The Dream Operator

by Mike O'Driscoll

  On Monday in school he asked Mr Thomas, his history teacher, about the Apollo missions. Impressed with his ‘thirst for knowledge’, as he called it, he took Freddie to the school library during lunch break and helped him research the Apollo Programme. It was all pretty fascinating, but when Freddie discovered that Apollo Seventeen was the last American mission to the moon and that a man by the name of Eugene Cernan was the last one to walk on its surface, he suddenly lost his enthusiasm for research. “Why did they stop going?” he asked.

  Mr Thomas frowned and shook his head. “Money. It always comes down to money, Freddie. Other things take precedence. The important thing was to be the first to get there. See, the Moon was a symbol and the whole point was to put one over on the Soviets. After that, I guess the moon diminished in value.”

  Freddie sat next to Jenna at the back of the school-bus He’d spent most of the afternoon trying to figure out how to break it to her. There was no easy way so finally, as gently as he could, he told her that there was no Apollo twenty.

  “What?”

  “The last rocket to the moon was number seventeen.”

  “That’s crap, Freddie.”

  “It took off on the seventh of December 1972, came back on the nineteenth.”

  “That’s when Captain Paul’s mission was.”

  He nodded, seeing her disbelief. “It’s true,” he said. “Mr Thomas helped me look it up. There were only six missions to the moon, starting with number eleven. Number thirteen had some kind of accident and never got there.”

  “You’re wrong. Mr Thomas is wrong.”

  “I saw it. There were books, and it was on computer. They don’t make up stuff like that.”

  “No Freddie—you saw him. You talked to him, touched him, saw his rocket.”

  “It wasn’t real, Jenna. It was a game.”

  Anger flared in her eyes. “How can you say that?” She thumped his arm. “It’s a lie,” she said, punching him repeatedly. “It’s a filthy bloody lie.”

  “Jesus, Jenna—why would I lie? There was no mission, there’s no Captain Paul. It’s just something Mouse made up and we wanted to believe.”

  “You’re wrong. I hate you.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  She lashed out and raked her nails across his cheek. He flinched and grabbed her hand, stunned. “Let me go, you prick,” she said, twisting out of his grip. She rose from the seat. “We don’t need you,” she said, before storming off to the front of the bus.

  Freddie dabbed at the blood on his cheek as the bus rolled along the winding Gower road. He felt angry and humiliated, and his mind spun from trying to figure out what had just happened. Why didn’t she believe him? He’d told her the truth. He loved her. She couldn’t hate him.

  He walked home from the bus stop in a daze. He changed out of his uniform then called Mouse. Mrs Price answered. She said he’d already gone out, most probably on his way to see him or Jenna. Freddie went down through the village to meet him. Passing the church he saw Mouse’s bike resting against the wall of the churchyard. He figured Mouse had gone to the beacon and decided to follow him. As he passed along the lane below the small graveyard he heard a soft, familiar voice. He peered over the wall and saw Mouse moving among the headstones, talking to himself. Not that that was in any way out of the ordinary for Mouse, but it struck him that he was actually talking to someone else, someone he couldn’t see. He crept further along the wall, trying to get closer. Mouse was reading aloud the names on the headstones and making up a history for the occupant of each grave.

  “Sarah Davies, born 1853, died 1897. Killed after being caught out in a meteor shower. Arwel Morgan, 1892, 1916, lost his life fighting for his country in the Martian wars. In Memory of the twins, Catherine and Owen Harris, born 1868, abducted by aliens, presumed dead, 1878.” Mouse paused and looked over his left shoulder and gestured, as if calling someone closer. “Look at this,” he said, excitedly. “Sidney Albert Roosa. Fighter pilot, killed in action over France, 1918. You think that’s him?”

  Freddie supposed Mouse was talking to Captain Paul and wondered why he couldn’t see him. Sadness welled inside Freddie as he watched his friend, trying to understand what he was seeing. He felt as if he had lost something, though he didn’t yet know what it was. He’d wanted the spaceman to be real, wanted it as much as either Mouse or Jenna, but something had stopped him, some fear or reluctance to let go. It struck him then why he couldn’t see the spaceman: Mouse was unaware of his presence. He had to know someone was there in order to make him or her see what he was seeing. His stories, his stupid stories, Freddie thought, angry with himself. Mouse is still a child. You’re older, you know what’s real and what isn’t. So does Jenna. We don’t need to cut ourselves off from the world the way he does. He climbed up over the wall and called his name.

  Mouse looked up, startled. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Oh.” He seemed disconcerted and a little guilty, as if caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.

  “Who were you talking to, Mouse? Just then?”

  “Myself.”

  “I heard you. Who was it?”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” he said, staring at the dirt.

  “What am I going to say?” Freddie moved closer and Mouse sat down on the stone plinth bordering a grave. “Tell me what you think I’m going to say.”

  “He is real, Freddie, no matter what you say.” He turned his face up towards him. There were tears in his eyes.

  “Well,” Freddie said, sweeping an arm around the graveyard. “I’m looking all over but I don’t see him. If he’s here, then why can’t I see him?”

  “He’s gone now,” Mouse said, quietly. “You scared him.”

  “Yeah, right. I scared Captain Paul. How can I scare someone who doesn’t exist, Mouse? Someone who’s not bloody real?”

  “You saw him. We all did.”

  “You have to stop making this crap up. It’ll get you in trouble.”

  “I never made it up.”

  “For God’s sake, Mouse, it was a game. We let ourselves see what you wanted us to see. I guess we wanted it too, but it wasn’t real. It was never real.”

  Mouse jumped up and shoved him in the chest. “Stuff you,” he said. “He was here. He got another transmission. He needs to go back out to Worm’s Head. That’s where he has to take off from, to find his crew.”

  “It’s in your head, Mouse,” Freddie sneered, wanting to hurt him. “Your own fairy tale. It was only real so long as we played along. But not anymore. It’s time to grow up.”

  “Jenna still believes. She’s going to help. But we need you too, Freddie. We can’t do it without your help.”

  “Bollocks to you,” Freddie snapped, turning away.

  Mouse flew at him, fists flailing. Without thinking, Freddie turned and hit him as hard as he could in the face. Mouse cried out, stumbled and fell back. He clutched his mouth and blood seeped through his fingers. For a moment Freddie stood there, shocked at what he had done. Then, as if through a fog, he heard Mouse screaming at him, telling him to go away.

  *

  Freddie kept to himself that evening, hurrying his dinner so he could get back up to his room to brood. Alone, he listened to Blur, trying to lose himself in Parklife. It didn’t work. He had made a mess of everything, his friendship with Mouse, any chance he’d had with Jenna. He sat on his bed staring at the one photograph he had of her. It showed the three of them together, down by the skeletal remains of the Helvetia in Rhossili Bay. Mouse was in the middle, all that was left of the old ship’s prow rising over his head. He and Jenna crouched on either side of him, their arms linked over his shoulders. Half smiling, head cocked at an angle, she seemed to be gazing at him over Mouse’s head. He felt a crushing sense of hopelessness, trying to remember when he had first begun to feel differently towards her. A couple of weeks, he thought. But no, it had been longer than that, a month at least since he had start
ed daydreaming about her, imagining asking her to be his girlfriend and her saying yes. A month during which he had found it almost impossible to get through a single lesson without finding himself distracted by thoughts of being with her, of holding and kissing her. Nobody had ever told him that being in love could be so hard, could make you feel so shitty and helpless.

  Well, it was over now, he knew. Unless he had the courage of his convictions and acted decisively. He hurried downstairs to the phone and dialled Jenna’s number. Her father answered. He told Freddie to wait. When he came back on the line he said she didn’t want to talk to him. So much for decisive action, he thought, feeling even worse than he had before. He hated writing letters but he knew that for the moment there was no other way of getting through to her. He returned to his room and wrote down what he wanted to say.

  Dear Jenna,

  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you stupid. I don’t know what I was saying. My face is okay. It doesn’t hurt much and I understand why you did it. I hope you didn’t mean what you said about hating me. I really don’t want to lose you as a friend or as maybe more than that. I think you know what I mean. About Captain Paul, I don’t know what to think anymore. I did believe in him and I wish I still could but I don’t think I can anymore. Not after what I saw this afternoon. It’s about Mouse. Please call me as soon as you read this and I will tell you. I don’t know how to say this so I will just say it. I think I love you.

  Freddie.

  He put the letter in an envelope, wrote Jenna’s name on the front and cycled the half mile to her house. He hung round the front for five minutes hoping she’d come out but she didn’t. There was nothing else for it but to knock on the door. Her mum answered. She took the letter and Freddie went home, back up to his room to wait for her call. He tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. He watched TV, flicking listlessly through the channels. She would call, he kept telling himself. By ten she still hadn’t. What did it mean, he wondered. Did it mean what he thought it did? And what of Mouse? He felt bad about hitting him. He’d have to make things right. He couldn’t afford to lose his two best friends on the same day. He crawled into bed, willing sleep to come. But two hours passed and he was still awake, watching the clock slip past midnight, feeling struck down by a sickness with no cure.

  *

  Freddie was disappointed the next morning when Jenna wasn’t on the school bus. He wondered if she’d read his letter. More likely, he thought, she’d thrown it away, unopened. At morning break he asked Lucy Harris in her form if she’d seen her. Lucy said Jenna wasn’t in school.

  The day dragged by like a double science lesson. It was torture, not knowing if she’d read the letter, or what she had made of it. He couldn’t bear the thought of her hating him. He should have come straight out and told her in the letter about Mouse, about him having to be aware of their presence in order for them to see what he saw. How it explained everything and how it was him they should be helping, not some imaginary spaceman.

  All the time he kept trying to convince himself she was ill or she’d had to go to the dentist. Or her parents needed her to help out at home. That could be it—summer was a busy time for a guest house. Such imaginings were little comfort but even so, he didn’t want to consider the real reason for her absence.

  When the last lesson of the day was over he decided to call her when he got home. He’d tell her what he’d seen, and think of some way to show her what was really happening. As soon as he was in the door he grabbed the phone. “I’m sorry, Freddie, she’s not home yet,” Mrs Gray said. “I gave her your letter. Maybe she’ll call you when she gets in.”

  He hung up and dialled Mouse’s number. Mrs. Price came on the line. No, she said, Mouse wasn’t home yet. “He said this morning he was going straight round to a friend’s house. I presumed he meant you.” Even as she spoke, Freddie felt sick with anxiety as he realised where Mouse and Jenna had gone

  He left the house, grabbed his bike and cycled full tilt down to the cliff path. He raced along the path, pedalling as hard as he could. Their bikes were leaning against the wall of the Reserve Centre. He stared out at Worm’s Head. Fat, grey clouds rolled up from the south-west. The air felt hot and clammy and his head ached the way it always did before a storm. The tide was out but it had turned. He had ninety minutes at most.

  The path was dry and crumbling as he scrambled down to Kitchen’s Corner then clambered up onto the causeway. He felt panicky as he raced up over the inner Head, trying not to think about what could be happening. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and as he stood there he saw lights flashing above the outer Head. He didn’t know what they meant but the sight of them spurred him on. Down onto the next stretch of causeway he ran, trying to pick out the fastest route. Out in the bay to the north, the sea had become still and grey, like the heavy clouds that loomed overhead. Both water and sky, and the air itself were poised, as if waiting for something.

  He kept running, up the long rise of the middle Head, not able to see the outer Head for the moment. Twice he slipped and cut his right knee on the rocks, but both times he managed to pick himself up and go on. A sudden boom shook the air, startling him. Small, fretful waves appeared on the surface of the sea. As he sped across Devil’s Bridge more lights flashed around the outer Head. It wasn’t lightning. His heart raced madly as he found the strength to keep going. He tried not to think about what was happening. Mouse and Jenna with the spaceman, helping him to go…where? Nowhere, he told himself, not yet, not until you’re there. Lightning split the sky, a huge, jagged fork stabbing into Rhossili Down, followed two second later by an ear-splitting bang and a long, clattering rumble. He staggered beneath the blast, afraid but desperate. Thick, dark clouds closed in over the bay like a spreading bruise. More lightning flashed away to the north but his gaze was fixed on the outer Head as a strange, glowing mist billowed up around it, and he knew then there was no more time.

  “Jenna,” he shouted. “Mouse! Wait!” The mist glowed orange and red and something fizzed inside there. There was an explosion then a spume of water and steam shooting out of the blow hole on top of the Head. He screamed for them to wait, but it was no use. Still more than fifty yards from the base of the Head he slipped and fell while something roared in the mist and the ground shook. “Please!” he cried. “Jenna. Wait for me!”

  The mist was torn and scattered by the force of whatever was rising out of it. He lay on the thick, soft grass and as it cleared he saw the tip of a rocket—Apollo Twenty—rising up beyond the Head. His eyes stung and his vision blurred, and so he may just have imagined the two faces staring out from a porthole in the command module as it climbed slowly at first, then faster and faster into the sky. He stood and scrambled up onto the summit of the Head, watching as the rocket punched a hole through the clouds, blasting its way out of the world. He watched them go, waving forlornly, feeling abandoned. Yet he smiled too because Mouse had done it, escaped the world that caged him. They both had. He was too weak but their faith had made it happen.

  Slowly the clouds closed like a healing wound and the rocket disappeared from view. He pictured the two of them at the controls, listening to Captain Paul’s orders as they set out to find his lost crew. Rain began to fall. Within seconds it was crashing down like despair.

  Freddie clambered back across the outer causeway and found shelter among the rocks of the middle Head. The storm raged for most of the night. At dawn, cold and wet, he struggled back to the mainland. The coastguard had been out looking for them. They searched for two days for Jenna and Mouse but their bodies were never found. The police questioned Freddie about what had happened and he told them the truth they wanted to hear. Then they let him go home to his family. His parents took him to a counsellor, someone he could speak to about grief and loss and he went along with it, played his part and after a few months they said he had come to terms with the tragedy. It was an awful thing, everybody said, which, maybe for their parents it was, but not for Jenna and Mouse
, he thought. Not at all for them. They were out there somewhere, tearing across the Solar System and maybe beyond, finding new worlds to explore in an ever-expanding universe while he was stuck there in a world that, though he didn’t know it then, was getting ever smaller.

  He still thinks about them almost every day, even though it’s been fifteen years. He doesn’t ever talk about it, except sometimes when he’s drunk or trying to impress a girl. But they never believe, not like he does. He knows if he keeps believing, if he believes strongly enough, then they’ll come back for him, one day.

  One Last Wild Waltz

  At thirty thousand feet I heard him speak my name. Head groggy from lack of sleep and too many in-flight whiskies, I opened my eyes and saw his face staring back at me through the porthole. The hunger in his gaze appalled me. Then he was gone even before we started dropping through the clouds. Four hours later, as I leave the motorway and head north into the valley, I remind myself that the reason I’ve travelled halfway round the world is to come home to my dead.

  There’s snow on the hills of South Wales, and the clear crystal sky soothes me as I drive, persuading me that there are other reasons for my return. That feelings lasts only until I enter the town and recognise the same Sunday morning emptiness that drove me away. It’s not just people who die, I think as I pass houses where friends of mine used to live. The lure of the past is unexpected and strong, and I’m unnerved by the emotions that begin to stir inside me. Only the shops and stores look different, either empty and boarded up or adorned with new coats of paint and unfamiliar names over the shopfronts. I think about particular people and what they will look like and how I will look to them. Glimpsing my own face in the rear-view mirror I tell myself I’ve changed, that I’m nothing like the man who left here more than fifteen years ago.