Queen of the Night

by Leanne Hall

  ‘You can tell her I can be trusted. Get some sleep, Blake. You’ve earned it.’

  As soon as I’m alone my head starts to teem. I lie down on the couch in the front room. It’s cold in here, and there are cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling, but I can’t deal with the chaos of the upper floor.

  Finding out what sort of pills the blue people take won’t help us if we don’t find Paul. The thought that I might have to email Paul’s mum, who is sailing somewhere up the east coast, to tell her that her son is missing doesn’t thrill me.

  I close my eyes, willing myself to drift off. I want, for a few precious moments, to not exist at all.

  I succeed better than I thought I would, because when I open my eyes again it’s the morning. A sound has woken me. I lie still, listening. A car getting closer, then fading away. It could have been part of a dream, but I go out into the hallway to check. The corner of an envelope pokes through the mail slot.

  I haven’t had mail in nearly a year. There’s no such thing as a postal service in Shyness anymore.

  The envelope is pale blue, without a postmark, and smaller than regulation size. My name is printed on the front in neat purple letters. I already know who it’s from.

  The letter is handwritten, with a familiar signature at the bottom: Dr W. Gregory. Doctor Gregory used to send me letters regularly, but I haven’t had any in a while. The old letters were typed forms, with my name pasted into the greeting. This letter is more personal.

  Dear Jethro,

  It has come to my attention that you have an interest in the workings of the Datura Institute. I’m keen to discuss my innovative programs with you, as well as several other matters of importance. Call this number to arrange a meeting: 9342 45860.

  Please pass on my kind regards to your friend Paul. I have enjoyed my recent conversations with him very much.

  Best,

  Dr W. Gregory

  A pulsing, buzzing feeling blasts away the whispery remnants of sleep. The doubt that’s been eating away at my insides becomes more solid. I considered it a reprieve that Doctor Gregory didn’t chase me down after Nia and I broke into Orphanville. But maybe this is how he’s getting back at me.

  My second impulse is to call the number. Call his bluff. And maybe he knows where Paul is. But now I’m wondering all over again if I really want to find him.

  I go to Blake’s room, but she’s curled up under the covers, breathing heavily. We got home well after midnight, and it’s only 8 a.m. now, too early to wake her. I find myself in the kitchen without knowing how I got there, pulling my phone out, dialling the number.

  ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice.

  I almost hang up.

  ‘Hello?’ she repeats.

  ‘I think I have the wrong number.’

  She must put me on speaker, because her voice becomes echoey. ‘You’re the only person with this number,’ she says.

  I catch a glimpse of Orphanville as I crest the hill near my house. The towers are dark, as they have been for the last few weeks, except for the closest one, which blazes with fire. The Kidds like their bonfires, but this is bigger. Flames lick the entire top floor. A pillar of smoke climbs into the golden sky. The Panwood fire brigade won’t be rushing to the scene. The late afternoon is flushed through with a warmer breeze.

  It took some fast-talking with Doctor Gregory’s secretary to organise a meeting place. There was no way I was going to the Datura Institute. She put me on hold several times before accepting my suggestion: a dusty, unpopular cafe on O’Neira Street. Last night must have exhausted Blake, because she’s been asleep all day. I didn’t bother waking her. I might be able to get more information on my own from Doctor Gregory before we go see the Queen of the Night.

  A gaudy, flashing Mother Mary looks down benevolently on me at the entrance to the building. I cross myself automatically, the habit of too many years of Catholic schooling. The owner of the cafe has an obsession with Mexican Day of the Dead paraphernalia. Skeleton statues lurk in every crevice of the main passageway. I walk through to the main room, which is as quiet as a crypt.

  Doctor Gregory has already arrived. He sits in a sunken square pit with benches all around and a lace-draped table in the middle. A man at supreme ease. The very sight causes a nasty taste in my mouth. I don’t even want to be in the same room as him.

  He makes to stand up and shake my hand.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ I say, and sit on the other side of the table, as far away as I can get. Doctor Gregory is dressed for business, in a white shirt, striped tie and suit pants. Everything about him is glossy and fake—from his tan to the hefty watch on his wrist. I check the corners of the room. A suited bodyguard stands next to the bar. Of course he didn’t come on his own. I suppose the fact that he didn’t bring a small army is a good sign that I’m not about to be kidnapped.

  ‘Jethro, it’s a pleasure to see you again.’

  The way he says my name makes me realise he already thinks he’s won by getting me to meet him.

  ‘Spare me.’ I shift on the hard bench. I deliberately wore my oldest jeans and a ripped flannie. ‘What’s this about?’

  A waiter deposits a tray of drinks on our table. Doctor Gregory waits until he leaves before speaking.

  ‘We might have to work on your manners,’ he says, plucking a cigarette from a pack on the table. ‘You’re a touch savage, I must say. Do you have a light?’

  I shake my head, refusing to play along. Doctor Gregory shrugs and finds his own lighter in his pocket. He places two shot glasses in front of me, and two in front of him.

  ‘You’ve been asking about my dream program.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you want to participate?’ A mocking smile creeps onto his orange face. Smoke unfurls from his mouth.

  ‘No. I want to know why Paul is treated differently from your other patients.’

  That makes him raise his eyebrows.

  ‘You have done your research,’ he says with fatherly approval. He raises his glass with his spare hand. ‘Paul is a special case. Cheers.’

  I move the glasses away from me. ‘Special how?’

  ‘Half of the participants in my dream program are insomniacs. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Being surrounded by night, yet finding sleep elusive?’ Doctor Gregory smiles without showing his teeth. ‘Their dreams are nothing to them, so they give them to me readily in return for a few hours of oblivion. Following an extremely strict pharmaceutical protocol, I might add. Then there are the patients who are addicted to dreaming, Dreamers of the most dedicated kind. Our medications are ten times cleaner than what they can buy on the street. We negotiate taking a portion of their dreams, and they keep some for their own recreation.’

  Doctor Gregory pauses to alternate sips from his remaining glass, and draws from his cigarette. His thin dry lips make me feel sick. I notice he also talks as if dreams were objects, commodities, capable of transaction.

  ‘Your dear friend Paul, however, is different. Paul has no interest in sharing his dreams with anyone. Which is not to say I haven’t taken a small peek occasionally. Clinical interest, you understand. Most fascinating. Paul is unhealthily fixated on the past. He wants to cycle through the same events, again and again. He has little interest in exploring the stranger horizons of nocturnal travel. You know, parallel universes, prophecy, and the like.’

  I decide to humour him and pretend that he’s bottling dreams like Sanjay said.

  ‘What do you do with their dreams? You go to so much effort, you must really need them.’

  ‘Well, thank you for asking me that, Jethro.’ Doctor Gregory attempts to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. ‘Dreams are windows onto people’s desires— desires they try to keep secret, or even desires they didn’t know they had. And if you know a man’s desires, then you can make him do anything.’

  I have to stop myself from jiggling my legs. He’s told me nothing concrete. ‘Why do you need to make people do what you want them to? Are
n’t you too old to be playing with dolls?’

  Another sip, another draw.

  ‘Reasons, reasons. The one thing humans have in common is that they are all searching for answers.’ He stubs his cigarette in an ashtray. ‘Except for our Paul; he thinks all we need is love.’

  I feign standing up to leave.

  Doctor Gregory slaps both hands on the table. Gold rings line up across his knuckles. ‘I don’t discuss my work with many people, Jethro. Only those who can grasp it.’

  ‘You think I’m dumb enough to fall for your false flattery?’ I sit back down despite my words.

  ‘You’ve matured recently, Jethro. Changed. I can see that. I get the feeling you regard me as an enemy. I’ve searched my conscience for a likely reason. That business with the Kidds? That was nothing. I don’t particularly care if you visit Orphanville. I don’t particularly care if you pick fights with people in my employ. I was already planning on scaling back the Kidds’ activity. You even did me a favour when you released the tarsier. Doesn’t that make you think some of our interests might be the same? That we could work together?’

  I would never stoop that low, but I see an opportunity. ‘You can start by telling me why you’ve targeted Paul. If he doesn’t give you his dreams, what do you get out of it?’ I try not to make it obvious that I’m holding my breath.

  ‘I thought you would have figured that out by now, Jethro. I give Paul the necessary pills to put him in his perfect dream universe, and he gives me information about you.’

  I blink. Everything flashes white for a few seconds. Then I’m back in the room.

  ‘He wouldn’t do that.’ I regret my words immediately.

  Doctor Gregory smiles more successfully this time. With teeth. His eyes are two coal-black voids. Empty eyes. ‘It’s never nice to admit that we don’t know our friends as well as we thought we did.’

  I grip the edge of the seat. Paul betraying me. This is the rotting dark possibility that has been sitting in my stomach.

  ‘Tell me where he is.’ I can barely get the words out. Doctor Gregory looks genuinely surprised. He’s a hammy actor so I can tell the difference.

  ‘I don’t know where Paul is. Maybe you’ve scared him into hiding. If it makes you feel any better, he was initially very reluctant to tell me anything. But once he became more dependent on his cherished dream state, he was far more obliging.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I say. My fingers are cramping.

  ‘You’d be surprised what I can do with the smallest detail.’

  I let go of the seat. Flight seems the most useful response right now. That, or smashing the slimy look of concern off Doctor Gregory’s face.

  ‘You can’t mess with people’s lives like this. It’s wrong.’

  ‘Shyness is a unique environment, Jethro. A battlefield in one way, a petri dish in another. Some of us are better equipped to take advantage of this. Some of us are better equipped to make sense of the phenomena that surround us. Why are you so resistant to embracing the possibilities?’

  He lights another cigarette and blows smoke at the ceiling. I don’t know what to say. I’ll never come out of a conversation with Doctor Gregory on top because he manipulates words better than I ever could. But a few of his words stick, and I realise he needs Shyness more than it needs him. I pull Delilah’s book from my pocket.

  ‘I’ve been doing some light reading in my spare time.’ I hold the book up so he can read the cover. ‘Are you familiar with this particular branch of the family tree?’

  For a microsecond, Doctor Gregory’s mask slips. It gives me courage to keep talking.

  ‘You’ll be screwed if someone upsets your petri dish. If what this book says is true, things won’t stay the same in Shyness forever. Are you really going to sit there and pretend you haven’t noticed the changes around here?’

  His face hardens. ‘I make the changes.’

  ‘Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.’

  ‘You can’t decide if you feel unique or alone, Jethro, but I have others like you in my care. Yours is not the most severe case I’ve seen, not by a long shot. It really is so very fascinating to watch the battle of nature and civilisation up close.’

  I stand up, tuck the book away again.

  ‘But you’re not the only person I have my eye on,’ he continues. ‘That Diana, she’s a special little girl, isn’t she?’

  I’m by his side in a flash, grabbing him by the shirt, hauling him up off the seat. Doctor Gregory’s face is abstract. Terracotta-coloured. A collection of shapes and lines. The bodyguard moves into my peripheral vision, a blurry dark figure, but Doctor Gregory shakes his head.

  I pull my fist back, cocked, ready to strike.

  ‘I’m winning the battle,’ I say. I let him go. He falls onto the seat, breathing heavily. I jump out of the pit and head for the door.

  twenty-two

  There’s only one place I can

  think to go. I slow to a walk on the steep path up to the lip of the volcano. There are no lights, crowd, noise. I don’t know what else I was expecting. It’s not fight night, after all.

  But when I reach the top and look down onto the cycling track, I see that I haven’t wasted my time. A small light burns at the centre of the basin. There are three people in the cage.

  The Gentleman sees me coming and pushes open a gate on the side of the cage, his eyes friendly in his duststreaked face. I duck through and he bolts the door behind me. He pulls me into a strange, fleeting embrace, and I feel the strength of his arms, his bigness and wildness. Clad in nothing but a pair of stubbies, every inch of his skin, from collarbone to toes, is covered in thick coarse hair.

  ‘Wolfboy,’ is all he says, as if I drop in every day.

  I nod, suddenly shy.

  The cage is lit only by two heavy-duty torches placed on the ground in a crisscross arrangement. I don’t recognise the other two men in the ring. They don’t hide their curiosity. The smell of sweat and dust is strong.

  ‘Paddy.’

  The Gentleman flicks his hand, and a man steps forward. He’s older than the Gentleman, short and squat and wearing a faded tracksuit. Sleek black hair grows from his eyebrow line, all the way over the top of his head and down the back of his neck. A thick glossy pelt.

  ‘Better take your shoes off.’ The Gentleman leans against the cage wall.

  I drop my eyes to Paddy’s bare feet. He has ugly knobbly toes but his feet are ordinary.

  I realise I’ve come here to fight.

  I kick off my shoes and step into the centre of the crosshatched light. Paddy bows. I return the gesture.

  We circle each other on the dirt, our feet kicking up puffs of dust. I watch Paddy. Soon the world is reduced to the two of us, staring, orbiting.

  An unexpected calm descends over me. I can feel everything: the dirt between my toes, the barest wind on my skin, my fingers curling into fists.

  And then Paddy charges, planting a shoulder in my stomach.

  I take the blow, letting myself buckle at the middle and fall. My back slams against the ground and I kick up into the air. A moment later I’m back on my feet.

  Paddy cricks his neck to the side. I throw myself at him. I grab him around the middle and hurl him to the other side of the cage. He hits the ground, then comes at me on all fours, crawling fast. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. He grabs my ankles. I kick frantically until I free a foot, stomp hard between his shoulderblades, leaving a streak of dirt on his tracksuit.

  Paddy grunts and collapses but he still manages to topple me by pulling my ankle.

  I smack into the ground, a skyscraper under demolition. My chest heaves, trying to suck in air. I finally kick free, and launch myself at him again. I’m getting tired and my heart is beating out of time. Paddy and I roll over and over until I lose sense of which way is up.

  He gets a punch in to the side of my head and there are stars everywhere. When my vision clears I’m sitting on his chest, pinning his arms
above his head.

  Paddy taps the ground—’I’m out!’—and I let go.

  I get to my feet straightaway, but the ground tilts under me. Paddy rolls away. The Gentleman pushes off the cage wall, clapping. He collars my waist when my legs give way, and helps me to a sitting position on the ground.

  I tip my head to look at the stars through the cage. They’re pulsating with disco light. I might feel fantastic, I’m not sure.

  Seconds later I’m positive I’m going to throw up. I put my head between my knees until the nausea passes. When I look up, the Gentleman is watching me without concern.

  ‘You’re punch drunk,’ he says. ‘It’ll pass quickly. Come with me to the clubhouse.’

  The clubhouse is a long narrow shed with a concrete floor and a corrugated iron roof. It’s littered with mattresses and blankets, kerosene lamps and rusty gym equipment.

  A bruise is blooming on my cheekbone. Paddy hasn’t fared any better, but he still shakes my hand, and then sinks onto a camp bed with a groan.

  I wince when I lower myself onto a bench.

  The Gentleman grabs a bottle of whisky and offers it to me. I refuse, but he insists. ‘Trust me.’

  The spirit burns in my mouth.

  ‘Feel better?’ he asks.

  I shrug. What an unanswerable question.

  ‘I’m not going to be able to convince you to fight for stakes, am I?’ he asks.

  ‘Probably not.’

  He doesn’t seem too fazed by that. He draws from the bottle, swills the liquid.

  ‘So you know, people here come and go as they please. No rules, no pressure. If you want to train with us, spar with us, anytime, you’re always welcome.’

  ‘Good to know.’

  I take another sip from the bottle, but it makes my nausea well up again. My insides are hot and loose.

  ‘What have you been doing tonight, Jethro?’

  I think of Doctor Gregory’s words, the smooth veneer that does little to cover the sick reality. I look at the Gentleman, barely clothed and unwashed and straight out of the Wild West, and I trust him implicitly.