by Helen Harper
He chuckles. ‘You forget which organisation I work for. I’m experienced in talking to all sorts of people and you’re not as accomplished a liar as you think you are.’
I swallow. Is he playing with me? I decide to stick to my story. ‘I know the Dreamlands,’ I tell him, ‘but not about this weaver.’
‘Then why are you being portrayed as an evil criminal?’ he asks. ‘Why was there an explosion in the headquarters just before you arrived on our doorstep? Important people seem to want you very badly.’ He leans forward. ‘Why did I dream of you?’
I swallow hard. ‘I don’t know. And I don’t know why someone seems to have it in for me. But if you don’t think I’m a terrorist then I have no reason to be here.’
‘You’re safer here than out there.’
‘Given what happened at the Swiss police headquarters, can you be sure about that?’
His mouth tightens. ‘Our security has been stepped up, believe me. In any case, I feel that we can help each other out quite considerably.’
‘You can clear my name. I don’t see what else you can do.’
Ingold raises his eyebrows; he seems to be very amused by me right now. ‘You’ve been on the run with a British policewoman. Terrorist or not, your government is not going to look kindly on a law enforcement officer wandering around Europe with someone wanted for suspected criminal activity.’
I stare at him. ‘You’re saying you can help her?’
He inclines his head. ‘That is within my powers, yes. We can talk to the UK police and suggest she was helping out at our request rather than working against us and visiting known criminals in order to obtain false documents.’ He chuckles at my expression. ‘Yes, Zoe, we know all about that. We know you went to Denmark. We’ve been tracking you for quite some time. In fact, we pinpointed your location about ten minutes after the explosion here and we’ve kept track of you ever since. You didn’t really think you could pass through border controls simply because you’ve had a haircut and acquired a fake name? We made sure you weren’t stopped. We’ve been in charge all along.’
Ingold isn’t boasting, he’s merely stating a fact. I try not to let the fear in and remind myself to breathe normally. I’m not normally that naïve. The truth is that I’d tried not to dwell on how simple it was to pass through immigration. I’m discovering that I’m incredibly optimistic; if I don’t look on the bright side, I’ll end up being swamped by how awful life has become. With that in mind, I decide not to give in yet.
‘I’d have known if I was being followed,’ I declare. ‘I’m good at noticing things.’
Ingold is so laid back, I’m surprised he’s not horizontal. ‘Can you notice when a satellite is tracking you? Or a drone?’
I look into his eyes; they’re steady and hold a hint of surprising warmth. But the fact that the police – even Interpol – would expend such technological energy on me sends another chill through my body. ‘If you’ve really been following me for that long,’ I say, ‘why not pick me up earlier?’
‘We wanted to know what you were up to and we wanted to confirm that you were the dreamweaver. The dream I had suggests that you are.’ He leans forward, his expression suddenly alert and interested. ‘What is it like? How far have you pushed your abilities?’
I clench my jaw until it hurts. ‘I’m the same as any other Traveller.’
His expression dims only slightly. He reaches over to a nearby desk and takes a plain manila envelope, opens it and examines something, then slides it over to me. It’s a glossy A4 photograph. I tense when I immediately recognise the subject as Curly.
‘Do you recognise this man?’ Ingold asks.
‘I’ve seen him,’ I admit, aware that my body language has already given me away.
‘In real life,’ Ingold prods, ‘or in dreams?’
‘Dreams.’
He nods. ‘His real name is Alistair Hendricks. He’s a hotshot banker from London. He’s been investigated several times for insider trading but we’ve never found any evidence of wrongdoing. However, he does have a knack for spotting when to invest or divest.’
‘Imagine that,’ I murmur, trying to stay calm. Another name; another real identity.
‘We have positively identified him as a Traveller. More than that, we have good intelligence that he’s a member of the Department, the controlling faction in the Dreamlands.’
I pretend to mull this over for a moment, although I feel a chill settle in my bones. Maybe this is why the Department had Ingold’s coordinates. It was nothing to do with me, it was all about him and his investigations into the Dreamlands. ‘If you don’t have any Travellers on your team,’ I say eventually, ‘how can you know this for sure?’
‘We work with a number of informants. They’re not all entirely trustworthy and we have no way of verifying their information, but we can cross-check the information they give us to extrapolate the truth.’
He sounds like a scientist. ‘And you’ve … extrapolated that Alistair Hendricks is a Traveller?’
‘Yes.’ Ingold sounds pleased with himself. He takes out another photograph. ‘This was taken less than two hours ago.’
I look at it. It’s good old Freddie Jepsen and Curly – or rather Hendricks – meeting in a car park. My chill deepens; I rub my arms then realise what I’m doing and drop my hands. ‘So?’ I ask.
Ingold’s eyebrow twitches. ‘That’s not enough?’ He shrugs and reaches into his envelope of tricks once more, this time taking out a USB stick. He plugs it into his laptop and turns it towards me. ‘Listen.’
Jepsen’s cultured Danish accent fills the room. ‘She threatened me. Me! She has to be stopped. We can’t use her. She has to be eliminated once and for all. There will be another dreamweaver, there always is.’
‘The tracker disagrees with your assessment,’ Hendricks says.
‘We can’t trust him either. We have to get rid of them both.’
The recording clicks off. Ingold shrugs again. ‘Unfortunately that’s all we have that’s audible.’
My mouth is dry. I lick my lips and bite the inside of my cheek; I can already feel my limbs starting to tremble. Ingold reaches across and grabs my hands. I flinch but it’s already too late. He squeezes my fingers. ‘You can trust us, Zoe.’
‘Does the Department know you exist?’ I ask baldly.
He shakes his head. ‘No. We’re very careful. And as you’ve heard, we have been keeping close tabs on them. But I was assigned to your case for a reason. As soon as we began to suspect this was all related to the Dreamlands, we knew we’d arouse the Department’s interest.’ He smiles without humour. ‘I didn’t expect so many people crawling around in my head though.’
I stare at him. ‘You knew we were all there? All of us?’
‘Not at time but…’ He pauses for a moment. ‘Well, you’ll see. We’re the good guys, Zoe.’
‘That’s what everyone says. That’s probably what everyone believes. Do the bad guys know they’re the bad guys?’
‘Generally, yes, they do.’
Dante doesn’t. I sigh and force myself to relax. Ingold lets go of my fingers and I pull my hands away so he can’t try that again. ‘You know,’ I say softly, ‘that now you’ve touched me, I can enter your dreams. I can see into your head, just as I’ve already done.’
There’s no eureka moment from Ingold because he’s dragged the truth out of me. He simply smiles kindly for a moment. ‘I do know that.’ His expression grows serious. ‘What happened with Adam was a mistake. We didn’t mean to shoot him and for that I am genuinely sorry. We want you to work with us, Zoe. Together we can do a lot of good.’
That’s becoming a remarkably familiar refrain. ‘I’ve heard that before.’
‘But when you sleep you’ll be able to see into my mind. Again. You’ll know more about who I really am.’ He watches me carefully. ‘With your permission, we would like to hook you up to an EEG and … other devices. We’ll track your brain activity and mine. We know a lot ab
out what you can do but there’s still a lot we don’t know.’
‘Other devices?’ I scoff. ‘Do you really think I’m going to let you plug me into a bunch of machines while I’m vulnerable and sleeping?’
‘Sergeant Rawlins and your mother can both be present to make sure we do nothing untoward. We will do what it takes to make you realise you can trust us.’
There’s a knock on the door. Ingold stands up and opens it and someone on the other side hands him a box. He thanks them, brings it in and drops it with a heavy thud onto the table. I eye it as if it’s another bomb. ‘What’s this?’ I ask.
‘This is everything we know about the Dreamlands,’ he says. ‘The condensed version. We’re holding nothing back from you. Have a read through and think over what I’ve said. I’ll be back in a few hours.’
I should demand to be released or to see a lawyer but all I can think about is what’s inside that box.
‘Would you like something to eat or drink?’ he asks. ‘I can have whatever you like brought here.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m fine.’
Another smile touches his mouth. ‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’ He walks out without another word.
No doubt I’m still being watched. There’s no two-way mirror in this room but there is a camera above my head and probably microphones embedded in the walls. But they can’t tell what I’m thinking. I drum my fingers on the desk then lean forward and flip the lid off the box.
The top sheets of paper are yellowing, with tell-tale crinkles at the edges and a typewriter font that confirms their age. It’s not even an Interpol document; it’s from the ‘International Criminal Police Commission’, which I assume was an earlier incarnation of the organisation. I scan down. It’s a report from the 1930s by someone named S. Agnew who suggested the possibility of a dream world accessed only by a select few. Apparently he came across this information during a drunken conversation with a friend and, when he sobered up, was intrigued enough to follow it up. He found three more people willing to support his friend’s story. Following this, there’s a psychiatric report suggesting that Agnew isn’t entirely of sound mind. Poor guy – but hardly surprising.
The next document is from three years later. It involves an officer who pinpointed a murderer seemingly from gut instinct and luck rather than through any real detective work. When pressed, he states that the information ‘came to him in a dream’. That might have been the end of the story were it not for an enterprising man who remembered Agnew and took things further. Fascinated, I flip through page after page, losing myself in the history. Ingold wasn’t lying; there have been several Travellers among Interpol’s ranks over the years. I’m stunned that others know about the Dreamlands’ existence. It’s only when I reach the appendix, however, and scan through the notes they have about dreamweaving, that my world is completely rocked. I read the pages several time to confirm what I’m seeing then I lean back and run my hands through my hair. Wow.
My astonishment must be clear to whoever is watching because it’s not long before Ingold re-enters. He passes me a hot mug of tea and sits down again. I take the mug, curl my fingers round its welcome warmth and stare at him. He smiles. Sipping at the tea, which is far too sweet but helps calm my nerves, I keep my eyes on him. ‘Hitler?’ I ask.
Ingold nods. ‘His door in the … Bubble, if that’s what you still call it, took some time to locate. Once it was found, however, we were granted unfathomable access into his mind. The intelligence gathered from visiting his dreams was unparalleled.’ He gives me a meaningful look. ‘It helped us win the war. And, yes, he was even more psychotic that you might imagine.’
I suck in a breath. Adolf Hitler’s name might be the most infamous in the files but he’s certainly not the only one. Over the years, numerous bastards have been brought to account as a result of the work of Travellers. Having access to people’s minds isn’t all bad, then.
I jab my finger at the piece of paper in front of me. ‘Is this true?’ I demand.
Ingold’s eyes crinkle at the edges. ‘I thought you might find that interesting,’ he murmurs. ‘We weren’t sure how much you knew about yourself and what you are capable of but we figured that if you were aware of this, you would have already done it to Jepsen.’
I swallow. Yeah, I probably would – and I still can. Jepsen made a massive error by lying to me this morning about leaving me alone. He’ll soon realise his mistake. ‘How many people are aware of this?’ I ask.
‘Very few. It’s not easy for non-Travellers to suspend their disbelief and believe in the existence of the Dreamlands. We have a special unit dedicated to it but our numbers are small. It’s better that way.’
I tilt up my chin. ‘Why don’t you tell everyone?’
He laughs. ‘First of all, they’ll think we’re crazy. There will be hard questions about money being directed into looking at something that most people won’t believe exists. Like every organisation, we have strict budgets.’
‘But if you came clean, you might be able to recruit more Travellers. You might be able to stop people like Alistair Hendricks from using the Dreamlands for financial gain.’
Ingold inclines his head. ‘We might. Assuming we could get the world to believe us.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘But what do you think would happen to society if people knew that anyone at any time could wander into their minds? We’re at our most vulnerable when we sleep. No one could prove that they’d been visited but it could be used to complain of entrapment by law officials. People with genuine mental health issues would suffer even more. We already had enough problems when half of Europe was visited by terrifying nightmares.’ He shakes his head. ‘The truth serves very few.’ He pauses. ‘I’m going to ask you the question again. And I’d like you to confirm it aloud for the record. Are you the dreamweaver?’
In a small voice, I answer him. ‘Yes.’
***
My mother is still bristling. ‘You cannot trust these people, Zoe.’
‘That’s why you’re here,’ I tell her. ‘You and Rawlins can watch over everything that happens.’
‘Not if they shoot us, we can’t.’
I sense rather than see Ingold stiffen. ‘Mrs Lydon, we are truly sorry about that. We’d been led to believe that Adam might be armed. He’s already recovering and he’ll be back on his feet in no time.’
I twist my fingers. ‘Why did you think he might have a gun?’ I ask.
Rawlins exhales and I turn and stare at her. ‘Wait,’ I say slowly. ‘Did he…?’
She nods reluctantly. ‘He bought one.’ She holds up her hand before I can babble a protest. ‘I didn’t know about it at the time.’
I glance at my mother; she’s looking anywhere but at me. ‘You knew,’ I say to her. ‘You knew he had a gun.’
She shrugs. ‘It seemed like a good idea.’
‘A gun?’ I shriek. ‘You don’t think that being on a list of terror suspects is bad enough? How could carrying around a bloody gun help matters?’
‘If he’d taken it out,’ she says pointedly, ‘then maybe he could have the shot the bastard before he was shot himself.’
Ingold opens his mouth to answer but I beat him to it. ‘And that “bastard” wouldn’t have shot to wound. He’d have shot to kill.’
My mother frowns but at least she doesn’t say anything else. I shake my head in despair. Was this my fault? Did I drive them to this?
‘Stop thinking about it,’ Ingold advises. ‘We need you to fall asleep. We don’t need you tossing and turning and chewing over your problems instead of drifting off.’
I glare at him even though he doesn’t deserve it. ‘I have no trouble falling asleep,’ I tell him icily. ‘That is what I do.’ I clamber onto the not-particularly-comfortable looking hospital-style bed. ‘Where’s the Chairman?’
There’s a plaintive meow and his familiar weight drops onto my chest. His claws dig into me for a second and then he starts to purr. At least some things are going right, I think
sardonically.
A white-coated woman, wearing the sort of horn-rimmed spectacles which I didn’t realise still existed in this century, busies herself hooking up all manner of electrodes to my skull. ‘These will measure your brain activity, Ms Lydon. They’re nothing new.’ Her tone is dismissive. Then she places a white box over my entire head. ‘This, however, is completely different. It’s the latest technology out of Japan. It tracks your neural patterns, which can then be correlated with what you’re visualizing so we can receive images back here.’
I’m suitably impressed. ‘You’re taking photos of what’s going on inside my head?’
‘In layman’s terms, yes, that’s exactly what we’re doing. I need to establish a baseline first, however. It will take some time.’ She tells me to relax and starts reading out a series of words, asking me to visualize each one. ‘Red chair.’ Scribble. ‘Blue sky.’ Scribble scribble. ‘A gun.’ Lots of scribbling going on there. It seems to take an age. When she’s finally done, I hear her mutter something to Ingold and he gets onto the bed next to mine.
‘How come he doesn’t have to do the baseline test?’ I enquire, unable to see what’s going on because of the contraption over my head.
‘He’s already been through numerous tests,’ the doctor answers. ‘All of the Dream Team have.’
I giggle and my shoulders start to shake in uncontrollable spasms. ‘Dream Team? That’s what you call yourselves?’
‘We had to come up with something,’ Ingold mutters. ‘Go to sleep. I want to see how this works and it’s already late. You don’t want to miss Jepsen.’
I get my laughter under control. He’s right; the Dane and I are going to have some words and then I’m going to really flex my dreamweaver muscles. I relax my body. ‘Let’s do this.’
Ingold opts for chemical inducement and, just before I feel the familiar prickle along the tips of my ears, I hear him emit a snore. Whatever he took, it was certainly powerful. The Chairman shifts his weight slightly and sighs while I blot out the rest of the world. Despite the unfamiliar surroundings and the people around me, I stay true to my word and drop off to sleep quickly. It’s time to see what’s really going on in the Interpol officer’s mind. Again. But this time it’s not about manipulating any suspicions that I’m a terrorist; this is about whether I can really trust him or not.
