The Dream Catcher Diaries

by Alexander Patrick

  ‘Get on with it, Matrix!’ growled Angus, looking across at me.

  ‘I’d like you to come for a ride with us,’ I said. I pointed down the alleyway.

  Conor looked and saw our van waiting for us. He saw a figure standing by the van. It was Euan. He looked back to me and, for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. ‘I don’t think,’ he began.

  ‘There’s something I need you to see,’ I said.

  ‘I have things to do, people who need me.’

  ‘Except, you’re quiet tonight; we’ve already established that; now, if you please.’ I indicated the van.

  He hesitated still. ‘I’m a man of God,’ he said. ‘I mean no harm to anyone.’

  ‘No harm will come to you,’ I insisted. ‘Just a short trip and then we’ll bring you home.’

  He didn’t want to come with us. He knew he could die. He expected to die and yet he walked down that dark passageway with us and stepped into our van.

  Angus looked across at me and smiled. ‘He’ll do,’ he said.

  ***********************

  We had to blindfold him. It was standard practice when taking anyone to a safe house. That only fed his terror. He was not convinced by Euan telling him how much he admired the work of the Salvation Army. Euan was keen to share his own divine inspiration with him, but Conor thought he was being mocked.

  Eventually we arrived and the blindfold was removed. We took Conor into our house, and he was met by Raqeeb. I introduced them. Raqeeb beamed good-naturedly. Conor looked startled.

  ‘I see myself as his conscience,’ said Raqeeb.

  Conor still looked unnerved.

  ‘We all use code names,’ I said. ‘Raqeeb chose his. It’s not his real name. You may be surprised to learn that Matrix is not my real name either.’

  Conor blushed.

  Caliph came up to take Conor around the house. He was in capable hands.

  I sat down and Raqeeb joined me. For a while we sat in silence; then Raqeeb chatted about small matters. I knew something was wrong. I waited for him to speak out. I knew he would. He gave a small cough. ‘One of them was an Asian, I understand?’ he said casually – too casually. He was referring to the men at the garage.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How can that be? I don’t understand?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘He wasn’t Fabian; just doing their dirty work. This isn’t about race; it’s about power.’

  ‘But Fabian hate us. They hate us all. Why would anyone have anything to do with them? Anyone of colour that is.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that; you must realise that by now.’

  He shook his head. He disliked the idea of an Asian doing the work of Fabian. It didn’t make sense to him.

  I sighed. ‘For years, the far right and the far left and lots of other political and ideological groups have wanted power, but they’ve been discredited again and again and failed to achieve any real power. They’ve tried to win seats in local and national forums, but for the most part they’ve failed. They finally realised two things.’ I lifted up my hand. ‘First, that they were never going to get democratically elected and second – and perhaps more important – that was not where the real power lay anyway.’

  ‘So where does it lie?’ asked a voice from behind. It was Conor; he had completed his tour of the safe house.

  I turned to him. ‘What do you think of our refuge, Conor?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t understand what’s going on,’ he admitted.

  ‘Twenty-six is what’s going on,’ I said.

  He looked puzzled.

  ‘Have you noticed a decline in your client group?’ I asked.

  He still looked puzzled.

  ‘Has the age range changed in the type of people you’re trying to help?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, with a smile of understanding. ‘We don’t see young people any more.’

  ‘And why’s that, do you think?’ asked Caliph.

  ‘Because the government’s finally dealing with it,’ he said. ‘They’ve solved the problem of homelessness and drug and alcohol abuse. We rarely see anyone under the age of twenty-five. They’re being cared for by the state.’

  ‘How do they do that?’ I asked.

  ‘Under Section Twenty-six,’ he stopped, puzzled once more, and looked around him. Sweeney had joined us and so had the other half dozen discards. They were all sitting or standing around us. Gill and the Mackay brothers were also there.

  ‘Welcome to Section Twenty-six,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Every government for centuries past has had to deal with many of the same intractable problems,’ I said. ‘One of those being the undeserving poor of the nineteenth century or the welfare scroungers of the twentieth – those people who drank their money away, abused their children, filled up our jails and littered our streets with their anti-social behaviour – the people no one had any solutions for. They grew from workhouse paupers to obese, ungrateful bloodsuckers. They threatened our teachers and police officers and used up vital resources in our education and health systems. They took from those who worked.’ I leaned forward, ‘the substrata.’

  ‘The what?’ asked Conor.

  ‘The ungrateful, unloved, the scorned, the fat and the ugly; those who ran riot, looted our shops, threw bricks at our cherished possessions and blamed society for their ills; the people who often ended up on the streets and in your hostels, whinging and complaining and blaming everyone but themselves.’ I paused. ‘People below the social network; those who nobody loves because they are, frankly, unlovable; those who fall down for various reasons and then can’t, or won’t, get up: the substrata.

  ‘These are the people that Section Twenty-six strove to deal with. Any government who could solve this problem would be guaranteed a place in power because, in the end, these were the people we all wanted to see dealt with. We’d had enough of them. We wanted responsibility, not rights. It was time to earn our place in the sun.’

  ‘It worked,’ said Conor. ‘Whatever you might say, it worked. I know. I’ve seen a difference. We don’t have to deal with the problems anymore and, since the age limit’s been abolished, we don’t see the older people in the street. They’ve done us out of our job; something I never believed possible in my lifetime.’

  ‘Did you vote for them?’ asked Angus. ‘In the last general election, did you vote for them to come back in power?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Conor. ‘They’ve found a solution to what you’ve just described. Of course I voted for that.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ I said. ‘They had a landslide victory.’

  ‘And so ...’

  I ran my fingers idly across the table. It was a hefty wooden table, made to seat large numbers. I hoped soon to have some large numbers in place.

  ‘Where are all these people, Conor?’ I asked.

  ‘In care,’ he said. ‘Foster care – individual homes not big institutions. They’re closing them down. It’s more personal now, that’s the secret. I’ve seen some media reports on it.’ He stopped and looked around at the blank faces, the faces that all bore the Fabian brand on their left cheeks.

  ‘You asked me just now where the power really lies. I’ll tell you,’ I said. ‘For years, popular myth has had it that real power lies in our democratically elected forums – local, national or international. But the people in those institutes have long known that this is not the case. They only have power through alliances. And who they choose to have alliances with will define the government. It’ll define what they do, how and when they do it.’ I turned to Raqeeb. ‘Who has the most power in a household?’ I asked.

  He frowned. ‘The father,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  He frowned again. ‘Because he earns the money.’

  ‘What about the mother?’

  ‘Perhaps,’

  ‘Yes, she does,’ said Atheed. ‘She has the children, she teaches them and she does the cooking!’
r />   They both laughed. ‘Equal then,’ said Raqeeb.

  ‘So you’re saying that the people in power in a house are those who control the money, the education and the resources?’ They both nodded, still looking bemused.

  ‘It’s the same with any country,’ I said. ‘Those in power are the people behind the politicians who control our finances, our view of the world and what we consume.

  ‘The banks, the media, the schools and the food outlets,’ I paused, ‘and that’s where New Fabian came in. That’s where they decided to place their power and that’s why they can influence the government – and why shouldn’t they, when they’ve finally solved one of the world’s most intractable problems?’

  ‘And how have they done that?’ asked Conor.

  I looked him straight in the eye. ‘They’ve used their own solution. It was named the Final Solution in the last century; we can call it that now. We don’t have concentration camps; we have multiple sites of forced labour, of physical and sexual abuse. New Fabian have solved the government’s problems and all they want in return is some power – not a lot to ask for. After all, governments have been dealing with these people in different guises for years. It’s a win-win situation.

  ‘New Fabian have control of the major stakeholders. That already puts them in a position of influence. They then put on the table the solution to the problem of our undeserving poor – a major drain on our society. They’ll rid the government of the lower classes and, in return, they get a slice of power – something always denied them.’

  I looked around me; everyone was listening. ‘They’ve had to cosy up to some uncomfortable bedfellows along the way. There are many people who desire power and have been denied it; people who could prove useful.’ I shrugged. ‘Fabian have no problems working with people who have pictures of Lenin on their walls, as long as they both have the same final ideal – and they do – namely, to keep the power from the politicians and work the system to achieve their ends. In the end, Fabian are in control and everyone’s working to their agenda; they have, what’s called, the common touch. They’ve cleared our streets and no one cares enough to question how it was done. No one, that is, except for us.’ I smiled. ‘Fabian didn’t plan for us. We’re going to piss all over their party – make no mistake about it.’

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ said Conor. ‘If they had all that power, why Section Twenty-six?’

  There was a map on the table. I placed my hand on the map. ‘In every town, in every city lie the pods, the home bases of Fabian,’ I said. ‘Each pod is loyal to a single concept, though they may have different ways of achieving it. They want to see us destroyed. They always have done and they always will. We’re everything they despise.’

  There was a long silence. ‘The pods have the desire and the means; they hate us and they intend to wipe out every last one of us.’

  He shook his head, still unconvinced. ‘Look around you,’ I said. ‘You’re a man of wisdom, a man of God. Look at the faces here; think about it, was it ever going to be that easy? One piece of legislation and suddenly our prisons empty, our streets are supposed to be safer, there is no more abuse in the family, no drunks in the street, no anti-social behaviour, no truancy at school – and all because of Twenty-six. Look at the faces here; these are the discards and Fabian has left its mark on them. We’ve been dealt with; you can be pleased with what you’ve achieved.’

  ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Yes, you did, you’ve just admitted it. Listen to your own words. Listen to your conscience. You’ve all been so busy being pleased with what’s been achieved you’ve failed to notice how it was done. You have placed these marks on us as surely as if you had held the knife or the branding iron.’

  ‘I would never - I’m a man of peace. I spend my life trying to help others.’

  ‘You never stopped to ask the question. You never paused to consider why or how. You simply took what they gave you and then turned away. People have been screaming with pain all around you and you never noticed. Look at our faces, Conor. We didn’t place the mark of Fabian there; it was inflicted. We are cattle; we’ve been bought and branded – and you let it happen.’

  ‘You’re twisting it!’ he shouted.

  ‘And you’re denying us!’ I shouted back.

  He held his breath and placed his head in his hands. I thought he might be crying, but he was not. He lifted his head; he looked pale but dry eyed. Realisation hung over him like a thick mist, clouding his features and shading his eyes.

  ‘It’s worse than you think,’ I said.

  He glanced up, mystified.

  ‘They haven’t stopped. They won’t stop. They’re still doing it. And you, and others like you, will continue to applaud them and invite them into your homes until you’ll no longer recognise the world you thought you knew.’

  ‘Never!’ he cried.

  There was silence. Everyone seemed to be watching and waiting. When Conor spoke, he could barely be heard. ‘What can we do about it?’ he whispered.

  ‘Destroy them, man of peace. You must help me destroy them. You must stand up now and help me save lives.’

  He nodded softly to himself and allowed the harsh silence to continue. ‘How can you ... how are we going to do it?’ he asked, breaking the tension I had created. ‘These people sound strong and influential. How are you going to destroy them?’

  I gazed at the table I had been leaning on. ‘This is a very strong table, Conor. How would you destroy it, if you had to?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘I would burn it down,’ he said.

  I shook my head. ‘Fire has a habit of getting out of control. You’re in danger of burning the whole house down, and there are some good chairs here that haven’t done me any harm.’

  Someone behind me tittered.

  ‘Alright, I would get an axe and chop it into firewood,’ he said.

  I shook my head again. ‘I might cut myself. In any case, I don’t have an axe big enough for such a strong table.’

  He thought a little more. ‘Perhaps I could try and smash it against the wall.’

  I laughed. ‘Now you’re being fanciful! You, pick up this huge table? I don’t think so!’

  ‘So, what would you do?’ he asked, and for the first time he sounded impatient.

  I smiled. ‘Me? I wouldn’t do anything.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do anything,’ I repeated. I touched the table. ‘It’s not as strong as it looks – nothing ever is. It’s a sad, weak table because it has something in it – something that will destroy it, eventually. This table’s been infected; it has woodworm. I’m not yet sure how long it’ll take, how deep the infection needs to penetrate. I don’t know for sure. I only know one thing: it’s flawed; it’s been hurt and one day it’ll disappear. So, you see I need do nothing; I may just sit back and observe how the disease spreads, how the insidious worm breaths death into the core of its soul and then I’ll watch as the whole fucking lot crumbles into dust.’

  There was a long silence. At last Conor spoke. ‘So, what exactly do you want from us?’ he asked. ‘We can’t sanction weapons; we’re a peaceful church.’

  ‘Do you really think you have a choice any more?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s always a choice, and we’ll have no weapons in our halls.’

  ‘We need a refuge.’

  ‘A refuge?’

  I leaned forward. ‘Conor, I need places into which I can bring my people. I need a network of support for now – and for when the time comes. Your church has places in every town and city, often deep in substrata areas. I need to know that wherever I am, no matter when, I can knock on your doors and be sure of a welcome. I need your people to be ready to administer care and comfort to those who are in distress.’

  ‘We do that already ...’

  ‘This is going to be on a greater scale than you can imagine. I’m talking thousands, if not millions, of displ
aced, traumatised people.’

  He shook his head, still not understanding.

  ‘In a town near here,’ I explained, ‘there was a large institute for the mentally ill. It housed nearly a thousand people in its main building and in supportive homes across the community. It was closed down. Where are all those people now?’

  He looked around at the faces surrounding him.

  ‘Yes, they are somewhere and they’ll all bear the Fabian mark on their left cheek. Some will be dead already; some are dying as we speak. All will have suffered beyond your imagination. One day they may be free. Where do they go? Where can I put people like that?’

  He stared at me, and I continued. ‘What about the children - the old - the disabled? Where am I going to put them? Who’s going to look after them? I can free them but I can’t be everywhere for them. Even those who were once fit and healthy will need care. They’ll all be scared emotionally, physically and spiritually.’

  I touched the mark on my neck. ‘This mark burns our souls as well as our skin. You saw what I once was. I’m one of many.’ I pointed to the people around us. ‘We are everywhere and we need your help. Your people can help us. You’ll need to prepare yourself. You can make the revolution work without lifting a single weapon. You can walk away and choose to forget, or you can save lives. As you said, you have a choice. There is always a choice.’

  ‘We could open up our halls to you,’ he said.

  ‘I need the Salvation Army to offer its allegiance to Bràithreachas,’ I said. ‘Whenever one of mine comes to your door, it must be made open to them. I need that guarantee.’

  ‘I’ll need to talk to some people.’

  ‘If you need me ...’

  ‘Yes, I would, you must come and talk to them.’

  I smiled at his enthusiasm. I could see his mind range through the infinite possibilities of the help they could offer.

  ‘What about the other communities?’ he said. ‘I have some friends with the Quakers and in the Sikh community but none to speak of with the Muslims.’ He glanced at Raqeeb.

  ‘We’ve made some progress with Raqeeb’s help,’ I said.

  ‘It is not enough,’ said Raqeeb. ‘The Muslims are not united. We are divided in our beliefs and loyalties. I am not Sunni. There are many who will not talk to me. They will have nothing to do with me because I am not one of them.’