The Dream Catcher Diaries

by Alexander Patrick

  Chapter 32

  Morgan sat in his room. Three things sat on the table in front of him: a half bottle of whisky, a tumbler of whisky and a book.

  So what am I afraid of? thought Morgan. That Gupta woman had been close to the truth. How had she known? How had she known that the very thing he feared was to have his certainty broken? He feared this more than anything because his whole life had been one long lie. From the moment he had been born, he had been sold a lie. His parents had been God-fearing evangelists; he now knew this to be a lie. His wife had promised love and fidelity; that had been a lie. The police had sworn honour and integrity; that had also proved to be a lie. All his life – a lie. He picked up the book and looked at it. A note was attached. It read:

  Please read this with an open mind. Read and understand the truth. Only then can you understand. Only then can you finally know the truth; it may free you, at last, as it has freed so many.

  This book is precious; I would like it back, but I would like it back read, by you.

  Regards, Dr Gupta.

  So she was promising him the truth now, just like all the rest.

  He took another swig of whisky, still holding the book. It was a first edition. Precious indeed! How did she know he wouldn’t just destroy it after all he had said? What made her trust him with something so precious?

  He turned the book over. He rarely read books and never paper copies. This was something new for him, something unfamiliar. He looked at the cover. It showed a picture of a chessboard; chess pieces were placed carefully on their individual squares, except for the King; he was lying on his side as if he had been knocked over. He had no idea what the significance of the picture meant. He read the title: The Matrix Solution, written under the name of Jamie Cameron, the name given to Matrix by Social Services. Not his real name, but one he had chosen to keep in order to protect the identity of his family. This was probably one of the most famous or notorious books of the century and it was a first edition. Such trust!

  It was this trust that made him eventually put down the whisky and open the book. He read the first line. He had never read this book and, yet, he knew that famous first line. Most people did.

  ‘Everyone has a story to tell.’ it began, ‘and this is mine.’

  Morgan reached out for his whisky, changed his mind, pushed the glass away and began to read.

  ***********************

  I didn’t see them bury my father. I was at his funeral, of course, but I was completely blind. I needed a white stick and somebody to guide me. That somebody was Robert. He stood next to me, holding my arm and weeping uncontrollably. I envied him his bond. I loved my father deeply but I didn’t have Robert’s history; that had been something very special for him. I both envied and pitied him his grief and, as he held me, then so I held him, and told him how much I loved and respected him. Yet, still he wept and still he held me.

  Davey was somewhere else. He was sulking. He was actually angry with me. He had Steve to look after him but he wanted me; he demanded me, and when I didn’t come he became resentful. At first, I was too distraught to notice, but he made sure I knew, and that fall out with him only added to my grief.

  The day they buried my father was the day I had cross words with Davey for the first time in my life.

  The day they buried my father they buried Alexander as well.

  The day they buried my father was the day a monster was created.

  It was the day Matrix was born.

  The Matrix Solution

  by

  Jamie Cameron

  Text copyright 2040 © JamieCameron

  All rights reserved

  For Discards – everywhere

  Introduction

  Everyone has a story to tell; this is mine. It is a simple tale of a simple man who found himself in a nightmare; mine belongs to many. Look at the person sitting next to you and you will see that they, too, have their nightmares. They could share them with you, if they cared enough, if they trusted you enough.

  Alternatively, you could give them yours.

  I have such images in my head. Often I seem to be in more than one place at the same time. Sometimes I am a child being held by my mother; I can feel her touch, smell her body and see her smile, and I feel such joy. Sometimes I am walking on the sands with my father. I am watching the water sweep up and wash my footprints away. In my thoughts I can taste my youth, my innocence, and I can see light, colour and shapes mingling into one and separating into bright sparkling memories, but these images are so brief, a transient feeling swiftly replaced by my truth, my reality. I know that these things no longer exist; sometimes I doubt if they ever did.

  Some realities burn brighter than others simply because they have the power to hold and to terrify. That is when I am, once again, in that room: bound, alone, confused and understanding only pain, knowing that it will never end; it can never end because there is no escape.

  Now I stand alone amongst a crowd of people. They cannot see me because I cannot see them. They do not touch me as they rush on by. I am alone.

  As you walk, busy with your lives, understand this: there is another world. It exists in the same place as your own. Look again at the men or women who pass you by and know that they too have a secret life. Know too that beneath your feet, souls glance up and mourn their loss of innocence. They see that they were once like you. They are there at your feet; they sit on the pavement wearing yesterday’s clothes and yesterday’s smile and they watch you pass by. You don’t see them. You are more aware of your own shadow – which has no real existence – than you are of these souls who live that other life next to yours.

  You cannot see the other person’s sorrow because you believe that yours is greater. You walk past the children no one could love. You pass them by because you have beautiful things to do. The ugly things can be left, ignored; somebody else’s problem -dealt with, sorted.

  It’s true it was dealt with. That is how monsters such as me are created, sustained and believed in. My evil is your evil. You walked past me in the street and you never noticed what terrible thing was being bred in the name of justice.

  The images haunt me. I live in many places at once and they are all terrible places. The trouble is they are all real. I have seen what you cannot see, and I see them still – in my dreams and in every waking moment. If I appear distracted it is because I am. Only a part of me is with you. The rest is somewhere else, somewhere very dark, very disturbing and completely real.

  I am going to make my reality your reality; only by doing that, can I make you see and understand the monster in all of us.

  Part One

  The Dream Catcher sleeps

  Chapter 1

  March 2036

  Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands

  I watched the woman as she walked up the path. She was lost in thought. She had no idea that a nightmare lurked in the shadows. She had no idea I was there waiting for her. I licked my lips; they were dry, cracked and sore from the bitter cold, from neglect, from sleeping in too many cold doorways, too many draughty chilled places, places thick with dirt and excrement, places where decent people dared not venture, places I called home.

  The dog worried me. It was a large, long-haired German Shepherd and it walked by her side. But this was a desolate spot, houses were sparse and I had avoided the small village nearby. There was no one else so she would have to do. I would have to take my chances with the dog.

  I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out my knife. I knew the blade was sharp; this was not the first time I would be using it to get what I wanted.

  The woman was approaching fast, walking hurriedly to get out of the bitter wind. I drew back a little into the shadows of the trees surrounding me. She was making her way to a small stone cottage. It sat alone on top of a steep incline overlooking two large deep lochs. This house was her destination – even better. I could take her from behind as she fumbled at her front door.

  I could see her
clearly now. She had long grey hair, tied up in a bun; wisps of hair had escaped from the bun and fell down over a narrow, pale face. She had sharp, almond-shaped eyes, a slim aquiline nose and thin lips. She looked to be somewhere in her mid-fifties. She was a slight woman, slender hands and thin shoulders, petite in every respect. That would make it easy for me.

  She was at the house. She had passed me and had not even seen me. She walked up to the house. It was surrounded by a low, rustic, stone wall that enclosed a neat, well-kept garden of flowers. The garden was like the woman: small and respectable.

  Blood would stain that respectability today; I would make sure of that. Today I would change her life forever. I knew it, and she was about to find out.

  She hovered at her doorway, searching for her key. The dog pawed impatiently at the door. ‘Wait Hades!’ she said.

  I approached her awkwardly from behind. Her voice caught me up sharp. She had spoken in Gaelic and her voice was soft and musical, but I didn’t hesitate, I couldn’t afford to; I had my knife in one hand and my crutch in the other, limping painfully but with surprising speed; I was up behind her before she realised she was no longer alone. She had opened her door and the dog was already inside – perfect!

  Swiftly I had my knife to her throat and I pulled her head back to my chest. I heard her gasp and give a slight gurgle. I tucked my crutch under my armpit and, with my other hand, began groping her pockets. I kept the knife steady and she didn’t move. I could smell her fear.

  ‘My purse is in the hallway,’ she managed to gasp. I pressed my knife into her throat and a thin trickle of blood seeped down her front. She gave a small cry of pain. Her pockets were yielding nothing but rubbish. I was starting to feel angry and impatient with the delay. She lifted up her one hand and pointed in through the dim doorway.

  ‘There on the table,’ she croaked. I peered where she pointed, keeping the knife pressed against her throat. I couldn’t see any table, but I could hear the dog growling savagely from inside the house. His mistress was blocking his ability to touch me. To get to the table would mean passing the dog.

  I hesitated and she felt the hesitation – always a mistake. She knew my predicament; she knew she was probably closer to death than she had ever been, but she didn’t falter. As I stood in her doorway wondering what to do next, she had ducked down out of my grasp and had twisted my arm back in a sharp bend. I cried out in pain, but only for a moment. I was living on the edge; starvation was several missed meals ago. There was nothing in me; my need was greater than my strength. I collapsed onto the ground with a heavy thud and everything went black.

  Chapter 2

  I was being carried; then, I was flung down. I braced myself for a heavy impact. I hit softness. It was a bed.

  ‘Better get him undressed.’

  ‘How about, better call the police?’

  ‘We’ve already had this discussion and I said no.’

  ‘Judith, he put a knife to your throat!’

  ‘Look at him! He’s skin and bone.’

  ‘Just as well; you’d be dead otherwise.’

  ‘There’s nothing to him.’

  ‘Only malice.’

  Someone was fumbling at my clothes, undoing and pulling. I tried to resist, but my strength had left me completely. So I lay there. ‘Well, are you going to help me, the two of you, or are you just going to stand there gawping?’

  More hands touched me. I flinched; I hated to be touched; there were too many people, too many laying their hands on me. I was helpless, too tired, simply too tired.

  Clothes started to peel off. ‘He smells!’ It was a woman’s voice, but not Judith.

  ‘He’s been sleeping rough.’ The other voice was a man; it was a deep bass. They were all speaking in Gaelic.

  ‘He’s disgusting and he must be the ugliest man I have ever seen and the wickedest. Look at those yellow eyes! He has devil eyes.’

  ‘Sonia, he is still one of God’s creatures.’ Judith’s voice was soft, conciliatory.

  ‘So are rats and spiders. It doesn’t mean you have to invite them in. I can’t even bear to touch him. Why not call the police?’

  ‘I’ve already said no. If you find him so disgusting, fetch some water and I’ll give him a wash.’

  ‘That’ll only make him clean. He’ll still be full of sin and he’ll still be as ugly as sin. No amount of soap will wash that away.’

  ‘Sonia!’

  ‘Oh, very well!’

  I slipped into unconsciousness at that point.

  When I woke up again I was alone in a small feminine bedroom, still lying on a bed underneath a soft woollen blanket. I had been stripped naked, scrubbed clean and I was also tied down.

  They had bound my wrists, my ankles and my waist to the bed. I immediately began to struggle against my bonds. I writhed under the restraints but I was held fast.

  The bedroom door opened and Judith walked in with a man and a young woman. The man looked to be in his fifties, thickset, bald and red faced. It was a kind face with soft wrinkles and heavy eyelids. The woman was sharp in every sense of the word: her features, her eyes and – from what I had heard so far – her tongue were all sharp. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties and she was scowling. She was almost pretty, but not quite.

  Judith came to my bedside and placed her hand on me. I was still struggling. ‘Is this really a good idea, Andrew?’ she asked. I heard pity in her voice. I wasn’t used to that. It sounded strange in my ears. I stopped struggling and looked at her. I wanted to beg to be released but I couldn’t. I hated the bonds. I was scared of them. I was scared about what they had planned for me. I looked around the room wildly, trying to gauge what was happening and where I was. Why had they tied me down?

  Judith still had her hand on me. I disliked her touch; any touch repulsed me. She saw me look and she pulled her hand away.

  ‘Can you tell us your name?’ she asked gently.

  I stared at her, into her eyes.

  ‘He needs to go to a hospital,’ said the man.

  ‘Andrew, you know we can’t do that!’ she snapped.

  ‘We have no choice. We can’t keep him here.’ It was the woman, Sonia.

  Judith looked at me. ‘I’ll keep him here – at least, until he’s better.’

  ‘Better?’ spat Andrew. ‘He’s not going to get better. His right hip and knee are beyond my skills. He needs major surgery, and as for that.’ He pointed at me. ‘He’s about to go into cold turkey, and I’ve nothing to help him through it.’

  I’m not sure about cold turkey, but I did, at that moment, enter a new hell – one I thought I would never survive.

  Chapter 3

  I’m not sure how long I spent in that hell, that longing, that desire. I would have screamed and begged for my saviour if I could have, but that had already been denied me. I suffered my craving in silent agony. Now I knew why they had tied me to the bed: if they had not done so, I would have torn them and myself to pieces.

  Andrew poured whisky down me in an effort to alleviate the craving. The fire burned my throat and stomach; it was not enough – it was not nearly enough. He injected me with something – suptex, I expect. I writhed on the bed that had become my prison and found no relief, just endless longing. I knew what would release that need; I had satisfied it enough times – the scars on my arms bore testimony to that – but they were denying me that relief, and so I suffered the desperation of need; it tore at my body, my mind, even my soul; it tore at it, it broke it and I was sure I would die. I think I did die; I died many times, only to wake up again and go through the same physical and mental torment, over and over. I sobbed in silence but nothing more; those who watched over me watched a silent battle. It must have been a strange thing to see, my silent suffering; then, there was oblivion, blessed oblivion. I decided that I didn’t ever want to wake up again.

  It was daylight when I, at last, opened my eyes to a sane new world. I immediately closed them again because the glare was so br
ight and my eyes were sore. I badly needed eye drops to ease the feeling of grittiness. Then I heard the door open and footsteps. I didn’t stir.

  Someone leaned over me. ‘I thought that shot you gave him would’ve made a difference.’ It was Judith’s voice.

  ‘He’ll come round soon. He’s over the worst.’

  ‘He won’t be craving the drugs anymore?’ She sounded hopeful.

  ‘Not like we’ve seen, no, but I can’t say he’ll ever stop craving them. They don’t you know; they learn to control it.’

  ‘He makes me think of David.’ Her voice sounded wistful.

  ‘I can’t think why!’

  ‘There’s something about him.’

  ‘This is a dangerous man you have here. You have to get rid of him as soon as you can.’

  ‘What will he do? He can barely walk.’

  ‘He managed to get here.’

  ‘Andrew, I can’t ...’

  ‘Look at him. That’s not David lying there. I know what you’re thinking, but this man is dangerous!’

  ‘Desperate.’

  ‘More than that; look at the mark on his neck. Do you know what that means?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps I should tell you a few things about this man. From my examination of him, I can tell you that he is homosexual – likes his sex rough, the scars on his body testify to that. He is a drug addict and a member of New Fabian. The mark on his neck is their mark and I can tell you they are a nasty bunch of people. You don’t want to mess with them.’

  ‘Aren’t they a group of old socialists?’

  ‘That’s The Fabian Society. It’s different. This lot took the name from them as a joke.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of them.’

  ‘That’s because you live a quiet and sheltered life here. You have no idea what sort of nastiness is going on out there.’