The Dream Catcher Diaries

by Alexander Patrick

  He read the slip of paper that had been passed to him. Its contents angered, but did not surprise, him. He turned around and walked back to the table. The General was slumped, exhausted. Skinner sat down heavily. ‘Twenty-three people dead,’ he announced.

  The General glanced up, a look of puzzlement on his face. That was a mistake. Skinner knew now that this man was lying to him. He lashed out, striking the General across the face. The blow was so hard it threw him from the chair. Skinner jumped to his feet and raced around the table. He began to kick him in the side. The General rolled up into a ball. He made no sound.

  At last Skinner stopped, signalling to Newman to put the General back, and returned to his own chair. He looked at the bruised face opposite. ‘Matrix was there. He gave the signal,’ he said. ‘Only he could have done so. Only he would have the code.’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The General was finding it hard to speak now. His lips were cut and swollen.

  ‘You like whores, I understand,’ said Skinner, pulling out a cigarette. Slowly, he lit it. ‘All of the Blood Brothers like whores. Your brother, Azrael, the dead one that is, he liked whores. And you have something of a reputation, too. So does Matrix. We all know that; only he likes pretty boys, doesn’t he? We know all about his pretty boys.’

  The General stared at the table but said nothing. If he was angry – and he must be – he was containing it well.

  Skinner took a drag of his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. ‘Seven of those men murdered last night were sleeping with whores. According to my information, the whores killed them.’ He watched the General carefully, trying to see some reaction, but he saw nothing. ‘The others were murdered in their beds. Twenty-five of the top layer of New Fabian targeted by the Brotherhood; only two escaped, one of them being – for your information – the Commander-in-Chief, Martin Harrison; that leaves twenty-three NF leaders murdered by the Brotherhood in one night.’

  ‘Prove it,’ said the General.

  ‘I will,’ said Skinner standing up. ‘I will prove it, and if you won’t tell me then one of your colleagues will.’ He grabbed the General’s hand and held it down on the table; slowly, he stubbed his cigarette out on the captured hand. The General didn’t move and he said nothing. He looked up with his cold blue eyes and Skinner saw the hatred there. ‘Nothing to say, jock?’

  The General smiled. ‘You’re a dead man. Bràithreachas never forget or forgive.’

  Skinner returned the smile. ‘Twenty-three NF men have found that to their cost, and I’m going to prove that the Brotherhood, and Matrix in particular, is responsible, even if I step in your blood to do it.’

  ***********************

  My mother fell in love with my father the very first time she met him. She never really considered the scars, the strange eyes or the stern exterior. She saw right through to his heart and she loved him. She always said that it was like finding a hidden treasure, one that everyone else had walked past, and she was terrified that other women would notice it and steal it away. She had nothing to fear; he adored her as well. It was a wonderful love but one from which I always felt excluded. Not that I minded; I didn’t. Their love for each other affected the whole family and made it very special for all of us.

  When Robert heard that his father was marrying an attractive red-head, he rushed over from Canada convinced she must be a gold digger. He was ready for a confrontation; instead, he fell in love with her too and they became very close.

  It should have been perfect. My father was older than her; he had meant to die first. She cheated him; she was the one to die first. It was her only betrayal.

  Chapter 9

  Skinner scanned the names on the sheet of paper in his hand. They had captured seven members of the Brotherhood. At least two of them were Blood Brothers; they hadn’t yet checked who else might have sworn the Ultimate Oath. He made a mental note to do so. The Blood Brothers would never talk. They knew about pain. They dealt in pain on a daily basis. He had to find the weak link. There always was one. He stared at the basic details of each of the suspects then smiled softly to himself. ‘Gotcha!’ he whispered.

  ***********************

  My parents did have friends, not crowds of people milling round the house but just a few close people who loved them completely. My world was not so much a family as a clan. We met people and either rejected them or brought them in, once part of that clan, always a part. Fierce loyalty defines the Highlander and it certainly defined us.

  My mother was close to Ian. He came around most weeks and they would engage in lively philosophical discussions. The two of them would sit around a bottle of wine and discuss some philosophical point. I loved it. From a young age I would sit and listen, absolutely fascinated by the wordplay and the twists and turns of debate.

  Then there were Ricky and Mel, animal rights activists who ran an animal rescue home where my father, Robert, and Daniel worked for free. Their daughter, Rosie, was older than me but younger than Davey. She was our constant companion when we were children. We both lost our virginity to Rosie.

  I remember the day a very angry Ricky came to visit. Rosie was fifteen years old at the time and Davey was seventeen. We were sitting outside in the shade of our veranda. It was a beautiful spring day. Robert was reading his book, Davey and I were playing chess, everyone else was inside, when Ricky came storming up to Robert. He was quite an intimidating figure. The day was fine so he was wearing a tatty vest, showing off muscular, tattooed arms and shoulders. He hadn’t bothered to shave or wash. He had a belligerent face at the best of times, and it looked pretty fierce now.

  ‘Your son’s been fucking my daughter!’ he shouted.

  Robert barely looked up from his book. ‘Why not talk to him yourself about it?’ suggested Robert calmly.

  I looked up surprised. Robert was famous for his fiery temper. His mild response was not what I was expecting. I was also rather alarmed and quickly grabbed Davey’s hand to warn him about what was happening.

  Ricky looked momentarily taken aback. He glanced across at us then regained his anger. ‘I’ll fucking castrate the rutting bastard,’ he said. ‘She’s still under age! What are you going to do about it?’

  Robert put his book down and looked up at the seething Ricky. ‘You come here to tell me that your daughter has seduced my deafblind son and you expect me to do something. You owe me an apology. I trusted you, I trusted Mel and I trusted your daughter to do the right thing by my son. You’ve all failed me!’

  Ricky was about to answer and then stopped. Again, he looked across at us. I concentrated furiously on the chessboard. Davey appeared to remain oblivious to the trouble he had caused, although in reality he knew because I had just told him.

  ‘But he’s the man,’ stuttered Ricky, who was at heart an old-fashioned sort. ‘He should keep his dick under control.’

  ‘Most of the time, he doesn’t even know what day of the week it is,’ replied Robert.

  Ricky seemed to collapse at that point. I think he knew deep down that if Davey had been a virgin when he had lain with Rosie, she, in all probability, was not. That was not the sort of thing that worried his vague and beautiful daughter.

  Ricky finally left, though, to his credit, he did try to argue his point further, but Robert’s charm won through in the end.

  Robert stood and watched Ricky walk away. He watched him in silence, a smile still on his lips. He even waved as Ricky turned around hesitantly. Ricky stopped and then, ludicrously, waved back. Still smiling and looking across at Ricky, Robert said, ‘You’d better not be fucking her as well, Alexander, or there really will be trouble.’

  With that, he turned and walked into the house, no doubt to tell our father everything. He’d guessed, of course, that I had.

  Chapter 10

  Interview Room Seven

  Skinner walked into interview room seven. ‘Turn off the cameras,’ he said to Newman. Newman did so. The man sitting slumped at the table lo
oked up in surprise and immediately looked wary.

  Skinner sat down. ‘Sometimes it’s better not to keep a record,’ he said ‘... just in case.’ He glanced up at Newman. ‘Check his arm!’ he ordered. Newman grabbed the left arm and pulled up the sleeve. They both looked. Sweeney wore black leather bands around both his wrists: the Matrix Bands. His arm was scarred, full of needle marks and tattoos, a swastika and the spider web being just two of them – all the discards had these – but no sign of the Blood Brother. Skinner was not expecting it.

  He glanced down at his sheet of paper. ‘Your name’s Todd Brown?’

  Sweeney nodded, still looking wary.

  Skinner pointed at Sweeney’s arm. ‘You’re a smack-head, a popper, a pen pusher?’

  ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘You’re a jock, how come you’re a discard?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  He was thumped in the kidneys by Newman and gasped in pain, his eyes watering. He looked at Skinner. Skinner saw the fear in his eyes.

  ‘My mum and dad moved to Newcastle when I was twelve,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘How old?’ asked Skinner. He didn’t need to specify. They both knew he was asking how old he had been when he had been taken into care.

  ‘Thirteen,’ muttered Sweeney. He couldn’t meet Skinner’s eyes. He glanced at the table, the wall opposite, to the side – anywhere but at Skinner.

  ‘Why?’

  Sweeney smiled, showing the gaps in his yellow teeth. ‘I’m a bad boy,’ he said. The pride shown in the statement was ridiculous, given what it had cost him.

  Skinner folded his arms over his chest ‘You’re a fucked boy,’ he said. ‘If I was to pull down your trousers I expect your arse is as wide as the Mersey.’

  ‘Interested in that sort of thing?’

  Newman poked his kidney again and slammed his fist across his face. He caught Sweeney’s nose and there was the sound of bone crunching. Sweeney screamed. No, he was no Blood Brother. A Blood Brother would not have screamed over a broken nose. ‘You bastard!’ screamed Sweeney, holding his hand to his nose. Blood was pouring out. Newman struck him again; he was flung from the chair then hauled back up again.

  Sweeney began to whimper softly. He pulled out a filthy cloth, which must have at one time been a handkerchief, and held it to his nose. He was crying softly to himself, like a child.

  ‘How old are you?’ asked Skinner out of interest.

  ‘Twenty-two,’ sniffed Sweeney.

  Skinner nodded. ‘Matrix was there last night, wasn’t he, Todd?’

  ‘No, he’s on holiday somewhere.’

  ‘You take down the Manchester pod and Matrix is absent? I don’t think so!’

  Sweeney shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘The Wakefields are dead,’ said Skinner.

  ‘Good.’ Sweeney’s voice was muffled by the handkerchief.

  ‘I expect you’d have liked to be the one.’

  Sweeney said nothing.

  Skinner moved in close. He could see every line and blemish on the young man’s face. ‘Put the bridle on you, did they?’ he asked softly.

  Sweeney remained silent. He was still, absolutely still.

  ‘I know what they did,’ continued Skinner. ‘Put the bridle on you, and then every perv in the city stuck his dick up your arse, and guess what? You enjoyed every fucking second of it. Just like Matrix; the more they gave, the more you wanted. No more bleeding hearts. You asked for it.’

  Sweeney looked up at Skinner, looking him in the eye for the first time. ‘I have a bond: something special with Matrix,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ laughed Skinner. ‘You’re his personal fuck.’

  Sweeney smiled again. There was a strange look in his eyes that Skinner couldn’t quite make out.

  ‘I’ll tell you something secret about me and Matrix,’ he whispered. His voice was so quiet Skinner could barely hear him. He leaned in closer.

  Sweeney leaned closer to him. ‘We share something special,’ he whispered. He could hardly be heard. He lifted his right hand and then quickly, yet quietly, placed it on Skinner’s cheek, as if to caress him. ‘It’s this.’

  He drew a knife down Skinner’s cheek: two swift strokes, the mark of Fabian, the inverted cross. He shouldn’t have had a knife. He had been checked, but this knife was tiny, smaller than a pen and plastic. It had not shown up on any of the scans. But it was lethal and it cut into Skinner’s flesh. Sweeney gouged in deep and hard, gritting his teeth as he did so. Fury lit his eyes.

  Skinner howled with agony, anger and shock.

  ‘That makes you one of us,’ shouted Sweeney, laughing. ‘You’re a fucking discard now!’

  Skinner stood up holding the torn cheek pieces together, blood pouring over his hand. ‘Get them in!’ he yelled. ‘Time to soften this bastard up!’

  Within moments men poured into the room, big men, strong, hard and ruthless, carrying batons and cudgels. Sweeney stood up at the sight of them and began to back into the corner. The front of his trousers became wet. He knew the moment he pulled the knife the price he would pay and he was terrified at the sight of the large bodies descending on him.

  He backed into the corner and held up his scraggy arms. He closed his eyes, falling to his knees and then he was swamped, arms beating down on the skinny youth, feet stamping into him, bones crunching. Sweeney screamed; he could no longer be seen amongst the flailing arms but he could be heard. He screamed and screamed, begging them to stop, begging them and calling to someone, a name, it was hard to tell what the name was and then he stopped screaming. He became silent. The men still carried on punching, stamping and beating his now still body. They didn’t stop until they were too exhausted to hit out any more and then, one by one, they left. The thing in the corner had once been a young man; now, it was a bloody mess that no longer moved.

  ***********************

  Crompton Rogers was another one of our childhood friends. He was our exciting friend. He was the same age as me, in years anyway, and came to stay with us on a regular basis –usually when his father was in prison and because his mother couldn’t cope with her unruly son. Crompton’s father, Mycroft, was a Child of Satan: the notoriously violent bikers’ gang whose membership ran across the whole of England, Scotland and Wales. Crompton was his father’s son and had every intention of following his example. But he was still our friend. He and Rosie had been at Davey’s birthday party the day he had lost his sight. Many children had. But they were the only ones who remained true: who had taken the trouble to learn first to deaf sign and, after that fateful day, hand sign.

  When Crompton came to stay, we would visit his father’s motorbike shop and garage. We would be allowed to touch the bikes, sit on the bikes and, sometimes, even ride the bikes. We would sit in corners whilst men in black leather covered in grime, oil and tattoos stood around swearing and smoking.

  I could do something that Crompton couldn’t, something he found very useful, something that earned me a rather unsavoury reputation: I could lip read. This meant that I often knew things and ‘heard’ things that someone of my age should not know. For example, once at a party when I was six years old, my father – my rather stern, unsmiling father – walked up to my mother. She was clearing away some food. He leaned down to her and, without so much as a smile, whispered, ‘I need to fuck you.’ She nodded her head, as if he had just commented on the weather, and together they left the room. When they returned an hour later, I was the only person in the room except them who knew what had just happened.

  Crompton found me useful to have around, and we often sat in the corner of that motorbike centre and ‘listened in’ to all the criminal gossip of the country. In the end though Crompton remained loyal to the Patrick clan, and we remained loyal to him because that’s what we did best.

  Chapter 11

  The General stood listening to the screams and when the screaming stopped he knew what it meant. He clenched his fists and swore his revenge. He summ
oned his blood oath and swore that no matter what, Sweeney’s murder would not go un-avenged, and then his heart sank; his brother was dead, Matrix may be dead and he was probably next.

  Well, if he were, he would not give them the satisfaction of screaming for mercy. He was no street child; he was the son of a clan chief, a proud inheritance and one he would not squander. When they came for him he would go in silence. He would carry his death in silence and no one would know his fear.

  He sat in the interview room and he waited; he waited until the day had nearly passed and then he heard the footsteps and he knew they were coming for him. He stood up and prepared himself. He stared at the door, still waiting. It opened and the big men came in.

  ***********************

  I was the first to recognise that Davey was a genius. Everyone was proud of him. He was obviously a special child and bright. Before his accident, at just two-and-a-half, he could already speak fluently and showed an aptitude for music and dance. He knew how to learn. When he lost most of his hearing, he quickly learned how to sign and lip-read, carrying me with him as he did so. His grasp of hand-signing and Braille was also significant and as a child he proved to be exceptional at chess. Even after he had lost his sight he played chess. He remembered each move and played with lethal skill. He taught me how to play chess by memory alone. It was how we passed the time on the long trips from Devon to Scotland: sitting in the back of the car playing chess in our heads. I was seventeen before I finally beat him. In my defence, very few other people can claim to have beaten him at all.

  It was in mathematics – pure and applied – that Davey truly excelled. By the age of fifteen, he was already working beyond undergraduate level and his tutor was having difficulty keeping up with him.

  Cambridge University did not want to take on a deafblind student. In the end they had no choice. But they really did not want him.