Queen of the Night

by Leanne Hall

  My heartbeat starts off on a leisurely tour of my body, pulsing along my temples, throat, fingers. It settles finally in my hollow stomach.

  Wolfboy finally quits his sulking. He comes over and wraps me in his arms, holding me too tight.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ he mumbles close to my ear, but there’s no conviction in his voice. He knows this is a done deal.

  ‘I’m going to be fine.’

  These are just words, of course. I do know there’s no way Wolfboy should do this in my place. If we had to break into the Datura Institute, fight off some black-belt sleep nurses, hog-tie Doctor Gregory and abseil off the roof, then I would be happy to let him take care of it. Someone has to go in after Paul and I’m the best candidate. We each have to play to our strengths.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t back out, so I’ve been thinking about what you can do,’ he says. ‘I think Paul is stuck in the past or something. I don’t know if that helps.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Be careful, Wildgirl.’

  I look at his oceanic eyes and his too-serious, toobeautiful face. I think of last night and all the things we did, and I feel unaccountably embarrassed and pleased, all at the same time. I kiss him. Then I step across the line, dodging the four large crystals placed along the perimeter.

  Amelia pours from the teapot into a glass, then uses a pipette to add extra ingredients. She waves Blake away from the circle.

  Amelia hands me the blue pill that we got from Umbra, and a bottle of water. I neck the pill, automatically running through every warning my mum ever gave me about taking drugs. Wolfboy and Blake settle in to spectate at the edge of the circle.

  ‘You need to wear this.’ Amelia holds up a chunky silver necklace studded with gemstones. I can’t help scrunching up my face. It’s one fugly piece of bling.

  ‘Amethyst and moonstone,’ Amelia says in response to my disgust. ‘They’ll protect you from nightmares and keep the dream clear from influence.’

  ‘This is a bit woo-woo for me.’

  ‘Wildgirl, you’re about to enter someone else’s dreams. That’s about as woo-woo as it gets.’

  Amelia stands behind me and fastens the clasp. She puts her mouth close to my ear and whispers just loudly enough for me to hear. ‘I’ve never seen anyone go under for this long, but I read through my grandfather’s notes again. It’s rare for someone to wake up past the twenty-four hour point. You need to do this as quickly as you can.’

  The metal links of the necklace are cold and heavy. I look across the flimsy border of the chalk line at Wolfboy. I know Amelia’s words should bother me, but the whole thing is starting to feel pleasingly cinematic. ‘What do I do now?’

  ‘Let’s sit down and have a chat.’ Amelia speaks loudly, more for Wolfboy and Blake’s benefit than mine.

  We sit on the rug, facing each other. I’m as clear and crisp as a swimming pool full of fizzy mineral water. I wonder how long the pill will take to work. I picture it buzzing in my bloodstream and making its way to my brain.

  ‘In a few minutes I’ll give you my medicine to drink. You should find yourself feeling sleepy soon after. When you’re dreaming it’s important that you don’t impose your will too strongly. You have to find Paul’s dream first, rather than making him come into yours.’ She mouths the final word soundlessly: ‘Fast.’

  ‘Okay.’ I look at Amelia, taking in her features. In this light it’s clear she’s chosen the right colour scheme for herself. Midnight hair, blue eyes, red lips. Under normal circumstances I would probably find her tone bossy, but I’m enjoying listening to her talk like a queen.

  ‘Amelia? What’s the circle for?’ The words take a while to bubble out of my mouth.

  ‘It binds you and Paul together, stops you from being interested in anyone else’s thoughts.’

  The thought of me being interested in anything outside the circle is laughable. It’s the most perfect and complete circle I’ve ever seen. The chalk line burns whitely into the grey concrete. Amelia hands me a mug. It has a chipped rim and a teddy bear on the side. I want to tell Amelia how funny this is, the chip and the bear, so ordinary, especially compared to the fancy teapot, but I can’t be bothered opening my mouth. The medicine is river-water brown.

  ‘There’s no need to drink it all. Swallow two mouthfuls.’

  The liquid hits my lips and it tastes foul, but I force myself to take a gulp. Bitter, but not as thick as it looks.

  ‘Easy, tiger. Enough.’

  Amelia takes the mug from me and crawls outside the circle. ‘Lie back,’ she says.

  I find the pillow and let my head fall against it. The ground is hard underneath me; the stars are billion-carat diamonds above.

  I close my eyes.

  I think I’m a better person when I’m in Shyness. Stronger. Braver. I try to breathe slowly, willing my body to slow down, relax. But it doesn’t work. Even though my body feels like melted cheese, my rebellious mind is still razor-sharp. I forgot to ask Amelia how to exit the dream quickly, in case there’s an emergency. I forgot to ask her how we wake up, once I’ve talked some sense into Paul.

  ‘One more question,’ I say, and open my eyes, expecting to see the night above me. But the sky isn’t there anymore.

  I lie very still and ponder the roof above me. Water-stained with a ceiling rose at the centre.

  ‘It’s not working,’ I say again.

  I twitch my fingers experimentally, feeling the cool touch of leather underneath them. I lift my head, push up on my elbows. It takes a full thirty seconds to realise where I am.

  I’m in Paul and Thom’s cottage, the historical house in the middle of the Memorial Gardens. Wolfboy and I visited it after escaping Orphanville on the night we met. I recognise the cracked leather couches, and the austere furniture. Sideboard, writing desk, Tiffany lamp. Around the corner there’s a handbasin, for sure.

  I roll off the couch to check. There it is. For some reason the sight of the apple-green basin makes me smile. The cottage. What a strange place to teleport to. There are hooks on the wall, with bath towels hanging on them. I don’t remember those being there last time, although maybe I just didn’t notice.

  There are other differences in the cottage. A throw rug on the couch. A futon in the corner. A bar fridge. An Andy Warhol Marilyn poster on the wall. Fewer dirty clothes lying about, less crap in general. Something is not quite right.

  When I figure it out, I feel incredibly stupid.

  This is the dream.

  I slap my palm to my head. What a dufus. How could I forget I was supposed to dream? It feels so real. I run my hands over Amelia’s overalls. You’d think my subconscious could have arranged a ballgown or something. The amethyst and moonstone necklace still rests heavily on my collarbone, but my feet feel different. I have heavy leather boots on. I march my feet up and down and the floor feels one hundred per cent real.

  What else can I try?

  I grab a nearby glass and fill it at the basin. The water is cold and slick and real as it travels down my throat. When I put the glass back down on the sideboard it makes a sound like hands slapping together.

  I lift the glass up and place it down again.

  Clap!

  The clapping continues, even though I leave the glass where it is. Slow clapping at first, then flamenco-fast. The sound echoes through the empty cottage. I can’t tell where it’s coming from. I turn in circles. The sound gets louder, until it’s more like the explosion of distant grenades.

  I remember that there’s supposed to be someone else in this dream, not just me. Someone I’m supposed to look for. I touch the necklace and I hear a voice in my head: ‘FAST.’

  I rush to the front door and fling it open. There are no gardens outside the cottage, no path that leads to the avenue of fallen trees. Instead there’s another room, an unfamiliar one this time. The room is at least thirty metres long, with orange walls and white opaque panels lit from behind. Two rows of reclining day beds along the side walls, with a carpeted p
ath down the centre leading to another set of double doors.

  Everything smooth and modular. A space-station day spa. Some of the thickly padded seats are occupied.

  I half-run down the aisle, stopping at the foot of a bed. A man lies on it asleep, a pair of headphones clamped over his ears. He looks peaceful. A neatly dressed woman watches over him, clipboard in hand. She doesn’t notice me. I squint at her name-badge. Two flowers. Annie. The Datura Institute.

  I move on. I’m drawn to the end of the room, the bed closest to the next set of doors. This bed is occupied by someone dressed for combat in camouflage pants and a shirt.

  He’s asleep, still, arms falling on either side of the padded chair. I squeeze into the space between the chairs to get a look at his face, accidentally knocking a video game controller off the bedside table. ‘Paul. Come with me now,’ I say.

  Paul’s eyes snap open as if he’s been shot with adrenaline. He draws a sharp breath. Off the bed, on his feet, and out the doors.

  He’s gone before I even have time to register what’s happened. Compared to him I move in slow motion. I push on the heavy door, slip through into darkness, a yawning night landscape.

  A newly mown soccer field with crisp white lines intersecting the green grass. An enormous hemisphere of sky, with the eyeball moon riding high. When I look behind me there’s no doorway, no cottage, no building, no sign of Paul. A thick forest extends as far as I can see.

  I have something clutched in my hands. It’s a machine gun.

  ‘Incoming!’ someone screeches and bolts past me.

  A booming explosion sends me running after him. It’s hard to move with the heavy gun; I need both hands to hold it, and it bangs against my thighs. The soldier beckons me onwards and I recognise Paul’s face under his helmet. His scrawny frame has been made bulky by bullet belts and drink canteens and mini-satchels slung over him.

  The final piece slips into place. I’m in Paul’s dream. I’ve actually done it.

  29

  ‘Paul! Paul, wait up.’

  I lope awkwardly, comforted only by the fact that Paul must be struggling more than I am, given his load. There’s another cataclysmic boom behind me. I expect to see fire lighting up the forest, and dust and shrapnel, but there’s nothing.

  ‘Seriously—Paul!’

  I stumble on the grass. All I have to do is look at a sports field and I completely lose all sense of coordination. I can’t let him get away.

  Paul ignores me, hefting his gun onto his shoulder and bellowing like his cargo pants are on fire. Beyond the soccer field there’s a path running alongside a creek. The creek looks familiar; it could be the creek that leads to Orphanville.

  I discover that this stupid commando dream is real enough that I’m gasping for breath. All I have to do is catch him, talk him into returning to his waking life pronto, and then we’re done here. This needs to be over in five minutes.

  Paul swings his gun from side to side as he runs. It’s so weird to see him galloping about when I know he’s actually lying on Amelia’s roof, deathly still. Ahead, the creek peels off to the right, while the path tunnels through a hill.

  ‘Bam,’ he yells. ‘Bam bam.’

  At least one thing is certain: I have no control over this dream. Amelia’s worry that I would exert too much influence is completely unfounded. Paul has already run headlong into the circular black mouth of the tunnel.

  My legs slow without consulting my brain. The tunnel looks less like an innocent method of getting from point A to point B, and more like a dark vortex that wants to suck every bit of hope from me.

  But I do not want to get lost in Paul’s dream, and I do not want to lose him. I walk into the tunnel, my footsteps instantly louder, telling myself it’s not real.

  I sense damp concrete around me. There’s nothing visible behind me, just darkness. Ahead of me there’s more nothingness. I should be able to hear Paul’s footsteps in front of me, but I can’t. The thought that I am also lying deathly still on Amelia’s rooftop grabs me by the throat.

  The dark is so complete I lose sense of where my body is in space. My mum’s face comes to me, then my dead nan’s. The tunnel might be Paul’s but I’m pretty sure my thoughts are still my thoughts.

  ‘Mum?’

  My voice is high and uncertain. I don’t expect a reply.

  ‘Nia. Nia, there you are.’ Mum’s disembodied voice sounds relieved. ‘He’s trapped me. I don’t think I’m going to get out of here alive. I want you to promise—’

  ‘Where are you? Mum?’

  The panic I’ve been trying to keep down rises up. I’ve been a bitch to my mum. I need to cut her some slack. I look frantically for an exit when I’m suddenly doused in burning white light. I hold my hands to my face.

  There’s a roar, a crowd cheering. If Mum says anything else she’s drowned out.

  When my eyes clear I am no longer in a tunnel but on a stage with lights and a gawking crowd outside, beyond a wire fence. Paul stands nearby, in normal clothes, talking to a girl. I look up to see that the wire fence extends overhead and around us, a cube.

  When I look down I’m wearing a shiny black catsuit. It clings from my neck all the way down to my ankles. I’d never, ever in my life choose to wear something this tight. The back of it pulls strangely. I crane my head and see a long tail trailing behind me.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ I say. I close my eyes and try to enact some I Dream of Jeannie-style magic on my outfit. When I open my eyes, though, nothing has changed. The fact that every person here is imaginary does little to comfort me.

  ‘You really gotta work out your objectification of women, Paul,’ I call out. ‘A cage? Really?’

  Paul turns on me with annoyance. ‘Shut up. You’re not even supposed to be here.’

  He turns back to the girl, who smiles at him. It’s Ingrid. She’s wearing the same jacket and denim mini skirt as in the deleted photo.

  As I watch, Paul and Ingrid engage in a strange ritual. First Paul brings his head down to hers, butting her gently on the forehead.

  ‘Ouch,’ says Ingrid, even though it couldn’t have hurt at all. Then she leans forward and bops her head into his.

  ‘Ouch,’ Paul says, and then they kiss. This is obviously what the crowd is here to see because there’s a collective sigh and a surge of interest behind me. An audience member pokes me through the mesh. I start to tell them to quit it, when I see it’s the little girl from the forest, the one who was pedal-powering the lights.

  ‘Jethro,’ she says.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, then turn back. I can’t think about Wolfboy. I have more important things to worry about. If Paul is hooking up with his ex in his dream, then no wonder he doesn’t want to come out of it. How can I convince him to leave her behind?

  ‘Hey, hey, guys.’ Paul and Ingrid break apart. ‘Hey Ingrid, did you notice the obscene outfit Paul chose for me? How do you feel about this cage? Make you feel good?’

  Paul practically shoots laser-beams of rage out of his eyes. ‘Shut. Up.’ He grabs Ingrid’s arm urgently. ‘Say it. Like we practised.’

  ‘I made a mistake when I broke up with you,’ declares Ingrid. ‘I was scared of the terrible power of my love. I miss you every day, I think about you every hour.’

  Her eyes roam distractedly. She isn’t saying her soap opera lines with any conviction. Maybe I won’t have to convince him. Maybe Ingrid will do it for me. The crowd begins to boo. Paul tries to hush them, but the hubbub grows.

  Ingrid hangs her head, defeated. ‘I can’t do this anymore, Paul.’

  ‘Why are you being like this?’ Paul’s voice is high and hurt and oh so young. ‘If you want me to hang out with your friends more, I can. I can be different. You have to give me another chance.’

  ‘No.’ Ingrid shakes her head.

  ‘Who do you want me to be? I can be that guy!’

  Ingrid looks at him sadly, and then flickers. Her body wavers at the edges; she blurs, sharpens, blurs again. With a ‘zi
p’ she vanishes inwards, pulled into a central dot that disappears. A TV being switched off. Gone.

  Paul spins around, shocked, looking for her in the cage. Instead he sees me.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, holding up my hands.

  He points an accusatory finger. ‘This isn’t how it goes. It’s you again. You made it turn out wrong.’

  I don’t wait for him to leap. I turn and run, prepared to claw my way out of the cage if necessary. But the cage isn’t there anymore, and neither are the crowds. We’re in a dusty lifeless plain.

  I pound across the sandy ground, with no idea where I’m headed. Paul’s feet thump behind mine. I can’t let him catch me. My stupid tail threatens to tangle around my ankles and the heavy necklace bounces into my face.

  The horizon breaks ahead. There’s a precipice, a cliff, beyond which there’s nothing but air. Paul’s so close I can hear his laboured breath matching mine. I prepare to hit the ground, rolling and grazed.

  It never happens. Paul shoots past me, picking up speed. All too slowly I figure out what’s happening.

  ‘No!’ I try to shout, but it’s too late. Paul swan-dives off the cliff, hanging in midair before knifing downwards. It would be beautiful if it wasn’t so terrible.

  I skid to a halt at the edge of the cliff, dust rising around me.

  Paul hits the black river rushing below. I have a split second to decide. My decision is to not jump to my death. But everyone is counting on me to rescue Paul. I can’t give up on him. And I can’t die in a dream, I don’t think, even it feels real.

  I jump.

  I hold my nose and free-fall, feet first. My body pierces the black water. Icy. I plunge downwards for what seems a long time. My feet touch the bottom and I push up. I’m wearing the overalls again, and that’s a pity because they are twisted and heavy with water, dragging me down.