by Helen Harper
Jerry laughs heartily. ‘I’m thrilled to hear it! It’s about time you got yourself a nice fella. Maybe you should ask him for his phone number, though. If you keep this up it could get expensive.’
Embarrassed, I murmur agreement. I’m fortunate that Jerry’s a genuinely nice boss – even if he is somewhat gullible.
Once I’ve said my goodbyes and hung up, I grab my coat and bag. There’s a lot to accomplish today. I stroke the Chairman’s ears and dash out while he watches me, bemused. My neighbour from across the road – the offshore worker who spoke to the police about me – is putting his rubbish out. I wave exuberantly and grin. He blinks several times before giving me a hesitant wave. God, it feels good to be free from debilitating terror.
***
I jog into the supermarket car park less than thirty minutes later. It’s still early so there are only a few cars, which suits me. As much as I’m suddenly enjoying the open, it’s easier knowing there aren’t a lot of people around.
Rather than head through the main doors, I skirt round the building to the back. The familiar delivery van is there but there’s no sign of the kid. I peer inside the supermarket and spot a harassed-looking man on the phone.
‘What do you mean you’re not coming in?’ I creep a little closer. ‘You can’t do this!’ he bawls. ‘You know we’re short-staffed!’
I watch him as he tilts his head, listening to the reply. There’s a loud sigh and he speaks again. ‘How much do you want?’ I smile. ‘I can’t go that high!’ He listens for a bit longer and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Fine,’ he eventually snaps. ‘I’ll do what I can.’ He presses a button on his phone and stuffs it into his back pocket, then catches sight of me hovering. ‘What do you want? The bloody entrance is the other side!’
‘Sorry!’ I call out, twisting on my heel and leaving before he decides to take his frustration out on me. I walk away quickly, still grinning. I can’t be sure, of course, that the only reason the kid asked for a raise is because of what happened in his dream. I’m pretty certain, however, that it had something to do with it. It would be too much of a coincidence otherwise.
It’s little more than a hop, skip and a jump to the florist’s. I’m nervous about this so I spend some time examining the buckets of flowers outside before I go in. The sign outside the shop is pretty – Thomson and Taylor. It’s in old-fashioned type with carefully painted ivy joining the two names. My brain creaks into action. Isn’t ivy symbolic of friendship and trust?
It’s clear from the moment I enter that neither friendship nor trust are in evidence. The atmosphere is distinctly frosty. There are two women, both of them from my two dreams. I receive polite smiles from them but their body language tells a very different story.
‘It’s Ms Lydon, isn’t it?’ the first woman asks. ‘I recognise you from last week.’
Her colleague’s mouth widens until I’m afraid her face will crack. ‘I recognise you from yesterday. Zoe, right?’
I glance from one to the other. It’s worse than I thought. I know they’re going to end up shooting the messenger but it’s better than them shooting each other, even if only subconsciously. ‘Hi.’ I clear my throat. ‘I want to thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful.’
They both beam. ‘We have some lilies fresh in this morning. Perhaps you’d like some of those?’
‘Oh, Margaret, she’s not a lily kind of person. You’d prefer something with more soul, wouldn’t you? I’m thinking daisies and daffodils. It’s the perfect time of year for a bit of spring.’
Before this degenerates further, I speak up. ‘It’s not flowers that I’m here for. It’s, uh,’ I look at Margaret’s hand, bare of any rings, ‘your boyfriend.’
Her brow furrows. ‘You mean Alan? My fiancé?’
‘Uh, sorry, yes, your fiancé.’
‘Here we go,’ the other woman mutters. ‘If he’s not given you a ring, are you really engaged?’
There’s malevolent spite in Margaret’s eyes. ‘We’re waiting until we can afford one.’ She pastes another smile on her face and gazes at me. ‘How do you know him?’
I throw the dice. ‘You’re Margaret Thomson? And you’re....’
‘Rebecca Taylor,’ her colleague finishes.
I nod and meet Margaret’s eyes. ‘I saw him a few days ago. Your fiancé, I mean. He was with another woman.’ I smooth my hands over my skirt. ‘Trying to kiss her.’
Her expression grows pale. ‘Who the hell are you? Did she put you up to this?’
I look at Rebecca. She’s watching me with a knowing expression in her eyes. Certain I’ve read the situation accurately, I feel a surge of confidence. ‘He’s not any good for you, Margaret. Deep down you know you can’t trust him. Instead of worrying about what other women are doing with him, you should worry about what he’s doing.’
Rebecca swallows. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you this,’ she whispers.
Margaret throws up her hands. ‘I don’t know what’s going on here but you can get the hell out of my shop.’
‘Our shop,’ Rebecca interjects. ‘And listen to her, she’s right. I’m not going after him, Mags. He’s going after me. And obviously other women too.’
‘Think about who you really trust,’ I say quietly. ‘Whether it’s your friend and business partner or your fiancé.’
Margaret starts shrieking. ‘Get out of here! Get out, get out, get out!’ She grabs a rose off the counter and flings it at me. Fortunately, it’s not particularly aerodynamic so I dodge it easily.
I bow my head. ‘Just think about it.’ Then I walk out, the bell above the door jangling incongruously as I leave.
Once in the fresh air, I rub my forehead with a shaky hand. That really wasn’t much fun but I couldn’t think of another way to approach the situation. As with Rawlins, I pray that I’ve not made things worse or read the clues wrongly.
I’m halfway down the street when someone grabs my arm. It’s so unexpected that I immediately feel terror rise inside me. I spin round, hands up to defend myself.
‘Sorry,’ Rebecca says, stepping back ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to say thanks. I’ve been trying to get her to listen to me for ages and she wouldn’t.’ She shrugs sadly. ‘I guess love is blind. But now that someone else has said something ... well, it was very brave of you. I’m sorry she threw a flower at you.’
I smile weakly. ‘It could have been a lot worse.’ My breath is coming in shallow gulps and it’s hard to get the words out.
Rebecca herself is so wound up that she barely notices. ‘Here,’ she says, thrusting a bouquet in my direction, ‘take this. It’s not much but I wanted to make sure you knew how much I appreciated what you’ve just done.’
Reluctantly I take it from her. ‘Thanks.’ I lick my lips, wishing she’d just given me a paper bag instead. ‘I should go.’
‘Of course, of course! Come back any time!’
I turn away. I’ll be giving the shop a wide berth in the future. I half walk, half stumble away. I’m not quite as confident and cured as I thought.
***
It’s some time before I’m calm enough to think rationally again and when I do, my fear increases. I realise that I really do have incredible power, power that could easily be misused. Yesterday I was almost thrown in a loony bin and charged with murder – but that was before I strolled into Dr Pat and Rawlins’ heads and solved my problems. What I did for the supermarket delivery kid encouraged him to ask for a higher salary. And, even without changing anything in either Margaret Thomson’s or Rebecca Taylor’s dreams, I’ve affected their lives. No wonder people are scared of the Mayor traipsing around their loved ones’ subconscious. Even if he can’t control what happens like I can, the knowledge he could gain is terrifying.
Keeping my head down, I count the paving stones as I walk to keep myself calm and focused. I don’t want to appear a raving lunatic when I reach my next destination: it’s simply too important.
When I turn down my
mother’s street, I’m struck by how different it appears from the last time I was here. There used to be several trees lining the pavement but they have all gone now and I remember the bad storms from last winter and the newspaper reports of the damage they caused. No doubt the trees were casualties; unfortunately, the council hasn’t seen fit to replace them but have merely put tarmac over the gaps.
That’s not the only change. The woman at the corner, Giselle, told me the last time I saw her that she was trying desperately for a baby. Now there is a collection of bright, plastic toys in the little garden in front of her house. The older couple next to her have apparently retired because what used to be a mess of weeds and overgrown plants is now a manicured lawn and herb garden. I feel another surge of hatred for Salib and what he did to me. It’s like life has passed me by while I’ve been incarcerated. Things could have been so different.
There’s an unfamiliar car parked outside my mother’s house, a large gleaming black thing. A Mercedes. I pause, wondering whether it’s Henry McIntyre’s. I hope I’m not intruding on an illicit tête-à-tête. I force myself to stop freaking out. It probably belongs to one of her neighbours. It is still early in the morning and McIntyre will be either at work or with his wife. It wouldn’t make sense for him to visit my mother at this time. Besides, despite my raised eyebrows when we discussed him before, I believed my mother when she said they were only friends. She’s not the philandering type.
I resist the urge to peek through the car’s windows and move Rebecca’s bouquet to my other hand. At least I have something to present my mother with when she answers the door; it might help alleviate her shock in seeing me in the great outdoors. Taking a deep breath, I straighten my shoulders and stroll up the path. I want to show her that I really am alright and that I’m not as crazy as everyone thought.
I’m almost at the door when I hear voices inside. They’re muffled, but I can make out my mother. Her visitor is clearly male, although he’s less distinct. I wrinkle my nose. Despite the early hour, McIntyre must be here. For a moment, I’m frozen to the spot. Good grief; she really must be having an affair with him. Coming on the heels of my encounter with Margaret and Rebecca, this isn’t something I want to know about. And I don’t want the moment my mum realises I’ve overcome my agoraphobia to be spoiled by an awkward witness. So, instead of ringing the doorbell, I press myself against the wall where I can’t be seen. I realise it’s ridiculous – a grown woman playing hide-and-seek – but I want this just to be about my mum and me. It occurs to me that he must be on the verge of leaving, which means it’s possible that he spent the night. That’s information I definitely don’t need to know.
The door rattles as it opens. I hear someone step outside and my mother’s voice. ‘Well, it was lovely to meet you, Mr Malpeter. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’
I frown. Not only is it not Henry McIntyre, there’s an edge of tension in her voice that I rarely hear – and it doesn’t sound like irritation at an unwanted salesman. Rather, it’s an emotion I’m very well versed in: my mother is scared.
‘Oh, that’s no problem at all, Mrs Lydon. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’
I stop breathing. It’s the Mayor, here in real life. He’s found me. I press harder against the pebbledash, ignoring the pain on my skin. I didn’t bring the backpack with me; this time all I have to defend myself and my mother with is a bunch of stupid flowers. Margaret Thomson has already proved how useless they are as a weapon. I don’t even have a phone to call Rawlins and ask for help.
I hear the Mayor’s heavy footsteps crunch along the path. I’m desperate to peer round and see what he’s doing and whether my mother is safe. I know it’s broad daylight but I wouldn’t put anything past the Mayor. Unfortunately, I dare not look in case I reveal myself.
‘Bye!’ I hear my mother call from inside the house.
There’s the sound of the front door closing and a moment of interminable silence, followed eventually by the beep of a car being unlocked. Maybe everything will be alright – except the Mayor is about to drive right past me. All he needs to do is glance to his left and he’ll see me.
Panic-stricken, I peel myself away from the safety of the wall just as the engine roars into life. I make it round the corner and into the back garden. Panting, I rush round to the back door and thump on it with my fist. There’s no answer so I thump again and again. When there’s no response, I push the handle down, edging inside just as something black and heavy flies towards my face. There’s a flash of pain while, curiously, my ears prickle again.
Chapter Seventeen
You trade in your reality for a role. You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask.
Jim Morrison
My head doesn’t hurt and, when I touch it gingerly with my fingertips, there’s no bump or tenderness. All the same, something doesn’t feel right. I can’t put my finger on it; I simply have a deep-seated feeling of wrongness. I also have no idea where I am.
It’s a tiny room with one door and one small window. There’s nothing else inside. My limbs are heavy and sluggish as I edge over to the window to peer out, and I’m shocked when I immediately recognise the Dreamlands’ vista. I rub my eyes and double-check. Not waking up in the forest as I normally do adds to my sense of unease.
I twist round, scanning the area as best I can. The window is so small that it’s difficult to get a proper look but I seem to be very high up. I stare down at the narrow streets below. Then I suddenly realise where I am – inside the fairy-tale castle at the edge of the town. No wonder I’m gazing down from such lofty heights.
I try the door; it’s locked. I tug at it several times but it doesn’t budge. Frowning, I step backwards. Why won’t the damn thing open?
Worried about what’s happening in the real world with my mum, I look up at the ceiling, willing myself to wake up. There’s a strange pressure inside my head but nothing happens. I try again. The pressure increases but I’m still stuck in the same room.
My gut squirms. I need to get out of here but the window is too small – and too high – to crawl through. I shove my shoulder against the door and try again to break it open. When that doesn’t work, I kick it. I’m so focused on my desperate attempts to escape that I almost don’t hear the person on the other side.
‘Who’s there?’
I pause, suddenly afraid that this is another of the Mayor’s henchmen – or henchwomen. I cup my hand over my mouth and try to disguise my voice. ‘I’m trapped!’ I call back.
‘Are you a Traveller?’ The voice is cautious but I recognise it and relax.
‘Esme?’
‘Zoe?’
I exhale loudly. ‘Yes! Can you help me?’
‘Hold on.’
I’m not quite sure what she is going to do but when a key rattles in the lock and the door springs open, I’m filled with suspicion. I back away until I’m pressed against the far wall – which isn’t very far away at all.
Esme’s face is worried. ‘What happened to you?’
I keep my body stiff; I’ll rush her if I have to. ‘I’m guessing I’m in the castle,’ I say slowly. ‘But why do you have a key?’
She smiles sadly. ‘Because I’m the princess who’s trapped here.’ I narrow my eyes, confused. Esme shrugs. ‘One of many, anyway. What happened to you?’
I could tell her that I think my mother smashed a frying pan over my head but I’m not sure it’ll help. I murmur that I’m not sure. ‘Why did I wake up here?’
‘You’re not sleeping.’ She says it calmly but there’s an edge to her voice. ‘You’re unconscious. Or at least I think you are. That’s what happens to the other people who come here. I call them sleepers.’
I must still look disbelieving because she cocks her head. ‘Come on,’ she says, gesturing at the dark hallway. ‘I’ll show you.’
I’m not sure I trust her but as I can’t seem to wake myself up and can’t stay in this tiny room, I join her. Esme gives me a t
ight smile while I look around for an exit just in case I need it. For a fairy-tale castle, this place is bloody dingy.
‘I’m not going to hurt you, Zoe,’ she says softly.
‘Are you with the Mayor?’
Her expression doesn’t change. ‘I’m not with anyone.’ She points to a little staircase. ‘This way.’
I follow her, keeping my fists bunched up at my sides. The stairs wind down for quite some time before we reach the next floor.
‘You were pretty noisy,’ Esme says. ‘It’s rare to hear anything when someone arrives here. Sometimes it takes me ages to find them.’
‘Other people apparate here?’
Her mouth twists. ‘Not exactly.’ She motions at a set of grand double doors. ‘Here, I’ll show you.’
I keep back while she pushes them open, revealing a vast space. It’s similar to the ballroom from Rebecca’s dream except that it’s very dark, with heavy curtains across the windows. There are hundreds of lumps on the floor. Puzzled, I step inside after Esme. That’s when I realise that the lumps are people of all shapes and ages.
‘Be careful not to touch them,’ she warns. ‘I’m not sure what it does to them in the real world but it’s better to be safe than sorry. There was one time when I...’ Her voice drifts off. ‘It’s just better not to touch them,’ she finishes. She casts a sweeping look around the room, as if checking that nothing’s been disturbed since she was here last. There’s tenderness in her gaze and I realise that whoever these strange people are, somehow Esme feels responsible for them.
Feeling like I’ve entered a bizarre refugee holding area, I tiptoe ahead, almost shrieking aloud when something brushes against my cheek. My heart pounds as I leap backwards. It takes me a moment to realise it was only a cobweb.
Esme looks guilty. ‘I know. When I first came here I used to clean up and make sure everything was spick and span.’ She shrugs. ‘After a while, there didn’t seem to be much point. Hardly anyone comes here anyway.’
‘Who are those people?’ I ask nervously, keeping my distance from her. Did she do this to them?