The Dream Catcher Diaries

by Alexander Patrick

  He needed more to go on. He couldn’t raid the house of a wealthy and well-respected citizen on the word of a ... He paused and checked his computer screen. There were a couple of points, coincidences perhaps, except he didn’t believe in coincidences.

  The divorce between David Patrick and Samantha Colman; Patrick’s lawyer was one Samuel Goldmann who just happened to have made his mark in history as the lawyer who defended Matrix at his trial. It could be a coincidence, of course; Goldmann would have had more than one client, more than just Matrix. Why had the professor chosen this particular lawyer, one clearly identified with the Brotherhood? Except the divorce took place before Matrix came to trial; that had been in 2040.

  He was looking for a connection. Was this it?

  He watched the data click across the screen. ‘Computer tell me about Professor David Patrick.’

  ‘Born in Canada; deaf from the age of three and blind from the age of eight; studied at Cambridge University; member of the Pandora group.’ A remarkable life and one he knew something about. He interrupted the computer. ‘Tell me about his family,’ he said.

  And that’s when he found me.

  ***********************

  My mother’s death had a profound impact on our family. She was greatly loved and was such a powerful influence it left a huge gap. For me, as a fifteen-year-old son, the loss was so intense that even when I think of her now I still mourn.

  We all mourned; none more so than my father, who withdrew into himself so much he failed to recognise my grief – which at the time was what I needed from him the most. At first he retreated into his observatory, hardly ever coming out; then he retreated back to his beloved Scotland. At one point I became convinced he would never return. I had never felt so isolated and lonely. No one could touch my grief – not even Davey, who was, of course, also mourning.

  The autumn after my mother’s death saw Davey going to Cambridge, where he immediately found himself in scrapes, fights and love affairs. Julie chose this moment to divorce Robert in the most unpleasant way imaginable, leaving us on the point of bankruptcy and in danger of losing our house. My father returned from Scotland. Robert needed him, and if my grief could not bring him home Robert’s need certainly did.

  That was the Christmas I came down with my flu virus and blindness, but at last my father was there for me. My first day back at school saw me in a fight in the playground where two bullies had me pinned down and were beating the shit out of me. I flung my head up and hit one of them on the face, breaking his nose. He was the son of a rich man, who happened to be patron of the school.

  I was expelled.

  I was told to consider myself lucky not to be prosecuted.

  My father took me away from the school and enrolled me at the school for the blind and partially sighted. It was a wonderful school. It was Davey’s school and they were delighted to have me. Davey was considered something of a star there.

  I then fell in with, what my father called, my disreputable friends. I think that was being kind to them. They were a bunch of young men and women who hung around public places making a nuisance of themselves, being obnoxious, getting drunk and defacing property.

  I was awarded my first police conviction because of them. We were all arrested for underage drinking. There was very little to recommend them. They were, without doubt, the most unpleasant people I had ever mixed with. Most were middle strata and had no excuse for their bad behaviour anymore than I did.

  The trouble was I had no idea what to do. Davey was away, I had lost my mother and most of my sight. I felt alone, misunderstood, ignored and very sorry for myself. I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t met Steve.

  One day we were all hanging around the park area, abusing the people passing by. I was huddled in one of the shelters trying to make one of the hard girls interested in me when my crowd began to boo some lone person walking along the sea front. ‘Fag!’ they screamed. ‘Rent boy, show us your cock for a fiver!’

  I looked across and my heart sank. Their latest victim was Steve. He was moving pretty fast, trying to get away from their taunts. The last thing he needed, as someone on probation, was trouble. He was not moving fast enough, though. We outnumbered him and we were on the high ground. We could cut him off as he tried to head back into town and that is exactly what we did.

  I followed as they danced, whooping and shouting, across the green in front, behind and to the side of him – surrounding him. I knew what they would do; I had seen it before. They carried sticks mostly, enough to hurt. It was sport, nothing more, and the blood was up.

  I ran with them as they caught up with him. Steve stopped, confused and scared, but the look on his face was one of defiance; he was scared but that was not going to stop him. He raised his fists against the impossible odds and they descended. It was the bravest thing I had ever seen: that look on his face. That was when I really knew, for sure, that this was a man of immense emotional strength. The gang attacked, thinking they had just one person to fight. In fact, they had two: I turned on them.

  The odds were against us, but the element of surprise is a wonderful thing. I had knocked two people down before they realised they had a traitor in their midst. I yelled for Steve to run; it took a while but he eventually caught on and he did.

  The police turned up then and we were all arrested. I received my second criminal charge, which was a little worrying for my family since the three strikes rule had already been introduced – the rule being that three convictions led automatically to a prison sentence, no questions asked. I didn’t care. I had seen Steve slip away without being caught and I was free of my disreputable friends.

  They finally fell victim to Section Twenty-six, some of the first in fact. I don’t expect any of them survived. They were, without doubt, a bunch of truly unpleasant people – but they didn’t deserve the fate of Twenty-six, none of us did.

  Chapter 19

  The records were clear.

  Professor David Patrick had an uncle, younger than him, from a second marriage. His name was Alexander. He was taken under Section Twenty-six when he was twenty-two years old. He was never seen again. He had been taken in 2035; no doubt he had died. Records surrounding discards were notoriously difficult to track down: a combination of confused identities, ineptitude and a deliberate policy devised by Matrix supposedly to protect the discards. But Morgan didn’t need any records to know; Alexander would not have survived, not for that length of time, nobody had.

  And there was more, just another coincidence, but one coincidence too many. David Patrick may have been born in Canada but all of his family were Scottish. Morgan did not like the Scottish connection, not one little bit.

  He made up his mind, made the necessary calls and grabbed his coat; time to go visiting the wealthy.

  ***********************

  When Dianne came into our lives, life had once again become complicated. Davey was in his second year at university. He had met and fallen in love with a philosophy student named Sam. She had moved into his flat and they had fallen out a number of times. The Easter that Dianne visited her mother in Devon, Davey was in a big sulk having got into trouble with the police for fighting – yes, it’s true – and having ditched Sam for good.

  Robert had been divorced for over a year from the terrible Julie. Everyone except Robert was glad to see her go – even if she had taken most of our money, plunging us into debt. Julie had been very bad for Robert. She had done everything she could to destroy his confidence and self-esteem. I have no idea why she chose to treat him the way she did – perhaps she thought it would keep her handsome husband faithful. All I do know is that she cheated on him and then brought in some powerful lawyers who took us for everything.

  And then Dianne arrived.

  Dianne worked as an English teacher at an exclusive girls’ school somewhere in Cheltenham. She spent her days with small groups of acolytes debating the Brontës, Hardy and Austin; she loved her job. She lived and wor
ked on an exclusive campus with a house full of books and led an uncomplicated life without passion. She only read about such things.

  That Easter, Dianne came to Devon to visit her mother and her niece Ami. Her mother was busy courting different men, including my father. She took it in turns to date and beguile them all and they, being perfect gentlemen, allowed her to do so. Ami was a ten-year-old bombshell: petite, pretty and charming. She had already fallen in love with the Patrick clan and couldn’t decide whether to marry me or Davey.

  Dianne went for a walk on the beach with her mother and Ami, and met us.

  Robert was immediately smitten. We all knew it. She had black, wild, wiry hair that never did as she wanted. She had an olive complexion, thick eyebrows and full lips. Was she beautiful? Not in the conventional sense, no. But she had a wildness about her that defied conventional understanding. Her eyes were dark, narrow and full of intelligence, and we all knew that she was perfect for Robert because those eyes were also full of compassion.

  The evening after we had met Dianne on the beach, it was with difficulty that we persuaded Robert to ask her out to dinner. His self-esteem was so low all he could say was, ‘She’s ten years younger than me, why would she ...?’

  He made the call with reluctance. She reluctantly agreed. I have never seen two people so reluctant to fall in love and then do it so completely and permanently.

  We all fell in love with Dianne and she fell in love with us. I must admit she had her doubts about me. She came into our family when I was probably at my most difficult and truculent. I needed to kick against something and Robert seemed the perfect target. I loved him and resented him at the same time. Every teenager needs something to fight, my mother was dead and I could never fight my father or Davey; that only left Robert. I was jealous of the obvious love between him and my father. Robert never had a proper mother and he had seen my father through many difficult times, even saving his life once. They were very close and I simply could not compete with my clever, charismatic brother.

  I was convinced at the time that he was the preferred son and I resented it so much; it hurt so much. Now, when I look back, I can only think, why not? If it had been me, Robert would have been my favourite, too. He was such a generous man and he never deserved one word of reproach from me.

  Dianne saw how unreasonable I was and she could not bring herself to like someone who could do and say such things to the man she loved. How could she?

  She was beautiful in the truest sense of the word. Yet we knew there was no hope. There was Davey to consider. When Davey had one of his sulks it was quite impressive – and that is what she saw that day on the beach. Then there were the rest of us; we were all pretty strange, after all. But, more than anything, there was the small matter of that perfect job. Robert had his responsibilities and commitments; he would never move from Devon, and Dianne could never leave a job she loved so much.

  Life is not like one of those wonderful Brontë books; life is full of mundane disappointments and frustrations. People who are so right for each other seem to meet so rarely.

  We all held our breath. Davey was told to behave – easy to do since his own love, Sam, had come back to him – and we all watched and waited and pretended not to.

  By the autumn that followed their meeting that windy day on the beach, she had left her perfect job to take on a far-from-perfect job in the local state school and they were married in a small church in Rome.

  Sometimes there are happy endings.

  Unfortunately, soon after that, Ami’s mother left the area and moved to Nottingham, naturally she took Ami with her; it was to be many years before we were to see her again.

  Incidentally, Dianne’s mother chose someone else over my father and she too married the following year.

  Chapter 20

  It was gone midnight when Morgan knocked on the door. He had plenty of back up, including the paramedics. He was apprehensive. What if it had all been a series of coincidences?

  The door was opened cautiously by a child who should have been in bed: a boy with large black eyes and dark hair. He took one look at Morgan and went to close the door again. Whoever he was expecting it had not been the police.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed, sonny?’ said Morgan, pushing past the boy.

  ‘I’m thirteen,’ he said defiantly. He was well-spoken, ridiculously handsome and arrogant.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  The boy glanced around at the police officers and medics pushing their way into the house. ‘You can’t come in!’ he shouted. ‘Not without a warrant.’

  Morgan laughed softly. ‘We don’t need a warrant where terrorists are concerned. Where is he?’

  The boy glared at him. ‘Everyone’s in bed,’ he said. He was a bad liar.

  ‘Except you. What’s your name?’

  ‘James. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m DCI Morgan. Now take me to him.’

  James didn’t move.

  Morgan turned to a WPC. ‘Keep him here,’ he said.

  She was a big, strong woman and she took James by the arm. The boy screamed. Morgan moved swiftly into the house, shouting orders as he did so. He felt a sense of urgency and he didn’t know why. He moved up and into the house. Officers moved with him spanning out and opening doors. Then Morgan opened a door to one of the bedrooms and walked into a room full of people.

  He held his breath as everyone turned their heads, startled at his loud intrusion. It was a strange tableau of frozen people surrounding a bed.

  There were two women: One was an attractive red head with pale skin and widely spaced green eyes. She stood behind a dark haired, sallow-complexioned woman who sat slumped against the bed. A man stood at the foot of the bed. He was built of muscle, had white hair and his face and ears were heavily pierced. There were two other men at the top of the bed: One, with dark hair, was sitting and the other, who was fair, tall and thin, was standing behind him with his hand on his shoulder. The one sitting down was clutching the hand of a man lying on the bed.

  Me.

  I was the only one in the room who didn’t look up at the intrusion, and there was a good reason for that: I was dying. My lungs no longer seemed capable of pulling in the air I needed to live. It must have been the eeriest sight: me lying there, desperately fighting for the oxygen to live, being watched by this group of people who were all, without exception, weeping at the sight.

  Morgan turned to the officer next to him. He spoke quickly and urgently. ‘Get the paramedics and warn the hospital we have an emergency coming.’ He turned back to the tear-stained group. ‘You’re all under arrest for attempted murder. You’re to surrender your IDCs now. I’m arresting you under Section Four of the Terrorist Act. I am, therefore, under no obligation to say anymore. You have no rights to a lawyer unless I deem it appropriate and you may not make any calls.’

  A figure rushed in at that point. It was James. ‘You can’t take Uncle Alexander!’ he shouted. He leapt up at Morgan but was held back by one of the officers.

  ‘Really?’ said Morgan, sounding surprised as paramedics swept into the room to administer oxygen. ‘And I thought it was Matrix lying there.’

  ***********************

  During that first summer of knowing Steve I remember sitting with him one day, talking about chess – my passion and something Steve was keen to learn. It was a hot day. He took off his jacket and flung it to one side. I remember leaning forward to show him something. I glanced down at his left arm and gasped in surprise. I must have seen his arm before but perhaps my eyesight had not been particularly good on those days; today I saw his arm clearly – probably for the first time.

  I gasped because never before had I seen such an ugly tattoo. Steve had other tattoos: beautiful butterflies at the back of his neck and down his back, in different colours and sizes. But this one was quite different. I knew Steve hated to be touched, but I also knew he didn’t mind Davey or me touching him. So I reached out and touched his tattoo.
He flinched, blushed and tried to hide it with his hand.

  I stopped him. ‘Oh, Steve,’ I said. ‘How could those bastards do this to you?’

  He had been looking down. He now looked up. I took him in my arms and held him and he wept; he sobbed.

  The tattoo was of a man fucking a boy. It was ugly, crude and cruel.

  Steve told me afterwards that I was the first and only person to understand. Everybody who saw the tattoo assumed that he was the man. I was the first to realise that he was the boy.

  ‘How old?’ I whispered.

  ‘Eleven,’ he answered.

  He had been eleven when those bastards had tattooed his arm.

  Chapter 21

  There was a knock on Superintendent Gray’s door. Skinner walked in. The left side of his face was heavily bandaged and the rest looked bruised.

  ‘How’s the face?’ asked Gray. He didn’t invite Skinner to sit down.

  ‘Have you got the information I requested, sir?’ returned Skinner.

  Gray looked at the man. He didn’t like Skinner, never had. He was going to enjoy this moment. ‘Can’t say,’ he said.

  Skinner sighed impatiently. ‘Matrix was there. I know it; he wouldn’t have missed the chance of killing the leaders of the Manchester pod.’

  ‘Matrix is dead,’ said Gray. He watched Skinner’s reaction, the look of disbelief, incredulity.

  ‘What! How do you know?’

  ‘The PM. Matrix is dead.’

  Skinner’s eyes opened wide, unable to take it in. ‘How?’

  ‘Classified,’ said Gray. ‘But the official response is that he died in that warehouse in Bristol.’

  ‘So he was there!’

  ‘Classified,’ he repeated.

  ‘Why? He’s a fucking terrorist.’

  ‘Don’t use that language here.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, but why?’

  ‘It’s complicated. But he’s dead – and that’s all you need to know.’