Dream Guy (23 page)

Nell swung into view. “I have that, dickface? That’s your best line for Charlie?”

“I’m not at my best today. Do you know when Smokey came out of his coma?”

“Six-thirty. We can’t talk, McKechnie’s coming.”

* * * *

Nell did hang around for break. She’d noticed how stiff Joe was and when he explained about horse riding and boar fighting, she laughed.

“Yeah, right, you killed a boar. I would say ‘in your dreams’ but of course, that’s exactly where it happened.”

“Do you remember Smokey’s doctor?”

“Vaguely. Tallish guy, dark, a bit hot but with small eyes.”

“Hot? You think he’s hot? He’s a psychopath and he’s a trained executioner!” Joe couldn’t believe girls. Every male they met was instantly assessed for hotness. It was disappointing to discover that Nell was no different.

“I said a bit hot, which means not really hot at all, just the kind of guy other girls would think was hot.” She clocked the rest of his comment. “You’ve learned quite a bit in the last few hours.”

Joe nodded and winced as somebody jostled him, jolting his right arm. Nell pulled on his left hand and led him out of the canteen and into the big hall where students could mill around, provided they weren’t eating or drinking. She went to the stage and leaned against it. “So talk.”

Explaining about dreams within dreams made the whole night seem even more confusing and implausible. Annoyingly, Nell niggled at details, like what might have happened to Joe’s clothes and how he had not been able to wake his own family. But she fixed on the key issue like a heat-seeking missile.

“This Eidolon guy wants to get rid of you. He’s tracked you down because you’re the only other person in the world who can do this dream stuff. He wants to find out the source of your power. Then you’ll be expendable.”

Although Joe had thought this through without Nell’s assistance, it was somehow worse hearing her say it out loud. The only upside he could see was that it was better to know that he was the target of some crazed sociopath than just carrying on as normal only to be ambushed and cut off without a chance to fight back. Well, better in the same way that it was better to have a greenstick fracture than a compound fracture—or to have kidneys for supper rather than liver. Better in a not good way at all.

The bell went and so did Nell, picking up her book bag and giving him a careless wave. It was fine for her to be casual. She wasn’t the one with Charlie Meek and a vindictive thousand-year-old man on his trail. The germ of an idea crossed his mind. He couldn’t yet see how to get it to work, but it was swilling around there, along with the rest of the sludge that passed for his brain.

Joe coasted through the rest of the day. He felt inert but this didn’t seem to register with anyone apart from Crosbie, who came up to him in art and asked why he wasn’t as enthusiastic as usual.

“What’s this dead fish act? I’ve seen haddock at the supermarket looking livelier than you. Where’s the grand sweep? Where’s the vision? We’re looking at Fauvism here, not Elizabethan miniatures. Go wild, Joe. Go wild in the country.”

Perhaps he was trying to be funny, but it was just irritating, although better than being a boar’s public enemy number one. Joe tried the sweep thing, but it hurt too much. He tried working with his left hand. Although it was messy, it was certainly big. It struck him as kindergarten stuff, two curving hillsides, a couple of trees and lying beneath them, a wobbly, indistinct figure. Crosbie came over again.

“That’s the stuff. Much better. Once you get a bit of color in there, it’ll be fantastic.”

Unconvinced, Joe continued left-handed. On his way home, he decided to visit his favorite shop. It would still be open for another hour or more, plenty of time for a good browse. He got off the school bus a couple of stops early and waited for another bus to take him into town. As the bus rumbled through the streets, he looked into the windows where lights blazed and lives continued, catching glimpses of a girl at a desk, a man pumping iron, a woman feeding a toddler and countless souls curled up on sofas as the glare from their TVs flickered about their rooms, a miniature aurora borealis in every home.

Titan was tucked away a couple of streets behind the main shopping streets of the town. It was owned by a silent man who sat at the back of the shop, constantly on his computer or talking in a low voice over the phone. The place was actually run by two students who spent more time in the shop than at their lectures. Tom was chatty and enthusiastic while Zach was world-weary and always knew of something better than the comic that his customer was currently buying. “That’s fine, but there’s a really great Alan Moore coming our way in a couple of months that’ll blow this out of the water.”

Joe had first come to Titan with his dad as a kid of eight or nine, but now he dropped in every couple of weeks to check out what was new. The shop did most of its business online, but there were people who made their pilgrimage to the shop, driving four or five hours to spend a precious afternoon in the cramped, airless place, most of it in the basement where the used comics were on display.

Tom was on duty when Joe walked into the shop. They chatted briefly then Joe went to his favorite corner and sat down with a stack of fresh stuff. He didn’t read for the story anymore, but spent most of his time working out the perspective, noting any tricky maneuvers between frames, checking out the range of colors and tones that were being used. He would sometimes make notes, but mostly, he’d just indulge his eye and absorb the images.

After a while, Tom came over with a slender book. “Just in from Brussels. Zach put it aside and told me to show you if you came in.”

The book had a black cover with silver-white lettering and an almost invisible silhouette of a face only distinguishable because it was printed in matte format on the gloss board. It was called
Dream Master
and had no credited author or artist.

Inside, the drawings reminded Joe of a Belgian cartoonist whom his dad loved, Edgar Jacobs, whose heroes, Blake and Mortimer, were two bluff Britons of the old school. Joe had liked the pictures well enough, but he’d found the text too wordy and didn’t know enough French to read them easily. But here there were scarcely any words at all, and the drawings freaked Joe out.

The first one looked familiar enough. It was a long shot of a school. Then there was a drawing of a classroom with a projector and desks of uninterested children, one of whom was asleep, his cheek pressed against the wall, great ZZZZs emerging in thought bubbles. And in the next frame, the other students had the heads of fish and were gaping and gasping for air as the teacher reached for a great stop-cock and a gush of water flowed into the room.

There were the Lamborghini, the Learjet and the carpet. There was Eidolon. Every dream that Joe had had in the past ten days was lovingly reproduced in line and color wash. The final frame showed Joe curled up against the horse beside the hut in the middle of nowhere. The rest of the book was blank.

He took it over to the cash desk. “Do you know where Zach got this?”

Tom shook his head and asked if Joe wanted to buy it.

His first impulse was to hand it back and forget about it. “How much is it?”

“Dunno. Isn’t there a price on it?”

There was nothing, not even a barcode. Tom took it to Titan’s owner. “Here, Al. This one’s got no price tag.” He passed the book to his boss.

The guy, in his thirties with a bald head and a stripe of a beard running in a slender line down the center of his chin, picked up the book and turned it over, flicked through it then came to the desk and examined Joe head to toe. It was the first time in seven years that Joe had ever heard him speak.

“It’s yours, if you want it. No charge.” He held out the book. “Be careful how you use it is all.”

“Use it?”

“Yeah. I’ve heard of one other book like this. Bloke in America. He went a bit wild with it. Didn’t make the grade. Had it taken away from him. Ended up a bit…well, dead, really. So be careful.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“No need to thank me. I’m just the messenger.” Al went back to his desk, and Joe stood there, lemon-like, the book in his hands until Tom said, “Is that all then?”

Joe nodded, packed the book away carefully into his bag and left the shop.

Chapter Nineteen

Zahid

Preoccupied with what he’d learned in Titan, Joe ambled along without really noticing where he was going or what he was doing. It wasn’t until he came to a crossroads that he realized he’d taken the summer route away from Titan. The summer route took him through the backstreets of the town and down a couple of alleyways that it was better to avoid unless it was daylight. And sure enough, in the second alleyway, he heard first a grunt then a moan and the smack of a fist and a lot of heavy breathing. As he stood there, frozen, torn between running away or running toward the trouble, one of the assailants looked up. It was Kevin, one of Charlie Meek’s brain-dead chums. Kevin hollered.

Afterward, Joe did not know why he’d done it, especially since he couldn’t do it very fast, but when Kevin yelled, Joe yelled back, lifted his backpack up and started swinging it around his head like a mace and began running at the clump of boys standing around their victim. They all looked up with gormless, gaping mouths. Then as Joe bore down upon them, they fled.

They left behind them a huddled fetal thing that gradually unfurled and tested its limbs before standing up and checking the blood that was still bubbling from its nostrils and the side of its mouth. Joe looked up in shock.

“Zahid, what the hell are you doing here?”

Ben’s boyfriend did not initially reply, still dazed from the attack. He started searching his pockets and mumbled, “Tissues?”

Joe fumbled in his backpack and found one of the mini-packets that Mrs. Knightley always tucked in their bags every morning. He handed it to Zahid, who took one out and held it against his lip and nose. When he’d staunched the blood flow, he removed the tissue and said, “Thanks.”

They heard footsteps. They looked down the alley.

There was Charlie Meek, returning. Joe did not stop to think, just grabbed Zahid and yanked him back down in the direction he’d first come. Charlie followed them, and the sound of footsteps behind them multiplied.

“It’s only Joe Knightley. We can handle them both. Two for the price of one. Come on.” Charlie’s gang was revved and followed him with yells of anticipation.

Joe and Zahid were both slow and in pain. The footsteps were getting closer. They turned down a side street and around a corner. Joe doubled over, caught his breath and looked up. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” It was the loading bay for the local furniture shop—a dead end.

He pulled Zahid into the darkest corner of the loading bay. They waited. The slap of footsteps faded then paused. Joe could almost see Charlie turning and looking about him, realizing that his prey was still within reach.

Joe had no alternative. He shut his eyes and slowed his breathing, and in the distance heard Zahid muttering about picking this moment for a quick kip.

They were lying in a tangle in an airless room with a tiny window set high in the wall. Beneath them was a kilim. There was a desk and a high stool. On the stool sat Karabashi.

“Is this a long stay or are you just passing through?”

“We’re on our way,” replied Joe. “You know Eidolon’s been here? He had that big bowl you were all freaking about on a table at his home. He’s in your time—or he was.”

And he closed his eyes again and summoned up an image of his own room. Once he’d opened his eyes and found himself still clutching Zahid, but in his room, Joe relaxed. Zahid did not. He stood up, clearly in pain then hobbled into the shower room. Joe heard water running. Then Zahid was leaning against the frame of the door, his arms crossed, his eyes narrow with suspicion. “So what the fuck was that all about?”

“If you promise not to tell anyone, I’ll explain.”

“Not even Ben?” Joe grimaced as a response, so Zahid muttered a grudging, “I promise.”

“I can make dreams actually happen. If I dream, it comes true. I can sort of control it, but to do it, I have to go to sleep.”

“You’re telling me that you dreamed us out of a beating.”

Joe nodded. Zahid couldn’t entirely control his eyebrows, which revealed his disbelief. “I suppose I have to believe it, since you took me with you.” He paused. “Thanks for getting me the hell out of there. They were ready to mince me.”

“No problem.” Which was facile, but the easiest thing to say. Joe wasn’t wild about having saved Ben’s boyfriend from a walloping.

“Does Ben know anything about this sleep thing?”

“No. I don’t think so. He knows something weird is going on, but I’d appreciate it if you keep your promise and don’t mention it to him.”

“Is he in? It’s going to be a bit tricky explaining what I’ve been doing in your room if he’s around.”

“He shouldn’t be. It’s dance class for him and Liesel. Do you want to wait downstairs? You shouldn’t go home on your own.”

Zahid looked a little better now that he’d rinsed his face, but his lower lip was puffing up. Bruises were beginning to emerge around his left eye and cheekbone, and there was blood on his shirt.

“Would you mind calling me a taxi? My parents are expecting me. I’ll just tell them that I was mugged then a good Samaritan came and put me in a cab. Don’t mention anything to Ben. I’ll call him later.”

Once Zahid had left, Joe went through to his mother’s bathroom. He ran the water and squirted in bath foam. As he lay in the tub, he remembered the book and the questions hurtled at him. Who was the Dream Master? How did the book work? Would the two swift dreams he’d engineered appear in it now? Was there a book full of Eidolon’s dreams?

It did occur to Joe to wonder why Charlie Meek had gone for Zahid, but before he could wrestle with that, he heard the key in the door and the clatter of people coming in. He registered Ben’s voice, calm and low, then Liesel’s higher-pitched squeak. He could also hear his mother’s voice. She must have picked them up. She did occasionally, especially if Liesel’s teacher was ready to run a mini-display of some routine.