I fight for control. I manage to locate myself. I am in the Dream City. As ever, it is night, and I’m standing at one end of a ramshackle bridge made of planks and rope several storeys high, swaying in the breeze. Below me is a building site, and I can hear the sound of jackhammers and the scream of metal being cut.
I can’t see the Creeper. I want to turn around and confront it, but I’m distracted by what I see at the far end of the bridge: a small group of people coming towards me, single-file. Someone is idiotic enough to try to push a pram out across the wooden planks, clinging to the rope with one hand, holding the pram with the other. I put a safety net up and widen the bridge to make it easier for them.
‘Safety nets are for the feeble.’
The safety net catches fire.
I pour rain on it. I tell the Creeper, ‘Get out of my dream. You’re not welcome here.’
‘I’m here as a professional courtesy. You’ve strayed into my orbit by dreaming with Melodie Tan. I suggest you go back to working with insecure schoolteachers and midlife-crisis victims trying to find themselves.’
‘Melodie Tan is my client. I’ve been invited into her dreams. You haven’t. So stay out of her head, and stay out of mine.’
‘Or what?’
Or what? I don’t know. I don’t know who he is or where he is or how he’s doing this.
‘Just fuck off,’ I say angrily.
‘You want me to fuck off? Or what, Charlie? You’ll call the Dream Police?’
I don’t know what to say, so I turn myself into the Hulk again. I swing my giant hammer and it makes a curious whistling sound across the high, dark air of the night city – but of course, the Creeper isn’t really there. It’s just a voice in my head. And the voice laughs.
‘Face it, Charlie. You’re completely unprotected. You’re a basically decent person but you’re afraid of your own shadow. I’ve got the measure of you now. Don’t make me crush you like an insect.’
It occurs to me that I still can’t see the Creeper, so I still don’t know if I’m dealing with another dreamer or not. But the people on the bridge are in greyscale. They are part of this dream, too.
And now the people are halfway across the bridge. The farthest point from either side. This is always where the bad shit happens. Balrogs or Kylo Ren or whatever.
And here we go. What is it with Dream City people? It’s happening again. The people are throwing themselves off the bridge. Two jump and break the roofs of dream-cars far below. When the third person jumps, I manage to whip up a parachute and he drifts down, then lands in front of a speeding truck that must have been conjured up by the Creeper. I make the truck come screaming to a halt just in time. This causes a multi-car pile-up. The Creeper laughs.
‘Actions have consequences, even in dreams. You backed the wrong horse. Melodie Tan is a loser.’
What am I going to say to that? No, you’re a loser, loser. I mean, how old are we, seven? I need to wake up. Wake up, Charlie!
The greyscale baby in the pram is sitting alone in the middle of the bridge. I hear her begin to cry. Don’t ask me how I know she’s a girl. I just know. I walk out onto the bridge. I’m going to get this baby off the bridge and then I can wake up.
The Creeper says, ‘People are so weak. You think you’ll achieve anything, trying to prop up all of these weak people who can’t even control their own minds? Maybe you should get control of yourself first. Then you wouldn’t be falling asleep in public. It makes you extremely vulnerable.’
How can I force this mofo out of my head? I have to change its voice, make it a helium voice or something. I try to do that. Make his voice really, really high and squeaky.
‘You’re all such low-hanging fruit,’ the Creeper says in a helium voice, but somehow it’s even worse and creepier.
‘Let’s see what happens if we actually rip them open,’ it adds casually, and as I look on, the baby splits down the middle, little teddy-bear outfit and all.
The baby is still crying even though by my reckoning she should die immediately. She is still in greyscale, so presumably somewhere in London a baby is dreaming of being murdered.
‘You did this,’ the helium voice says. ‘It’s on you. Not on me. On you.’
It is on me, literally. The – I don’t even want to say it – what comes out. Of the baby. And the baby is so real, even more real than a real baby, if that’s possible. Blood, intestines, part of a dark and shining liver, and the baby stops crying and she looks into my eyes, tears catching the light on her miniature perfect cheeks. She looks about one year old. Her juice cup falls on the floor. Her toy lion is covered with grey blood.
I’m full of rage.
‘No you don’t.’ I say it over and over as I put my hands on her. I push her insides back where they belong like I would handle a spilled handbag, refusing to be dismayed. I am determined to heal it up, make it as right as if the injury never happened.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ I tell her, and I mean it. ‘Just a bad dream.’
Undoing something that is already done is hard, but I do it. I overwrite. This is my dream. I am in control. Her parts go back inside. The bleeding stops. The wound seals.
‘You’re OK,’ I say to the baby, in my talking-to-babies-and-puppies voice.
But I hear a ticking sound, like a stopwatch.
And the baby explodes in my face.
Flowers for Algernon: the club remix
I am glad to be awake, but I’m physically shaking and it takes me fifteen minutes in the shower to calm down. Luckily it is almost morning. I feel I’m under an evil shadow. I tell myself no actual babies were murdered in the making of this dream – what kind of disclaimer is that? When I think about some innocent sleeping child being terrorised I feel sick and somehow at fault. Then I remember that some stupid parent must have put their baby to sleep using Sweet Dreams even though it’s not licensed for children. Shandy won’t be up yet, but I leave her a message asking whether she knows about this sort of thing happening and what can be done. Almost as an afterthought, I tell her about O finding Bernard Zborowski working in a start-up, too.
But the feeling of guilt lingers. I know I’m only diverting my attention away from the possibility that the Creeper is the creation of my own imagination. What if the Creeper is just an archetypal darkness? It started out as Mel’s darkness personified, and now maybe it’s my darkness personified – as if I’ve caught the Creeper from Mel like a virus. Ugh. Horrible thought. That would mean that some part of me cut that child open, that somewhere in London a baby is crying inconsolably because of me. I can’t stand it.
A message from Mel is also waiting for me.
I don’t blame you for what happened, I just want you to know that. I’m seeing my psychiatrist today. Antonio insisted, and I guess he’s right. Looks like I’m going to need meds. I have to play on Saturday night and there’s a livestreamed charity concert on Tuesday. Desperate times, desperate measures, I guess. I’ll be in touch when things calm down.
This has really not been my week. A part of me wants to get hold of Mel and talk more with her, tell her about the Creeper dream that I just had. But she clearly can’t afford to mess around; her career is at stake. Maybe the meds will help.
I don’t really believe that, but what choice do I have?
I find myself yawning. Stupid stress-induced narcolepsy. OK. Coping strategies. I’ve got to focus on what I’ve got to do today: take O to see Daphne. This should be good fun, actually. Compared to murder and mayhem in dreamspace, anyway.
* * *
O’s hog is a thing of beauty. It has a sidecar and she can control everything with her hands. I’m always a bit nervous driving with her because she thinks she’s still got the reflexes of a twenty-year-old, but I daren’t say anything. Today is one of those misty, still days where everything feels muffled. As we set off through the streets, the motor growls pleasurably beneath my backside, and with the vibrations jiggling my nether bits I try not to think of Antonio, but
it’s difficult. Rather Antonio’s hardware than exploding babies, surely. We swing through Shepherd’s Bush and out to the M4.
Normally we do this on a Tuesday fortnight: drive down to Dorking, pick up Daphne at her memory-care residence and take her out to lunch. Unlike O, Daphne is strong as an ox; unfortunately, she almost never remembers who we are. Every time we go to the same gastropub – they know us there and we always leave a big tip to make up for Daphne’s strange dietary requests and occasional physical outbursts. It’s all like clockwork, yet every time Daphne makes up a different story. She knows that she knows us but can’t recall where from, so she finds a way to explain to herself who we are and why we’re taking her out. She may be memory-impaired but her compensatory mechanisms are very creative. One time we were mechanics from the F1 circuit seeking technical advice on tyre traction. Once we were animal-rights activists who wanted to confiscate her furs even though ‘they’re fake, I swear on my life!’ Once we were a May-December couple who needed a witness at our wedding. Last week we were ordinary tax collectors. She did get a bit stroppy with us last week, but on the whole I find Daphne lovely company and it’s never a chore to visit her.
O, on the other hand, always gets nervous symptoms the night before. Sometimes it’s a headache, sometimes she’s physically sick. Last time O accused Edgar of having fleas because she was itchy all over. I gave her camomile lotion to put in the bath and then she slipped and had to be rescued. Poor O. By contrast, last night was very quiet. After we found Sidney, she went to bed, I went to bed, and it was a quiet night apart from that nasty Creeper dream. I want to tell her about it but she’s not in that sort of mood and once we’re riding it’s far too noisy to talk.
The pub is called Aubergine. It has York slate floors, a coal fire, a small stage for live music, a pizza oven and a real paper menu. This is essential for Daphne because she’s afraid of AR and if you show her an AR menu she tries to swipe it like a touchscreen, which is the last type of technology she can remember mastering.
O acts unusually distracted as she drinks lemonade and studies the menu as though trying to burn holes in it. This leaves me to make small talk with Daphne; I throw myself into the role with gusto.
‘Do you remember who I am, Daphne?’ I say. This goes straight against the advice not to ask questions like this because they can provoke anxiety when the memory-impaired person can’t answer, but I do it anyway because I know what Daphne’s like. She perks right up.
‘Naturally I remember you,’ she says haughtily. ‘I never forget a face. You are the girl from the copy centre. You gave us that special deal on party invitations. Was it thirty per cent off?’
I can just about remember what a copy centre is but play along. ‘Yes, thirty per cent off just for you. Was the party a success?’
‘Don’t be absurd. Naturally Sybil turned up stoned, Jeremy Binter and Rakesh nearly had a fist fight, and I ended up retiring to the kitchen for almost an hour in the middle because Corinne was holding forth again about her precious daughter’s artisanal breastmilk business. It was exhausting.’
‘Kitchens are always the best place at a party, anyway,’ I say.
‘Do you really think so? When I was your age, the roof was the best place. I don’t suppose anyone can get away with that these days, what with all the drones flying everywhere.’
‘There really aren’t that many,’ I reassure her. Daphne’s mind jumps around in time so much that she often surprises me with how much she knows about the present day, even while she still thinks there are Blockbusters outlets.
‘I’ve been given another assignment,’ Daphne says. ‘It could be dangerous. If this is the last time we see each other, please remember that I want to be buried with my vinyl copy of Johnny Mathis’s Warm.’
O’s lemonade glass is still half-full when it slips from her hand and shatters spectacularly on the tiles. I lunge towards her, afraid she’s going to actually faint, but she fixes me with those hawk eyes. Pinioned, I halt before I’ve touched her. Her expression is so empty that for a moment I wonder if she’s having a stroke.
‘I’ll get you another drink,’ I try to say, but my voice has deserted me. I scurry to the kitchen and nearly collide with our waiter. While he cleans up the mess, he flirts with O and Daphne both – not with me, I notice – sniff. Daphne is still under full sail on the topic of her ‘mission’.
‘Mathis was my favourite singer. I wonder if he’s still alive. Davies and I saw him having dinner in The Ivy once but I was too shy to ask for his autograph. I can remember that, you see. I can remember listening to his records as if it were yesterday. But now, what with me losing my mind, I’m worried about the assignment. I’ve been given a target, you see. What if I mix up the names and take out the wrong agent? Or what if I—’
O shakes her head sharply. ‘No, Daphne, we mustn’t talk about these things.’
Daphne lets out a quavering sigh. ‘It’s such a burden, sometimes. You wouldn’t understand. You lot have never had to— Oh, are those strawberries?’
‘Yes, have some, darling. Waiter! The cream?’
Deftly, O steers the conversation away from Daphne’s ‘assignment’ and somehow we navigate the rest of the meal. It’s a mix of alert chatter and utter confusion. I’m not sure if it’s just me getting used to Daphne’s illness, but I’d wager she’s improved slightly over the course of the last five or six visits. Sometimes she seems almost sharp, which makes her spells of confusion all the more poignant. Think Flowers for Algernon: the club remix.
Daphne normally insists on going for a long walk before we return to the residence.
‘They won’t let me out by myself, of course,’ she tells me, every time, ‘lest I should get lost, or mug someone, or run away and join the circus. But I was a mountain climber, you know. I’ve run triathlons. Astonishing that I should be afflicted with this brain disease, because I’m strong. I need exercise. One never knows what one may be called upon to do for one’s country. I like to be ready, just in case.’
I walk between the sisters. O is sour-faced. Not having the option of walking on her own legs must loom large for her, and Daphne is probably deliberately pushing her buttons. She manages to put the boot in even though she apparently thinks O is my colleague at the copy centre, the person who transfers VHS to DVD or something. Being with Daphne is like being in a time capsule. It’s almost tempting to send her around the schools to talk to kids about the old days.
Today Daphne stops after a hundred metres and leans on my arm.
‘I’ve not been sleeping well,’ she confides, almost in a whisper. ‘And I’m feeling very nervous. What if we are being watched? Perhaps we should just go back to the hotel.’
O spins her chair around. I notice that, perhaps goaded by Daphne’s remarks on fitness, she’s turned the motor off and is using her arms to propel herself. Her face is flushed.
I take Daphne’s arm. I can’t remember what it feels like not to be able to sleep. I am a little jealous. It occurs to me I could offer her ASMR, but O probably wouldn’t like that, and Daphne herself would probably mock me.
‘I think the therapy is working, though,’ Daphne says, now fully availing herself of my arm. ‘I get flashes of lucidity – watch out for that mongoose, dear – and at first I thought, no, I can’t bear this. Why drag it out? You know, when one is losing one’s mind, one finds oneself almost looking forward to the time when the burden of mind is gone and then one won’t know what’s happening any more. Because the worst thing really is the awareness of everything one is losing, particularly oneself. Is that your shop there?’
‘No, that’s a charity shop.’
‘Right. Terrible eyes. Did you know one of our Ukrainian ancestors was an Ashkenazi Jew? It’s a long story. The bad eyesight comes from him but also the brain power. Ha! The vanished brain power.’
‘Stick with the therapy,’ O says, breathing hard. ‘It can’t do any harm.’
‘Oh, but it can. The therapy keeps me awake.
And gives me strange dreams. I know I’m dreaming but I can’t stop. Sometimes I noctambulate—’
O’s chair suddenly stops and she folds forward, coughing violently. I let go of Daphne and bend down to help her. She waves me away, still coughing, until tears start streaming down her face.
‘O! Are you all right? Do you need help?’
Suddenly I feel incredibly tender towards O. Her sister is formidable, even in dementia. I flash the thought that Daphne is sucking all of O’s oxygen.
‘It’s nothing,’ O croaks. ‘Sorry if I alarmed you.’
‘I would like a change of prescription,’ Daphne says, as though nothing’s happened. ‘But the colonel says you need to approve any changes.’
‘The care coordinator is not a colonel,’ O mutters, and turns her motor back on. We have to stride out to catch up with her. ‘I’ll talk to her. Don’t worry. We can probably adjust your dosage.’
Daphne shakes hands formally with each of us when we leave her in her room. O goes off to talk to the manager and Daphne pats my shoulder.
‘Being a secret agent takes a toll on a person,’ she tells me. ‘One must be alert for encrypted communiques at all times.’
Then she deposits herself on her chaise longue and seems to fade. I can’t quite put my finger on what changes. It’s not exactly that the light in her eyes goes out, but she diminishes in some subtle way. She no longer feels present. I pull away hastily, embarrassed, as though she’s disrobed in front of me even though nothing on the surface of her has changed. I almost bump into the cleaning robot in my haste to get out. I can’t see O at first, but I hear her speaking quietly with one of the carers.
‘I’ll work on mitigating the side effects from my end,’ O is saying. ‘Meanwhile, notify me if you’re concerned.’
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