by Helen Harper
I’m grateful that he’s at least pretending to take me seriously. I wait while he murmurs his farewells to the barman and then we wander outside, to the obvious interest of two dozen pairs of eyes. Bron hooks my arm under his.
‘I wouldn’t worry about all of them,’ he says. ‘They’re just jealous that I get to spend so much time with you.’
I sigh in frustration. ‘I don’t get it. They all think that Ashley’s the dreamweaver, not me.’
‘Yeah,’ he admits, ‘but you led a string of night mares through the town. And they all kind of think that you, well, killed the Mayor.’
What? I turn to him, mouth agape. ‘I’m no murderer,’ I protest. ‘That was Pegasus.’ I’m referring to the night mare I befriended in the forest. Considering the Mayor had held her captive and tortured her, one might say her actions were justified but it was still the most brutal thing I’d ever witnessed. There’s no way I’m capable of something like that, regardless of how much I despised the leader of the Dreamlands.
Bron grins again. ‘Have you spent much time down at the river?’
I’m confused by the question. ‘I guess. I used to talk to Ashley a few times at the oxbow lake.’
His grin broadens. ‘You didn’t go to the mill?’
‘No.’
‘Come on. This’ll be fun.’
I begin to protest. ‘But Esme…’
‘A minor diversion, Zoe. It’ll only take us ten minutes but it’ll be worth it, I promise.’
I sigh inwardly. I could do without this but if my suspicions that something is wrong aren’t entirely unfounded, I’m going to need all the help I can get. If Bron will humour me, then I’ll humour him. ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Lead the way.’
He takes me out towards the eastern edge of the river, some distance from the bow-tied ox. On the far side, close to the fringes of the mist obscuring whatever lies beyond, he points to a ramshackle yet striking-looking wooden building. From this angle, I can just make out a large wheel turning slowly at the water’s edge.
I nibble my bottom lip. ‘Okay. It’s pretty. Now what?’
He pushes back his hair. ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet.’ Taking my hand, he tugs me towards the open door. From outside, I can smell the earthy, unmistakable aroma of hay. It’s not until we’re inside that my other senses start to kick in.
I spin round. The ground floor seems to be filled with whispers. It’s as if there are a thousand people all talking to each other in hushed tones at the same time – but the building is empty.
Bron points me at the far wall and chooses one particular point to lean against. He cups his ear against it, then smirks and pulls back.
‘You try it. Pick any spot you want.’
Wary about what’s happening, I copy his movements.
‘Alicia Jones picks her nose and eats it,’ whispers a dulcet voice.
I jerk away and swirl round. ‘Who the hell said that?’
Bron points to another spot. ‘Try this one.’
Feeling more and more uneasy, I try again. This time the whisper is huskier; it’s also more chilling. ‘There were two people on the grassy knoll.’
I step away, prickles dancing down my spine. ‘What is this place?’ Bron opens his mouth to answer just as realisation dawns on me. ‘The rumour mill,’ I say suddenly.
He snaps his fingers. ‘Got it in one!’
I shake my head in disbelief. ‘Is it real? I mean, are all these real rumours being spread by people?’
He lifts up a shoulder. ‘No one knows. It’s a lot of fun though, isn’t it?’
I wrinkle my nose. I’m not convinced I like this place at all. ‘I don’t know.’
Bron pats my arm. ‘It’s harmless. They’re only words, after all. And my point is that it doesn’t matter what all those people out there are saying. At the end of the day, they’re only rumours. Nothing more than silly whispers.’
I scratch my head, still dumbfounded. ‘It brings new meaning to the saying the walls have ears.’
He holds up a finger. ‘Well, actually, one of the thatched houses round the corner…’
I grimace. ‘It’s okay. I don’t need to know. Not right now, anyway. Shall we go to the daberhashery and find Esme?’
He smiles. ‘Just one more.’ He leans in, his blue eyes crinkling as he listens to whatever secret or lie is being murmured. He motions me. I roll my eyes and pick another spot; anything to get out of here as quickly as possible. I cup my hand round my ear. For a second, I think I’ve picked the one place where, thankfully, there’s nothing to be heard. Then my blood turns to ice as I hear the harsh words.
‘The Department is coming.’
Bron frowns at my pale face. ‘What’s wrong?’
I back away. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ I stride for the exit. Frankly, it’s a miracle I’m not sprinting. I glance down at my arms and see goosebumps. This is ridiculous.
Something barrels into me, knocking me back. I’d recognise that muscled arm anywhere. ‘Dante?’
‘Get back,’ he growls. ‘Both of you. Against the wall. Now.’
Neither Bron nor I move. ‘What is it?’
He curses under his breath and yanks me towards him, one arm round my waist, pulling me away from the rectangle of sun leading to the outdoors. From above the thousands of whispers tickling my ears, I can hear shouts.
‘Disapparate,’ he snaps. ‘Now. The Department is here.’
My mouth goes dry. The three of us stare at each other then I do exactly what I’m told. And when I’m back in my own bed, my pillow stained with blood from my forehead, I realise I’m also covered from head to foot in the sheen of a cold sweat.
***
D: I counted eight.
Robocop: Definitely more than that. They’ve been marching across town and grabbing hold of everyone they can. There’s going to be some sort of meeting tomorrow at midnight. Everyone has to attend.
B52: Or?
Robocop: Do you really want to find out?
Tam: They can’t make us. They’re not in charge any more. Ashley is.
D: Has anyone seen Ashley?
I watch the screen, desperately willing someone to answer. No one does.
D: We have to find out where she is.
I pull over the keyboard, ready to type.
D: Not you, Z. You need to stay away.
I stick my tongue out at the blinking cursor. I can’t help myself. If Dante and Bron keep treating me like a child, I’m going to act like one. Then I feel bloody silly and stop.
B52: He’s right. Leave home too. You can’t let them get you.
Robocop: Why’s Z so special? We should be worried about Ashley. She’s the one who’s the dreamweaver. If they make her work for them then things could get v v v bad.
I curl my fingers into a fist and slam it down, making the mouse and the keyboard jump an inch into the air. Ashley’s not the dreamweaver: I am.
We all knew the Department would show up sooner or later, no matter how hard we tried to pretend otherwise. To be honest, it’s almost a relief that the inevitable has arrived. There’s no way I’m going to let them do anything to hurt Ashley though. It would be my fault if something happened to her. I’ll go to their stupid meeting and see what they want. And then I’ll do something about it.
I check the clock: it’s still the middle of the night. I could try and fall asleep again and head back to the Dreamlands. I know instinctively, however, that I won’t be able to nod off without chemical inducement.
My body is fizzing with an indefinable mix of emotions; whether it’s excitement or terror or just pure anticipation, I have no idea. Either way, I’m far too buoyed up.
I pad to the kitchen and make a cup of tea, sipping it while I stare out at the dark garden. It’s still overgrown with weeds, despite the fact that I’m no longer trapped indoors. Pulling up dandelions is far down my list of priorities. I let the ticking of the clock and the familiar surroundings envelop me. Despite what Bron – because t
hat’s who I’m assuming B52 is – said online, I’m not going to run away. I feel safer here than I do anywhere else and I’m damned if I’m going to let the Department force me out of my home. If I could beat the damn Mayor, then I can beat them.
I’m watching the Chairman’s outline as he skulks under a bush, no doubt in pursuit of prey, when I see him bolt upright, his ears cocked. I freeze. A moment later there’s the sound of a car engine from out front. I bite down so hard on my tongue that it brings tears to my eyes. Have they found me already?
Carefully placing the cup into the sink, I edge towards the front door. I’m well aware of all my neighbours’ routines ‒ that was part and parcel of my former life as a cooped-up freak. This is Wednesday. There’s no reason any of them would drive into our quiet cul-de-sac at this time of night. Most of them are either early risers with young families, or retirees.
Avoiding the windows and keeping my movements slow and steady to avoid alerting whoever’s out there, I slink to the doorway. I touch each lock lightly; old habits die hard and I’m compelled to make sure I’ve secured every one. Unless they blow my damn house up or commandeer a tank, they’re not getting in.
I suck in a breath and peer out of the spyhole. There’s sufficient glow from the orange streetlamps for me to see most of the road, apart from the section blocked by the tree at the front. I squint. There’s definitely a car out there and there’s definitely someone in it. It’s too far away for me to tell whether there’s more than one person in it.
I step back and scoop up my phone from the little wooden table that sits in my hallway. Should I call the police? I have no cause just yet, but they’re well aware of my foibles. I grip the receiver, feeling the taut lines of tension in my tendons. I tiptoe back to the door again. Whoever is sitting in the car has not moved.
I reach down inside myself for strength. I’m not afraid of what might happen in the Dreamlands – not like this anyway – so I shouldn’t be frozen into inaction here either. What I need to do is to find out exactly who’s out there. The more I know, the more power I’ll have. Besides, if I can be Ninja Zoe when I sleep then I have to be capable of something similar when I’m awake.
I keep hold of the phone in case I need to call for help, then I sneak back to the kitchen and, as silently as I can, open the window. With my heart beating loudly against my ribcage, I pull myself up onto the counter and squeeze out. The one good thing is that I’m already fully clothed. I learnt my lesson the hard way: it’s not much fun apparating in the Dreamlands while wearing skimpy nightwear. My mind drifts for a moment to Adam’s dream Zoe and her negligee. Yuck.
As soon as my feet land on the soft grass, the Chairman flies out from under the bushes and scampers off into the night. Glad that he’s out of the way, I turn back to the window. I should leave it open so I can get back inside when I need to but that means it’ll be easy for someone else to get into my house. I choose the middle ground, leaving the door barely ajar. Unless you get up close, it looks locked. It’s the best I can do.
Rather than foolishly saunter out of my own back gate, I eye my neighbour’s fence. It’s not particularly high and I reckon I can vault over it easily. I sidle over, place my hands on the top and try to heave myself over. My feet scrabble against the side, desperately seeking purchase. In less than three seconds, I’m forced to let go.
I rub my upper arms and frown. What would be a simple barrier in the Dreamlands is almost insurmountable here. It’s ridiculous. My subconscious self clearly thinks I’m capable of much more than I am.
I try again. This time I do slightly better and pull myself up far enough to straddle the fence. I’m wary of the watcher – or watchers – spotting me, so I keep my body low. It’s not only awkward but it’s rather painful. I try to ignore the uncomfortable jab of the fence into my groin and swing my leg over. The fabric of my jeans gets caught at the top and there’s an ominous rip. I yank as hard as I can, causing the fence to wobble dramatically. The wood creaks and I panic that I’m about to bring the whole thing crashing down. I pull away and try to leap off. There’s another rip as I finally free my leg.
Rather than glide through the air and land in a forward roll as I imagined I would, I thump down with all the grace of a bull elephant, squashing half a dozen late-blooming flowers. Not only am I covered in scrapes from the rough wood, I’m also caked in mud. This is definitely not like it is in the dream world.
I groan softly and roll to one side on the dewy lawn. Placing my hands beneath my hips I push up, just in time to see a pair of sensible black shoes stride up and stop next to me. My head drops. I. Am. An. Idiot.
‘Sergeant Rawlins,’ I murmur. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’
The policewoman bends down, a curious expression on her face. ‘You’re not the most graceful cat burglar, Ms Lydon.’
I press my lips together firmly to avoid making a snarky comment which will land me in even more trouble and get to my feet. Rawlins is dressed for duty, her hair in a tight bun and her clothing immaculate. I take my time brushing off the mud but it’s wet and claggy so maybe I’m making matters worse. When I spot the glimmer of amusement in Rawlins’ eyes, I know I’m right. I give up and drop my hands.
‘You have a new car,’ I say, as if I’m reprimanding her for daring to change vehicles. Even with the shroud of darkness, I’d have recognised her old one.
She looks surprised. ‘No. But I’m off duty now. It’s mine rather than the official police one.’
Oh. That makes sense. What remains to be asked is the obvious question. I put my hands on my hips and cock my head, giving her an enquiring – and challenging – glance. Unfortunately, before I can say anything, an upstairs light flicks on. I grimace. Our chatter must have woken up my neighbour.
I jerk my head towards the front and Rawlins nods. Avoiding looking at the squashed flowers, I sidle out through the narrow gap between the fence and the house.
‘So,’ Rawlins says, once we’re safely back in front of my own property, ‘do you want to tell me what you were doing trespassing on your neighbour’s property? Because I’m hoping it wasn’t so you could steal from them.’
Was she kidding me? ‘You’re the one who’s loitering around here!’ I protest. ‘I was coming out to see who was parked in front of my damn house.’
She gives me an odd look. ‘Then why didn’t you just open the front door and pop your head out?’
In case you work for the Department and you’re trying to kill me because I’m the one and only dreamweaver, I think irritably. ‘Two months ago I couldn’t have done that,’ I merely mutter. ‘You should give me credit for coming outside at all. And you’ve still not explained what you’re doing here.’
She looks away. As she tilts her head, I see her face in the glow from the street light nearest us and I realise that there are faint purple shadows under her eyes. She doesn’t fidget or twitch but there’s an unnatural stillness about her body which suggests she is uncomfortable.
‘I just wanted to check that you were alright,’ she says finally. Her voice is a note higher than usual. She’s lying.
‘I’m not a criminal,’ I say softly.
Rawlins snaps, ‘I know that.’ She tosses her head and spins round, then marches back to her car. ‘It’s the middle of the night, Ms Lydon,’ she throws over her shoulder. ‘You should get some sleep.’
As should you, sergeant, I think to myself. Still puzzled, I watch her get into the car and leave. What on earth was that about?
Chapter Four
I can’t imagine a society with absolutely no solidarity. For me, it’s a nightmare.
Clare Denis
The two good things about waking up in the middle of the night are that by midmorning my house is about as clean as it’s ever been, and I’m yawning like a teenager in an algebra lesson. This could be exactly what I need. Choosing to forego my bed for the comfy sofa, I curl up with my head on a cushion. I don’t want to nap for too long; I still need to fall asleep tonig
ht as well.
I end up back in the forest by the old campfire. Whatever tracks were there earlier have now vanished, probably as a result of the Dreamlands resetting themselves. I still hover around suspiciously for a short while but no one shows up. None the wiser, I head off at a jog. If I want to be awake again by midday, I need to move quickly.
I’m less than five minutes from the forest fringe when I see a flash of white out of the corner of my eye. It’s both unexpected and out of place. Within the folds of the forest, it’s permanently night. Not only that, the trees are dark, the ground is dark … everything is, well, dark. Even the mares have black coats. Admittedly, they also have quite sharp white teeth and vivid scarlet hooves and eyes, but they mostly blend in with the rest of the surroundings. I struggle to think of a time I’ve seen white here before. There’s never even been a moon or stars in the sky above.
My curiosity is piqued enough for me to veer off course and investigate. When I see Lilith draped in white and slumbering across a heavy tree limb, I stop. Of course. I should have guessed.
Lilith is a succubus, a dream creature who flits in and out of people’s heads, feeding off their sexual desires. I’m not entirely sure whether she can be trusted but she did play an important part in ridding the Dreamlands of the Mayor. I owe her something, even if I’m not certain what that something is. Marvelling at how she manages to stay on the branch, I pick my way through the rough bracken and reach out to wake her.
‘Don’t touch me, dreamweaver,’ she says, with her eyes still closed. Along with Dante, Bron, Esme and Ashley, she’s the only one who’s aware of what I really am. It doesn’t make her any more affable towards me. She sniffs. ‘I’m resting.’
It hadn’t occurred to me that Lilith would require sleep. She’s as much of a permanent fixture in the Dreamlands as the mares. Still, I suppose there are slim pickings to be had when most people are awake, so she has to while away the daytime doing something.
‘I’m sorry for interrupting,’ I say, although I’m not really. ‘Have the Department people come through here yet? To the forest, I mean?’