve even tricked myself into embracing it. But I lost every semblance of a real life in the process – and for what? Because one man wants to see people’s dreams? So what?
I must be missing something. The fact that the Mayor is prepared to murder in his quest to achieve dream dominance suggest that there’s more to this than meets the eye.
I start to shake with anger. Salib wrote that he was trying to protect me from being manipulated but all he did was manipulate me. I stare at the letter. He’s ruined my life.
I march outside, screwing the letter up in my hand as I do. A second later, I change my mind and start ripping it up. I let the wind carry away the shreds.
‘I don’t want any of this!’ I shout after the dancing bits of paper. ‘It’s not fair!’ I curse loudly, shove my hands in my pockets and head for home.
Goodness knows what I’m supposed to do now.
***
I may have made the journey here in a state of high alert and fear, but I barely pay attention on the way back. I stumble down the cliff path to the beach, turning for one brief moment to the waves which roar their way up the sand. Then I shrug and turn back towards the town.
I’m halfway up the hill and less than twenty minutes from home when a car pulls up beside me. I ignore it; the thought that it stopped for me is a ridiculous notion. But when I’ve gone several feet past it and a familiar voice dripping with disdain calls out, I come to a halt.
‘Ms Lydon. Outside enjoying the fresh air? What a surprise.’
I turn round. ‘Sergeant Rawlins.’
‘What happened to your well-advertised agoraphobia?’
‘I suppose I’m cured.’ I give a tired shrug. My tone is flat. ‘Hurrah.’
‘How convenient. I wondered how we were going to get you out of your house and down to the station. Clearly, I shouldn’t have worried.’ Her eyes are flinty and I realise for the first time that I might be in trouble.
‘Why do I need to come to the police station?’
She doesn’t smile. ‘We need to ask you a few questions.’
‘We?’
Hartman gets out of the police car, his expression one of shocked dismay. I look from one to the other. ‘What is going on here?’
‘Get into the car, Ms Lydon.’
‘No,’ I say slowly, ‘I don’t think I will. If you have questions then come by the house later.’
‘I don’t think you understand. I am detaining you under Section 14 of the Criminal Procedure Act pertaining to your involvement in two suspicious deaths, those of Dean Salib and Thomas Miller.’
My mouth drops open. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘No, Ms Lydon, I can assure you I am not. Now, please, get into the car.’
***
I’m taken to an interrogation room. A young man who introduces himself as the duty solicitor is already waiting. The entire situation feels unreal and I wonder if I’m still stuck in a strange dream. Maybe the Mayor conjured one up for me. What other reason could there be for my suddenly overcoming agoraphobia and being accused with murder?
The solicitor sticks out his hand but, in case this situation is real, I don’t want to touch him. I shake my head imperceptibly.
‘My name is Andy Brown,’ he says. ‘The police can contact another solicitor of your choice if you wish.’
‘No,’ I answer. ‘That’s alright.’
‘They are also obliged to contact a family member or friend.’
The only person I can think of is my mother and I’m not sure she could cope with the shock. I’m not sure I can cope with the shock. I shake my head and sit down on an uncomfortable aluminium chair. A few moments later, Rawlins appears and sits opposite.
‘So, Ms Lydon, when exactly did you overcome your agoraphobia?’
She’s clearly wasting no time. I raise my eyes to hers in an attempt to convey my innocence. ‘This morning. Around dawn.’
‘I see. And prior to this morning, when was the last time you were outside?’
‘About eighteen months ago.’
‘Hm.’ She taps
a pen on the corner of her mouth. ‘Funny that. When we went round to your house a couple of hours ago and spoke to one of your neighbours, he said he saw you outside yesterday.’
I blink. ‘Oh. Yes, I went outside then but I didn’t even get to the end of the path.’
‘Lying will do you no good.’
Andy Brown interrupts. ‘Ms Lydon was hardly lying.’
He receives a steely look for his efforts. ‘She said she hadn’t been outside for eighteen months. Apart from last night when she was, in fact, outside.’
I swallow hard. This doesn’t seem to be going very well.
‘Tell me about your relationship with Doctor Thomas Miller.’
‘He’s, uh, been helping me with my agoraphobia.’
‘And how did you know that he was dead?’
Shit. ‘I didn’t,’ I stammer. ‘I just had a feeling that something was wrong with him.’
‘A feeling?’
I dig myself into a hole. ‘He was supposed to come round and see me,’ I lie. ‘He’s very reliable so when he didn’t come...’
‘Interesting. We found no trace of an appointment with you in his calendar.’
I can’t think of anything to say. I simply stare at her.
‘I tell you what, Zoe, why don’t we backtrack instead to Dean Salib? He collapsed and died of an apparent heart attack in your hallway.’
I lick my lips nervously. ‘Yes.’
‘In your statement to the police you said you had never laid eyes on him prior to that moment.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘So how exactly did you know his name when we couldn’t trace him?’
‘I...I...’
‘How many other people have you killed, Ms Lydon?’
Brown starts to protest but she speaks over him. ‘How many other times have you used your agoraphobia as an alibi?’
‘I haven’t!’
‘Why did Mr Salib come to see you?’
My shoulders slump. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Ms Lydon, do you see how incredible your story appears? You’ve been determined to stay abreast of the investigation by calling me constantly and asking questions ‒ such as whether I own a dreamcatcher or not. Haven’t you been trying to find out if you’re a suspect or not?’
