The Nightmare Maker

by Gregory Pettit

  “Yes, and there are a couple of small projects that I can drop you an e-mail on. You can get started on those from home. It shouldn’t be any kind of problem to do all of the hand over via VC,” she continued.

  “But you weren’t due back for another week anyhow. Is there some other reason that you asked to see us?” Richard said, a forced smile on his face. I noticed that he was keeping his distance.

  “Well…yeah.” I explained what I needed, and the pair were solicitous, professional, and efficient in taking down notes—and so impersonal that I felt a pang of loneliness. I’d been in London for years, but I was still an immigrant. Work was a big part of my social life, and it hurt for that to get cut off. It seemed stupid to worry about my social life at a time like this, but matters of the heart and logic live on opposite sides of a vast ocean.

  We spent another four or five minutes of fidgety discussion in hammering out the details as I packed up my things. They’d contact the UnAdled to get to work on my legal and financial issues, and in a couple of weeks I could get on with a bit of “working.” I would have the time I needed to pursue my search for Dana. In some ways, it was perfect.

  I thanked them both again, gave a wave, and headed out of the office, handing over a couple of pounds to buy a poppy from a little old lady just outside of the building.

  I wanted to head home as quickly as possible, but I was due to meet with Father O. tomorrow, so I decided to swing by Westminster Cathedral to reconnoiter. I wanted to get the lay of the land and find the best approach to our meeting. The trip from Paddington to Victoria always took longer than seemed reasonable, but the clanking District line had me outside of the massive tan-and-red structure after half an hour.

  Most people are familiar with the much more famous Westminster Abbey just opposite the Houses of Parliament, but I’d always liked the cathedral more. Perhaps it was a legacy of my Catholic upbringing, or perhaps it was just the fact that it didn’t cost seventeen quid to get in. I surveyed the square in front of the building, taking in the intricate Neo-Byzantine brickwork patterns and upthrust bell tower, and then wandered inside, dropping a couple of quid in the collection box as I passed.

  I was looking for a good spot from which I could try to watch Father O.’s approach and make sure that there weren’t any uninvited interlopers. I’d spent a lot of time waiting in ambush for various nightmares, positioning myself between them and their prey, so I could pounce in for the kill when their attention was elsewhere. Unfortunately, somewhere around the baptistery, I was reminded that I knew just about as much about actual spycraft as I did about soccer (it’s not football) when a voice whispered in my ear, “You shouldn’t be meeting him, Julian. He isn’t supposed to be involved anymore.” The voice was wine dipped in honey, and I caught a whiff of musk and lavender that made my heart beat faster, though whether from surprise or something else I wasn’t sure.

  “Good afternoon, Mia, you psycho. I thought that we had a deal? A deal where I didn’t have to speak to you until Tuesday,” I replied in a stage whisper.

  She sighed wearily. “That was indeed our deal, Mr. Adler. However, this visit isn’t in respect of my commitments to you. After this summer’s unfortunate incidents, Father O’Hanrahan elected to retire from his…ministry. He understands what that means, but it seems that he isn’t quite working within the boundaries that were agreed on for his continued activities. I imagine that I am here for very much the same reason that you are, Julian,” she purred.

  I continued to stare straight ahead. “I’m happy to hear that you aren’t breaking our deal, Mia. However, Father O. has something that I believe will be vital to my current investigations, so I’d be very much obliged if you’d make like a tree and leaf,” I replied.

  Mia cringed before replying. “The Sons keep their word, but think about what happened last time you ignored my advice, Julian. Your friends got hurt,” she said, her voice so light that it would have been easy to overlook the threat. Her heels clack-clacked on the stone floor, and soon I was alone again. I collapsed into a bench and put my head in my hands.

  When I’d pulled myself together, I spent a few minutes pretending to pick out my plan of approach, but my heart wasn’t in it. How many more people would I put in harm’s way to get Dana back? I headed back toward Ealing on the District line, which gave me plenty of time to examine my thoughts.

  My overall goal was of course to get Dana back, but whichever way I turned for information, all roads seemed to keep leading back to the Anarchist. The Reddertons had files that might put me on her trail, but they wanted their clients protected. The Sons of Perseus had promised to bring their—presumably considerable—mystic knowledge to bear on my behalf, but they wanted me to unmask the killer. And the killer himself had offered to fetch Dana back, from whatever torment she was suffering—if I would throw in on his side (whatever the hell that was). Adding in the complications around my job, missing passport, pending insurance claims, empty bank account, angry sister-in-law, and the multiple kidnap attempts against my daughter, I had a fairly full plate. Still, I’d been dealing with nightmares since I could walk; Mia’s threats weren’t going to stop me from going to the meeting. Especially not when I’d spotted the perfect approach…

  When I got back to Ealing Broadway, I grabbed a hamburger. It was from Five Guys, and it reminded me of home. There’s no problem so big that it can’t be helped by a good hamburger.

  I had around five hours before I had to be at Bank Underground Station. I hurried home to spend as many of them as I could with Olivia. When I arrived, the files from Redderton were on my bed. Jack had promised to help me find Dana as payment for protecting Hightower, and the implication was that this was just a taster of the information the Reddertons could provide. I tore the paper open and decided that it was more of an amuse-bouche than a taster, because it had only one line: We’ll be covering you at the Cathedral.

  Olivia was watching Kinder Egg-opening videos on an old mobile phone and had ignored my entrance, and I was pretty sure that Becky was intentionally avoiding me in her room. I cuddled up next to my daughter and put her in my lap, happy just to spend some time with her. I decided to consider what I would do when I met with whoever the rest of the Redderton clients were this evening.

  **********

  I opened my eyes, trench coat on my shoulders and gladius in hand. I glanced around. I was in a long, low hallway. Above me there was a cheap drop ceiling, and the walls were lined with dented, flaking, red-painted lockers. I inhaled and caught the smell of paper and cheap perfume. Yup, I was in a school. I must have dozed off, and I thought about using the opportunity to search for Dana, but then I considered the little girl in my lap back in the real world, and I thought better of it. After the madness of last night, it was comforting to consider just dealing with a normal, everyday nightmare.

  I quested out with my dream senses, and soon I felt the sunshine warmth of the dreamer’s mind. I turned toward it and strode down the hall. A hundred paces brought me to a door that read “English 2-A.” Digesting that uninformative sobriquet, I ran through the possibilities in my mind before entering. There were a few common dreams that I might run into in a school. Thankfully, being in London, it was unlikely that it would be anything as traumatic as a Columbine. It could be a sadistic teacher, a la Dolores Umbridge, or even worse, it could be an abusive, physical or otherwise, teacher. Girding myself mentally against the possibilities, I decided that I’d be best off with a stealth entrance, so I brought up a memory of going on a date with a beautiful blonde in college. I had sprung for a meal at the nicest restaurant on campus, and she had spent the entire date texting her friends. I held the feeling of being ignored in my mind and slid the door open, slipping inside without shutting it behind me.

  I took in the scene. To my left, there was a classroom that stretched as far as the eye could see, at least three hundred yards in every direction, and each seat was filled by a model-pretty teenage boy or girl. To my right, there was a l
arge chalkboard, and in front of the chalkboard was a girl of sixteen or so. She had mousy brown hair, lightly freckled skin, and hazel eyes. Oh—and she was stark naked. I covered my eyes and turned away. The sound of the other students’ laughter and mockery was almost deafening.

  The scene was a classic: one of the commonest and simplest-to-solve nightmares. I’d probably run into some variation of the “naked in front of a crowd” dream one hundred times before I’d been old enough for it to arouse any curiosity. Continuing to look away, I sidled up to the girl, who was blushing so hard that my supernatural senses could literally feel the heat radiating from her slim body. I reached down to the belt on my coat, undid the buckle, slipped it off, and spun in one continuous motion, draping the voluminous trench coat over the girl.

  “Hey—that’s a great-looking coat,” I said to the girl, who looked around confused for a moment before her eyes settled on me. The laughter quieted, and I flashed her a comforting, paternal smile. I opened my mouth to reassure her and—

  **********

  I awoke. Someone was pounding on the front door, causing my head to throb along with each blow, and I staggered to my feet, setting a warm, napping Olivia onto the chair. The sun was already down; glancing at my phone, I was dismayed to see that it was nearly five in the afternoon. Taking into consideration the events of the last few days, I slowed down as I approached the door.

  “Mr. Adler, I’ll be pleased if you open up directly. I’ve some questions for you, and I’m well behind on my case load.” The nasal voice and received accent identified the speaker as none other than Detective Inspector James Badger. Jimmy to his friends.

  “James, how can I help you? I need to be at Bank by six, and I’m running a bit late,” I said, opening the door. Taking the short man with his Coke-bottle lenses in, my eyes were drawn to the huge goose egg on his forehead and the sling enclosing his left arm. I had to admire his stylish trench coat.

  “I’ve spent a day recovering from a bump on the head, but when I woke up this morning the fog, as they say, had lifted. They told me that I had apparently had a nightmare and fallen out of bed and cracked my noggin, but I think we both know that that isn’t what actually happened. I can give you a lift to Bank if you’ll agree to an ‘informal chat’ on the way.” The detective made a face that momentarily made me think that he was having a seizure, but then I realized he had been going for a conspiratorial wink. My skin prickled, and I had a sudden intuition that I needed to tell Badger everything, so I shouted to Becky that I was going, gave Olivia a kiss and a long hug, put on my coat, and headed out to the policeman’s car.

  The detective inspector wasn’t using a marked squad car or a driver today, instead opting for an unmarked Audi S3. I climbed into the passenger side and sat silently while Badger pulled out into traffic, heading for the A40.

  “So first there are important bankers dying in their sleep, then I find you prowling around in my nightmares, and now you’re heading down to Bank. Is there anything you’d like to tell me about, Mr. Adler?” The man’s question was punctuated by the sound of the car’s locks thunking shut. I felt relief at the familiarity of the policeman’s unyielding and irrational suspicion.

  “Yup—the Anarchist is actually a supernatural Dreamwatcher, like me. He’s responsible for stirring up the riots and murdering bankers in their sleep. He wants me to stop looking for Dana because somehow my search is interrupting his master plan, whatever that is. You got caught in the crossfire. I’m on my way to meet with some of the people that he’s trying to kill,” I said. I’d held back vital information from my wife for years, and it hadn’t done me any good—I was going to learn from my mistake.

  “Oh—well. That probably makes sense,” Badger replied. Neither of us spoke for a few moments as we sped down the A40. “In that case, if my memory serves me correctly, then I believe that I owe you thanks for saving my life.” The policeman reached into his pocket and pulled out a small square of documentation, offering it to me with a flourish. “I hope that this will give you a few more options.”

  I extended my hand and took the item. As we passed under a streetlight, I realized that Badger had somehow gotten ahold of my missing passport. My lips twisted into a smile. Maybe I wasn’t so alone.

  “Thank you, Jimmy,” I said, tucking the document into my pocket. He nodded and flipped on the lights as we cut through the late shopping traffic on the Westway. We made it to Bank with twenty minutes to spare.

  “Whoever is doing this is committing a serious crime. If you can find me this mystery man’s location, then I can get some lads in place to deal with him,” the detective pronounced, leaning out of the window as I stepped onto the curb. I nodded my head and started walking toward the building. A shiver ran up my spine as I noticed just how accurate the details had been in last night’s dream—only someone intimately familiar with the building could have pictured it with that level of precision.

  I glanced around with trepidation, causing sweat to break out on my back, and I took a deep, calming breath. I would have preferred to have been able to get in place a few hours ahead of time but, having overslept, I was happy just to be arriving on time. I hoped that this wasn’t a trap—I had accidentally lit their man on fire last night.

  As I weaved through a line of protestors, a young man with dreadlocks and ripped jeans tossed an egg at an older man entering the building. A few seconds later there were half a dozen cops piled up on top of him, and the crowd started to chant something about money being murder. I managed to slip through just moments before the police blocked the path to the entrance.

  As I crossed through the massive doors, I spotted the towering form of Jack Redderton squeezed into a leather chair and a bright-blue three-piece suit with a rose in the lapel. I was only a few steps in when he spotted me, gratefully hopped out of the chair, and strode across the room. “Jules, just let me lead, unless they ask you a question—”

  I interrupted him with a slash of my hand. “You keep acting like I’m some bumpkin who has no idea how to handle himself. I know that you’ve looked into my past, so you know that when it comes to the corporate world, I’m no amateur. It’s your cloak-and-dagger world that I’m lost in—but I’ve got this covered.” I’d decided on the way over that maybe the reason that things kept just happening to me was because I was being too passive, so I was going to assert myself to get back on the front foot. Jack gave me a blank look, but then he nodded as we collected visitor’s badges and headed over to the elevator.

  We were the only people going up, and after pressing the badge against a reader and pushing the button for the top floor, I went to stick it in my pocket—and realized there was an envelope in the pocket that hadn’t been there before. I froze.

  “Mr. Hightower was my contact for this client. I don’t know the gent we’re going to meet. Goes by the name of Dennis. This guy’s on a different level. A corner office in the Bank,” Jack said. I nodded in reply as the brass elevator doors dinged open to reveal a plushly appointed hallway, all oak and deep, crimson pile carpet. Jack stepped out in front of me, and I had just a moment to whip the mystifyingly materialized envelope out of my pocket. On the front, it read Briefing for Julian Adler in machine-printed Times New Roman. On the back, in looping letters, hastily scrawled with lipstick, was, “There is some ill a-brewing toward my rest, For I did dream of money-bags to-night—M.” My heart thumped at the cryptic words. Thanks, Mia.

  Stuffing the envelope quickly back into my pocket, I took a hopping step to catch up with Jack. The long hallway terminated in a massive reception desk. I would have expected it to be empty this late in the evening, but instead there was a generically good-looking blonde in her late thirties wearing a blue business suit, regarding us cheerily as we came into view.

  “You’re expected, gentlemen. Please go straight in,” she said with a smile. The heavy wooden door, a rich dark tropical hardwood that would probably get you thrown in jail for a year if you imported it nowadays, opened into a
darkened chamber. I wasn’t sure if I had ever been in a chamber before, but there was no better description of the space that we stepped into. The room was forty feet long and twenty wide, with three fireplaces that I could have stood up in, gilded, thirty-foot ceilings that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a palace, and a carpet that probably cost more than my house (you know—before insane cultists burned it down).

  Sitting in front of one of the bay windows, filling a hardback chair that was pulled up to a marble-topped side table, was a spare-fleshed, white-haired, birdlike man. As we approached, he took a sip of tea from eggshell-thin china, which he unhurriedly settled onto a porcelain saucer before turning piercing, robin’s-egg-blue eyes on us.

  “Tea, gentlemen?” Dennis’s voice was smooth and cultured as he indicated two other chairs at the table with him. I usually didn’t drink tea, but something told me that this wasn’t someone that you wanted to refuse in anything. Jack must have thought the same thing because he nodded simultaneously.

  “You may not be aware of this, but Alfred is the first of us to live through one of these…events. With our resources, we should have him as good as new in a couple of years. I’m very pleased with your results. We like to reward results and support those who get them. Mr. Adler, you’ll find that your home insurance claims have been processed, and by the time you get back to your apartment, the money will be in your account. That’s thanks for services rendered. What I’d like to discuss are further services and the…consideration for them.” The man spoke deliberately, his pauses giving the impression that he enjoyed the implied power of having your attention rather than giving any extended consideration. It was obvious that he had planned this whole discussion.