by Helen Harper
Rawlins flicks on the television, searching through the channels until she finds the one she wants. There’s a decisiveness about her actions that makes me pause. She shrugs. ‘I work night shifts a lot, remember?’ she says, as a genial host introduces a pretty blonde ‘wronged wife’ onto the stage. ‘I like this show.’
I’m not in a position to judge. I give an amiable shrug and lie down. Rawlins raises her eyebrows at the fact that I don’t even kick off my shoes. Her suspicions are solidifying by the hour but there’s nothing I can do about them. I’m going to need my shoes.
Despite the noise from the television, I drift off easily. I know it’s because of the tension and fear I’ve felt travelling so far from home but, for once, I’m glad. I should count myself lucky that I don’t suffer from insomnia.
This time, as I jog through the forest I don’t catch any glimpse of Lilith. That worries me but at least when I hit the town I’m not stopped by any of the Department watchers. I’m sure they’re tracking my progress as I meander my way through the streets and towards the Bubble but I can’t worry about that now. I try not to look as though I’m moving with a purpose. It would probably be safer to avoid the Dreamlands entirely, but I need to position myself.
The good thing about apparating at this time of day is that there are fewer people to worry about. There’s a solitary guard in front of the Bubble. He frowns at me.
‘Hey,’ I say cheerily. ‘Can I get in?’
‘No.’
I try to appear small and unthreatening – it’s not particularly difficult. ‘The thing is,’ I say, using their own tactics against them, ‘yesterday I was dragged into a dream with a guy on a clifftop. Your friends told me I had to save him. Needless to say, I didn’t. I’ve been worrying about it all day. He’s obviously suffering. He’s probably not even sleeping right now but if he is, I’d like the chance to try again. I can’t get him out of my head. If I can stop him from leaping off the cliff then…’ My voice trails off and I gaze at the guard with mute, beseeching appeal.
‘Only the dreamweaver can do that.’
I cross my fingers tightly. ‘But your friends thought that I might be the dreamweaver. If I am, then I can help him.’
He looks me up and down. ‘You’re not the dreamweaver.’
Ha! ‘How do you know? Maybe I am. Maybe I just need to try and then…’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he mutters. ‘Go in. Fail. You’re not going to achieve anything.’
I beam. ‘Thank you.’ Then, before he can change his mind, I skip past him.
That was easier than I expected. I congratulate myself on using the truth to blind the Department and pick up speed. The deeper I get into the Bubble, the harder it will be for the Department to drag me out.
I head down the main corridor, pretending not to notice that there are already more doors which are turning black. A faint scent of sulphur trickles through the air. As the fear that I’ve worked so hard to control threatens to return, I grit my teeth. Being scared isn’t going to help anyone – not Ashley, not all the people suffering from ongoing nightmares and sleep paralysis – and definitely not me. Logic doesn’t help me, though and I feel my legs shaking. Rawlins is watching, I remind myself. And nobody else is here in the Bubble. I slap myself on the cheek. Get a grip, Zoe.
I’m not as far from the exit as I’d like to be but I need something to focus on other than the doors. I stop and try the nearest one: it’s locked. So is the next and the one after that. It’s the wrong time of day, too many people are awake. This could take hours.
I step from side to side so I can rattle each doorknob more quickly. Closed. Closed. Closed. Shit. The fear is being replaced by frustration. I keep going. Sooner or later I have to find someone who’s asleep if I’m going to get the practice that I need.
I reckon I’ve tried well over two hundred doors when I finally succeed. I’m so surprised that I almost fall in the door when the handle turns. I take a moment or two to prop myself back upright, both physically and mentally, and walk in.
It’s a classroom. There’s an old-fashioned blackboard at the front, complete with chalk scrawls that looks like conjugated Latin verbs. Wooden desks with lids that flip up are laid out in regimented rows. There are even inkwells.
Suddenly it makes sense. The only people likely to be sleeping at this time of day are either children, people who work nights or the elderly. No prizes for guessing whose dream I’m in. The only curious thing is that I can’t see anyone: no teacher, no pupils and absolutely no dreamer. I wait for a minute or two – sometimes it takes them a while to appear – but nobody shows up.
Frowning, I walk down the rows, glancing down at the desks. Some have graffiti marring the varnished wood but others are better kept. My foot kicks a balled-up piece of paper on the floor; when I pick it up and smooth it out, there’s nothing there apart from some simple mathematical formulae. I leave it on a desk and examine the blackboard, squinting to make sense of the Latin, in case it’s a clue. It’s gobbledygook.
I step back. This is a strange dream and the absence of any person who I can latch onto is going to make it harder, but it could take me another hour to find someone from the Bubble corridors who is asleep. I’ll just have to go with the emptiness and see if I can use it to my advantage.
One of the first dreams I apparated into was my postman’s. It turned out to be rather illuminating because his guilty conscience had manifested itself in his dream. He’d been hoarding mail rather than delivering it and when he slept he was attacked by swirls of flying envelopes. Thinking about that gives me an idea. I gaze at the piece of paper. Maybe I can make it move.
I stare down at it but it lies motionless on the desk. I empty my mind until there’s nothing there apart from me and the paper. As I imagine a paper aeroplane, I will it to fold in on itself. For a moment I think that the corners are vibrating but nothing happens.
There’s an odd pressure in the back of my skull. I sigh and reach up to massage my temples.
Abandoning the paper, I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m not in a classroom, I decide, I’m in a field. I envisage Friesian cows dotted around, chomping placidly on emerald green grass; a bunny rabbit hops up, nose twitching. When I open my eyes again, however, I’m still in the classroom. Bugger.
Maybe I need a magic word. I point at the paper. ‘Abracadabra!’
Nothing. I curse under my breath. I snap my fingers, this time imagining the paper setting itself alight. Dreary sunlight filters in from the windows but there are definitely no flames. It’s no good: I can’t interact with inanimate objects and I can’t change the dream. Not without facing the person whose mind created it in the first place – and even then it’s a long shot.
Just then, I hear a faint buzzing. I cock my head and listen harder. It’s coming from the windows. I take a cautious step forward and the buzzing gets louder. When I peer at the source of the noise I see it’s a fly, desperately seeking a way out. I watch it for a moment: it’s an ugly bluebottle. Even from a few feet away, I can make out its shiny, kaleidoscopic eyes. Its movements grow more and more frantic. I purse my lips and gaze round the empty classroom once more. I wonder…
I track it carefully. It attacks a pane of glass then, when it fails to find an escape route, moves on to the next one. I flip open the nearest desk. Inside is a battered old exercise book, a wad of used chewing gum and a pencil sharpener – one of those where the shavings are collected in a small plastic cylinder beneath the blade. I untwist the top, discarding the sharpener, and get closer to the fly. When it darts down towards the window sill, I slam the cylinder over it. The fly buzzes in frantic rage.
‘Are you the dreamer?’ I ask, as it rattles against the sides of its small plastic prison. I wet my lips and focus. ‘Change,’ I whisper. ‘Become the person you’re supposed to be.’
The cylinder jumps. There’s a strange heat emanating from it. I hear a squeak and step back quickly, releasing the fly. The air crackles as molecules shift; it’
s as if the atmosphere is expanding. A second later, there’s a young girl curled up on the floor, her head buried against her knees. Yahtzee.
I kneel down. ‘Hi there.’
Her shoulders jerk. I smooth her hair, an unruly mess of curls which someone has attempted to tie into pigtails. The result is just frizz, however.
‘I’m Zoe. What’s your name?’ She sniffs, murmuring something into the fabric of her checked dress. ‘Pardon?’
She lifts up her head, revealing a tear-stained face. ‘Rebecca.’
Judging by her clothes, my assumption is correct. This might have been what Rebecca looked like sixty years ago but I bet it’s not what she looks like now. I go with the flow and speak to her as I would to a real child.
‘What’s happened, Rebecca?’
She hiccups back another sob. ‘Elizabeth and Emilia were mean to me.’
‘What did they do?’
‘They said I was worthless. That I was just … just … an insect.’
Ah. It’s starting to make sense now. ‘You know, Rebecca,’ I say softly, ‘things do get better. We don’t remain vulnerable all our lives.’ If only that were true.
She blinks up at me. ‘Really?’
‘Of course. Show me what you’re like as an adult,’ I tell her. ‘Twenty-one. What happened when you were twenty-one?’
She frowns at me. For a moment, I think she’s going to argue but something in my face makes her trust me because suddenly there’s a flash, like lightning.
I look round. The classroom has gone, replaced by what appears to be a dance hall. The atmosphere is smoky. There’s a live band on stage playing swing music and couples whirl around on the dance floor. An older version of Rebecca is standing next to me.
‘There he is,’ she says. Her tears have gone and I admire her shining eyes.
I look over to where she’s pointing. There, across the room, a nervous-looking young man is hovering. ‘Who’s that?’
Her lipsticked mouth turns up playfully. ‘My husband.’
I look at her hand – it’s bare of any rings. Not only is this another moment from Rebecca’s past, but she’s as aware of that fact as she is of me. I feel goose bumps on my arm. I have no way of knowing whether Rebecca’s dreams are real memories or made-up moments but, either way, she’s leading through me a history of her life. This is what it means to be a dreamweaver, to see everything that goes on inside someone’s mind.
I feel the power surge through my veins and I throw back my head and laugh. The dancers on the floor move faster and faster until I’m dizzy.
Rebecca clutches at my arm. ‘He’s coming over,’ she whispers.
There’s another flash and we’re in a room filled with armchairs. The strong smell of cigarettes has been replaced by something oddly clinical. I look closer and see bottles filled with pills dotted about. There’s a line of zimmer frames, wheelchairs and walking sticks along the far end of the room; their presence is almost malevolent. As I watch, they start to move of their own accord, pushing past the chairs and into the centre of the room. They dance, although this time there’s no music. They waltz across the worn carpet, spinning and twisting to an unheard beat.
Then an old woman, with a lined face and almost pure white hair – no longer frizzy but patchy and balding – appears in the middle of them. The walking aids dance around her while she looks up and smiles.
A grating voice interrupts. It reminds me of fingers scraping down a blackboard and I wonder whether it’s real. Perhaps it’s what sent Rebecca’s mind to another world and another time. ‘It’s time for your medicine.’
A young woman is approaching. There’s something not quite right about her, but I can’t put my finger on it. Rebecca shakes her head. She doesn’t say anything but I sense her thoughts: the medicine makes her fuzzy. This mirrors her real life as well: she doesn’t dream when she is drugged up and all she has left now are her dreams.
The woman advances. She’s holding a syringe. The long sharp needle glistens in the dim light.
I shake my head. ‘Don’t do that.’ The woman pays me no attention. ‘Hey!’ I say, more sharply this time ‘Leave her alone!’
I lunge to stop her. My fingers graze her arm and she turns to me with a snarl on her face. That’s when I stumble. The woman’s skin turns into a cloud of black; her eyes become bottomless pits of nothingness, and the clothes she is wearing vanish into smoke. The Badlands.
I grab a table lamp and smash it over her head. She hesitates but it doesn’t stop her. I tighten my jaw. I’ve beaten the other monsters, I can beat this one.
Rebecca starts to scream but I keep my attention on her would-be attacker. I throw a punch but this time I don’t even touch her. My fist swipes through her body as if it were nothing more substantial than air. As she advances on Rebecca I launch a kick, but it has no effect.
‘Get out of here!’ I yell. ‘You don’t belong!’
The woman flicks out one hand. She doesn’t even touch me but I feel a sharp pain in the centre of my chest. What the hell? I can’t breathe. It’s choking me and the pain is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I stagger backwards, clutching at my throat with one hand and my heart with the other.
Rebecca’s eyes are wide. She’s no longer an old woman; now she’s back to being a child again, her frizzy hair standing on end.
‘Rebecca!’ I croak. ‘Wake up! Wake up now!’ Her brow furrows as if she doesn’t understand. I meet her eyes. ‘Please,’ I whisper. ‘Wake up.’
Then she nods in understanding. A moment later I’m ejected into the Bubble corridor. There’s no sign of the woman, and the pain I felt is already dissipating. I lunge for the door and try to open it again but it’s locked. Rebecca, whoever she was, is no longer asleep.
The door is no longer white. As I watch, it clouds into darkness. Whatever that creature was, it was damned strong, stronger than any of the creatures I’ve encountered before. I shake my head in dismay.
‘You led them to her.’
I jump backwards. Standing there, staring at the door, is the blue-haired boy.
‘No.’ I ball up my fists. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
He looks at me with his brilliant sapphire eyes. ‘They’re here because of you.’
‘Are they from the Badlands?’
He nods.
‘So how? How do I stop them?’ Desperation seeps out of my pores.
‘You have to go there,’ he says sadly. ‘You have to stop them.’ He starts to walk away.
‘Wait! You’re the Sandman! You’ve got that magic dust. Sprinkle it on everyone and you can save them.’
‘It doesn’t work like that.’
‘If I don’t come here to the Dreamlands again, will they stop?’
‘It’s too late, weaver. You have to go to the Badlands.’
‘Is that where you’re from? Are you forced to stay there too?’ I demand.
He doesn’t respond. I try to run after him but my body’s taken too much of a beating. The pain in my chest is fading but it’s still there and I can’t move fast enough. The boy is not running but he’s moving away from me at a speed that I couldn’t match, even if I were hale and hearty.
I watch him go, frustration and despair coursing through me. The Department is right: this is all my fault. I put my hands over my eyes, pressing down until it hurts, and wish myself anywhere but here.
***
The television is on mute. Rawlins is in the corner of the room, as far away from as she can get. A miniature bottle of whisky is in her hand. She’s not drunk any of it, but her knuckles are white as she grips it. Her look of horror is so dramatic that I almost laugh.
‘Something wrong?’ I ask.
‘I tried to wake you.’ Her voice is barely audible. ‘I threw water over you.’
I realise that my shirt is sopping wet. I wish I’d thought to bring a change of clothes. ‘I’m a deep sleeper.’ I rub my eyes, wiping away the last of my grogginess. I can still feel the ache in my c
hest. I bite my lip and think of Rebecca and the fate I consigned her to. She’s not going to be able to sleep at all now, not in a good way. I curse loudly and Rawlins flinches.
‘You were screaming,’ she says. ‘And … thrashing around.’
I take a deep breath. I hadn’t realised that there is such physical evidence of what I do when I sleep. ‘Bad dreams.’
Rawlins raises the little bottle to her lips and downs it in one. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Tell me.’
‘There’s nothing’s more boring than hearing about someone’s dreams,’ I say with a forced laugh.
‘Zoe.’
I blink. That’s the first time she’s used my first name. ‘What?’
‘I’m not stupid. I do have some idea about what’s going on. You know I do. Just tell me.’
I’m not ready to throw myself to the wolves just yet. Rawlins could probably get me committed in a heartbeat. ‘Um…’
She tosses the bottle down and folds her arms. ‘Stop me if I get any of this wrong.’ She jabs her thumb at me. ‘You have the ability to enter people’s dreams. If you touch someone, you can see inside their head when they sleep. You can interact with them and make things happen.’ Her expression hardens. ‘Or stop them from happening.’
My mouth is dry. I go to the fridge, take out a bottle of water, unscrew the top and gulp it down. When it’s half empty, I change my mind and reach for a miniature bottle of vodka instead. I finish it and manage not choke.
‘Dutch courage.’ Rawlins nods. ‘Okay,’ I say heavily. ‘Okay.’ I sit down then I stand up again. It’s been clear for a long time that Rawlins was getting close to the truth but it’s still shocking to hear her say it aloud. ‘Yes. That’s kind of what happens.’
She sucks in a deep breath. I can’t tell whether she’s happy that I’ve confirmed her theory or if she wishes it weren’t true. ‘Is that why you didn’t leave your house? You didn’t want to touch anyone?’