The Dream Catcher Diaries

by Alexander Patrick

  The people locked their doors.

  Chapter 85

  1 April 2040, 7am

  The prisons were out of control and murders had taken place of both guards and inmates. By 7am the riot had already been raging for four hours and showed no sign of lessening. Guards were under siege, and the army had not yet arrived.

  Hamish made his way through men who were leaning over iron railings, screaming abuse and hurling missiles down below. He came across a cluster of men falling out of one of the cells. They were shouting, leaping up and down and stamping their feet. They all held weapons of some sort, smuggled in over the last twelve months and hoarded until this night. The weapons included knives, cudgels, bars and broken bottles – anything, in fact, that could hurt, maim or kill. All three had taken place this night, and it sounded like it was happening now in this prison cell.

  Hamish pushed his way through into the cell. At first, he met resistance but, when they realised who it was, they allowed him in. A bloody mess met his sight as he finally squeezed his way into the centre. Everyone stopped what they were doing; there was silence as he pushed men back to give himself room to move. He was faced with one dead guard – naked, his bound body covered in a series of gouges, cuts and bruises. They had stripped him, checked for the Fabian mark, bound, tortured and then killed him. Hamish moved the body with his foot to check for the mark. He swore. ‘You wankers!’ he cried. ‘He’s not got the mark!’

  ‘Who cares?’ said a man with a shaved head and thick black beard. ‘He’s a screw!’

  Hamish had the one gun that had been smuggled in. He put the gun to the man’s head and pulled the trigger. The noise of the shot in such a confined space shook the air and beat the ears with their crashing impact. Too late, men lifted up their hands to protect their ears. Hamish stood, seemingly unmoved by his action or the deafening roar of the gun.

  There was a moment’s shocked silence after the explosion. The man crumpled to the ground and fell on top of the guard.

  ‘Does anyone agree with him?’ asked Hamish. Everyone shook their heads.

  There were three guards lying on the floor naked, covered in blood, bound but alive. Hamish pointed at the three guards. ‘Do any of these bear the mark?’ he asked.

  ‘Just one, sir,’ said a small man with a thin voice.

  ‘Point him out to me.’

  They did so. He checked they were right, and he put the gun to the man’s head. Everybody winced as the gun’s shot exploded once more. Hamish pointed the gun at some large men with muscles. ‘I want you to help bring the other two with me,’ he said.

  They nodded. None of them looked him in the eye.

  Hamish made his way through the prison. He met Screwdriver on the way; they nodded to each other. ‘There’s somebody who wants to speak to the man in charge, the man who started it all,’ said Screwdriver.

  Hamish smiled. ‘He’s not here, so I guess he’ll have to make do with me.’ He pointed to the unconscious men being dragged along by his volunteers. ‘Can you put these with the rest?’

  Screwdriver simply waved the struggling men to follow him.

  **********************

  Hamish recognised the prison guard. His name was Nathanial Watson, and he was not Fabian. He was just a man doing his job. Hamish knew he could do business with him.

  Watson sat with his arms wrapped around the back of a chair, bound at the wrists. Hamish sat down opposite him. Watson was scared – that was clear. He was sweating freely, and his eyes were wide and staring. He was surrounded by armed prisoners, and he was alone. Yet he was maintaining control of his emotions and his wits.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked. He was not surprised to find that the silent Scot with the cold blue eyes had started this, only puzzled as to the reason.

  ‘Justice,’ said Hamish.

  ‘I know some of my colleagues have given you a hard time,’ said Watson. ‘It’s not been fair. I know ...’

  ‘You know more than you’ll admit, even to yourself,’ said Hamish. Watson looked puzzled. Hamish slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. Watson’s face froze with fear, and he held his breath.

  Hamish pulled out some crumpled photographs. These had also been smuggled in along with the weapons. ‘Not for me,’ whispered Hamish, ‘for them.’ He pushed the pictures across the table and looked up at the prisoner standing behind the bound man. ‘Release Mr Watson, please, so he can look at the pictures. We can talk a wee bit more, and then we’ll start to do something positive for the poor bastards we’re supposed to be fighting for.’

  Chapter 86

  1 April 2040, 3pm

  Across the country at 3pm – exactly twelve hours after the first prison had rioted – the power and the media screens came back on and the people finally found out what was happening. A voice addressed them and spoke to them as they watched, fascinated and appalled at what was happening on their screens.

  ‘My name is Matrix,’ said the voice. ‘What you are witnessing is the release of thousands of people who you have chosen to ignore. This is their hour and this is their revolution. These are the discards.’

  They watched scenes from hell. They were taken down dark corridors and into dim rooms, through factories, brothels and sweatshops where emaciated children, women and men were bound and chained.

  ‘Look at the lost children of the unwanted, dispossessed and unloved. Gaze at their misery, look long, this is not fiction, this is not a world created to entertain. This is their reality. It is now yours.’

  They were taken down mines where naked, stick-like people crouched in dark corners. Harsh beams of light shone on bony knees and white gaunt faces. Hollow eyes looked out and blinked into the glare. And all the time Matrix spoke and, at last, the people understood. This was not fiction, this was not history; this was not even some other place.

  ‘You are our witnesses; no more secrets; no more lies,’ said the voice. ‘We share each other’s reality. Your reality is now mine, and mine is yours.’

  They were shown cold, cavernous rooms full of large cages, and inside the cages were people in rags, lying in filth and their own excrement; physically and mentally disabled, the old, the young, all lying on concrete floors, their bodies mutilated and withered. Some didn’t move as the cameras swung around; some looked up, clutched the bars and stared – and in their eyes lay emptiness. And all the time, as they watched, the voice of Matrix spoke to them, telling them what they were witnessing.

  ‘Now is the time to make these people your concern, make it your passion. Demand justice from those who did this.’

  Men and women were moving amongst the debris of a wasted humanity, picking up and holding up instruments of torture. The breaking irons were shown, both on and being taken off bruised bodies. The lock was thrust into the camera, the bridle waved about. And all the time, the man they called Matrix talked and explained what they were seeing.

  ‘Now is your chance to recapture the humanity you have so carelessly thrown away. These people are your people and you are responsible.’

  Babies, children, young people, old – they were so different and yet just the same. They were different ages, sexes, all colours – different but the same. Faces of our world, with their exposed, wasted bodies and their unblinking stare for the world to see, looking into the rooms of the comfortable people watching, and they all bore the unmistakable mark on their left cheek: the Fabian brand.

  The reality was slowly beginning to make sense, the nightmare on their screens becoming their nightmare. This was now, and these people were in their street, just around the corner, all around them – and this was not the end; it was the beginning.

  Chapter 87

  1 April 2040, 4pm

  We had many lists to help us target the right people. Much is made of the lists stolen from Fabian telling us exactly who the enemy was and who our potential allies might be, but we had another list. We also had the names and contact details of all the families betrayed by Section Twenty-six. The
list was dearly bought. We paid for it in blood – and that thought will go to my grave with me. It is true what they say; Matrix is stained with innocent blood. I wish it were not so.

  Yet with it we gained the truth and so did hundreds and thousands of people who, up until then, were living in the shadow of their own failure and guilt. They were living a myth created by the state. We told them the truth. We logged into their freelancers and their mainframes. We touched the clouds and hit the mobile. We logged into personal accounts, and we told them the truth. They could not escape it; if they existed in the world of media, then they heard or saw our message. They saw what we knew, what we accepted as our reality, and so they understood.

  With knowledge comes rage.

  In the rain and the greyness of that April day, ordinary people began to emerge from their houses. They were angry people, bewildered and deceived. Their faces bore the mark of a new understanding. They were people you might know, people you would have sat next to on the train or stood next to in a queue. Ordinary people armed with awareness and fury.

  These ordinary people had one thing in common: they had all lost someone to Section Twenty-six, and now they knew the truth. Bràithreachas had made sure of that; each and every name was told, each and every person affected by Section Twenty-six knew because the Brotherhood gave them the confirmation of their darkest thoughts.

  They knew what had happened to the person they had loved, and they knew some of the people responsible. They had names – and they came out in their tens of thousands, raising their arms in a frenzied rage and marching. They had secured Matrix posters and they held them up. For them, the picture of Matrix symbolised the grief, the loss and the sense of waste. They demanded two things: justice and revenge.

  But they did not march alone. How could they? There were those who would stop them, even now. There were those who would still seek to suppress the truth. As they emerged – dazed, confused, angry and resentful – they were met by men in leathers and tattoos, men they would previously have shunned, men who now offered them their only protection. They took it, and a bond was struck – the defining characteristic of the revolution: unlikely alliances.

  The bikers were there to protect them, and they did.

  ***********************

  ‘Prime Minister?’

  ‘Yes!’ It’s amazing how much emotion and anger can be encapsulated in a single word.

  ‘We need to sort the situation out.’

  Mr Hughes, the Prime Minister, turned around to his Permanent Secretary, Mr Salmon. He had been gazing at his media station. He was tired of watching dull eyes and starved, mutilated bodies. But, more than anything, he was tired of that voice.

  ‘So, who the hell is Matrix?’ he growled.

  ‘I am making enquires, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I can arrange a discreet visit.’

  Hughes looked interested. ‘Visit ...?’

  ‘Mr Harrison would be happy to co-operate.’

  Hughes sighed. ‘If the Commander-in-Chief of New Fabian is seen coming to visit ...’

  ‘You need to talk to him. We need to take control of the situation. As I say, it would be discreet.’

  Hughes turned back to the screen. With a curse, he turned it off. ‘Is that wise, Prime Minister?’

  ‘Send Harrison to me. Send him in at once. I want that bastard Matrix taken down – and the rest of those terrorists. I will not have the country held to ransom by a bunch of discards.’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

  Chapter 88

  1 April 2040, 6pm

  Time was moving on and the prison remained in turmoil, and still Watson hesitated. ‘This is not why I joined the prison service,’ he said.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I wanted to make a difference, that’s all.’

  ‘Pay’s good too,’ muttered Screwdriver.

  Watson looked at him scathingly. ‘Yes, that too, we all have people who rely on us. Do you want to hear my story?’

  ‘No,’ said Hamish. ‘No time for that. We want to make this revolution work. We want people who are being tortured and murdered to be saved. We want an end to all this.’

  ‘Why? Why should you care? You’re just a murdering Jock who ...’

  ‘Made a mistake once and will live a lifetime regretting it.’

  ‘Tell that to his widow.’

  ‘That’s not what this is about.’

  ‘So, what is it about? Really about, I mean?’

  ‘Look at the fucking photographs!’

  ‘So? Why should you care?’

  Hamish paused. It was a good question. He was doing this for a man he had never met. Why was he doing it? He stared for a moment at his hands. ‘I believe,’ he said.

  Watson looked at him in surprise.

  ‘There comes a time in history, not often, but every now and then, when someone turns up who’s different, exceptional. They call him God because he’s different, because they recognise a quality that’s rare, a quality that can’t be defined. There are always bastards who’ll try to crucify him, of course. History tells us about them, too. For every Messiah, there’s a Judas. For each moment of hope, there’s an eternity of despair.’ He looked at Watson. ‘Where do you want to be, Mr Watson? When they write the history ... where do you see yourself – with Judas or the angels?’

  Watson hesitated. ‘How can you be so sure? You’ve never met him? How can you know?’

  Hamish looked him in the eye. ‘I know where the angels are, and it’s not with those murdering sadists. You know that. Someone has emerged who’s willing to take them on, willing to lay down his life for a greater call. His name is Matrix, and I’ve given him my allegiance. When the history books are written what’ll they say? That you fought a man because you believed more in protocol than justice? Believe in Matrix and bring the world back to a saner place.’ He paused and then whispered. ‘Or live for an eternity as Judas. You chose.’

  Watson closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

  **********************

  The visit was discreet. No one would ever have known about it – except that Bràithreachas had people everywhere. That is what the Prime Minister failed to understand. We were everywhere. We were in that room.

  The state of the country – in meltdown or shut down, whatever you prefer – on the verge of anarchy required cross-party consensus. The Prime Minister had no choice in this. When Harrison came to visit, he came to meet not just Mr Hughes but the Leader of the Opposition, Mr Ward, and some of his key supporters – people who had been handpicked by him to be there for this meeting. One of those supporters was more than sympathetic to the Brotherhood.

  Harrison was shown into a small, unobtrusive room at the back of Number Ten. It was seven in the evening on the first day of April, and it was cold, wet and dark. Harrison was not wet. He had moved from a luxury car with blank windows to a door, held open for him. He was not wet or cold. He was not seen by anyone – which was surprising, given that the world was watching, including us. It was, as promised, very discreet.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Harrison. Thank you for coming.’

  ‘Prime Minister, it’s my honour.’

  Introductions were made. Harrison had not expected the Opposition to be present, but, if he was dismayed, he didn’t show it. Perhaps it didn’t concern him too much. He may not have been working with them in the same way as he had done with the government – but they did know about him, his activities and his people. Their silence, and in some cases co-operation, had allowed Section Twenty-six to happen. He knew that, they knew that; in fact, everyone in the room understood this much.

  Harrison sat down.

  ‘It is in all our interests to sort this out,’ said Hughes blandly.

  Harrison smiled. ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Tell us who this Matrix is.’

  ‘No one very important, Prime Minister.’
/>   Hughes leaned forward incredulously. ‘No one very important? So why is his voice droning on and on all day and night on my media station?’

  ‘Well, Prime Minister ...’

  ‘No one very important? So how do you explain this?’ He threw a poster on the table in front of him, a poster of Matrix. ‘This is being flaunted at the world’s media – a discard on the loose, seeking revenge. Revenge for what, Harrison? You tell me!’

  Harrison bristled; he felt the edges of his world close in. ‘I think we both know the answer to that, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Perhaps, but is the country ready to know?’

  ‘I think you’ll find that it’s too late,’ said Ward. ‘They already do.’

  ‘I don’t need reminding about that!’ snapped Hughes.

  Ward gazed benignly at Harrison. He was going to pretend that this was the first time they had met; in fact, it wasn’t; he had dined at Harrison’s house a number of times. The meals had been civilized affairs. He was not a member of the Inner Circle, nothing like it. He would deny he even knew of its existence, if he had to, when the time came – and he knew it would. He turned back to Harrison. ‘Tell us about Matrix; tell us about the Brotherhood.’

  Harrison shrugged his shoulders. ‘Matrix is just a discard, a low life substrata. He leads a gang of misfits and thinks he’ll lead the world but – just like his namesake – he’ll come to a sticky end. He’s overreached himself. He’s on a path to self-destruction – you may be sure of that.’

  ‘Why do they call him Matrix? The posters don’t show his face.’

  Harrison shrugged again. ‘How should I know? I’ve never met him.’

  Ward was watching him carefully. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard. My sources tell me that you know him quite well.’

  ‘Then your sources are wrong. I’ve never met Matrix or the General or any of the other Blood Brothers.’

  ‘Blood Brothers?’

  ‘A cult group soaked in blood and sworn to pain – you really don’t want them running your country, I can assure you.’