Night Shade (Dreamweaver Book 1)

by Helen Harper

The body contact is unexpected and I extricate carefully. ‘I’m fine, Bron.’ I give the Mayor a quick look. ‘It was all just a misunderstanding.’

  ‘I’ll say,’ he growls, his eyes spitting fire. His outrage appears genuine. ‘Come on. We’re leaving.’ He tucks my arm under his and drags me away. I shrug helplessly at the Mayor.

  ‘Some other time perhaps, Zoe,’ he murmurs.

  I nod ruefully and let myself be led away. It’s probably a good thing; I need to create a better cover story before I meet the Mayor again. I don’t believe for one second that those goons acted independently of his orders. Something’s going on here and I’m going to find out what.

  The corridor is empty. Whoever was lurking there has vanished. Bron sniffs as he marches along, muttering away; whether it’s to me or to himself, I’m not entirely sure. ‘Utterly ridiculous. How does he think he can get away with this? Abducting you in broad daylight!’

  ‘He says it was a mistake,’ I say mildly. What I really want to do is to start screaming at him to find out why I’m such a threat but I still don’t know who I can trust. I’ll have to rely on myself for now.

  ‘The man’s a fool.’

  ‘Is he really the Mayor?’

  ‘He’s in charge of the Department. The title is one he’s given himself. Ridiculous.’ He grimaces again.

  We go up a flight of stairs and along another dull hallway. This building is an anomaly considering how fantastical the rest of the Dreamlands are. I think I know where it is and when we stumble outside and I turn round, I’m pleased to see I’m right. It’s the ugly building that I saw Bron sneak into earlier. The plot thickens.

  I pull away from him and prod my head gently. There’s definitely a bump there but the queasiness has gone. Thank goodness for small mercies.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Bron asks anxiously.

  I smile reassuringly. ‘I’m fine.’ His worried frown doesn’t disappear so I change the subject. ‘The way the sunlight here bounces off your hair is extraordinary.’ I reach up and tousle it slightly. Bron looks taken aback. ‘It’s like spun gold.’

  He coughs. ‘All natural, I assure you.’ He grins then, pointing over at the birdman statue and the multicoloured fountain below. ‘Have you seen our town hero yet?’

  ‘Actually, yes,’ I admit. ‘I’d been hoping to ask someone about it.’ We walk over and gaze up at the stern stone visage. ‘What makes him the town hero?’ I ask, hoping I sound casual enough.

  ‘Years and years ago, well before my time, there was trouble with the Badlands. That’s where all the nightmares of the world spring from.’

  I frown. ‘Not the mares?’

  He looks at me in surprise. ‘The mares originate from there. We don’t know why they left and it’s true that they do cause some nightmares but nothing like those that come from the Badlands offer.’ There’s an odd note of fear in his voice. ‘Anyway, the fringes of the Badlands began to encroach on the town boundaries and they say that all manner of monsters were let loose. There were,’ he pauses, ‘quite a few casualties.’

  I can’t repress a shudder. ‘That’s awful.’

  Bron nods. ‘Anyway, good old moustache man here, Albert Hall, found a way to beat them back.’

  ‘Albert Hall?’ I start to snigger.

  ‘I know.’ Bron grins again.

  ‘Did he really have wings?’

  ‘I think they’re the artist’s interpretation.’ He shrugs. ‘You can never really be sure with this place though.’ His smile softens and he takes my hand, smoothing the skin. ‘I’m really sorry the Mayor did that to you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say quietly.

  A shadow passes overhead, drawing my attention away from Bron and up to the sky. The sun, which never seems to do anything other than shine over the town, is obscured. There’s a crack of thunder so loud I jump half out of my skin and squeeze Bron’s hand so tightly that he winces.

  ‘Something’s going to change,’ he whispers in sudden awe.

  ‘Change?’ My eyes widen. ‘Ashley said that sometimes subtle differences took place.’

  ‘And when they happen, there’s always–’ He’s interrupted by a streak of lightning. ‘Lightning,’ he finishes.

  I glance around. The Mayor himself exits from the building behind, his face as thunderous as the sky. ‘What changed?’ I ask, realising that I’m as excited by this new development as everyone else.

  Bron’s face is white. He’s staring at Albert Hall’s statue in shock. I follow his gaze then take a step backwards. Whoever Albert Hall really was, he’s no longer the focal point of the Dreamlands square. He’s been replaced by another man, slightly older but far more familiar. I gasp. I’d know that face anywhere.

  It’s the same man who died in my hallway last week.

  ***

  Right after breakfast, I call Sergeant Rawlins. She seems exasperated to hear from me and makes a sarky remark about whether I’m going to ask her more about her belongings. She doesn’t seem to have made any progress in identifying the old man. There’s a growing ball of frustration in my stomach. I’m still, however, on a quest for answers so I move on to my mother. I know there’s more that she’s not telling me.

  ‘I need you to come round,’ I tell her, without preamble.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I just need to speak to you.’ It’s unfair of me to not allay her fears immediately, but I need her to visit.

  ‘Give me fifteen minutes,’ she promises.

  When she finally arrives, I’m ready and waiting. I unbolt the door, ignore her anxious expression and usher her inside.

  ‘Tell me about the dreams I had when I was a child.’

  She’s obviously confused. ‘What? That’s what this is about? Zoe, I thought something was wrong! I rushed over and...’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, although I’m not really, ‘but I think it might be important. You avoided talking about them before...’ I hold up a palm to forestall her protests, ‘...you know you did. Please, Mum, just tell me the truth.’

  She sighs and sits down heavily on the sofa. ‘You have to understand, Zoe, it was a terrible time for us. Your dad and I were divorcing, every night you were screaming the house down ... the bloody neighbours complained constantly...’ Her voice trails away and her eyes take on the distant, unfocused look of someone lost in memory.

  I gently prod her out of her reverie. ‘When did they start?’

  ‘Bonfire Night. When you were four.’

  ‘That’s very specific,’ I say, slightly taken aback.

  She shrugs. ‘We’d been down to the park to watch the fireworks. Your dad told me not to take you. He’d said you’d be too scared.’ She looks at me pointedly. ‘You were always such a nervous child. Anyway, I thought the noise might have scared you and that’s why you had a nightmare. Several nightmares, in fact.’

  ‘About this birdman?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, that came later. You were crying about the dark. It was too dark and the horsey scared you.’

  ‘Horsey?’

  ‘Your word, not mine.’

  I swallow hard. ‘Did I describe the horse?’

  Her mouth tightens. ‘You drew some pictures. They weren’t pretty. Your teacher at school called me because she was concerned, wanted me to stop you from riding.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘As if I could have afforded riding lessons back then! Of course, that was nothing compared to what she said when you...’

  ‘When I what?’

  ‘When you told her that if she wanted to stop being punched by her husband, she had to leave him. That it made her beautiful white dress with the silver bow all messy when it was covered in blood.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘We all knew it was happening. She tried to cover the bruises with make-up but you never can, not really. But back in those days you didn’t get involved. I think a few well-meaning parents told her to contact the police but nothing ever came of it. You must have overheard some playground go
ssip, that’s all.’

  ‘What was the dress about?’

  ‘She said her wedding dress had been white, white and with a silver bow. I think that freaked her out more than you knowing she was getting beaten up.’

  ‘How could I have known?’ I ask quietly.

  ‘I don’t know, darling. Children just pick up these things.’ Her tone is dismissive but she doesn’t meet my eyes.

  ‘What else was there?’

  ‘Do we have to do this now? I was going to meet Henry later.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘I don’t see how,’ she mutters. She sighs. ‘There was the thing with your father.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He started seeing his secretary.’ Her lip curls. ‘A blonde thing with stiletto heels and too much lipstick.’ Even though it happened more than twenty years ago and after they’d split up, it’s obvious my mother still feels bitter pain about it. ‘You were the one who knew. He denied it, of course, but you kept going on about the woman with pointy shoes who was kissing him...’ She picks at her nail varnish. ‘The idea that he’d let his own daughter see that. It’s disgusting.’

  My stomach tightens. Maybe he didn’t let me see it. And maybe there was really nothing going on. It might have been one of his dreams. ‘What about the birdman?’

  ‘He featured most often. He didn’t seem to do anything but you were very scared of him. There wasn’t anyone like that living near us.’ She laughs. ‘Not anyone with wings anyway. I was worried if it was someone else ... some man...’

  I change the subject. ‘It might just have been someone from the television.’

  ‘Yes.’ She sounds about as convinced as I am.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Why did it stop? You said I was five?’

  She sighs. ‘It went on for months and I was at my wits’ end. Other children wouldn’t play with you any more but they couldn’t explain why. Your teacher jumped whenever you came into the room. It was an awful time. Then Mr Salib showed up and worked miracles.’

  I scan her face. ‘Mr Salib?’

  ‘He was a lovely gentleman from Malta. Not that you’d know it – he sounded as broad as any Glaswegian you’d meet in the street. He’d heard about your predicament from the school and offered to help.’

  Something didn’t sound right. ‘How would he hear about me from school? What about confidentiality?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, darling. Does it matter?’

  It might. I’m wary of upsetting her though. I need to hear the full story. ‘What did he do to stop the dreams?’

  She cups my face in her hands and lightly presses both her index fingers on my temples. I’m confused. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ I ask, pulling away.

  My mum shrugs. ‘What he did. He came round, had a cup of tea, spoke to you and did that. You never had another night terror again.’

  ‘That’s crazy.’

  ‘I’m telling you what happened.’ She searches my face. ‘Are you having bad dreams again? Is that what this is about?’

  ‘No, Mum, I’m fine.’ I shake my head to add weight to my words. ‘I’ve just been having a bit of trouble sleeping, that’s all. But you’re right. It doesn’t sound like what happened back then had anything to do with my agoraphobia.’ I smile. ‘I guess I was over-thinking things.’

  ‘You’re spending too much time on your own, Zoe. It’s not healthy.’

  ‘I’ll call the girls. Maybe we can have a film night or something.’

  ‘That’d be good. You’ve not seen your friends for so long...’

  ‘I’ll call them,’ I promise.

  I see her out of the door, all beaming grins and happy waves. As soon as she gets into her car and drives away, however, my smile vanishes.

  Who the fuck is Mr Salib and what did he really do to me?

  * **

  I turn to Google, that stalwart provider of answers. There’s no trace of anyone with either the first name or surname of Salib. There are no shops, no businesses, no doctors ... nothing. I even go back to the Somnolence page and try using Salib as a password to gain entry but I’m still denied.

  I bang my fist on the desk in frustration and make the Chairman, snoozing on an old beanbag in the corner, jump up, his round black pupils gazing at me in alarm. I reach over and stroke him, apologising for interrupting his sleep.

  I leave the room and crouch in the hallway, at the very spot where the old man collapsed. Did he have something to do with this Salib? Is my agoraphobia linked to all this. The thought that someone deliberately caused my debilitating condition fills me with equal measures of rage and relief – rage because of the way it’s ruined my life and relief because perhaps there is a cure. Maybe I won’t be trapped here forever.

  ‘Stop it, Zoe,’ I mutter to myself. ‘You like this; you like the boredom. It’s safe and quiet. You don’t need a way out.’

  I glance at the door, taking in its reassuring solidity. Then it suddenly rattles as someone knocks loudly.

  I freeze, all at once a mess of palpitations and cold sweat. I stand up shakily and peer out of the spyhole. Frowning, I realise who it is; I’d told Dr Miller I didn’t need a damn home visit.

  I unlock the bolts but keep the chain fastened and carefully open the door. The doctor smiles benevolently. ‘Zoe, how are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ My tone is akin to that of a sullen teenager; the doctor is a distraction that I can do without.

  ‘I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d pop by and see how you’re doing.’ His breathing changes, becoming slightly heavy. I stop looking at his presence on my doorstep as an irritation and start paying attention. He’s lying but I don’t know why.

  It was easy to fake it with the Mayor but that was in the Dreamlands. Here in real life it’s much harder for me to pretend. ‘As I said, I’m fine.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  My hands start shaking. ‘I’m – I’m not sure that would be a good idea,’ I stutter. ‘I’m not used to having strangers inside – and I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘I’m not a stranger, Zoe. And I’ve been inside your house before, when things were very bad.’

  I clear my throat. ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘I won’t do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. Here.’ He thrusts a small bag towards the gap in the door. ‘I brought you more medication.’

  For a second I forget to be scared. ‘Why?’

  ‘This is stronger. It might be more effective.’

  Except I told him the pills he prescribed were working fine. Why would he come and give me different ones? ‘Thanks.’ I take the bag, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger as if it might bite. ‘I have to go now,’ I lie.

  ‘Of course, of course. Look after yourself. And do call me if you need anything.’

  I nod before carefully closing the door and re-bolting it. Through the spyhole, I watch him leave, hands thrust in his pockets. He starts to whistle ‘She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain’ as if everything is hunky-dory.

  I double- and triple-check the locks, telling myself that he means well and I’m being paranoid. It doesn’t work.

  Chapter Ten

  Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.

  Mahatma Gandhi

  Ashley; Bron; Dante: three people who have gone out of their way to help me and provide some answers. Except when I was with Ashley I ended up getting hit on the head and dragged to the Mayor’s jail cell. And Bron, sweet as he is, hasn’t been as helpful as he’d probably like to think. That leaves Dante.

  The thought of him sends a shiver down my spine; I can’t deny there’s a part of me that’s eager to see him again. Perhaps I could just use him for information and sex. It has been a while... Then I remember his silvered, knowing eyes. He’s probably not the kind of person who lets himself be used. Still, despite his annoying methods, he has shown me quite a lot so far. Plus, even if they used to work together, the Mayor despises him
now – which raises Dante a notch or two in my estimation. And there’s one thing in particular I really want to ask him.

  I find him crouched in the forest, busy with something that I can’t figure out. I watch him indecisively for a moment or two

  ‘You do like sneaking around and spying on people, don’t you?’ he mutters, without turning round.

  I’d thought I’d approached silently. Apparently not. ‘Er, I wanted to thank you,’ I say. ‘You know, for helping me out the other day and showing me the mare.’ I touch the bruise on my neck, which has all but disappeared now. ‘And for proving all this is real. Well, sort of real. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  I stare at the back of his head. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Thank me.’

  I roll my eyes. He’s actually more annoying than I remembered. ‘Thank you.’ I curtsey behind his back, pulling out a vast imaginary skirt.

  He straightens and turns. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Me? Nothing,’ I say innocently. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I peer round him, spotting the gleaming steel jaws of a trap. ‘You bastard! It’s you setting those things!’

  He frowns angrily. ‘You’re not much of one for small details, are you?’

  I gape at him. I’m better at details than anyone else he’ll ever meet. What ... oh. The trap is closed and useless. ‘You were making it safe.’

  Dante gazes at me patiently. ‘As you see.’

  ‘Why? I thought you didn’t like the mares.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You kind of did.’

  ‘No. I respect them and I keep my distance from them. I don’t dislike them. In fact, I think they’re a necessary part of all this.’

  I eye him warily. ‘I thought they caused nightmares. Hence, they’re mares.’

  ‘Why are nightmares bad?’

  ‘They’re not good!’

  ‘They allow your psyche to work through problems and resolve issues. They’re as natural as,’ he nudges the trap with his toe, ‘the mares themselves.’

  ‘Are they from the Badlands?’

  ‘Who told you that? Bron?’ There’s a sneer in his voice and I suddenly realise why he’s acting so abrasively.