The Queen of Yesterday

by Rob Kinsman

  Fourteen

  “You are shitting me?” was Zoe’s immediate response to Nick’s story.

  “That’s what I saw in my sleep.”

  “It’s a fairy tale.”

  “Any more than the dream everyone else is going on about?”

  Zoe stared at him long and hard.

  “So I’m a renegade queen called Amelia?”

  “You look exactly like her.”

  “And you’re Han Solo?”

  He shrugged, a bit like how Han Solo would.

  “And this jester. I guess that’s my neighbour, Sid?”

  “Yes.”

  As far as Zoe was concerned this was just further proof that he was delusional, slotting the people around him into his fantasy. She needed to be careful though, there was no chance of help if he turned nasty.

  “And Thomas Knight. Is he from fairyland as well?”

  “Don’t be flippant.”

  Zoe clenched her teeth, thinking that flippant was an unusually generous attitude in the circumstances.

  “So who is he in your story?” she said, diplomatically.

  “I don’t remember for sure. That part of things is still in fragments. I think he’s someone the king sent after us.”

  “Oh, that figures.”

  Nick looked hopefully up at her, for a brief moment believing that he had won her over. One glance at her face soon crushed that theory.

  “We’re in danger, Zoe.”

  She didn’t doubt the danger, only the source of it.

  “You need to get help,” she said quietly, before standing and heading towards the door. Nick, tired but still surprisingly fast, intercepted, grabbing her arm.

  “It’s not safe out there.”

  “Let me go.”

  “You have to trust me.”

  “You’re a thief and a liar,” she shouted, all caution finally slipping away. “Nothing about you is real. You live in other people’s homes. I’m guessing Nick isn’t even your real name.”

  “It is,” he snapped, as furious as she was. “Nicholas. That’s what you called me in the other world.”

  “Oh, fuck off you lunatic.”

  Determined to keep her traitorous tears at bay, Zoe shrugged off his grasp on her hand. As she opened the door she braced herself, waiting for him to slam it shut again before she could pass. But he held back. Zoe walked out the door and into the empty street.

  She waited outdoors for a long time. Nothing moved. The world was still asleep.

  Occasionally Zoe could see Nick peering out the window at her. No matter. He would have been awake for over 36 hours by now, sleep would soon take him by force if necessary. Zoe sat down on the pavement with her back against the fence, and waited till she’d calmed down. Fuck him. He’s not going to get the better of me.

  Despite this, Zoe had started to wonder those two most dangerous words: What if?

  She needed time to think. His story was clearly ludicrous, but was it really any more far fetched than any of the things that had happened over the past couple of weeks? Zoe wondered if this was how it felt when you started to lose your mind.

  She’d come all this way because she’d wanted answers from him. Had she really expected that he’d have one she liked? What if he really did know something, or had just misinterpreted the truth?

  What if?

  When she came back indoors Nick was starting to lose the battle with sleep. He was necking coffee like it was oxygen.

  “Doesn’t any of it sound familiar?” he pleaded. “Even if it’s just an instinct? A hunch?”

  Yes.

  “No.”

  Zoe pulled up a chair at the kitchen table and sat opposite him. She was almost serene, although in her own way she was just as exhausted as Nick.

  “I need to consult with someone,” she said quietly.

  “Who?”

  “Where can I find you?”

  Nick eyed her, the thought that she might just send the police around to scoop him up obviously at the forefront of his brain. He wrote a mobile number on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Zoe punched the digits into her phone and pressed dial. From Nick’s pocket came a ringing noise.

  “Just checking,” she said. “Sweet dreams.”

  Zoe sat back and refused to answer any more of his questions. This irritated him immensely, which gave her a few precious crumbs of happiness.

  She waited until sleep took him, then began her journey back across the city.

  As she glided through the deserted streets on the stolen bike, she allowed herself to be briefly transported by her surroundings. Without the noise and bustle of people the sleeping city exuded a grandeur which reminded Zoe why she’d wanted to move here in the first place. At the time she hadn’t realised she’d actually end up living in some shitty backwater, where the only building of historical significance was a kebab shop allegedly built on the site of a plague pit.

  Lost in this thought, she didn’t notice the bleary eyed man until it was too late. She skidded off the bike as she swerved to avoid him, giving herself a fresh set of grazes to match those she’d acquired on her outward journey. The man, who was either homeless or a member of a ZZ Top tribute act, regained his feet and lurched towards her. Zoe recoiled, before realising he was trying to help.

  But then he saw her face.

  He shrank into himself. His eyes darted around the empty street, looking for help. Finding none, he yelped and disappeared back into the alleyway he’d emerged from. It did nothing for Zoe’s already fragile self esteem.

  She dusted herself down and picked up the bike. Once again she started out on her journey. Something was different. The noise.

  It took a while to realise what it was she was hearing. Finally it took shape: the hiss of static as people tried to tune their radios and televisions. That and the sound of a thousand taps all turned on at once, quenching the thirst of an unnaturally long sleep.

  The city was coming to life again.

  She picked up the pace, travelling as fast as her aching knee would allow. People were gradually starting to emerge into the open, looking for answers. At first Zoe presumed she was imagining it, but it soon became apparent that people were staring at her as she passed.

  “Hey, bitch.”

  “There she is.”

  “Stop her before she gets away.”

  Although Zoe had often fantasised about being the kind of woman who could turn heads, she’d always imagined the spectators would view her with lust rather than murderous rage.

  The bloody, pissing dream. Somehow it must be.

  The main roads were proving problematic: it only took one person to recognise her before a dozen others were alerted to her presence. After a fourth group gave chase, she decided enough was enough and took to the back streets. If nothing else, it would make it harder for any ill-wishers to mow her down in a car.

  What do they want with me?

  The hotel seemed the safest place to go, but it was still a long way off. Whatever it was that had happened in the dream certainly seemed to have made a lot of people angry with her.

  The small back roads were lined with obscure specialist shops, which at least weren’t likely to attract many customers so soon after the enforced lie-in. Nobody needs a guide to carp fishing that urgently.

  Three roads of ridiculous shops later, Zoe chanced across one which gave her an idea. The shop was locked, but she could see people moving about in the flat above it. Zoe pressed their doorbell. On the third ring a stocky man leaned out the window.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you own this shop? Are you open?”

  Zoe kept her head down, shielding her face from him.

  “Are you crazy?” he shouted. “We’ve only just woken up.”

  “I missed my son’s birthday. Slept right through it.” She risked a brief, earnest glance upwards, hoping it would help sell her story. “I want to get something to make it up
to him. He’d be so grateful.”

  She stared back down at the ground, her fate in his hands. Two minutes later the door to the shop swung open.

  Brushing past the owner as quickly as possible, Zoe went straight to the fancy dress section of the joke shop.

  This was no time for browsing or drawing attention to herself. Zoe grabbed a handful of suitable items, took them to the counter, then gave the man some notes and told him to keep the change.

  Out on the street she quickly dived into yet another alleyway to closer examine her purchases. In retrospect the comedy glasses with attached red nose and moustache weren’t likely to provide much of a disguise. Her options limited, Zoe plumped for the generic skeleton and hood mask. With a bit of luck people would just think she was some drugged up clubber on her way home from wherever she’d passed out.

  Her disguise proved surprisingly effective, giving her some brief respite from the ill wishes of people she’d never met before. After another forty minutes the streets started clearing again. Glancing through windows she realised it was because some television channels had started broadcasting, and people were heading back indoors for updates.

  The first station to spring back into life was a cable shopping channel, which consequently received record viewing figures. Lacking the resources to fully explain what had happened during the previous 36 hours, they found themselves resorting to the advertised program promoting novelty garden gnomes. They sold like hot cakes, despite being useless and ugly.

  Twenty minutes later Radio 4 began broadcasting again, and middle class people across the land breathed a sigh of relief that civilisation as they knew it hadn’t ended quite yet.

  For Zoe both these events were a godsend as they cleared a path for her. She started braving the main roads again, cycling like she had never cycled before (which wasn’t hard as she hadn’t been on a bike for over 17 years). She got tantalisingly close to her destination, but one wrong turn and she suddenly found herself engulfed by a huge crowd surging down a narrow street. She’d heard the sound of their voices on the previous road, but hadn’t realised they were so close until it was too late. Unable to retreat in time, Zoe was forced to dismount and push the bike if she was going to avoid being trampled.

  I’m still wearing the skeleton costume. They don’t know who I am.

  She could only pray things remained that way.

  Dotted around the crowd were various banners for the group Waking Dream. Being surrounded by followers of a man who apparently wanted her dead was the perfect end to a perfect day. Fortunately the mask also hid the tears which now stung her eyes.

  Waking Dream itself seemed to be gathering ever more recruits. The make up of the crowd was starting to stretch beyond the usual tie-dyed brigade who’d troop out for anything as long as it included a falafel van and some slogans to chant. Now there were also office workers, homeless people, manual workers.

  Although Waking Dream had been successful at drumming up increased support, the traditional religions hadn’t taking it lying down. Each of them had bent over backwards to try and share their own insights. Most efforts, however, had ended up like the sleepover in the church: well-meaning but ultimately twee events, full of vague speculation. Waking Dream had the advantage that the object of their worship, the king, was there for all to see. That kind of tangible proof, if anything which happened in a dream could be called tangible, was something the other religions simply couldn’t compete with.

  Zoe was forced to march with the group for nearly five streets before spying her exit route: a road too small for a crowd this size to head down. The crowd would surely follow the path of least resistance and continue down the main street. Getting back to the edge of the dense throng of people was going to be tricky, but she had an idea.

  As her exit approached she let go of the bike’s handles. It fell away into the crowd behind her. There were raised voices as people either fell over or tried to navigate around it. With a crowd this size it was like trying to steer a tanker, and in the confusion Zoe managed to press her way through the people slowing to look behind them. She made it into the side road and kept walking.

  The hotel was as welcome a sight as any she could remember. She headed in through the swivel doors. Ever diligent Maja was already back on the front desk, fielding calls from confused guests.

  When she saw Zoe she fell silent, cutting off the call she was in the middle of.

  “Maja, I’m so glad you’re alright.”

  Maja glanced up at her with great trepidation. Zoe finally remembered she was dressed as a skeleton, and took off the mask. Maja looked, if possible, even more alarmed when she realised who it was.

  “I have dream of you.”

  “I gathered.”

  Fifteen

  The king, whose form continued to grow in stature and clarity, stormed angrily through the corridors of his mighty stronghold. Wispy figures parted as he entered room after majestic room until he finally came to his target.

  The painting of his queen had been entwined with magical charms which gave the figure life and dimensions beyond the flat canvas. The artist’s rendition of her smile was exceptional; subtle and teasing, it had once charmed the whole kingdom.

  The king stared up at it, briefly humbled by the sight of the woman he had loved above all others. Those around him averted their faces, knowing their very existence depended on not seeing the single tear which trickled from his eye.

  He stood in motionless silence for long enough that it almost seemed as if his rage had passed, but this was an illusion. With terrifying ferocity he pulled his mighty broadsword from its sheath and sliced through the canvas. The queen’s smile became briefly lopsided, until a further strike removed it altogether.

  When he was spent the king stared at the empty frame, which now displayed only the bare wall behind it. He turned on his heel and stormed out the room.

  For a long time, nobody dared move.

  Zoe didn’t feel anything as she flicked through the television channels. Recent events had drained what was left of her emotional reserves, she had nothing left to give. Finding herself pictured in a portrait owned by a deranged king in a dream world was all just par for the course these days.

  The news channels were illustrating the story with various reconstructions of the painting from the dream. Zoe watched the images paraded before her with a critical distance, noting how some had captured her eyes but misjudged her nose. Even the impressionistic version, which made her look like a slightly-melted sex offender, didn’t upset her as much as it really ought to.

  Zoe muted the sound and tried to dial her parents on the hotel’s landline again. She didn’t want to risk turning on her mobile if she could help it, in case someone used it to track her. Fortunately her parents’ number was one of the few she still knew by heart from the old days when phones didn’t do all the remembering themselves. The first three times she’d tried to call there had been no answer. She prayed to a God she didn’t believe in that they’d pick up soon.

  Mercifully, on the fourth attempt the call was answered.

  “Hello, press office,” said Ruth.

  Zoe was both incredulous and not-at-all surprised.

  “What?”

  “Zoe, is that you?”

  “Why did you say press office?”

  “You’re a big star now! Once word gets out, everyone’s going to want to speak with you. I thought I’d handle the enquiries myself. No point giving a cut to someone else.”

  “You started trying to sell my story before you’d even spoken to me?” This was more a formality than a serious question. Ruth had spent her life looking for ways to outshine her neighbours. Zoe’s sudden appearance in the dream must have been like mana from heaven.

  “You have to strike while the iron’s hot,” said Ruth. “I’ve started putting out a few feelers.”

  “No, mum. I don’t want that.”

  “The papers are going to get your story one way or another, it’s only
a matter of time. Better we cash in on it before anyone else can.”

  For once, Ruth’s assessment of the world seemed depressingly astute.

  “How’s dad?” asked Zoe glumly.

  “Sitting in his chair, watching telly. He’s alive. Beyond that it’s hard to tell.”

  So no change there.

  “Mum, you’re going to hear some things about me once they work out who I am.”

  “Oh no,” said Ruth. “You’re not one of those sex people are you?”

  “No! It’s not that.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  Ruth’s definition of ‘sex people’ covered the whole spectrum, from wildly deviant perverts down to basically any people who had sex. In her mind they were all just as bad as each other.

  “A man was killed in my flat a few days ago. My neighbour, Sid. And he…” Zoe swallowed, not realising how upset she was until she tried to give the words voice. “He was the man in the dream the other day. The one who was being tortured.”

  There was a long silence down the phone. Eventually Ruth spoke, her tone alarmingly casual.

  “You didn’t kill him, did you love?”

  Zoe hoped she didn’t have to dignify that with an answer. “I just wanted to call and check you were alright,” she said.

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  Zoe reluctantly dignified the question with an answer which included several undignified words.

  “That’s ok then,” said Ruth when Zoe had stopped swearing.

  “I had nothing to do with what happened to him, but that won’t stop people assuming the worst. You know what they’re like.”

  “Leeches, the lot of them.” Ruth paused for a calculated nanosecond before adding, “So, are you free to go on Channel 4 News tomorrow?”

  “No. Look, I have to get off the line and work out what I’m going to do. I just wanted to make sure you were both ok.”

  “We’re so proud of you.”

  “But I haven’t done anything.” Zoe knew she was wasting her breath.