by Helen Harper
This time it’s not Curly who takes the lead. He’s lurking at the back with a distinct glower; I guess he’s not very happy about me planting his image into Ingold’s dream. What a shame.
‘Bravo, Ms Lydon,’ Moe says. ‘That was impressive.’
‘You could see what I was doing?’
‘Most of it.’
I try a nonchalant shrug. ‘I can’t trust that you will keep your word and call off the dogs. I have to do what I can.’
She smiles. ‘Indeed. And you proved that you are more than capable of planting thoughts and ideas into people’s minds, despite your earlier protests.’ Her smile turns nasty. ‘See? It’s not that hard, after all. If you can do it to benefit yourself, why not do it to benefit others as well?’
I glare at her. ‘I’m only putting right what you put wrong.’
‘Whatever you say. Does this mean our deal is off?’
‘No.’ I wave irritably at Ingold’s hunched form. ‘This won’t be enough.’
‘No,’ she allows. ‘It won’t.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘Who was that woman?’
I debate lying for a moment then decide that Lilith doesn’t require my protection. I’m sure she can take care of herself. ‘A succubus. From the Badlands.’ Sort of.
There’s a glimmer of surprise in Moe’s expression. ‘Really?’
‘Really,’ I reply flatly.
Larry snorts. ‘Told you we didn’t have to worry about the Badlands any more. If she can tame them, so can we.’
I manage to stop myself from rolling my eyes. He has no clue how dangerous they can be. Curly seems equally unimpressed. ‘You bitch,’ he snarls, his anger finally brimming over.
‘Now, now,’ Moe chides. She’s obviously not unhappy that I’ve pointed the finger in his direction.
‘It was just a dream,’ I say. ‘Ingold doesn’t know who you are. There’s no evidence you’ve done anything.’
‘You don’t know the strength of the subconscious,’ he spits.
He’s probably right; I might be the dreamweaver but I still have a lot to learn. ‘I think you’re probably safe.’
He shakes his head in disgust but I can’t dredge up any sympathy for him. ‘Maybe now you’ll know what it feels like to be a terror suspect,’ I say.
‘Yeah?’ he replies, all pretence of a cultured gentleman out of the window. ‘Well maybe now you can stop acting like you’re too good to manipulate what people think.’
Touché. A trickle of guilt filters through me. ‘I guess we’re all evil then,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night.’
‘You could tell us where you are now,’ Moe suggests.
‘That’s not our deal.’
Curly lunges forward, grabs my arm and wrenches it painfully behind my back. I cry out in pain. ‘Let’s see how clever you are when you’ve got several broken bones to deal with,’ he growls.
A figure flies towards him from out of nowhere, slamming into his body and knocking him off his feet. I pull back, holding my bruised arm, and stare. Dante gets between us, his handsome face twisted into a snarl. ‘Don’t you dare hurt her.’ The menace in his tone is genuinely frightening.
‘What are you going to do about it, tracker?’ Curly sneers.
‘I’ll do what I do best,’ Dante returns. ‘I’ll track.’
A glimpse of real fear crosses Curly’s face. I nod to myself. We all have our fears and that’s the Department’s – that their true identities will be revealed. A lot of their power lies in their anonymity. I bite my lip to hold back the tears of pain. That knowledge doesn’t help me right now.
‘Thank you, Dante,’ I murmur softly.
He turns towards me, his silver eyes scanning my face, pleading with me to see that he’s not the evil bastard that I think he is. I give him a half smile and then I disapparate out of Ingold’s dream and back to the Zurich basement.
Chapter Five
Be thine own palace, or the world’s thy jail.
John Donne
It turns out that the basement in which we’re hiding belongs to a rather grand hotel. After an hour or two of dodging waiters venturing down to collect bottles of wine to stock up for tomorrow’s service, Adam grows irritated enough to find us another hidey-hole. Now we’re still in the same building but we have an unoccupied guest room all to ourselves. He’s bolted it from the inside so we’ll have time to escape if any visitors appear but we’re no longer in peak tourist season so I reckon we’ll be okay. And, even better, we now have access to a television. The morning news is fascinating.
With the Chairman purring on her lap, my mother is transfixed by the screen. Every time my picture flashes up – or hers does – she emits a tiny gasp.
‘The good thing,’ Rawlins says, ‘is that your Department stooges were correct. No one was seriously hurt in the blast.’
‘That doesn’t mean it wasn’t a criminal act,’ Adam says indignantly.
She waves a hand at him although her eyes are soft. ‘Hello? I’m the police officer here.’
‘The police officer on the run.’
I sigh. ‘We’re all on the run.’
We continue to watch the flickering images. I’ve been downgraded; I’m no longer an alleged terrorist although I am still wanted for questioning. The film loop of my obvious shock and terror when we crossed towards the police station is almost gratifying. Who knew that being scared of the world could actually be a good thing?
‘We still have to be careful,’ I say, as much as to myself as anyone else.
Rawlins grimaces. ‘Especially after tonight. Are you going to meet with them?’
‘I don’t think I can afford to. When they realise I’m not going to fall in line, they’ll do whatever it takes either to capture me or kill me. If they can’t control me, they won’t want me running around on my own and endangering them.’ I think of the vicious anger on Curly’s face. And I’d originally pegged him as the mild-mannered one.
‘Do we have any idea who any of them are?’ Rawlins asks.
‘No.’
‘Do we know how many of them there are?’
‘No.’
‘Do we know anything at all?’
I consider this. ‘Not really.’ I tap my finger against my mouth. ‘But for the next twelve or so hours, we have the upper hand. And I intend to use it.’
Markus Ingold’s face flashes up on the screen as he’s interviewed by a BBC reporter. In real life, he projects confidence. He also speaks remarkably good English.
‘I like him,’ Rawlins decides. She looks at Adam as she says this.
‘Damaged goods,’ I tell her. ‘He’s still hankering after the one who got away.’ As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wince. I shouldn’t have said that; it’s not my secret to tell.
‘We’re exploring every avenue,’ Ingold tells the reporter. ‘There are other suspects for the bombing whom we wish to question.’
It’s too much to hope that a photofit of Curly will appear on the screen. No one would be daft enough to place that much credibility on a dream. All the same, Ingold’s words make me feel slightly better – and concerned about how much power I have when it comes to dreams. I repress a shudder.
‘We need to leave Switzerland,’ I say decisively. ‘And we need to get to a different time zone without anyone realising.’
Adam glances at me. ‘I don’t see how that’s possible. We might have slipped past the border on our way here but that’s because of relaxed European laws. Your face is everywhere. You’ll never get past again. They’ll check your passport – any of our passports, in fact – and,’ he pauses for effect, ‘kaboom.’
I consider his words. ‘There has to be a way.’ I have to be optimistic or I might lose the plot entirely.
Rawlins fiddles with the remote control. ‘If border controls weren’t an issue, what would be the best scenario?’
‘The one thing the Department seem most scared of,’ I say, ‘is people finding out their real identities. They’re all wealthy and powerful peop
le. If we can find one of them, we can find more. Threatening them with exposure might make them back off.’
‘But we haven’t found one of them. We haven’t found any of them.’
I hold up my index finger. ‘If I can travel to a different Dreamlands zone where they’re not expecting me, I can snoop around. Even if no one knows their real names, if I can see their faces we can go online and look for their real-life personas. I don’t get the impression that they’re the shy and retiring types in the real world. These are all highly successful, high-profile people.’
‘Using your description of them to find them? Sounds like a needle in a haystack,’ Adam grumbles.
Surprisingly, my mother jumps in to my rescue. ‘Zoe is good at noticing small things which might give us a clue.’
I nod fervently. ‘And I can already give you descriptions of Larry, Curly and Moe. You can start looking for them while we travel and I’m under.’
‘The trouble is,’ Adam points out, still under a cloud, ‘go anywhere when you sleep and your Dante will find you.’
‘Not if she’s flipping between time zones,’ Rawlins says suddenly.
I sigh. ‘Yeah. In an ideal world, I’d flit from plane to plane. I could travel between time zones and he’d almost never be able to catch me up.’
‘You don’t know that for sure.’
As much as Adam’s pessimistic nature bugs me, I can’t help wondering if he’s right. Maybe I’ll never escape Dante. It doesn’t improve matters when a small voice inside me whispers that I might not want to escape him. He seemed so earnest when he said he was on my side and he did help me escape from the Department. But he also helped to kidnap and torture Ashley and was prepared to do the same to the French kid.
Rawlins doesn’t look at any of us. She puts down the remote control and gets to her feet. ‘I need to make a call,’ she announces.
My mother frowns. ‘I thought the phones were off limits.’
‘This is worth the risk.’
I raise my eyebrows at her. ‘What is it?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to say until I’m sure.’ She rummages around in her bag and eventually retrieves a small mobile phone. ‘I’ll sneak out and go for a walk,’ she says. ‘Just in case. It’ll be useful to know whether the car has been spotted.’
We watch her go. My mother’s still not happy. ‘If she can use her phone,’ she complains, ‘then surely I can too. Henry will be worried.’
‘Henry has a wife.’
She shrugs. ‘What’s your point?’
I roll my eyes. Between my cuckolding mother, grumpy ex-boyfriend and less-than-forthcoming police officer friend, it’s a wonder we’ve even got this far.
***
An hour or so later, there’s a quiet knock at the door. I check the spyhole and let Rawlins back in. Her voice is low and there’s a sneaky glint in her eyes. ‘We have to leave,’ she whispers.
I straighten up. ‘Have we been discovered?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. The car has gone – I don’t know whether it’s been stolen or picked up by the police. But that’s not important. I’ve got a possible exit route.’
‘Across the border?’
Rawlins grins. ‘Via the airport.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t need to,’ she murmurs. ‘Grab your things and let’s go.’
I’m not sure what’s going on but I have no reason not to trust her so we do as she says. We quickly scoop up our things and straighten the room so that it appears untouched. I shove the baseball cap back onto my head, tuck my hair underneath it and add a pair of sunglasses for good measure. My disguise won’t pass close inspection and I’m nervous about being out and about at this time of day but Rawlins’ calm serenity is giving me hope.
We pad down the carpeted corridor in single file. The door to one of the guest rooms is wide open and the sound of a vacuum cleaner can be heard from inside. Rawlins doesn’t change her pace but Adam darts across, his eyes swinging wildly from side to side as if he’s about to be tackled to the floor by a chambermaid at any moment.
‘You realise,’ I say in a low voice from behind him, ‘that all you’re doing by acting like that is drawing attention to yourself?’
‘Says the woman who’s wearing shades indoors,’ he grunts.
Rawlins turns her head and throws us irritated glances. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she says briskly. ‘Walk normally and don’t look anyone in the eye. Don’t look down at the ground either.’
‘Don’t look down and don’t look up?’
‘Exactly.’
The Chairman meows from the confines of his carrier. Maybe if we’re recognised, I can set him loose to be our attack cat. That’s about as ridiculous as our situation has become.
Rather than wait for the small lift, we traipse down the stairs. It’s a bit of a shock to be out in real sunlight. Even with my sunglasses on, I blink. My mother inhales deeply, drawing the fresh air into her lungs. Even Adam smiles for a moment or two.
‘This way,’ Rawlins says, jerking her thumb down the street.
If I’m expecting the pedestrians and people who are out and about to be nervous after yesterday’s attack, I’m sorely mistaken. Most people seem to be going about their day as if nothing has happened. There’s something gratifying about that. Yes, there’s been a bomb in our city. Yes, there may be a terrorist or two on the loose. But I still have to get my groceries and I’m not interrupting the routine of my day for anyone. I could learn a lot from ordinary people.
Rawlins leads us some distance. For the first half a mile or so I’m in a state of constant tension, waiting for someone to yell after me or for armed police to appear and thrust big guns in my face, but nobody pays us any attention. I almost collide with an elderly man when I catch sight of a CCTV camera on the building on the opposite side of the street. All he does is mutter something loudly and glower at me. Bit by bit, I start to relax. Then we pass a shop front with numerous television sets displayed in the window; every one of them is showing my face and I grow tense and terrified all over again.
I pick up speed until I’m shoulder to shoulder with Rawlins. ‘Those televisions were showing my face.’
Her expression doesn’t change. ‘Are you offering to give me your autograph?’
‘What I’m saying is that these streets are really busy.’ I wave my hand round. ‘Someone will recognise me even with this crappy disguise.’
She sighs. ‘Unfortunately, people don’t tend to see what’s right in front of their faces. As long as you don’t confront anyone or strike up a conversation, they won’t notice you. They’ve all got their own problems to worry about.’
I look around. She’s right. Everyone who passes us is either in their own world, focused on the pavement or staring at their phones. Anyone who does notice us pays more attention to the Chairman than to me.
‘How on earth do the police ever catch anyone?’ I ask.
‘People are stupid,’ she murmurs.
I wonder if she’s referring to me. I decide not to press the matter and toddle along after her. It’s actually quite nice to offload decisions to someone else for a change, even if I don’t have the faintest idea what we’re doing or where we’re going. Being an adult is hard.
‘Look at that,’ my mother says.
I stiffen. ‘What? Has someone recognised us?’
‘No. That dress in the shop over there. Isn’t it pretty?’ I stare at her. She shrugs. ‘If you see somewhere selling cuckoo clocks, darling, be sure to let me know.’
Fortunately Rawlins chooses that moment to swerve away from the main streets and down a narrow thoroughfare. It doesn’t look as if there are any shops down this way so there will be no more distractions. I’m particularly relieved by the lack of people. There’s a homeless guy wrapped in a sleeping bag against the wall who offers a gap-toothed smile but other than him we’re alone now.
We walk another two hundred metres or so and Rawli
ns stops. She turns and fixes all three of us with a hard look. ‘I want it on the record,’ she says firmly, ‘that I do not agree with what we’re about to do. I don’t condone what this man does and I don’t want you to breathe a word about it to anyone else. Ever.’
‘How exciting,’ my mother breathes.
‘We won’t say anything,’ I add hastily.
For a moment, Rawlins doesn’t move. Then, satisfied that we’re all going to do as we’re told, she gives a brisk nod and turns to a grubby door.
‘Where are we?’ I ask.
‘I might be a small-town policewoman,’ she explains, ‘but that doesn’t mean I don’t have contacts in the bigger forces. Someone owed me a favour.’ She points at the door. ‘It’s a big favour.’
I gaze at her, askance. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You can’t travel under your own name any longer, not unless you want to spend a few days answering questions. You might not be prime suspect right now but that doesn’t mean you can wander wherever you please. This guy is going to fix that.’
She raises her fist and knocks sharply. The door opens almost immediately and a face wearing a goatee beard peers out. ‘Name?’
‘Rawlins.’
He rolls his tongue around his mouth and looks at the rest of us. ‘And who are these clowns?’
‘They’re with me.’
‘This ain’t no tourist stop,’ he growls. For some reason, he has a Cockney accent; maybe Zurich is a better place for English criminals than London. How would I know?
Rawlins doesn’t react. ‘Look again.’
The man moves his eyes from my mother to Adam to me and a slow smile spreads across his face. Unfortunately, the action reveals the crumbs that are caught in his beard. I stare, fascinated, and wonder how long they’ve been there. ‘Well, well, well. Celebrities.’ He steps back. ‘Enter.’
I throw Rawlins a look but she avoids my eyes so I shrug and go in. Everyone else follows. As we shuffle down a dingy corridor with peeling paint and head into a little sitting room, I can’t help thinking about how different my life is now to six months ago. The old Zoe would never have done this.
The man grabs a stubby pencil from a nearby table and starts chewing on the end of it. ‘It’s going to cost you,’ he warns.