by Rob Kinsman
“He’s, um, he’s just there,” said Zoe, who helpfully pointed to the dead body at her feet. She felt like some kind of macabre estate agent. A nice view of the body and a south facing garden. The perfect family home. The WPC flashed a concerned look at her colleague, then tried again.
“Just come to me.”
Zoe stood. The world had a four-in-the-morning feel about it, everything distant and unreal. She wobbled for a moment, regained her balance and padded towards the door.
“He’s dead.”
“Yes love, let’s go outside,” replied the WPC, who’d been on a course which taught her how to ignore stupid comments from members of the public.
“Will I be able to stay here tonight?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding, it looks like he’s been put through a blender,” said the male officer, who hadn’t been on that course.
The WPC put her arm around Zoe’s shoulders and led her away.
Within twenty minutes the well-practiced dance of the police was in motion. The foot soldiers were isolating the crime scene, while vans full of experts were starting to arrive.
Zoe sucked in a lungful of cool night air. It was a welcome jolt to the system, pulling her away from the anaesthetic cloud she’d been wandering in since she came home.
Curtains twitched as the neighbours tried to see what all the fuss was about. Initially irritated at being disturbed from tonight’s glorious dream, they soon became fascinated by the circus taking place on their doorstep.
A terrible, if selfish, thought gradually dawned on Zoe.
I’m going to be in the papers.
This was very bad news. She’d have people nosing about her business for weeks if this story, unlike Sid, refused to die. The last thing she wanted was the press telling the whole world she was a freak who couldn’t even dream properly.
They can’t know what’s in my head.
Unless, of course, someone who did know told them. Someone like Skyhawk.
The red light of a camera-phone shone out the window of a house opposite. Zoe turned away to face the brickwork.
“Are you alright?”
Zoe wished the WPC would just go away and leave her alone to talk to the wall. Her mobile started ringing. She had to concentrate hard to stop her hands shaking for long enough to stab the answer button.
Please God let it be Nick.
“Don’t hang up.” Skyhawk. “We need to talk.”
“Did you do this? Did you come to my flat? Who are you?”
It was only when the scattered police officers started looking over that she realised she was shouting.
“What are you talking about?”
Zoe paid no heed to the confusion in his voice. “Did you kill him?”
“Who?”
One of the policewomen, someone presumably more senior as she wasn’t in uniform, came over to listen.
“Leave me alone.” Zoe was too caught up on the wave of emotion now, unable to stop. “I never did anything to you. Just…”
She didn’t get to finish her hysterical rant. The policewoman took the phone from her.
“Who is this?”
The line went dead.
They drove Zoe to the police station to take her statement, installing her in a featureless interview room. She sipped a cup of lukewarm, sugary tea, hoping it would help calm her trembling hands.
“Should I have kept him talking?” she asked the stern policewoman, who had identified herself as DI Claire Kent. “Don’t you need to keep them on the line for four minutes so you can trace them?”
“Only on the telly in the eighties," frowned Kent. "Nowadays we usually just ask the phone company.”
“Oh.”
Zoe kept trying to recall the scene in her mind. Nothing. All things considered, the best case scenario seemed to be that Sid had somehow died in a bizarre wanking accident. Experience suggested there was a reasonable chance this could actually be the truth.
“When did this man start calling you?”
“This morning.”
“Do you know why?”
Zoe swallowed hard.
Shit.
“No. I’ve no idea.”
The lie was impulsive and stupid, but she didn't take it back.
“Are you sure?” Kent’s voice was cold and without inflection.
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“To meet.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. “
Kent gave her an unimpressed look she’d made a career of. Zoe felt the needle pricks of sweat breaking out across her forehead.
“So this Skyhawk…” Kent’s cold shark eyes pierced into Zoe. “How many times did he phone you?”
“Three.”
“Do you know how he got your number?”
Zoe shook her head. She needed time to think. Could Skyhawk have done this to Sid? She hoped not. Perhaps she was being fooled by wishful thinking, but maybe, just maybe, he really did know something about what was wrong with her. Finding out was an opportunity she didn't want to miss.
“Did you engage Skyhawk in conversation on any of these occasions?”
“The first two times he just said that he wanted to meet me. I hung up. The third time, you heard what happened.”
Kent scribbled something in her notebook.
Zoe was rather ashamed to discover that she’d started crying. It hit her from nowhere, the culmination of a day’s relentless emotional battering. She’d made a promise to Nick that she would keep his secret, but surely this changed everything?
“I don’t think Skyhawk did this.”
“Who did then?”
It all tumbled out of her. The man with the knife; how he’d already cut Nick and had now evidently finally tried to finish the job. DI Kent asked her questions about it, and Zoe soon realised she wasn’t made of anywhere near stern enough stuff to keep Nick’s secret as well as her own.
Sorry.
And so less than 24 hours after she’d promised not to tell anyone about Nick’s lover Amelia and her husband, Zoe did just that.
“Tell me about this boyfriend of yours. Do you know him well?”
“Um, not really. We met last Tuesday.”
Kent sighed the weary sigh of someone whose lot in life was to be surrounded by idiots. She was a curious mix of Jane Tennison and a suicidal Droopy.
“We’ll need to talk to him.”
“I tried to call him earlier, he didn’t answer.” And finally it occurred to her – someone could be merrily chopping Nick up into freezer-bag sized pieces while she was sitting here spilling his secrets. “What if he’s in trouble?”
“Do you know where he lives?”
Zoe was pretty sure she could retrace her steps to his flat, but never clocked the actual address. DI Kent set about organising for a patrol car to take her. Just before she left, Zoe tentatively asked the Detective Inspector a question.
“You’re sure Sid was murdered?”
DI Kent took a moment to check Zoe wasn’t actually joking.
“His heart had been ripped out and was lying in tiny pieces on the carpet. I think that would be a very difficult way to commit suicide, don’t you?” Zoe nodded, mute. “Unless you’ve any other explanations?”
On balance, Zoe decided it was best to keep quiet about the bizarre wanking accident theory. She tried to picture what Kent had described, but just couldn’t do it. For now she was unable to recall even a single drop of blood, but she was sure it would come. For her, if no-one else, the troubles of the real world could still haunt her dreams.
For the second time that night Zoe sped through the streets of London in the back of a patrol car. She stared out the window, watching the deserted city go past. For five whole minutes they didn’t pass a soul. The nightclubs had been struggling to compete against the dream, so most had given up trying. A few of the less salubrious places had ploughed on with the promise of cheap drinks after 11, but tonight they’d also been up a
gainst Derren Brown predicting the content of the dream on live television. Some of the more paranoid members of society suspected he’d been responsible for the whole thing, just so he could rig the results of this latest piece of event television.
The uniformed police officers were silent as they sped through the empty streets, which was a small but welcome mercy. Zoe didn’t want to have to talk to anyone. She needed to get things clear in her mind.
She’d messed up the whole Skyhawk issue. When the police tracked him down, Zoe would be caught in the lie she’d told. Pretending not to know why he’d called her was a stupid mistake and one she was sure to pay for. But she just couldn't believe he had anything to do with the gruesome spectacle on her living room floor.
His tone of voice.
He’d sounded genuinely surprised when Zoe had shouted at him down the phone. Hardly conclusive proof, but it was something for her to hold on to.
The patrol car pulled into the well-kept private car park outside Nick’s apartment.
“Is this the place?” said Officer Dibble. Zoe couldn’t remember his real name.
“Yeah.”
Dibble and his sidekick got out the car. Zoe followed, pulling her coat tight to brace against the sting of the chill night air. They went up the stairs to the apartment.
“Do you have a key?” asked Dibble.
Zoe just pressed the doorbell.
Footsteps approached from indoors. Not the sort of thing murderer’s did, in Zoe’s admittedly limited experience.
Thank God.
She couldn’t wait to bury herself in Nick’s bear-like embrace. She didn’t care if Dibble and his sidekick wanted to get straight down to business, she was sick of dealing with all of this alone.
She didn’t recognise the man who answered the door. He was portly, fifties. If Zoe had been asked to imagine a successful, overworked businessman about twenty minutes from a massive cardiac arrest then he’d look much like this fellow.
“About bloody time.”
“I’m sorry, sir?” Officer Dibble looked confused, but this was to be expected from a man whose namesake couldn't outwit a cat in a waistcoat.
“I called you four hours ago. It’s not good enough. Just nowhere near good enough. I’m friends with the Commissioner, you know.”
“Is Nick here?” Zoe already knew the answer to her own question.
“Who?”
Another lead weight dropped into her swollen heart.
“I got back from Geneva this evening and someone has been in my flat,” continued the man.
“Have they taken anything, Sir?”
“No, I just called you out for the conversation.” The man eyed Zoe, assuming she was a plain clothes officer. “Are you in charge?”
“Perhaps we can talk about this inside?” said Dibble.
Zoe turned and started walking back down the stairs, away from the flat.
“What are you doing?” barked the man. “Where is she going?”
Zoe sank into the darkness of the car park. She was too tired to cry; she just wanted to shut down and forget about the outside world. But she knew, of course, that this was one kindness she wouldn’t be allowed.
Zoe slumped back into the same seat in the interview room. It had barely had time to get cold.
“So,” said DI Kent. “It seems I’ve got a few more questions for you.”
Eight
While Zoe talked with the police, most of the rest of the country were tucked up in bed. For once they weren’t enjoying what they saw.
From the moment the dream started that night it was clear that things were different. The moat beneath the drawbridge was filled with dark, sludgy acid, and the castle’s crystal ceiling had lost a little of its sparkle. The eagles had gone, in their place circled ravenous vultures. They were wiry and famished, the barren wasteland around the castle provided slim pickings for a bird of prey.
Unrestricted by the laws of gravity, the dreamers floated across the moat and into the corridors beyond. Once again, their journey was accompanied by a constant murmur, something increasingly hard to pass off as just the wind. They burst through the door of the throne room, unable to escape the ride they were now on.
There was someone – something – on the throne.
It faded in and out of focus and form, like a sculpture made from mist. Its speech was the noise that haunted the corridors, the whispers words from a language not yet fully formed.
Without warning the figure stood, as if sensing the intruders. At the same time, the whispers briefly resolved into a moment of clarity.
“Where is my queen?” screamed the creature, with a voice that held a lifetime of grief.
And with that the dreamers all awoke at once.
When the questions had all been asked, Zoe told the police she was going to go and stay in a B&B for a couple of nights. It was with a sad heart that she realised she didn’t have any friends she could call on at this late hour. The spare rooms she used to crash in had all become nurseries in recent years, and the friends were now just people she used to know.
The patrol car dropped her off outside a row of guest houses which never seemed to close their doors. Zoe suspected they charged by the hour, but she had no plans on staying in one of them anyway. She lingered in the doorway of one particularly seedy B&B and waited for the patrol car to go. Once it had turned the corner Zoe walked off in the opposite direction. It was late and cold, but she wanted to clear her mind. She certainly didn’t want to waste a hundred quid for four hours sleep in a bed marinated in the sweat of a thousand loveless fucks.
Six streets later she passed a poorly lit park – perfect – and headed through the gate. In normal circumstances this would be asking for trouble, but things had changed since the dream began. Even the most desperate of muggers had found that at night they could share in the adventure with the same privileges as barons and earls. Consequently most had moved their business hours to the daytime.
As she headed through the park, Zoe was irritated to find she wasn’t alone; despite the late hour a lot of people were out walking tonight. She ducked off the path to try and avoid coming close to anyone.
Trudging through the grass and mud she finally found a secluded spot where she could sit and contemplate. In the distance she noticed the twinkle of lights on in apartment blocks. Why wasn’t everyone lost in the dream? Zoe was sure she would find out the reason soon enough, but for now she had her own problems.
Like who was Nick?
She wondered if that was even his real name. Perhaps nothing about what had happened between them was real. Except the sex. And the laughter. And how Zoe felt.
The sound of her phone ringing felt small and insignificant in the silence of the park. It was like a relic from a previous life, a messenger which never brought good news.
She answered without speaking.
“Are you there?” came the voice.
Zoe remained silent.
“Please meet me.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Skyhawk.”
Zoe decided to sweat him out, she was in no rush. It didn’t take him long to offer a nervous explanation.
“It’s safer not to use my real name on the phone. You never know who’s listening.”
“The police are looking for you.”
Zoe could hear his sharply sucked breath as he tried to assimilate this. When he spoke again his voice was that of a frightened schoolboy.
“Why?”
“Someone killed my neighbour.”
“Oh, thank God.”
”What do you mean? A man has died.”
“But I didn’t do it.”
His voice had a naïve innocence about it, which Zoe found strangely comforting. It made it hard to imagine he was actually a brutal killer on the sly.
“What did you think the police wanted you for?”
“They think I know things. About what’s happening.”
“Why do you keep calling me?�
��
“I want to meet you. To try and understand why you’re different.”
“I’m not. Stop bothering me.” Neither of them believed for a moment that this would happen. “The police heard me talking to you. They will have traced your phone.”
“It’s not in my name.”
“They’ll still find you.”
A young woman out walking alone in the park was briefly illuminated in the glow of a streetlamp. Her eyes looked heavy and tired. She was soon absorbed by the darkness again.
“It’s the middle of the night and there’s people everywhere,” said Zoe.
“Yes. The king had a message, and it woke everyone.”
“What was the message?”
“He wants his queen back. Meet me.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Zoe, hanging up.
She stayed in the park until the sun came up, occasionally shifting benches to keep the blood flowing around her body. All night long, people kept arriving to walk off the memory of the bad dream. Few of them seemed willing – or able – to try and go back home to sleep.
Once she’d left the park she looked for the least salubrious greasy spoon she could find. She ordered a breakfast which was two bites away from a full blown coronary. It was an extremely satisfying experience.
Her hunger sated, Zoe started roaming the streets again, heading slowly towards work as her mind ticked over. It was a long way to walk, but time was the one thing she did seem to have plenty of.
As she entered the foyer she was startled to find Alf standing efficiently by the door. His uniform was crisp and neat, his shoes spotless. He was a man transformed.
“Name?”
She squinted at him.
“You know my name.”
“You dinnae ken I was a Scot. Why should I ken what you call yourself?”
Because you’re the security guard?
“Zoe Brook.” Alf looked down his list. “Why are you asking?”
“Regulations. Apparently there was a wee spot of bother yesterday.”
While you were busy sorting out that pretty secretary.
“Yeah, I heard something about that. Do you want to see some ID?”
“Ah no. There’s nay need for that.”