‘I’m sure you do.’ I write down Chemistry mask. It might be something from the pop culture symbol base. Everybody knows Jason and the hockey mask from Halloween, even if they’ve never watched those old movies.
‘So what about other dreams? Is this the only one?’
‘There are variations. He only stole my music in the first one. But all of them are set high up above this futuristic city, and in all of them I find I can’t control anything but he can.’
‘Ah. Control. OK. Could you give me an example?’
‘Well, one time I dreamed I was out on a walkway over this same city, and I was looking for something important. Can’t remember what it was. And the sky started changing colour. First it was orangey, like a sunset. Then it went green, then brown, then red . . . it was like when you set your desktop screen saver to cycle every five seconds. Except that each time the sky changed, I felt my emotional state shift, too. I mean, dramatically. Like in music, moving from major to minor. And this guy in the mask, he was standing there orchestrating it. Like a conductor.’
‘A conductor. That’s interesting. Could it be a pun? A musical conductor could be an electrical conductor, in a dream. Was there lightning?’
She smiles. ‘Ah, that’s cool. No, no lightning. Well, I challenged him. I said, Why are you doing this to me? And he said, I want you to know that everything you see around you is of my making. If I say we’re on a boat, we’re on a boat.’
‘And were you? On a boat?’
‘Yes! It was like a cruise ship but it was staffed by people with donkey heads. He said that was his doing, too. It was really creepy. I probably sound insane.’
She puts the journal down and hugs her knees.
‘Not at all. It’s just the way dreams work. So, can you tell me what you’re hoping for me to do for you?’
‘I’ll be surprised if you can do anything, honestly, because I’ve never heard of dream therapy, but Antonio insisted. The thing is, it’s starting to affect my work. The dreams are exhausting and on top of that, I dread going to sleep so I have to use an app, but then it’s hard to wake up so I use stimulants in the daytime, and then I get palpitations and my hands shake and I can’t concentrate properly. I’m starting to fray.’
‘What app do you use to go to sleep? If it’s buggy, it could trigger nightmares.’
She nods. ‘Antonio says I shouldn’t use Sweet Dreams, but I have various apps that help me with my playing, plus liminal programming that I need to use to be competitive with other musicians. There aren’t enough hours in the day to do the work otherwise.’
I feel myself gulping. Liminal programming enables you to learn skills as you fall asleep and as you wake up. I can’t imagine being that focused, that dedicated, to anything, as to have even my sleep programmed.
‘Anyway,’ she adds, ‘I’ve tried swapping apps but nothing changes. Please don’t tell me I have to quit using Sweet Dreams. I don’t think I have the strength to do that right now. I could lose my job.’
Her eyes are dark and full of tears, pleading. Wow. This palatial suite, her beauty, her talent – and she’s a wreck inside.
‘OK, well, I’m not here to boss you around. I’m here to help you work on your subconscious mind. Is it possible this Creeper character is a manifestation of your anxiety about . . . well, about being so overworked?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. I love my work. I’ve sacrificed so much to get to this point. I want this career with my heart and soul, Charlie.’
I’m nodding, making sympathetic noises.
‘Antonio says you’ve been sleepwalking. I have to tell you, I don’t know how to help you with that and you might want to see an actual doctor. I only deal with the stories that are happening in your dreams. What I do is enter your dreams and rearrange things to make them turn out better. You could think of it like me planting suggestions so that you’ll dream different things, you’ll be able to wake up in your dreams and take control of them. And from what you’re telling me, I think this might help you.’
‘See, I was afraid you’d say this Creeper guy is just some complex in my head and then we’d be all into stirring up my childhood looking for causes and I don’t have time for that—’
I cut her off with a hand gesture. ‘I’m not an analyst. The way I work, it doesn’t really matter what kind of complex the Creeper is. What matters is how you deal with it. Maybe we’ll try transforming it into something less upsetting.’
‘Ooh, could we turn him into a potted plant or a really ugly shoe?’
‘That’s the spirit,’ I tell her.
There’s a knock at the door. I’m not surprised to see Antonio. I force myself to look at him, even though I’m well aware it would be better not to make eye contact. His eyes are just as dark and knowing as before, and his eyelashes are just as long, and his mouth is just as curved. I bite the inside of my cheek so that I won’t lean into his faux-European kiss-on-both-cheeks greeting.
‘I hope I don’t intrude,’ he says, with a half-bow towards each of us. ‘I just wanted to make sure everything is going OK and you don’t need anything.’
I watch their body language. He looks at her like she’s a goddess and there’s a field of sexual intensity between them even though they barely touch. On any other occasion I’d probably be withering into a dry heap of despair at everything they’re getting that I’m not, but I’m still wondering whether Mel could really have found the Dream City. Because if she did, then the greyscale people aren’t just manifestations of my subconscious, they are other dreamers who are blundering around the Dream City blind. Users of Sweet Dreams, maybe – after all, I use my earring to make my recordings.
Mel wasn’t masked, though. She could see where she was going in the Dream City. And so could the Creeper. What does it mean?
‘I am going to sleep here on the sofa if this is OK,’ Antonio is saying. ‘I stay out of the way unless you need me.’
I must have startled or something, because Mel glances apologetically at me.
‘Let me just catch up,’ I say. ‘You want to start . . . now?’
‘Only if that’s OK,’ Mel says. ‘It’s just that I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in so long.’
Antonio reaches over and touches her hair, very softly. I see his nostrils flare as he looks at her, and I flush with embarrassment just watching them.
‘Getting to sleep is difficult for Melodie,’ he says, gazing at her. ‘But you have the wonderful ASMR. We both listen to your channel.’
I’m a little surprised, because of course I do ASMR as part of my therapy, but I’ve let my channel lie fallow for months. I didn’t think anybody still followed it.
I started making ASMR recordings in my second year at uni when my parents were splitting. It’s not supposed to affect you so much when you’re technically an adult, but I didn’t deal with the break-up well. Everything seemed to be melting down. To comfort me, Grandad gave me my first wearable – it was a necklace – and although he said it was supposed to be for researching papers, I used it the same as everyone else: to go on BigSky. I got good at surfing free introductory offers to play games and hang out, and sometimes I paid for a little Reality Therapy just to shock myself and put my problems into perspective. Then the gangland guy I was following in Reality Therapy got stabbed in the bathroom of Penn Station in New York, because the BigSky neural interface made it feel like you were really there. It was a little too much reality for me, quite honestly.
I ended up focusing on ASMR because it’s peaceful and friendly. Such an improvement on reality.
I made my own recordings for self-therapy, but then people started following me and I got interested in helping others. I didn’t talk to the camera, or offer Spacetime sharing. Unlike most of the big ASMRtists, I’m not beautiful, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting my face out there. I worked strictly in audio, creating sound spaces full of triggers. I prided myself on being able to get tingles out of people who otherwise don’t experien
ce them, and even though it wasn’t about the money, I made a nice little side income from website donations my last year of uni.
The narcolepsy put an end to all that.
Now the only time I can do ASMR with people is live and in person. I use it to help them fall asleep for our dreamwork sessions. Of course, I fall asleep, too. Then I slip into their dream and do my thing. That’s my gift, the blessing that comes with my drug-trial narcolepsy curse. I don’t know anybody else who can hack dreams, and when I tried to tell BigSky about it, they didn’t believe me and wanted me to sign a bunch of stuff and submit to vague ‘tests’. Then O told me not to trust BigSky because they are backed with criminal money these days – and I guess she would know, because that’s why she stopped supporting them even though she was one of their original crowdfunders. When I started my dream therapy business, O insisted I go out on my own, and here I am.
I can tell that Melodie is beyond exhausted. She’s been weirdly overanimated, and at the same time in between sentences she gets that vacant look. Sleep is calling her. She and I go into her bedroom, leaving Antonio in the main room. While she’s in the bathroom, I message O to let her know I’m staying here tonight. There’s a small sofa in the bedroom, and in the closet I find a pillow and blanket for myself. Mel comes out dressed for bed and props herself up on about four hundred hotel pillows. She pulls a silken sleeping mask down over her eyes. I sit with one hip on the foot of her bed and hoist my trusty bag onto the bedspread, where it looks cheap and nasty. But it sounds delicious.
‘This is going to be really easy,’ I tell her in a soft voice as I start rummaging very deliberately in my bag. ‘All you have to do is move the first finger on your left hand when you hear a trigger you like, and move the first finger on your right hand when you hear one you don’t like. If you get any misophonia, just kick me.’
She smiles, with dimples. ‘I’m not going to kick you.’
I tell her that I’ll be talking to her, that she’ll be able to hear my voice the whole time, and once she’s dreaming, she’ll be able to see and hear me in the dream environment. But first we’re going to find out what kinds of sounds she finds relaxing.
Then I get out my props, carefully and with my full attention on the sounds they make. One reason I keep using my ancient bag is that it makes lovely noises when you rummage in it. It has various snaps and chains that jingle softly, and there are rumbles and scratchy sounds when I pull things out of it. Mel is a musician, so naturally she’s sensitive to sound. But the thing about ASMR is that what may trigger one person’s tingles can be irritating to another person. I plan to run through many different triggers: the sound of pouring water. The sound of tissue paper crinkling. The sound of my nails tapping on different objects. My voice whispering. The tinkling of little beads on my bracelet. I have dozens of them that I can cycle through until I find something the client likes. I don’t personally get actual tingles when I’m performing ASMR, but because I have to be so calm and calming for the listener, I can’t help but get trancey. Paradoxically, I’m in more danger of a narcolepsy attack when I’m stressed than when I’m relaxed. That’s how I’m able to avoid falling asleep before my clients.
On this occasion, I don’t have to do much at all. Mel must be completely exhausted, because I scratch my nails on some cardboard and crinkle a few dried rosebuds in a little bowl and she goes down like timber falling.
Secret Diary of a Prawn Star
Entry #49
Codename: Chaplin
Date: 15 September 2027
Client: Melodie Tan
Payment in advance: Yes
Session Goal: Get rid of creepy malevolent dream character
Location: Hilton Excelsior, Room 2329
Narcolepsy status: Giant afternoon nap. Feel good now
Nutrition/stimulants: Donuts and celery
Start time: 11.35 p.m.
End time: 12.01 a.m.
In all dreams, there’s a feeling of disjunction at first. I find myself in someone’s dreamspace. If it’s their house, then in the beginning it looks like my house. Usually but not always my childhood house. And then, dimly, with a slipping sensation, the shapes of rooms and furniture and smells will start to morph until I can see what the client sees. Same thing with the people. They start out being people I know, but over time as I synchronise with the client, the dream people transform so that I’m seeing the world through the eyes of my client.
I start out in the auditorium of my school in Wapping. It’s dim and empty and I’m sweeping up behind the seats. On the stage I can see Mel’s harp. It sits in a single spotlight, all golden; it’s practically radiant. She walks across the boards and I can hear the hollow sound of her footsteps. She’s wearing soft slippers and Hello Kitty pyjamas. I’m down in the fourth row, bent over behind the seats, sweeping up with a little dustpan and brush like a movie usher. But there’s no popcorn here. I’m sweeping up something else. Can’t quite see what it is.
She sits down on the stool and puts her hands on the strings. She takes a shaky breath, and even from here I see her throat move as she swallows nervously. She starts to play.
I know this is a dream – her dream – but it seems to me that the sound of the music is more beautiful and more real than any music I’ve ever actually heard. It sends ASMR tingles across my scalp, then down my spine and into my extremities. I’m supposed to be doing the ASMR on Mel, but it’s the other way around. I’m melting into calm.
Bugger. I can’t melt. I’m working. Mentally pinching myself, I crouch behind the seats, literally keeping my head down while we wait for the Creeper to show itself. As I sweep up debris under seats, I notice that the auditorium is changing to a proper theatre, with gilded seventeenth-century boxes and red velvet. There’s a lot of mess on the floor for such a fancy hall, and I wonder what the nature of the trash beneath the seats says about Melodie’s dream.
The sound of the harp rises into the upper levels of the theatre and hangs under the ceiling like smoke. The air is warm with it. I glance down at my dustpan. The contents are not popcorn or chewing-gum wrappers or crumpled programmes. In the dustpan are tiny bones, hair, a desiccated eyeball or two and a decaying human finger.
Fighting nausea, I hold the pan at arm’s length and look around the theatre again. Now I can see the Creeper. It’s standing in the doorway of the left-hand aisle, silhouetted against a reddish light from the foyer.
She sees it, too. Her playing falters.
It starts to walk towards the stage. It’s just as Mel described it: a man wearing a simple black suit. The proportions of the body change slightly as it moves, so it’s hard to work out its physical size. The mask has no eyes but is covered in chemical symbols with a complicated bonding pattern. I can’t see the face except for the mouth.
‘You’re not welcome here,’ I tell the Creeper. ‘This is Melodie’s dream. I need to ask you to leave.’
But it doesn’t address me or even acknowledge that I’m here. It keeps going towards her. I’m not really surprised. I get ignored a lot. I’m small and not well dressed and obviously I can be a bit timid. But this is dreamland. I can be whatever I want to be. Besides, Melodie is clearly terrified of this wanker, and we can’t have that. I need to go bolder.
I change myself into the Incredible Hulk. With a big hammer. I’ll be lucky if I come off like that diminutive chef who threatens people with her spoon on those new Bisto ads. I’m sure I could have done better if I’d had more time to think up a plan, but in the heat of the moment it’s easy to go for the default that you have in your head.
With my giant hammer in one hand and my little dustpan full of bones and whatnot in the other, I stomp down the aisle to intercept the Creeper before it gets to the stage. But the same dream logic that lets me turn into the Incredible Hulk lets the Creeper teleport instantly to stand right over poor Melodie. She gives a jolt of fear. Her super-shiny hair swings back as she leans away from the Creeper, her face drawn, eyes showing a lot of white.<
br />
This is my moment. It’s going to be excellent. I’ll get to have new cards printed: ‘Dream Bouncer’. I will so enjoy throwing the Creeper out of this dream.
‘Hey, oi!’ I yell and stomp onstage, breaking a few boards. I swing my hammer menacingly, and it just misses taking out the harp.
The Creeper turns to me. ‘Stay out of this,’ it says. ‘This line of work isn’t for you.’
It has an American accent. That’s interesting, since Mel is from Canada.
‘I won’t stay out of it,’ I say in my deep Hulk voice. ‘Melodie asked me to protect her, and that’s what I’m going to do.’
The thing grabs my arm and suddenly I’m normal-me again, wearing an old tracksuit that smells a little murky. I have braces on my teeth, just as if I’m thirteen again.
What is happening?
‘You can’t do that,’ I snap. ‘I’m the Dream Bouncer! You’re just an ugly shoe! So take that!’
And I transform the Creeper into an ugly shoe: specifically, a size-six loafer with tassels, used. I turn to catch Melodie’s reaction, already thinking how gracious I’ll be when I decline the bonus she’s going to offer me – and the man-form of the Creeper is standing over her again.
‘Charlie, help!’ Mel squeaks.
‘You’re an amateur,’ the Creeper tells me. ‘Is that really the best you can do?’
Melodie has slid off the stool and is edging towards the side curtain at the back of the stage. I’m aware of her, but I don’t let myself look her way because I’m busy getting up in the Creeper’s face. I kick it in the shins, and it laughs.
I throw the contents of the dustpan at it. Dust and finger bones come flying out, and scraps of dried skin hang in the air like tiny parachutes. A shrivelled-up eyeball bounces off the mask. Now the Creeper’s mad. I can tell. The mask quivers with rage.
Melodie slips through the curtain.
‘You’re an idiot,’ says the Creeper and disappears.
My heart is racing. I look around the empty theatre. Where did it go? How did it do that? If the Creeper is just a psychological complex, it sure is a slick one. It’s not acting like it’s out to get Mel half as much as it’s out to upstage me.
Sweet Dreams Page 5