Sweet Dreams

by Tricia Sullivan

  ‘We’re not zombies,’ says Captain Singh in frigid tones. ‘We are human beings, but you, sir, are a disgrace to science.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’re a disgrace. So I’m not the only one you did this to? What about Melodie? You terrorised her and she ran away from you but she wasn’t dreaming, she was really running. Right off a rooftop to her death. You’re . . . I didn’t use to believe in evil, but you’re evil.’

  ‘Evil!’ Daphne shrills, raising her skinny fist. She catches my eye. ‘You tell him, Jacqueline. And give my best to the other ladies at the tennis club.’

  Captain Singh turns to look at me. He makes a proper little bow, clicking his heels together. Then he says, ‘So this is the dastard who killed that poor musician, is it? Let’s see if the rogue likes a taste of his own so-called medicine. Stand back, everybody.’

  ‘I didn’t kill anyone!’ Bernard protests. ‘You’re all mad. I want to wake up now. I want to wake up.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Daphne says. ‘Don’t let him wake up. I’ll take it from here.’

  And the dream changes. Bernard is in his bed, which is in the middle of the gravel entranceway to a stately home – or is it one of those leafy public schools? I seem to remember that Bernard grew up in the Home Counties and was independently educated. Well, vintage Bentleys and Rolls-Royces are parked here so that the whole dream now has an element of an Agatha Christie production to it in my eyes – I’ve only ever seen a Bentley on a screen.

  The corpses and I stand around Bernard’s bed on the grass under a starless black sky. Bernard’s lying rigid in the bed, eyes open, not moving.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Daphne says. ‘It’s my mission. Stand aside, Captain Singh.’

  Daphne bends over Bernard and rolls him onto his side. She rubs the middle of his back almost tenderly. Then I notice that there’s a panel in his back with an ornate brass key sticking out of it. Daphne turns the key and the panel opens like a little door. Daphne has become tiny, and she climbs inside the panel and shuts the door behind her.

  ‘You can’t wake up, son,’ Captain Singh informs Bernard. ‘But now you can move. How do you like that? Go on, then. Let’s make it a fair fight. You may move freely.’

  Bernard sits up in bed. He throws the covers off mechanically, then shuffles across the lawn, casting frightened backward glances over his shoulder. Captain Singh hobbles after him, leaning on his cane, trailed by other dead people.

  ‘You may wish to run,’ advises Captain Singh. ‘Are you confused? Go on, see if you can get away from us. You may find this challenging.’

  Bernard is making odd hand gestures in the air. He wags his finger, pointing at nothing repeatedly like he’s trying to type on a screen that isn’t there. What is he doing?

  ‘We don’t do this for amusement, do we, Daphne?’ the captain says. ‘We do it to put a stop to the killing. It can’t go on like this. The Agency has to crack down.’

  But Bernard isn’t listening. He has been spooked – by what exactly, I don’t know. He dashes into some shrubbery and then onto a gravel path that leads through an avenue of topiary. The rest follow quite sedately, but somehow Bernard never gets very far ahead of them. Every so often one of the dead people says, ‘Now you know how it feels. Now you understand what you’ve been doing to us all this time.’ This only makes him move faster.

  We all glide down garden path after the next, surrounded by topiary that gives Bernard very little choice of where to go. One by one, the corpses stop following him, until it’s just Captain Singh, Gladys, and I. The topiary lane ends in a gazebo. We follow him in. The gazebo is covered in vines, and the far side has lift doors inset. He is just disappearing into the lift when we arrive, but we all manage to squeeze on, anyway. The lift takes us down into a cave with a vaulted ceiling. We are standing on a lip of stone at the edge of a dried-up canal that disappears into a tunnel to either side. There is no bridge across the canal and no steps leading down into it. Captain Singh and Gladys stop here instinctively, but Bernard jumps down into the bottom of the canal and picks his way along it. After a few steps he looks over his shoulder, his face brightening with the realisation that his pursuers can’t get down. He is finally going to get away. He goes loping into the dark tunnel.

  Everything is quiet for a little while. Then a noise comes out of the tunnel, a familiar groaning, followed by a flicker of white light coming from the tunnel. We lean out and see Bernard’s figure silhouetted against a distant, bright light. Bernard stops in his tracks, turns, and starts to run back to us, with the light behind him. There’s a rush of wind, and the shrubs all shudder.

  I know the smell of this air. This is the Underground.

  ‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ Bernard says. ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

  Captain Singh and Gladys murmur to one another in concern. Just for a moment, the scene were are in breaks open and the platform of an Underground station flashes into view like a movie projection. The bright light comes from a fast-moving train hurtling towards Bernard from behind. Just before it overtakes him the train station dissolves back to the tunnel.

  Captain Singh leans on his cane, peering at the place where Bernard used to be, looking puzzled.

  ‘Jolly strange, that was,’ he says.

  Daphne appears at my elbow as if she’d never climbed inside Bernard’s body at all. She takes my arm with her claw-like hand, and when she breathes on me it smells like bubblegum.

  ‘Wake up,’ she says. ‘Wake up, the Shojis are back. Wake up.’

  Cone of Silence

  ‘Wake up, Horse, wake up! Out the window, quickie-quickie!’

  But I can’t wake up, I can’t make myself move. I can hear Shandy from far away, but I can’t move one single muscle. I can feel her tugging at me, and at one point I roll off the sofa to the floor. There isn’t one single dust bunny under that sofa.

  A man’s urgent voice says, ‘Call 999, Kay!’

  ‘No, please don’t, we promise we don’t mean any harm – look, we even took off our shoes—’

  Now it’s the old lady’s turn. ‘Don’t move! Stay right there – what drugs is that girl on? Does she need an ambulance?’

  I’m trying to sit up and I can hear noises coming out of my mouth but they sound like monster wildebeest noises even to me.

  ‘I think she’s had a seizure,’ Shandy says. ‘I know this looks bad, but I can explain. Please.’

  ‘I knew it! You told me I’d won those tickets so you could rob us while we were out,’ the man says. ‘It’s a good thing we came back here instead of going to the Savoy. Can’t believe I was so stupid. You looked like such a nice young person—’

  ‘Mr Shoji—’

  ‘Everybody calls me George.’

  ‘Of course, George, I promise, I am nice. I’m really, really nice. We were looking for our cat— No, OK, just, look, just call this number. This is Roman Pelka, he’s with the Met, he’ll explain.’

  ‘Roman isn’t really with the Met,’ I try to say, but it comes out, ‘Glug gluh wah wah ooogh.’

  ‘This is just a Spacetime address,’ Kay scoffs. ‘This could be anyone.’

  ‘They’re the Dream Police,’ Shandy says. ‘We’re investigating your upstairs neighbour, the tall guy? Oh, how did you like the chocolate?’

  ‘Chocolate?’ George groans. ‘That was from you? What kind of psycho are you? I accused my wife of having a fancy man when I saw that gift.’

  Shandy breaks into a chortle, but Kay tugs on her husband’s jacket sleeve.

  ‘Oh, George, she’s talking about that weird lad upstairs who talks to himself! They’re investigating him!’

  ‘No, I don’t trust them. There’s no such thing as the Dream Police.’

  George stands across the doorway, brandishing a large umbrella. He’s ninety if he’s a day.

  ‘You’re right,’ his wife says with a sigh. ‘Listen, girls, just sit there and wait for the police. I will make tea. You can tell the real police whatever you want about the Drea
m Police. My husband and I need to know we can sleep safe at night.’

  That’s all any of us wants, isn’t it?

  ‘So how was the show?’ Shandy asks, weakly.

  * * *

  We spend the rest of the night in Holborn Police Station because apparently there’s a problem with the toilet at Kentish Town. It isn’t as nice as I’d expected for the neighbourhood, plus they confiscate our headware until Donato arrives. I’d really been hoping for Roman, but such is my luck. Donato looks even more pissed off than usual. Shandy tries to flirt with him but it doesn’t work. Maybe he’s gay. Or maybe it’s just because by that time of night her breath is lethal and her bubblegum has also been confiscated.

  With that said, Donato talks to the police and the Shojis. Luckily the Shojis are really sweet, and somehow Donato makes it so Shandy and I are going to be let out. I’m not sure on the details because I sleep through most of it. When I awaken, I can recall several anxiety dreams, but I wasn’t lucid in any of them and there was no sign of Bernard. I have a bad feeling about the whole thing, especially Daphne being in the middle of it. I’m in deeper waters than I thought.

  Donato is uber-grumpy when we’re finally released from the holding cell, which now has a pile of vomit and a drunk girl asleep on a bench. I don’t realise it’s 6 a.m. until I get my headware back. A big pile of messages are bursting to be read, but I ignore everything. I ping O straight away to let her know I’m all right, but then go dark because I don’t want to have to speak to her right now. She’s going to be cross.

  ‘Sorry you got dragged out of bed,’ I say to Donato as we walk down the silent road towards Holborn Station. And then, because I can’t help my curiosity about where Roman is, I add, ‘Was it your turn to babysit tonight?’

  He looks at me keenly. I don’t know what it is about Donato, but he makes me feel guilty even for things I haven’t done.

  ‘I sent Roman to talk to Bernard.’

  ‘Oh, that can’t be a good idea. Bernard has no idea we were there, and he’s already mad because of the way Shandy’s been stalking him.’

  ‘I’m not stalking him!’ Shandy protests. ‘If I were stalking him, he’d never even know it until it was too late.’

  ‘Do you stalk many people, then?’ Donato asks.

  I punch Shandy’s arm. ‘She doesn’t. It’s just a front, honestly.’

  Donato gets a distracted expression on his face and there’s a break in his stride; that’s how I can tell he’s in Spacetime, but it’s a private convo. I can’t see anything.

  He stops in his tracks. Turns his back on us. Shandy offers me gum and I accept. Then I lean on her. I need to lie down.

  ‘Not here. You can sleep on the Tube.’

  I yawn. The edges of my vision are blurring and my gums ache. My head is full of static, like I’m receiving the cosmic microwave background in my fillings. Shandy steps on my foot, sharply.

  ‘Owie.’

  ‘Stay awake. Something’s happening. I think he’s going to call for his invisible plane in a minute.’

  Donato turns around. He is furious.

  ‘Well, isn’t that interesting? Roman is in Bernard’s flat as we speak. It took him two hours to bypass the security system, but he’s in now.’

  ‘Yeah, so?’

  Now it’s my turn to step on Shandy’s foot. Belligerence won’t get her anywhere with Donato, except maybe back in lock-up.

  ‘Bernard isn’t there. That’d be because he’s dead. Roman just received a call from the Transport Police. Bernard walked in front of a train on the Northern Line. What have you got to say for yourself, Charlie?’

  Nothing. I have nothing to say. Because I really need to sleep. Right now.

  I hear people talking but I don’t know where I am. I don’t even know which way is up or what position my body is in. It’s like I’m floating, and then I hear Shandy’s voice.

  ‘You both know Charlie didn’t do this. She’s being framed – can’t you see that? I mean, look at her. She can’t even— Look at her – she’s like a child.’

  ‘Or that could be just a cover,’ Donato says. ‘Have you noticed how she conveniently falls asleep whenever she’s under pressure?’

  ‘That’s because she’s sick!’

  ‘Allegedly.’

  ‘Don’t be a cunt, Donato. Use your head. Charlotte doesn’t understand the world. I’ve known her for years, she gets lost on her way from the toilet to the fridge, she’s not capable of planning anything even if she had one single malicious bone in her body. Which she doesn’t. So just stop it. No, I don’t want coffee, I want you to leave her alone. She’s one of the good ones and I won’t— Hold on, this is O on that bloody archaic app she uses instead of Spacetime.’

  I come swimming into awareness reluctantly. It’s nicer in sleep. I seem to be doing the Grand Tour of sofas, because we are in Bernard’s flat, and I’m trying to figure out how that even works. Surely the police should be here, and forensics, and we should be in jail if they really think I did this somehow – and judging from what Shandy is saying, they do.

  ‘Charlie. Can you hear me. It’s Roman.’

  His voice is coming from somewhere near my head. It feels like everything is moving, like my senses can’t figure out which of my body parts is where. I manage to make a sound.

  ‘Can you move? Charlie, I’m a little concerned about you. If you are able to, try and make a sound again.’

  It’s so hard to force myself to do it. I just want to float and drift . . .

  ‘Charlie? Come on. Stay with us. I know you don’t want to end up in A and E. They’ll stick needles into you and do things to wake you up, and it’ll be very unpleasant. I’m touching your hand. Can you feel that?’

  He’s holding my hand. How sweet.

  ‘Don’t be so poncey, Roman.’ Shandy’s voice, her breath in my face, and now I’m starting to feel my body more. ‘For fucksake, assert yourself. Oh, never mind, I’ll do it.’

  Then Shandy slaps me across the face and my eyelids fly open. She’s giving me eyes as wide as an All-Blacks player doing the Haka and her spittle flies into my face with the force of her words.

  ‘Hey! Guess what? Bernard’s dead. Actually dead. How can you sleep through this? You’re a suspect, but there aren’t even any police. But there’s a dog! He’s so cute. Wake the fuck up!’

  I’m on Bernard’s sofa.

  ‘There’s a dog?’ I say weakly. I love dogs.

  ‘Nope, I lied. And that, Roman dear, is how it’s done.’

  I see her legs and arse receding as she crosses the room to continue her intense conversation with Donato, in which every other word she uses seems to be ‘cunting’. Roman is still holding my hand.

  ‘I have coffee for you. Can you sit up?’

  Nodding, I manage to get vertical. I feel disgusting. I sip the coffee – it’s too sweet and too white, but it tastes better than the inside of my mouth.

  ‘Don’t talk to him, Charlie,’ Shandy says, and when Roman shoots her a resentful look, she adds, ‘All of us are vulnerable right now, and who knows how this flat has been rigged for surveillance? The only way we can talk is to invoke Cone of Silence.’

  Roman starts to laugh, but stops when Rodney the unicorn threatens to headbutt him.

  ‘It’s an app she wrote,’ I tell Roman. ‘It locks down everything we say, scrambles it.’

  Shandy nods. ‘Crude but effective.’

  ‘I thought you were a furniture designer.’

  ‘I wrote it to stop my ex-girlfriend stealing my ideas,’ she says matter-of-factly. Then she squirts everybody the code for Cone of Silence.

  ‘I’m going out for some air,’ Donato says, shaking his head. ‘Enjoy your cone of whatever.’

  When we are secure, Roman motions for me to talk.

  ‘I was in Bernard’s dream,’ I croak. ‘I was trying to find out if he was involved in Mel’s death. See the fencing mask?’

  Roman takes it down carefully and turns it over.
>
  ‘It’s the one from Mel’s dream. I don’t know what the chemical is.’

  Roman says, ‘It’s morphine.’

  Shandy’s eyes flash. ‘You recognise it?’

  ‘Google is your friend. Just scan it in, see for yourself.’

  ‘I feel like an idiot,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t recall the image. I should have looked it up in my Secret Diary.’

  Shandy shrugs. ‘OK, so it’s morphine. What good does that do?’

  ‘Morpheus was the god of dreams,’ Roman says. ‘Maybe that’s a connection. Or maybe some mechanism involved in dreamhacking is related to morphine receptors. When we interview Bernard’s friends, we can find out how long he’s had the mask and what it meant to him. For now, we need to get to the bottom of what happened last night. I’ll need you to tell me the dream. Did you record it?’

  ‘I record everything on my BigSky account. But you won’t be able to read it. It only plays back in dream form, and the reference system is unique to me.’

  ‘Send it to me anyway.’

  I sip some more, trying to buy time. It’s not that I’ve got anything to feel guilty about or any reason to withhold information from the police. It’s just . . . a feeling of everything moving too fast.

  ‘Give me a minute to wake up. I need to check in with O, she’ll be worried.’

  Roman’s sitting across from me, straddling an occasional table, while I recline on poor dead Bernard’s sofa. I feel cornered. He’s looking so intensely at me.

  ‘I called O,’ he says. ‘She knows you’re safe and we’ve made arrangements for someone to go and check on her, see if she needs anything. She said she would cancel your appointments. She’s also dealing with the person whose Peugeot you wrecked?’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ I feel helpless and silly and I wish I could just go back to sleep. I wish there really were a dog here and Shandy hadn’t lied to make me wake up.

  ‘Did anything happen while you were sleeping just now?’

  ‘Dream-wise, you mean? Not that I can recall. I haven’t been recording. I didn’t mean to go to sleep. But no, I don’t think there was anything to worry about. Are the police coming? I mean, the proper police.’