Dream Guy (30 page)

“Thank you, Joe Knightley. You’d better get back home. You don’t want to hang around much longer on Nemrud. It’s soooo boring.”

She turned and walked away, and Joe experienced an uneasy qualm at having unleashed Tyche on an unsuspecting London.

He got back to the mountain she had called Nemrud and did more sketches, hoping this would help him plan for his return home. Once it was clear that he was simply postponing the inevitable, he returned to the plinth where he had woken and lay there, his eyes closed, his mind ranging free.

Which of the fancy gentlemen at Eidolon’s Elizabethan home had been killed?

Before he knew it, he was standing over the boar he had killed. Blood spurted from its wounds and the dogs had fallen back. His horse had skittered away, and he could hear the drum of its hooves as it cantered into the distance. He stepped back too, then heard crashing in the undergrowth. Whether it was another beast or his fellow huntsmen, hanging about seemed unwise. There was a young horse chestnut tree nearby, its trunk forked at the sort of height that Joe could manage, and from there, he could climb higher into the boughs of one of the older trees in the forest. He swung himself upward and scrambled up first some five or six feet above the ground then a farther five or six feet upward into the shelter of an old oak shrouded in ivy. He pressed himself against the bark and hoped that no one would look skyward.

The arrogant young man appeared in the clearing. He dismounted and approached the boar. He looked for the beast’s killer but saw only the dogs. He reached for the horn buckled to his belt and lifted it to his lips, blowing three long bursts, his cheeks full and his face reddening from the exertion.

It was then that the other boar broke cover, emerging from a hollow where it had been lurking in the browned bracken, its small red eyes gleaming with bloodlust, trotters shredding the earth as it hurtled toward the young man. Joe watched in horror as the boar thudded into him, its tusks slashing at his belly and groin, its powerful shoulders shivering with exertion as the man screamed in agony. Its snout and pelt splashed with blood, it turned and galloped away. Joe slipped down from the tree and went to the young man, kneeling at his side.

“I’ll get help. I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be like this. She said that you were trying to dream it away but didn’t have time. I never imagined it this way. It’s all my fault, I shouldn’t have killed the first one.”

Blood was trickling from the man’s lips and his eyes were frantic. “Doesn’t matter. Last rule. Listen.” He tried to take a deep breath but that made him writhe in agony. He blew out and flecks of blood misted the air then settled on his skin. Joe wanted to run. He’d had enough of violent, messy death. But the man clutched at his arm and said, “Last rule. Next master must destroy Eidolon. He must be destroyed. Go. Go now, Eidolon is coming, and he will finish me. Go.”

Joe felt himself propelled away by a force emanating from the dying man until he was standing by a tree—then in the tree. As he was absorbed into its bark, Eidolon came running into the clearing.

“De Vere?” He stood over the dying man. “Lucifer and all his demons take you. You aren’t meant to die now!” He looked around and cursed Joe fluently while the man on the ground twitched and twisted in pain. Eidolon drew his sword and said, “Since it’s too late now, I suppose I should put you out of your misery.” Then he plunged the blade into the man’s belly again and again until there was no further sound or movement from the ragged, broken heap. Eidolon dropped to his knees beside the dead man. “I’ll find that boy, and when I do, I’ll make him mine and I shall be his master, no matter how you and all your kind try to thwart me.”

Taking up an attitude of prostrated grief, Eidolon composed himself as an artist might pose a model for a painting. Joe shrank away and sought the sanctuary of his room.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Dealing with Dolon

Joe did not wake again until morning, his body finally rebelling against the destruction it had seen that day. He was lying on his stomach when he woke, his booted feet dangling over the edge of the bed. He peeled off his clothes then threw himself under the covers for more sleep. Again he sank into dreamless oblivion.

When he woke properly, it was after midday. Ben was sitting at Joe’s desk in Joe’s chair, hunched over a pile of books on the drawing board. Joe lifted his head and checked out the rest of his room. His clothes were strewn around the floor. The carpet was in a heap at the foot of his bed, and there was paper everywhere. That was Ben’s, balled up and tossed aside as he’d struggled with his latest essay.

“How long have you been here?”

“Mum sent me up around ten. She doesn’t want you going downstairs in your usual Saturday morning state. The house is mobbed.”

“Who’s mobbing us?”

“You’re a tragic hero for all the red tops from the
Burton Enquirer
to the
Sun
and the
Mirror
. Boy cradles dying teenager as her lifeblood drains away. The police did warn us, but Mum hadn’t expected it to happen quite so quickly. They’ve got photographers with zoom lenses out there ready to capture the slightest sign of life at the front and the back of the house.” Ben’s tone was sour.

Joe levered himself upright and wandered through to the bathroom. Ben packed up his books and left, calling to their mother that Joe had shown signs of life, so could they have lunch now?

Liesel was sent up to accompany Joe directly to the kitchen without going into the front room or anywhere near the front door. She behaved like a burglar, sneaking down the stairs and shushing Joe if he made a step creak. They sat down to soup and toast. Mrs. Knightley broke the silence.

“I’ve emailed Dad. I don’t know if he’ll be able to get away, but of course, he had to know. I’m amazed the phone didn’t wake you, Joe. It’s been ringing off the hook all morning.”

“I couldn’t get to sleep at first, then those pills must have kicked in.”

“Oh yes.”

Silence fell as they sipped their soup. Cream of tomato, what Mum always made in times of sickness—only no one was really sick.

“What happens when we want to go out, Mum?” asked Joe.

“I don’t know. We’ve got plenty of food, and I can put in an order over the Internet for more on Monday or Tuesday. I’ll go to work, but I don’t want any of you at school for the moment. The police rang this morning. It was that woman who was with us last night. She’s been appointed as our liaison officer. She suggested issuing a statement through the police. I’ve drafted a couple of paragraphs, but maybe you want to add something. I don’t know. You can take a look after lunch, then I’ll email it to her if you think it’s okay.”

“Will that make any difference? They’re going to be camping out there for days.” Ben did not sound at all pleased at the prospect.

“Until the next big story comes along,” said Joe, “which will be in a couple of days’ time.”

“Bang goes the weekend.”

“Ben!” Mrs. Knightley rounded on her eldest son. “Someone died yesterday afternoon, someone you’ve known since she was a tiny kid and all you can think of is missing a date? I never thought you’d be so callous.”

“That’s not what I meant, Mum.”

“Isn’t it? It certainly sounded like it. Now eat your soup and focus on that essay. You might as well use your time productively.”

Once again, the Knightleys stopped talking. Joe stared into the soup as if it might reveal some great secret. He couldn’t swallow any more. He’d been able to deal with his own thoughts about Nell’s death because he knew he could recover her. But hearing Mum talk about her as a tiny kid took him back to the days when Nell had refused to come to school unless she was wearing her cowboy boots, the day when she’d squirted paint all over their first teacher, Mrs. Nelligan, who’d thought it was on purpose, and the day when Nell had biffed him with her Cry More Tears peeing dolly. Memories of Nell seeped and slithered through his mind, eclipsing everything else. When it occurred to him that there could be no more memories, he was overwhelmed by a sensation of nausea so powerful that before he could quell it, Joe was throwing up what tomato soup he had drunk. He had managed to get to the sink in time.

“Great. A weekend cooped up with Mr. Vomit.”

“Go to your room, Ben, and don’t come out until you can be civil.”

Ben squared up to his mother, but when it came to outstaring her, his eyes dropped, and he slunk off.

Mrs. Knightley went over and stroked Joe’s back as he rinsed out the sink and his mouth with cold water. “There, there.” She didn’t say it would be all right. Nothing could make anything all right at the moment. Even if they managed to get Charlie Meek locked up in a truly horrible juvenile detention center, Nell was gone.

Wrung out and shabby, Joe shambled over to the couch in front of the television. He switched it on and it was time for the news at one. Nell’s death was the second item after a car bomb in the Middle East, not a million miles away from where Dad was working. First they had a photo of Nell in her school uniform, giving a faint smile as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa and far prettier, then a series of shots of the bus stop, with blue-and-white police tape everywhere and a dark patch where she’d bled. After that, they announced the arrest of five minors and finally, they had some talking-head bloke pontificating on the evil youth of today and their hoodie-wearing culture of pointless and random violence.

“Where do they find these pompous gits? Boys have been going on the rampage since cavemen got together and decided it would be a good idea to mangle a mammoth.” Mrs. Knightley went over to the television. “Do you want to watch any more or can I turn off this drivel?”

“Turn it off, unless Liesel wants to watch something.”

Liesel
did
want to watch something—one of her interminable ballet videos. Joe went back upstairs and tidied his room. As he went through the mechanical process of picking up, folding, stowing, hanging, sorting and chucking, he thought about the Lamborghini. It had to be destroyed. There must be hundreds of ways to. It could be scrapped or crashed or sent over a cliff. But how was he going to get it to a scrapyard? Or out onto the road? To do any of those things, he needed to be able to drive. But how would he get out of the car in time for it to be destroyed? The whole car business had emphatically put him off any acquisitive longings. Whatever else he’d learned from this dream business, he grasped that wishing for things then getting them simply caused trouble, whether it was boring, besuited company men hassling his mother or crazed time travelers intent on destruction.

He’d been nursing the kernel of an idea for some days now, though. The only difficulty was that it required the house to be empty of Knightleys.

Once his room was tidy, Joe sat at his desk and began sketching. There was a knock, and his mother immediately put her head around the door.

“I’ve got that statement for you to check. Do you want to look at it now?”

Joe nodded and took the piece of paper his mother had printed. It sounded stilted and formulaic, but it would do. It would at least be some meat for the ravening hyenas sitting on their doorstep, and soon enough someone else would do something to draw them away from the Knightleys’ extremely dull comings and goings.

Although Liesel stuck to her mother, still unnerved by the attack and its aftermath, Ben and Joe preferred to spend their confinement in their own rooms. They met up for mealtimes, which were uncomfortable, although Ben had exchanged resentment for a complete suppression of his personality. This did not bother Joe, but Liesel, in her characteristically tactless fashion, was quick to pick up on why.

“You’re jealous of Joe. Normally you get all the attention, but all the exciting stuff has been happening to Joe. He got that car. Then there’s all these reporters saying he’s a hero.”

Their mother didn’t say anything, but she gave her eldest son an inquiring look and he blushed. He did settle down after that, and they all managed a reasonably amicable game of Monopoly after supper.

By Monday morning, the door steppers had faded away. There’d been a big coach crash involving local people and there was some corruption scandal emerging from the county town. Besides which it was clear that the Knightleys weren’t going to issue anything more than the bland statement they’d given over the weekend, and since the murderer and his accomplices had been picked up, there was no great mystery. After some negotiation, Mrs. Knightley agreed that Ben and Liesel could go to their dance classes as normal that Monday afternoon.

Joe had used the time in his room to draw a series of images. As soon as Liesel and Ben had left the house at half past three, he lay down and waited for sleep.

The doorbell rang. He went down to his parents’ room, which overlooked the street. There were no reporters around and an unfamiliar car was parked in the road, just in front of the house—a small hatchback, a real teacher’s car. Perhaps his plan was working. The bell rang again, this time for longer. He went downstairs and checked the peephole. It was Eidolon, dressed as the drama teacher, wearing a secondhand Harris tweed overcoat and a long, knitted scarf of maroon and gold. Joe opened the door.

“Good afternoon, Joe.”

“Hello.” Joe leaned against the frame of the door, not sure whether to let Eidolon in or to keep him waiting on the stoop.

“It was rude of you to run out on me like that, after I’d gone to so much trouble to get you into my dream.”

“I apologize.”

“How formal. Are you going to let me in? Or have I come at an inconvenient time?”

“I think you can probably say whatever you need to right here. I don’t imagine it will take long.”

“It might, actually. I was going to make a suggestion, but it is a little complicated. It would be more comfortable for us both if we could sit down and discuss it, perhaps over a nice cup of tea.”