by Helen Harper
His eyes darken. ‘You’ve been talking to them.’
‘They haven’t given me much choice.’
He looks at me assessingly. ‘I tried to warn you.’
‘Did you know they were going to blow up the Swiss police headquarters?’
‘Of course not.’ He gazes at me with such warmth that my toes curl. I hate him; I really bloody hate him. ‘I would never do anything to hurt you. You know that.’
‘But hurting others is alright?’ I’m aware my voice is getting dangerously loud. Right now, I don’t particularly care.
His hand reaches up and I think he’s about to muffle me again. This time, however, he caresses my cheek and I shiver in response. ‘I’m not a bad guy, Zoe. I’m trying to do what’s right by everyone. What’s right for all of us.’ He drops his voice huskily. ‘I can help you. We can stop the Department together.’ I look away. He laughs softly. ‘Petulance doesn’t suit you.’
‘Leave me alone,’ I spit.
‘No,’ he returns. ‘Let me help you.’
‘I don’t need your help.’
His eyes glitter. ‘Yes, you do. You’re trying to gain access to the Bubble, right?’
I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him, even though it’s obvious that’s what I’m attempting. I try to pull away but he keeps me in my place. ‘Harassment now, Dante? Is that what you’re stooping to? I shouldn’t be surprised, given what you’re prepared to do a child.’
He flares with anger but manages to tamp it down quickly and smoothes over his expression. ‘I’ll prove to you that you can trust me. I won’t even ask who it is you want to visit in the Bubble. I’m on your side.’
Without further warning, he pulls himself away and the heat of his body leaves mine. I can feel my heart beating rapidly against my ribcage. He offers a crooked smile and then strides towards the guards and the Bubble’s front door. What the hell is he up to now?
I sidle along, cocking my head to hear what he’s saying. He gestures expansively towards the guards. ‘Ladies!’ I grimace. Well, that’s not a sleazy opening at all. ‘I would like to enter, please.’
The woman on the left, a statuesque brunette who reminds me worryingly of Zola Budd, steps forward. ‘The Bubble is off limits to all.’
‘I’m not all, though.’
‘We know who you are.’
‘Then you’ll know,’ he replies smoothly, ‘that I’m on your side.’
He’s giving them exactly the same spiel that he just gave me. Why he expects me to feel a glimmer of trust in him ever again, I have no idea.
‘You know we’re being watched, don’t you?’ Dante continues.
I stiffen. Bastard. Not that I’m surprised any more. Should I run? My eyes dart in the direction I just came in. The street is still empty; I’ll have a head start if I go now.
‘What?’ the second woman demands.
‘Behind you,’ Dante comments. He points away from me towards a small side street. I catch sight of a youthful face pulling back out of sight. I breathe out – but I’m still not ready to relax.
‘Bullshit. It’s barely gone seven. There’s no one around here yet.’
Dante remains patient. ‘There is.’ He pauses for a beat. ‘And I think they’re kids.’
The women exchange looks. Neither of them is surprised. With a sudden flash of insight, I realise this isn’t the first time they’ve had to fend off the terrors of young teenagers attempting to enter the Bubble. Whether Dante knew or simply got lucky, I neither know nor care.
‘Stay here,’ the second woman snaps. She marches towards the hidden teenagers. Dante takes a few steps to the right and watches her progress. Zola Budd’s lookalike does the same.
This is it. The remaining guard is still close to the door but as long as she keeps watching her colleague – and I’m quiet enough – I can sneak in. Unless Dante is trying to set me up, of course, and grabs me the second I get close. I debate for a moment and then step away from the alcove. No matter what his intentions are, I have to get inside the Bubble.
I jog forward until I’m barely ten feet away, then I slow to a tiptoed walk.
Dante takes another step away and the guard follows. ‘Did you see that?’ he asks.
She cranes her neck. ‘See what?’ she asks suspiciously.
I roll my eyes. Just how stupid is she? Then I stop myself; probably less stupid than I am. I did more than fall for Dante’s patter, I slept with the wanker.
I stop worrying about him. I reach the Bubble doorway, silently twist the handle and edge open the door. I slide in, giving Dante one last look. He doesn’t even glance in my direction but I know that he’s up to something. Even though he can’t see my expression, I glare at him. Then the door closes behind me and I’m in.
As I’d expected, I can now see door after door stretching out in front of me in seemingly infinite space. I don’t waste any time. The stolen coordinates are in my head. I’m betting that by the time I find the right door, enough time will have passed for my target to be asleep and I’ll be able to access his dreams.
I don’t want Dante to know where I’m going. Yes, he can track me but I can also lay a false trail. With that in mind, I start to sprint. The blank doors blur past as I run. I hurtle down the first corridor, turning right at a random crossroads in a bid to delay Dante or throw him off my scent, even for a few minutes. I count in my head and then double back. It’s a manoeuvre I repeat several times.
I find my target’s door faster than I expected. At first I don’t pause next to it but sweep past. I’m not sure about the logistics of Dante’s tracking but I think that he follows where I go rather than being able to pinpoint where I am from a distance. With that in mind, I keep changing direction; anything to give myself the time I need. It’s only when my limbs are starting to feel heavy with exhaustion that I head back towards the door I need.
I hold back when I reach it. The numbers 5534-2681, which I memorised from the Department office, blink down at me. I’ve waited long enough; he has to be asleep by now. With one last glance around to check that there’s no sign of Dante ‒ or anyone else for that matter ‒ I take a deep breath and turn the handle.
Normally I’d have to touch someone to enter their dreams but the Bubble offers gateways to every single person’s mind which any Traveller can make use of. Of course, if you were looking for a specific person, you could stumble around for months, years even, if you didn’t have their coordinates. The Mayor was cataloguing them gradually for his time zone; clearly the Department have been doing the same here. It’s fortunate that I have an eye for detail or coming here would have been a waste of time.
There has to be a reason why Markus Ingold’s filing card was on that desk; the same Markus Ingold whose empty parking space is outside the Swiss police station. The symbol displayed next to his name is a globe with a set of scales and a sword through it: the symbol for Interpol. If you want to know what’s going on with the guy in charge of hunting down an alleged terrorist called Zoe Lydon, you could do worse than coming here to watch his dreams. But I’m not like the others; I can do more than watch.
I exhale in relief when the door opens; Mr Ingold is definitely asleep. I congratulate myself on arriving at the right time then get down to business. I need to find the man himself and get him to listen to me. Whatever it takes.
There’s a lot of mist. There are buildings but they’re shrouded in the stuff; it clings to them, giving everything a ghostly hue. The atmosphere is thick and heavy but it’s still cold. Goosebumps rise on my arms and I rub them vigorously. The last thing I need is to wake up with a damn chill.
I peer up and down. Behind me there’s a wall of fog that looks virtually impenetrable. It’s not much better ahead of me but at least I can make out some shapes. I shove my hands in my pockets and start walking. Markus Ingold has to be here somewhere.
The ground beneath my feet is smooth and reassuringly solid. I jump, startled, when I hear a faint plop
to my left then I realise that there’s a river. I edge over and peer down. I can’t see the water but I know from the sound that it’s down there. There’s no railing so, mindful of the slippery edge, I stay a couple of feet away.
I’m almost at the bridge before I see it. It’s one of those beautiful, old-fashioned wrought-iron affairs that stretches across the river. I hear a cough and, nodding to myself, I turn to the worn step leading to the bridge and stroll across it. There’s a man in the centre, standing and gazing out at nothing. He’s wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a tweed suit. For a moment I think he’s a conjuration of Markus Ingold’s mind but, when I reach out and touch him lightly, I feel his warmth and solidity. I’ve found the man himself.
Maybe this is what it’s like to be a member of the police force – you’re surrounded by fog and trying to find a way through. The fog, however, simply obscures your vision and gets thicker and thicker. I purse my lips. Nah. Rawlins’ dreams weren’t like this.
Ingold turns away from me. He puts his hand up to his eyes and frowns; he’s caught sight of something. I follow his gaze but, as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to be seen.
He calls out sharply. ‘Hey!’
No one answers. He tries again and then starts walking. I stay by his side, curious to see what’s going on.
There’s a woman on the opposite side of the bridge – and on the wrong side of the pretty railing. She’s wearing a floaty dress and is staring downwards with even more intensity than Ingold was a moment earlier. For a second I think he’s dreaming about me but when the woman turns and reveals her face, I gasp and pull back.
I don’t recognise her but even if I did, it would be difficult to make out her features through all the blood. Her face is coated in it and her eyes are wide and empty. I realise that what’s wearing is a wedding dress that has been cut and slashed. The bottom half is virtually in ribbons.
Ingold lets out an anguished cry. A crowd of people emerge from the end of the bridge, running from the other side of the river towards us. They’re dressed in wedding finery. When they are so close that I can make out their individual features, they halt and stare at Ingold. Ingold himself is staring at the woman.
I glance back at her and blink. The blood has gone and I can see her beautiful, fine features. Her hair, which had been unkempt and escaping from its confines, is now in a neat twist decorated with flowers. Her ruined dress is perfect once more. As I watch, her lips curve into a smile. She raises her hand and throws something to Ingold. He catches it, his hand darting into the air. When he opens his palm to reveal a wedding ring, I get an inkling of what’s going on. He smiles back at her but his expression is tinged with confusion. She blows him a kiss and then lets go; her body falls to the swirling depths below. A moment later there’s a splash.
Ingold lets out a cry and rushes over, frantically searching for her but it’s no use. She’s gone. He looks down at his palm but the ring has also disappeared. I shake my head in sympathy. I wonder who the woman was.
I massage my neck. I’ve never tried anything on this scale before but I know I can change things. I hope I can change them enough. I focus on the spot the woman fell from and concentrate with all my might. Another figure materialises there. She’s still clinging to the edge and disturbingly she’s still wearing a wedding dress. Now, however, she’s me.
Ingold looks up and gapes at my dream self. I squint and she smiles. Good. That’s good. I turn my attention to the crowd. I can work with this.
There’s a shout from towards the back. I clench my fists, weaving the scene with every spark of imagination inside me. A well-dressed man pushes forward, wearing Curly’s face. I allow myself a tiny satisfied smirk.
My Curly creation comes to a halt. The same strange mist clings to his shoulders. He holds out his fist, turning it over slowly to reveal not a wedding ring but a little stick of dynamite. I peer at Ingold but he looks puzzled. This is where I need to be very, very careful.
The dynamite begins to fizz. Admittedly, it looks more like the sort of thing you’d find in a Roadrunner cartoon than a real bomb, but this is a dream. There’s a lot I can get away with. Curly grins with an edge of real malice then he throws the dynamite at my dream self. I catch it; I’m even more puzzled than Ingold. A moment later, while the real me leaps back to protect myself, the dynamite explodes. The dream me falls into the river and once more Ingold is left desperate, his hands stretching out after my lost body.
I watch him. What I’ve planted in his head is nothing more than a dream; it’s not evidence of anything. With any luck, however, this scene will have penetrated far enough into his subconscious for him to go looking for terrorist perpetrators in other places and to realise that I need his protection rather than his pursuit.
I wonder whether I should repeat the sequence, just to be sure, but it’s not only my body that’s physically exhausted; my mind feels worn at the edges from the exertion of weaving the dream and I can feel a pulsating headache forming behind my eyes. I draw air into my lungs. No, that’ll be enough.
Then I hear clapping from behind me. Frowning, I turn round.
‘That was pretty good.’
I stare at Lilith’s hourglass figure. A faint smile plays around her ruby-red lips and she gives the impression of being relaxed and happy. Somehow I don’t think she’d be here if that were really the case. ‘How did you find me this time?’ I ask.
‘You used the Bubble,’ comes the melodious reply. ‘And I wanted to talk to you again.’
‘Is there a problem?’ My body tenses.
‘Until you sort out your abilities, yes, there is a problem.’
I don’t move a muscle but I feel a spreading chill. ‘You’re still concerned about the Department.’
She nods. ‘Aren’t you?’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to snap that the only reason I’m here is because I’m worried about the damned Department but getting antagonistic won’t help. And let’s face it, I need all the help I can get. ‘You know I am,’ I say.
‘Then do something about them,’ Lilith says bluntly.
I grit my teeth. ‘I’m trying.’
‘Try harder.’
I count slowly to ten. She watches me, her head slightly cocked as if she’s amused. I can’t believe she’s just here to tell me to do more. There’s something else she’s not saying. I look her up and down and consider. ‘You’re from the Badlands.’
Her eyes dance. ‘I am. Once upon a time I lived there. With the demise of the Sandman I can now return whenever I desire.’ She lifts her head and bares her swan-like neck. ‘Do you want to chop my head off too?’
My fingers curl into tight fists. That’s how I destroyed the Sandman but only because he gave me no choice. ‘Not particularly. But if you get in my way…’
Lilith’s smile grows wider. She knows it’s an empty threat. ‘You won’t hurt me. You can’t. And you can’t run from the past either.’ She taps her temple. ‘It’s always there.’
I gaze at her in frustration, wishing she would be clearer. ‘What do you actually want?’
‘I can feel your tension from the other side of the Dreamlands, Zoe.’ For a brief moment her face grows serious. ‘The Sandman did not lie when he said we worry about the power of the dreamweaver. He told us that you have the potential to grow crazy with the lust for more.’
‘I thought all you cared about is that I sort out the Department so you can get some peace and quiet.’
‘That is indeed what I want.’ She tosses back her hair. ‘But beware of your methods. If you look into the abyss for too long then the…’
‘…abyss will look back at you.’ I stare at her. ‘Nietzsche said that.’
‘Where do you think he got it from?’ She examines her fingernails. ‘They are wise words but what most people don’t realise is that the abyss can help as well. It’s not all bad.’ Lilith places a faint emphasis on that last word.
‘You’re saying the Badlands will help me?’
‘We don’t want another dictator,’ she answers cryptically. ‘And we are growing concerned about what is happening with our environment.’ I open my mouth to ask what she means but before I can say anything she jerks her thumb back towards the thickest of the mist. ‘You’re being watched. As much as anyone can watch anything through this fog.’
My blood turns to ice. ‘By whom?’ I’m sure I already know the answer though. Dante. He followed me here after all.
‘There are five of them at the edge of the bridge. I don’t know who they are.’ Lilith smirks. ‘But they seem to know you.’
Not Dante then. The Department. I wonder if I’ve been set up. Was the Markus Ingold card a plant? My thoughts trip one after the other as I start to panic. Lilith reaches out and tugs the hem of my T-shirt and I remember to breathe.
I go back over what happened earlier. No, spotting his name was an accident. A lucky accident. I slap myself mentally. They had his card out because they were planning to come here all along. They might not be able to change what Ingold dreams but they can watch him to see what he’s thinking. The more optimistic part of me hopes that they’re keeping their end of the bargain and have already started working towards clearing my name. Somehow I doubt it.
‘You should take care, Zoe from the quiet lands,’ Lilith says quietly.
Tell me something I don’t know. I stare at her, still unsure whether I can trust her.
‘They’re coming over,’ Lilith tells me, raising her hand in an elegant wave.
‘Wait!’ It’s too late; she’s already gone. I curse and stay where I am. I’m going to stand my ground and see what the Department has to say for themselves.
Like ethereal spirits, Larry, Curly and Moe emerge from the mist and stroll towards me; the other two, whoever they are, stay back. That’s interesting. The Department guard their anonymity very carefully.
This time it’s not Curly who takes the lead. He’s lurking at the back with a distinct glower; I guess he’s not very happy about me planting his image into Ingold’s dream. What a shame.
