Dream Guy

by Clarke, A. Z. A;

  They walked up the road and turned left into their street, past the other Victorian and Edwardian houses.

  Unusually, Mrs. Knightley’s car was in the drive. “Mum’s home. That’s weird,” said Liesel.

  There was also a dark-blue Fiat outside the house. Joe began to feel uneasy. They went in, and the door was on the latch. Mrs. Knightley emerged from the living room and watched Joe and Liesel come in.

  “Liesel, up to your room to do your homework. Joe, you come in here. There are some gentlemen who would like a word with you.”

  Liesel was so delighted that Joe was in serious trouble that she skipped upstairs without a single moan in response to their mother’s peremptory tone. Joe dumped his book bag and reached into his pocket to check that the Lamborghini key was still there.

  Chapter Six

  Carpeted

  Joe’s mother ushered him into the living room then carefully closed the door. She folded her arms and stood, as Joe glanced at the two men lurking by the fireplace.

  They were corporate twins, wearing expensive-looking suits and identical purple shirts, one with a tie that had toning lavender and wisteria checks, the other with a mauve diagonal stripe. Both had short brown hair—but not too short—and regular features with square jaws, like models for posh watches. As the door opened and Joe sidled in, both turned to look at him, their faces neutral, their eyes cool.

  “Take a seat, Joe.” The taller one spoke as though used to being obeyed. Joe looked at him for a long moment before moving around to sit on the arm of the leather club chair at the far side of the room. Perching there, he felt less vulnerable than if he were to sink into its depths.

  “My name is Christopher Taylor-West, and this is my colleague, Rudy Moss. We hear you’ve got a new Lamborghini Gallardo.”

  Joe said nothing in the lengthening silence. Rudy Moss took up the patter. He had a slight American accent.

  “When your mother rang us this morning, we were a touch surprised to hear about your prize draw success.” He drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece.

  “Yes,” said Taylor-West.

  “Because we don’t allow Lamborghinis to be used for that kind of promotion, you see. We don’t need that kind of publicity. There’s a waiting list for a Lamborghini.”

  “Exclusive, you see,” said Taylor-West.

  Still Joe said nothing, just kept his hand clenched around the key.

  “In fact, there’s no record of any Gallardo going out of the showrooms in the UK at all.” Rudy Moss sounded baffled rather than aggressive. But Joe did not relax.

  Taylor-West took over the talking. “We’re planning to take a look at the car, as we’ve discussed with your mother.” Taylor-West began to bluster a little. “But what we’d like to know is how a schoolboy comes to have a Gallardo in his drive when we have no record of any purchase, or even theft, associated with any of our cars.”

  “If you can assist us with our inquiry, Joe, it would be very helpful.” Moss’ voice was not at all flustered, more threatening.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, really.”

  “And I believe there’s no key. Is that correct?”

  Joe gave a vague shrug and went “Mmm.” So he wasn’t lying, strictly speaking. After all, there was no way of knowing that the key in his possession was the key for his Lamborghini. And if they really wanted to get the engine running, he assumed they would have some way of bypassing the ignition system, which would be useful to know. Besides, producing the key would only provoke further interrogation, and Joe wanted to get the examination of the car over with.

  Moss and Taylor-West exchanged a dissatisfied glance.

  They moved as one, suggesting that somewhere there was a factory that churned out men like them—bland, uniform and following orders with unquestioning obedience.

  “Okay, let’s take a look at this baby.” Moss walked over to the door and turned. “I assume you’ll want to accompany us, Joe. It is your car, after all.”

  “Yes,” said Joe. Sue Knightley looked grim. He could see that she wasn’t happy that her son had been as good as accused of stealing a car. She wasn’t happy that he even had a car, and she certainly wasn’t happy about watching them gawp at the car in question. Silently, she followed them into the garage.

  The Gallardo appeared as beautiful as ever. It sat in the midst of all the usual clutter of a family of five, almost glowing in the ugly fluorescent lighting, making everything else in the garage—the bikes, the lawn mower, Dad’s array of DIY tools, the chunks of wood and half-built shelves—seem stark, ugly and cheap.

  Silently, thoroughly, Moss and Taylor-West opened up the car. Taylor-West took a smartphone out of an inner pocket and began tapping at it as Moss pulled out a Maglite torch and started an inventory of the car.

  First he walked around the car. “No registration.” Then he climbed into the driver’s seat. “No apparent mileage.” He hauled himself out and examined the doorways of the car. “No chassis number or VIN.” He went to the back of the car where the engine cover was open. He shone the torch all around the engine. “No engine number.” He looked at Taylor-West. “No sign of wear or tear.” They were both looking uneasy.

  “We don’t understand. This has to be a counterfeit. We need to impound this vehicle immediately and subject it to further tests,” said Moss.

  “Impound? I don’t think so. I’m quite happy to ask the police or get my solicitor into this, but I think taking the car away is out of the question just at present.” Sue Knightley spoke quietly but firmly. Joe watched her morph into a figure almost as formidable as Elphick.

  “We’d…um…give you a receipt,” hedged Taylor-West.

  “A receipt? You must be joking!” Mrs. Knightley made it abundantly clear that she was running out of patience with the Lamborghini men. They exchanged a glance. Moss shrugged.

  Taylor-West said, “We could…er…buy it…from you?”

  “That will be Joe’s decision, following advice from our solicitor and discussion with my husband, who is currently away on business. But we are in regular email contact with him and will, of course, draw this to his attention.”

  “Errm, uh, how long before you make a decision? We need to make a report as soon as possible, you see.” Taylor- West was beginning to wilt, although the garage was not warm.

  “You can make an initial report, and I will get back to you by the end of the week. Friday lunchtime. In the meantime, you’d better think this through carefully. I know exactly what this car is worth, and I have quotes from several insurers, one of which I will be taking up as soon as I’ve said goodbye to you. If anything happens to this car, I’ll be very quick to give your name to the insurers.”

  “Now, there’s no need to be so mistrustful, Mrs. Knightley.” Moss gave a little laugh with no mirth in it at all. “Your caution is understandable, but if you can assure us that this car will be kept safely in your garage for the next few days, I’m sure we can be patient.”

  “You’ll have to be patient. Is that all, gentlemen?” It was quite clear that Sue Knightley did not think her visitors were remotely gentlemanly. Joe watched her with renewed respect as she opened up the garage door and watched them go into the street. She stood in the driveway, arms folded, and watched as they drove away. Then she came back into the garage where Joe was standing.

  “You were amazing, Mum.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Bloody suits. Give them an Armani label and they think they can get away with anything. Tossers. But I’m not happy about you getting us into this.”

  “I’ve got a key, Mum.” Joe was bewildered by his own confession. He reached into his pocket and took out the keys, placing them in her outstretched hand. She held them up, examining them as she might one of the older pots of leftovers from the fridge, considering whether to chuck the contents.

  “Where did they come from, Joe?”

  “A messenger delivered them to the school.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything to
Laurel and Hardy there?”

  “It didn’t feel right. They didn’t seem right.” He met his mother’s eyes, which softened. She came over to him and ruffled his hair.

  “Right. Let’s see what this baby does, then.” Joe was startled by the look of anticipation on his mother’s face. She climbed into the driver’s seat and called up to him, “Aren’t you getting in too?”

  “Yes.” He went around to the passenger seat and got in. She waited until he’d closed the door then slid the key into the ignition. Joe tried to relax but was cracking his knuckles. She checked the car was in Neutral, then she turned the key. The throaty rumble of the engine covered Joe’s swift exhalation of relief as the car came to life. Mrs. Knightley revved the engine and the roar echoed around the garage.

  “Shall we take her for a spin?” she asked.

  “It’s got no number plates, Mum. Won’t we be pulled over?”

  “Let’s do it tonight—later on, when the roads are quiet. How about it?” She switched off the engine and pulled out the key, then inhaled deeply, taking in great lungfuls of leather.

  Then she started fiddling with the rearview mirror and examining the dials and buttons on the console.

  “Mum! I don’t believe you. You just told those men we were going to keep it in the garage.”

  “I didn’t tell them anything of the sort. They made a suggestion, which I am entitled to ignore. I just told them they’d have to be patient.”

  “You’re a lawyer, Mum. You can’t drive a car with no registration or insurance.”

  “Actually, Joe, I’ve registered the car and I just need to confirm my acceptance of the insurance proposal over the Internet. Once that’s done, we can drive this baby all over Europe if we feel like it.”

  “When did you register the car?”

  “After I spoke to the Lamborghini people and discovered they were snotty gits. They were horrified by the whole idea of the prize draw. I rang up the Vehicle Licensing office in Wales and explained the situation. They told me to go to a post office and register the vehicle directly, so I did. Then I got plates for the car from a garage. This car has taken all bloody day to sort out and it’s going to cost us a fortune. But it is a beauty.”

  “We don’t have to sell it?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see what Dad says, but knowing him, he’ll want to hang on to it, at least until he’s had a go in it. The thing is, those guys will be coming back now that they think the car is some sort of knockoff.”

  She levered herself out of the car, then waited until Joe had emerged and closed his door. She pressed the plip button and the car flashed its lights and beeped at them. Then she went over and hauled the garage door down, checking the lock carefully.

  “We can have a takeaway tonight. I have a feeling that sorting out the insurance proposal will take a while. What do you feel like?”

  “Indian.”

  “Indian it is. Liesel will moan, but she always does, unless Ben suggests it first.” She grinned at Joe. “So we’ll just say he wants Indian, and there we go, a moan-free zone.”

  “In your dreams.” It occurred to Joe that he could do something to Liesel in his dreams. It would be cool to have a moan-free Liesel. Very tempting indeed. But he wasn’t quite sure of his control just yet. It was something to work toward, though.

  But Liesel didn’t moan, and Ben was delighted to have takeaway, as it was his night for the washing-up. They were all excited by the car, even though the thousands it would cost to insure made them all gulp. They listened to old Disney songs as they ate their dopiaza and rogan josh, cracked the poppadums and teased Liesel for emptying three quarters of a jar of mango chutney over everything she ate. They took turns to email Dad then they sat companionably on the sofa to roast the candidates participating in some terrible reality contest.

  Joe discovered how tired he was only when Ben nudged him awake. “Hey, sleepyhead, if you’re so knackered, shouldn’t you go to bed?”

  He started up and said, “Knackered?”

  Three pairs of fond eyes looked at him and Liesel said, “You’ve been nodding off for the past fifteen minutes. Didn’t you sleep last night?”

  “Not too well.” Joe extracted himself from the sofa. “I’ll go up. ’Night.” He bent to kiss his mother and found himself kissing the other two as well, something he hadn’t done since he was nine or ten. They were wrangling over the judges’ decisions before he closed the door.

  Too tired to think, Joe got ready for bed on automatic pilot. He remembered to check that his alarm clock was set before he fell back into his bed and was asleep. It was just after nine-fifteen.

  The rise and fall of voices woke him. He was facing the wall. He could tell from the glow that the room was filled with sunlight. He turned over and saw five turbaned men on a golden carpet sitting in the middle of his room. The biggest guy was wearing a lavender robe over a fuchsia tunic and clutching a book in his left hand. To his right sat a smaller man, hunched over, but with a seriously crazy beard. His robe was green with silk embroidery, and his tunic was purple. To the left of the large man were three men, one fat dude in purple and violet who was writing something onto parchment, and to his right, two smaller men kneeling, holding scrolls and wearing red robes. These two looked like servants.

  Green Bushy Beard spoke first.

  “Our esteemed Ahmed Karabashi is, I believe, correct in his view that the provenance of the basin is immaterial. What matters is the pleasure one derives from gazing at the object, not its authenticity.”

  One of the men in red replied, “While we respect a scholar so venerated as Ahmed Karabashi and a writer so famed as yourself, Seyyid Lokman, as craftsmen we must assert that authenticity is more important than appearance. If I buy a bowl from a merchant who tells me it is crafted by the great artist Wu Xianyang of China, I expect to pay a far greater price than I would pay for the work of a potter from Iznik. I would be enraged to discover that the basin I had been admiring, and for which I paid so many piastres, was an item sold in bazaars all over the empire.”

  The large man in lavender spoke. “Here is the situation. This basin has been purchased for the sultan under the impression that it was Chinese, and a consequently inflated price was paid out of his coffers for the piece. Now we know that the basin is not Chinese, and no one is willing to admit that they were fooled into purchasing the bowl. Everyone is terrified of telling the sultan, first of all, how much it cost and, second of all, that it is not as valuable as it has been made out to be. But what is the right thing to do?”

  Joe watched as Lokman and Karabashi waited for the scribe and the two craftsmen to respond. But the three small men would not meet the eyes of the scholar or the writer, and they seemed to have lost the power of speech.

  “What would happen if you told the sultan the truth?” Joe asked. All the men looked up at him in astonishment.

  “Who is this infidel?” asked the scribe. He seemed relieved by the distraction from the question of the basin.

  “Where has he come from?” asked one of the painters. “How did he enter our chamber?”

  Then the men whirled round and noticed that they were not in their chamber.

  “Where are we?” they all asked. Karabashi and Lokman asked with amusement, but the scribe and his two red-robed companions were uneasy and unamused.

  “You’re in England.”

  “England? What strange place is this? What sorcery has transported us here?”

  “I am afraid I dreamed you, although I have no idea how. If you are all quiet, I can probably dream you back home. Where do you come from?”

  “We serve the sultan and we should be in Istanbul. We should be in the scriptorium at the Imperial Palace.” Karabashi stood up, and Joe was impressed to see his turban graze the ceiling. “Are we in our own time or in another?”

  “I think another. Who are you?”

  Karabashi introduced himself then his companions. “I am Ahmed Karabashi, scholar. This
is my friend, the great chronicler, Seyyid Lokman Ashuri. Here is the scribe Ilyas and the two painters Osman and Ali.”

  Joe, feeling underdressed in his usual sleeping gear of boxers and T-shirt, reached for his toweling dressing gown that had fallen off the bed. Lokman reached over and handed it to him. He pulled it on and stood up. He came up to Karabashi’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure whether to bow or not, but since they had invaded his room, he thought not.

  “I’m Joe Knightley. I am a draftsman.” That sounded like a term they might understand. “So what are you going to do about this bowl thingy?”

  “Should we find ourselves once more in the Imperial Palace, I myself shall place the object before the sultan and tell him that it came in truth not from China but from Iznik. If he chooses to punish me for speaking the truth, so be it. My argument will then be disproved, in which case I should merit punishment.” Karabashi shrugged and sat down again. Osman, Ali and the stout scribe looked shocked, their eyes now as round as their little white faces. Joe went over to his desk and sat in his chair.

  “You could always point out that it’s pretty amazing that your own craftsmen can now produce bowls that are as good as the Chinese ones,” he mused. “So good that this one fooled all the experts at the palace.”

  The little men gasped and applauded Joe’s notion while Lokman and Karabashi raised their eyebrows at each other.

  “A natural courtier. The ability to deliver unpalatable truths is a gift.”

  “You’d better wait until you’ve seen how the sultan takes it.” He bowed at this point. “Now I’d better try to return you where you belong.”

  He climbed back into bed. As he turned over and pulled the duvet over his head, the light in the room seemed to fade. It was the last thing he was conscious of before the alarm started beeping at him relentlessly. He sat up, switched on the light, bashed the clock to turn off the alarm and looked at the floor of his room where the five men had sat last night. They had left their golden carpet behind.