Night Lights

by Helen Harper

  Jepsen turns to his right and barks something at some cowering minions. Yeah, he enjoys the power alright. Others are watching him, some muttering to themselves or to their colleagues, some simply waiting calmly for instructions. I take a deep breath, remind myself of the importance of what I’m doing, and plunge through the crowd.

  Suddenly the air becomes stifling. The voices around me dull into an amorphous murmur, drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in my ears. I clench my fists and put my head down, pushing my way through. I have to do this. It’ll be worth it in the end.

  I ignore the elbow jabs and hisses of annoyance as I make my way to the front and centre. While Jepsen is distracted by a uniformed police officer, I reach out and brush against the man on his right. He jumps at my touch and turns towards me. I mumble an apology and pull back into the crowd again.

  I try to squeeze through to the Chief Security Officer but more police appear and bar my way. A woman next to me starts talking in rapid Danish, apparently addressing me. Aware that her voice is loud and she’s drawing attention in my direction, I duck back in time to see another woman step forward and say something in Jepsen’s ear. He nods and replies then, quick as a flash, I spot his hand brush against hers. It’s a fleeting movement and if I hadn’t been so close to the pair of them I’d have missed it. But there was something about the way his fingers lingered for a second too long. Without thinking about it further, I abandon my efforts to touch the Security Officer and aim for the woman instead, laying bets with myself that she’s Jepsen’s secretary. It is the oldest cliché in the book for a reason, after all.

  The woman backs off, falling behind Jepsen. He clears his throat and starts to address the crowd in Danish, probably saying something reassuring. There are a few smiles from and I sense people begin to relax. Jepsen seems to have their respect – but that doesn’t make him a good person.

  As he continues to talk, I push towards the front. My toes and fingers are tingling with anticipation. If I don’t get anything worthwhile from his family or his right-hand man, then I reckon I’ll definitely get the goods from this woman. This is where things are going to get hairy, however. I’ll have to time it just right.

  On the far side from me, someone yells a question. I see the irritation flaring in Jepsen’s eyes before he turns to answer it. That’s when I make my move. I edge out from the crowd and circle round to the back. I spot one of the uniforms frowning at me and starting in my direction so I don’t waste any time. I move rapidly towards the woman and stretch out my hand so my fingers graze against hers. She barely feels it but unfortunately Jepsen is more aware of his surroundings than I’d anticipated. He’s noticed the policeman striding towards me and glances over his shoulder to see what’s going on. As soon as his eyes land on me, I see the shock of recognition. He opens his mouth to yell something. I turn and run.

  I have no choice but to use his employees against him. ‘Bomb!’ I scream. ‘Bomb!’ I pray that the Danish word isn’t too far off the English one.

  Most of the people around me are slow to react. I suck in a deep breath into my lungs and plunge back into the crowd once more, just as Jepsen’s calming effect is almost destroyed. He might understand investments and finance; I, however, understand fear.

  I sprint away, still screaming at the top of my voice. Other people start to do the same – it’s like a Mexican wave of terror. It only takes one person to start a riot; sow one seed of terror and people will follow. I hear others start screaming as more than one person assumes that I’ve seen something and there really is about to be an explosion.

  All around me people turn and run away from the Frandsen building in the same direction as me. The more that follow suit, the more the terror grows. There are cries as those who’ve chosen to run crush some of those who tried to stand their ground. I’m swallowed up in the mass. I know there are probably Frandsen goons – or even police – after me now but as long as I am part of the frightened mass, I should be safe. That knowledge doesn’t stop my fear from ratcheting up until my legs feel like jelly but it doesn’t stop me from moving either.

  There’s a loudspeaker somewhere to the left. No doubt the police are trying to keep everyone calm but too many people have already followed my lead. We rush past the coffee shop and I smile grimly when I realise that the customers inside have also taken heed and are running away as fast as their legs can carry them. I should feel guilty at the chaos and mayhem I’ve created single-handedly on the streets of Copenhagen but instead I simply feel relieved.

  Chapter Eight

  He who permits himself to tell a lie once, finds it much easier to do a second and third time, till at length it becomes habitual.

  Thomas Jefferson

  I end up taking cover in a nearby shopping mall. Even here, almost a mile away from Frandsen, the tannoy is blaring out warnings. I’ve done a far better job than I expected. Wary both of CCTV cameras and of anyone who might still be on my tail, I zigzag through the shops. At one point I pause to purchase a scarf. I wrap it round my head with shaky fingers; when I catch sight of myself in a mirror I realise that I look less like a glamour puss and more like a tired cleaning lady. It’s the best I can manage for now.

  I spy a door marked ‘Employees only’ and make a beeline for it. My plan had been to head for the airport again and the relative safety of travel but, given what I’ve done to raise the terror level across Denmark, that’s probably no longer a good idea.

  I pick up a few old magazines from a staffroom on my left and head down the corridor, looking for a quiet corner where I can hunker down. I’m going to have to force myself to stay awake until later so I can be certain that Jepsen’s family and cronies are also in the land of Nod. I’m not convinced that Danish magazines will help but I have to try something. Before long, I discover a small storeroom with little inside it other than cleaning equipment. I shrug to; this will have to do.

  I barricade the door from the inside, using a mop propped against the handle to prevent anyone from barging in. Hopefully, the mall’s cleaners will have alternative cupboards to plunder for materials when the shoppers finally clear out and they won’t be too curious about this one being locked. I can’t afford to turn on the light, so I sit in the gloom and stare at my filched magazines. Even if I could speak Danish, I wouldn’t be able to read the words. I gaze at the barely visible glossy photos and force myself to keep my eyes open until nightfall. It’s a long, long wait. Twice the door handle rattles as someone tries to come in and twice I feel my fear rising. On both occasions the would-be intruder gives up and goes elsewhere. I’m safe. And I’m ready.

  I give it as long as I dare. I’ve counted every crack in the ceiling and spent hours examining the expressions on the celebrity faces in the magazine for cracks of a different kind. Eventually, just before midnight, I curl up on the dirty floor and close my eyes. It takes only seconds before my ears prickle and I’m asleep.

  My first dream starts as expected. I’ve landed inside the subconscious of Jepsen’s wife. We’re in what I assume is her home and she’s at the sink humming to herself and washing dishes. While I doubt she plunges up to her elbows in soapsuds in real life, this is her dream and I’m not about to gainsay it. I need to work on getting some information that can help me – and screw over her husband.

  I have no doubt that Dante will already have been informed of my presence in Copenhagen by Jepsen and will be tracking me. I don’t want him to find me here so I’m mindful of the time. All the same, I don’t want to rush and miss anything vital so for the first few minutes I merely lean against the kitchen wall and watch.

  There’s a large stainless steel pot on the table behind Mrs Jepsen. After washing several plates and glasses she reaches for it, frowning at its interior which appears to have old food welded to it. She takes it to the sink and begins scrubbing, sighing and tutting as her efforts don’t seem to bear fruit. Her movements become more and more frantic until steam is literally rising from the sink. She starts
to sob then scream and yell. Somewhat alarmed – and curious as to what all this is about – I venture forward. Concentrating hard because it’s not always possible to alert dreamers to my presence, I touch her shoulder.

  She whips round and stares at me. ‘Can you do anything with this?’ she demands.

  I glance down at the pot, which is still in her hands. ‘I think it’s a lost cause,’ I say softly, eyeing the burnt bottom. ‘Maybe throw it away and get a new one?’

  She gazes at me in horror. ‘You can’t say that! I love this pot! My grandmother gave it to me. It’s been passed down our family for generations. I will never throw it out! How on earth can I make frikadeller without this?’

  I don’t have the faintest idea what frikadeller although I can hazard a guess. The pot certainly doesn’t look like a family heirloom; it’s just a pot. I step back and rub my chin. As Mrs Jepsen returns to flapping and bawling, there’s a lurch in my stomach and the scene abruptly changes. We’re no longer in her kitchen; instead it’s the bedroom.

  She’s lying down, surrounded by plump cushions. She’s wearing little more than a satin negligée, which makes me feel very awkward. I drop my gaze, only to spot the offending pot at the foot of the bed. I gaze at it. The burnt remnants of the frikadeller are still there, although Mrs Jepsen seems oblivious to its presence.

  There’s the sound of footsteps from deep within the house then the bedroom door opens and Frederik Jepsen walks in. Even though I know that in this scenario he’s nothing more than a figment of his wife’s mind, I can’t stop myself letting out a gasp.

  Jepsen smiles at his wife; she gazes at him with an expression that even the Chairman would recognise as absolute adoration. He starts taking off his tie and walking towards her. I wince as he unbuttons his shirt; I hate being in sex dreams. They make me feel like the worst kind of voyeur.

  I’m on the verge of giving up on Mrs Jepsen and disapparating to the next dream when the tempo changes abruptly. The door through which Jepsen entered flies open and a gun-wielding man appears. I gape at him, then quickly shake myself and scan the intruder’s features to see if he’s someone important. No matter how close I get, however, his face remains in shadow.

  He jerks the gun threateningly towards both husband and wife. Frederik Jepsen starts babbling and pleading. He falls to his knees and clasps his hands together in obeisance. I’d be lying if I claimed that I didn’t enjoy the sight of it. His pleading doesn’t appear to be placating the gunman whose expression contorts with rage. He raises the gun, clearly getting ready to shoot, as Jepsen’s wife flings herself from the bed and towards him, using her body to shield her husband. She starts wrestling the weapon from the gunman’s fingers. There’s a loud bang as the gun goes off and Mrs Jepsen’s face goes pale. Blood blossoms across her nightgown.

  Without thinking, I lunge forward to grab her and try to get her out of harm’s way. It’s not a logical move but one borne of instinct. I’ve barely moved half a foot, however, when I’m pulled back and a familiar voice murmurs in my ear, ‘Don’t be an idiot, Zoe.’

  He keeps showing up like this and it’s becoming bloody irritating, even though it’s my own damned fault for lingering too long. I hiss in annoyance, although I’m not sure whether I’m directing it at myself or at Dante. I didn’t expect him to catch up to me this quickly. I shouldn’t have been so complacent.

  ‘This is not a good time,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  He leans away and I spin round to face him. He raises an eyebrow and regards me carefully. Not for the first time, I feel like a mouse being watched by an eagle. ‘You have no understanding of safety, do you?’ he says. ‘If you get shot here…’

  ‘Then I’m shot in real life. Yeah, yeah,’ I mutter. I can’t muster the image of meek Zoe who’s prepared to fall into his arms when he crooks his finger, even though I know it’s the sensible thing to do. ‘You forget that I’ve also almost been blown up.’ I pause, before adding pointedly, ‘In real life.’

  He remains calm. ‘You’re after the Department.’ He jerks his thumb towards Jepsen, who’s trying to stop his wife from bleeding out. ‘How did you find him?’

  I shrug. The last thing I want is to broadcast that I turned the tables and tracked Dante to his meeting with Jepsen and the other European Department pricks. Neither do I want him to know how I was able to identify the Dane; it’s a tactic I might want to use again in the future. ‘I caught sight of him last night and recognised him from an article I read recently. After that it was easy to track down his wife. I thought I might learn something about him if I travelled to her dreams. It’s probably a waste of time.’

  He looks at me appraisingly. ‘Maybe not. It’s a clever thing to do.’

  I tell myself that Dante’s praise means nothing to me but I still feel a warm glow.

  I don’t want him to dwell too long on my tactics or ask more questions about where I’m heading so I stave off his next question. ‘You were there with us too, Dante. I spotted him hiding in the mists off the bridge in the dream where you saved me.’ I run a hand through my hair and pray that I’m being convincing. ‘You know that was the dream of a highly placed Interpol officer.’ I cross my arms as much to hold Dante off as anything. ‘The same Interpol officer who was apparently investigating me as a terrorist.’

  A muscle jerks in Dante’s cheek. ‘That puts a different spin on things. Although this is a clever move, I think it’s too dangerous. You should leave the Department to me.’

  As if. I sigh and search for the necessary words then I drop my voice and toe the floor. ‘I’m still not sure I can trust you.’

  ‘I thought we’d been through this.’

  I nod and bite my lip. I hate this but it’s a necessary evil. ‘We have. But I’m still not sure. I need something to fall back on.’ I try to appear helpless. ‘Call it Plan B.’

  Frustration lights his silver eyes. ‘What’s it going to take to make you realise that I’m on your side? That I’ve always been on your side?’

  He deserves an Oscar for his efforts. Even though I know that every word that drips from his traitorous mouth is a lie, I still feel my body swaying towards his. I still desperately want to believe in him and I know the danger that I’ll be in if I let him tag along with me. Feeling trapped in more ways than one, I take a deep breath. I have to give him something; this is a calculated risk.

  ‘Maybe we need to talk about this in person,’ I say finally. ‘I feel like I need to look into your eyes. Your real eyes.’

  His expression grows in intensity. ‘You mean that?’

  ‘It would prove that I’m prepared to think about trusting you again.’ My insides clench painfully; I really hope I’m doing the right thing. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Mrs Jepsen beginning to writhe. Her face is contorted and not only from the pain from her intruder-ridden nightmare. She’s waking up – and Dante hasn’t noticed.

  He steps towards me again. ‘You have no idea what this means to me,’ he breathes. ‘To be able to hold you again…’

  I drop my hands to my sides; it’s either that or slap him as hard as I can. ‘This is a big leap for me.’

  Dante nods. ‘I know.’

  I force myself to meet his eyes. ‘I’m in Copenhagen,’ I tell him. ‘In a…’ Before I can complete my sentence, I’m ripped away. Mrs Jepsen has woken up in the nick of time.

  I estimate I’ve got around two minutes before Dante tracks me again. I want him to think that I’m really starting to trust him so I have to be incredibly careful. And fast. I glance round seeking the star of this next dream, who I assume is Jepsen’s son.

  He’s sitting cross-legged in the centre of the room. Ethereal looking butterflies dance around his head and there’s the chime of music in the background, like I’d expect to hear in a Hindu temple. As I stride over, he reaches up and skims his fingertips across one of the butterflies’ wings. ‘So pretty.’ A moment later his hand closes round it, capturing it. He stuffs it into his mouth and begins to
chew. Yuk.

  ‘More,’ he whispers, his eyes half-closed. ‘I need more.’

  I lunge forward and pinch him hard on the side of the neck. His eyes fly open and he stares at me in shock. It’s too late for that, though; as he wakes up I’m already being pulled away again once more. There’s no telling where I’m going to end up this time.

  I’m standing in front of a castle but it’s not a picturesque, fairy-tale castle. The sky is dark and I’m pretty certain that the shapes above my head are gigantic winged bats. There’s a crack of thunder and I jump half out of my skin. ‘Don’t rain,’ I whisper. A second later, a drop lands on my nose and rolls down. Great.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and bunch up my fists. ‘Lilith,’ I say aloud. ‘I need you.’

  A tall woman with angular features walks up to me. She stares at the castle. She’s clutching a long sword and her expression is grim. I don’t recognise her – all I can assume is that she’s the first person I brushed against in the crowd of Frandsen employees. Rain aside, this dream looks as if it has the potential to be one of the more interesting ones. It’s a shame I’m so distracted.

  ‘Lilith,’ I try again. ‘Lilith!’

  There’s a squeak, followed by a sharp bolt of pain in my left foot. I jerk away and glance down, immediately spotting an imp. Its jaws are wide open and it’s aiming for me again. Bloody creature. ‘I asked for Lilith,’ I say in exasperation.

  There’s another series of squeaks. I have no earthly idea what the imp is trying to say. No doubt Lilith is busy doing whatever other nasty stuff she normally does. Or she’s trying to make a point that she’s not at my beck and call. I wipe my forehead and blink rapidly. It’s well and truly pouring down now; I really don’t want to linger here any longer than I have to.