Dreamhunter (22 page)

Plasir said, ‘Was there something he didn’t have, that he badly wanted?’ The way he asked it, he seemed almost gentle. Again he waited, but Laura said nothing.

‘When it was first suggested that uncooperative convicts might respond well to the threat of nightmares, Tziga and I were already under contract to the Department of Corrections. He was already selling his inspirations to the prisons, and I was selling my rewards. We both had an affinity with nightmares — but for some reason he could find many more than I. More and worse. But, as I say, we were both under contract, so it was suggested that I go to Tziga and offer him an inducement — a very strong inducement — to help him get over his misgivings about the scheme.’

Rose jumped to her feet. She yelled at Plasir, ‘Don’t tell her!’

Plasir glanced at Rose, and shook his head. ‘You’re a clever girl,’ he said, then, to Laura, ‘Do you know that your father and I were once friends? I knew him before he became socially ambitious. Before his eyes lit on those beautiful Tiebolds. In fact, I was with him when he first saw Verity Tiebold. I watched her too, and spoke to her. She made a strong impression on me — too.’ He watched Laura, he looked sad. ‘Do you see?’ he said. ‘I had
several
dreams that worked. The one he liked best was Stately Lady.’

‘That’s enough,’ Rose said. She put out a hand to her cousin, then withdrew it again, apparently afraid.

Laura felt surprisingly alert — but not agitated. Had Plasir’s words injured her? She wasn’t sure. If there was pain it was coming slowly, raining on her, changing her temperature. She said to Plasir, ‘You gave him back my mother. And, for that, he agreed to sell nightmares. The Department of Corrections paid you both for this work. That’s it. That’s all of it.’

‘What were you expecting, Laura? A criminal conspiracy?’ Plasir said. ‘I think you will find that the public supports the penal system
as it is
. The public knows what goes on. They may not want to be bothered with the details, but they know. The general public isn’t fond of details. They know that this is a civilised nation, where no one is tortured, or lives in squalor. That’s all they want to know. There’s no
scandal here, Laura. No crime. If you made a fuss, your father’s reputation might suffer, that’s all. As it is people regard him as a kind of saint — a scary saint, one who came out of the invisible realm carrying beautiful visions.’

Laura found herself trying to work out, quite cool-headed, if Maze Plasir hated her father or not. She said, ‘There’s nothing to be done then?’ She said that, but she thought
When you’re ready, catch the dreadful dream
and
Your Aunt Marta knows The Measures
. She thought of her father’s instructions, and his story about the song St Lazarus heard in the tomb. Then she asked Plasir if he had ever seen the convicts
in dreams
?

He looked surprised. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Have you? What are they doing, these convicts?’

‘They’re waiting to be seen. They’re waiting to be heard,’ Laura said. She got to her feet. ‘Thank you for talking to me,’ she said. She put her arm around Rose’s waist.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Rose, ‘let’s go.’

But Laura had one more question. She asked Plasir whether he still took his rewards to the prisons.

‘I’m still under contract. My business alone won’t support me. My parlour is very exclusive, at most I perform for five clients a night. They pay very well. But even five wealthy customers a night will not keep me in style.’

Plasir was making excuses, Laura thought. He was saying ‘needs must’. But
he
knew what he was doing was wrong — whether the public cared or not.

‘Please, Laura. I want to leave,’ Rose said.

‘We’ll let ourselves out,’ Laura said, as if this were an ordinary visit, as if Plasir had politely stood up to see them out, as good hosts do when their guests get to their feet. Laura led Rose from the room, and from the house.

Marta Hame, the retired director of the choir of St Lazarus, and sister of the dreamhunter Tziga Hame, lived in a large timber house a half-hour walk from a railway station twenty miles south of Founderston. The house was surrounded by orchards that belonged to it, but were worked by a neighbouring farmer. The retired choirmistress was still several months short of her fortieth birthday, but dressed like an elderly widow, in black from neck to ankle, her only adornment a small gold crucifix. Marta Hame was a very religious woman and, despite her retreat to the country, she was still involved in church work. She was on the boards of several church charities and was known to be a close confidante of the Grand Patriarch himself. The local postman could testify to this — for letters were exchanged, often daily, between the Palace at the Temple, and the house in the apple orchard.

The postman was waiting for the train that came through at eight in the morning. The eight o’clock train came and stopped, didn’t just snatch the mailbag in passing from the hook-topped pole beside the track.

Four passengers got off this train. A farmer jumped down from the steps of a third-class carriage and his wife handed down their baskets, then herself. Another man stepped down from the second-class carriage on to a box the conductor placed for him — this man was a travelling salesman with a sample bag. The passenger who climbed down from first class on to the platform wore a beautiful camelhair coat. He was tall and had gold hair and, for a moment, the excited postman imagined he was witnessing one of the Grand Patriarch’s rare visits to his friend. But the Grand Patriarch generally arrived by car, and with some followers, and this man wasn’t even carrying luggage. Besides, as the man approached, the postman saw he was too young to be the Grand Patriarch. Too young and clean-shaven, and unaccompanied — but very like His Reverence, Erasmus Tiebold.
Of course!
the curious postman thought to himself. Then, as an experiment, he said to the man, ‘
Good morning
, Mr Tiebold.’

CHORLEY SAID GOOD
morning to the postman, slightly annoyed that he’d been recognised. This was silly of him, really. How many other men of fashion got off at this country station? Chorley had never learnt to be inconspicuous, to dress modestly, to travel cheaply. He
hadn’t managed to do those things even when — as a young man — he couldn’t afford to do otherwise.

Chorley left the railway station and tramped on up the road. The postman rode past, and peered at him. The bike’s front wheel wobbled, then the bike tipped in a rut, dumping the postman on to the road beside Chorley.

Chorley helped the man to his feet. He picked the bicycle up. Its chain had come off.

‘Thank you,’ said the postman.

Chorley retrieved the mailbag. It was dripping mud. He held it out to the postman, who said again, ‘Thank you, Mr Tiebold.’

‘Do you have any mail today for Marta Hame?’ Chorley asked.

The postman explained that he hadn’t sorted the letters yet. He usually sorted the mail at the station but —

But today he was in a hurry to see where I was going,
thought Chorley. ‘— and sometimes I sort the mail
at
Miss Hame’s. I have a cup of tea with her. She’s a friend.’

‘I see,’ said Chorley. ‘I only meant to offer to carry Miss Hame’s letters — if you have any for her. To spare you the trip, since you’ve torn your trousers.’

The rip was in the worst possible place. The postman found it, blushed and went knock-kneed in an effort to conceal it. He explained that a third of the mail was usually
for
Miss Hame anyway.

Chorley gestured at the torn trousers. ‘That — and the broken chain on your bike — need immediate
attention.’ He looked about at the railway line and the farmland, then back at the postman. ‘What
will
you do?’

The postman answered with dignity, ‘I will make my way slowly up to Miss Hame’s and seek assistance there.’

Chorley put out his hand for the mailbag.

The postman clutched it to him. ‘
With
the mailbag,’ he said. ‘It’s my responsibility.’

Chorley shrugged, tipped the man a salute and strode on up the hill.

CHORLEY RECOGNISED
the house from Tziga’s description — a description given offhand, but so detailed and interesting that Chorley had felt the question he had asked was being answered:
Why do you spend so much time there when Laura’s here?
(Chorley
had
meant, ‘When we are
all
here,’ but didn’t want to make any demands on his own behalf.) ‘It’s very peaceful,’ Tziga had explained. ‘And there’s no other place near it.’ Tziga had described Marta’s house — and his description was an explanation. He’d explained everything — without burdening Chorley with the truth. For, as Chorley stood where Marta Hame’s driveway turned off the road up to the house, he knew he was looking at the place where his brother-in-law had hidden with the tired fragments of the final days of each of his terrible nightmares.

Marta Hame’s house was handsome, but it looked haunted.

As he crossed its yard Chorley heard singing, a light, low voice singing not a melody, but a complex,
modulated chant. The singing was accompanied by the sound of a stick thumping on a wooden floor. Marta was giving a lesson.

It’s only a lesson
, Chorley thought, though the chant seemed to pull him about inside. It made him feel queasy.

When he knocked at the door the singing stopped, and a dog began to bark. Chorley heard the bark coming closer as the dog raced to the door. He heard its nails skittering in the hall, and then Marta hushing it.

Marta opened the door. She was clutching her woolly-coated boyar by his collar. She hauled him back out of Chorley’s way. She looked stern — at the dog — and amazed to see Chorley. ‘I’ll put him out,’ she said. She shuffled around him, pushing the dog out with her legs. She closed the door on her dog, who barked briefly, then whined a little, then yawned while still whining, then fell silent and trotted off into the yard.

‘Can I take your coat?’ Marta said. She was a short, broad woman with her grey and black hair wound into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. She had Tziga’s deep-set, dark-circled, black eyes.

Chorley gave her his coat and followed her into the nearest room, a sunny front room, with a piano, and a cello leaning on a chair, and with
Laura —
Laura was there.

Chorley asked his niece just
when
she had planned to tell him and Grace where she was. ‘You told us you would be sleeping at Pike Street, dreaming with the
resident dreamhunters, but we had hoped you might come
home
during the day.’

Laura got a stubborn, defensive look. ‘I spent two of those days with Rose. Didn’t she mention it?’

‘No,’ Chorley said.

‘But perhaps you haven’t
seen
Rose,’ said Laura, with transparent false nonchalance. ‘But that’s all right, I guess, since you always know where she is — where you’ve
left
her.’

‘Please do not speak to your uncle like that,’ Marta said. She was standing in the bay window, facing the yard. She said, ‘Laura, would you please go out and rescue the postman from Downright?’

There was barking outside. Laura went out to deal with the dog, and Chorley joined Marta at the window. He saw Laura running towards the postman, who had put his broken bike between himself and Downright’s doggy enthusiasm. Chorley looked at Marta. He caught her eye. ‘I knew I hadn’t long before the postman descended on us with his broken chain and torn trousers.’

‘What
on earth
did you do to him?’ Marta said.

Chorley lost his temper. Laura’s criticism had stung him and he wasn’t going to take a telling-off from Tziga’s sister. ‘Why would you imagine I’ve done something to the man?’ he said. ‘What do you think I am?’

‘A Tiebold,’ Marta said, coldly. She turned away. Her profile looked like a portrait on a medal, cold and minted. ‘Your sister tormented my brother,’ Marta said.

‘What are you talking about? Verity loved Tziga!’

‘She tormented him for years before she would marry him,’ Marta finished her sentence.

‘She was
afraid
of him!’ Chorley shouted.

Marta flinched. She stared at Chorley, her eyes wide, while he glared back at her.

Then, all at once, Chorley saw how hopeless it was, his having come here to
beg
Marta to cooperate with him and Grace in organising the memorial service for her brother. There was too much between them — too much made of too little. Years of neglect on his side. He had taken her brother — one of only two surviving relatives, counting Laura — and made him part of
his
tribe, the Tiebolds. He hadn’t discouraged Laura from regarding Marta as her ‘dull auntie’. He hadn’t invited Marta to family celebrations — and neither had Tziga, but then Tziga would
never
remember to host family celebrations anyway. If Chorley ever remembered Marta and felt uncomfortable, he would remind himself that Marta had her church and choir. Marta was respectable. (That was another thing Laura had always called her, mockingly — ‘My
respectable
aunt’.) Grace and Tziga hunted dreams and wore themselves thin, while Chorley stayed at home with the girls and was
loved
. He was the one who got the love. He had been neglectful and disrespectful and he didn’t deserve Marta’s help. And he
did
deserve to have Laura answer back when he started his ineffectual nagging.

Chorley folded, he slumped down on the window seat, bent over with his face in his hands. He said,
‘Please, please, for God’s sake, let us hold this service. Help us do it.’

Marta put her hand on his shoulder. She said, ‘Chorley Tiebold, you don’t believe in God.’

‘But
you
do,’ said Chorley, muffled. Then he jumped up from under her hand and went across the room to lean on the fireplace. He gripped the mantelpiece with both hands, but couldn’t prevent his shoulders from shaking. ‘The only reason you won’t help us bury Tziga is that you think he’s still alive,’ Chorley said. His words were strangled, but audible. He listened to Marta’s silence and supposed she hadn’t heard him. But then she asked, ‘Why would that thought upset you?’

Chorley heard her footfalls, she came close to him. He tried to get a grip on himself. ‘If Tziga was alive, why wouldn’t he let his daughter know?’ Chorley said.

‘Or
you
,’ Marta added.

He hadn’t said it. He’d kept his mouth tightly shut.

‘You — his best friend,’ Marta said, rubbing it in.

Chorley dropped his head till it pressed into the jutting shelf of the mantelpiece.

‘Do you think Tziga’s dead?’ Marta said.

‘I don’t know what I think. What I think changes every hour. But I know it’s wrong to let Laura go on hopelessly hoping.’

Chorley heard her move closer, then her voice at his shoulder. ‘
Think
,’ she said. ‘Think why you’re so determined to hold a memorial service.’

‘I want it settled somehow for Laura,’ Chorley said. ‘For all of us. And Tziga was a great man. A public figure …’

Marta interrupted him. ‘
No —
I mean, why do you want to be
seen
holding a service?’

Grace and he had agreed, months ago, that it was vital to have some public show of their belief in the official story of Tziga’s fatal disappearance. Grace had said, ‘If
they —
whoever they are — imagine that we think they’ve
lied
to us then they’ll never relax enough for us to learn anything. A memorial service will, perhaps, make them drop their guard. Besides, I’m scared that, if we don’t somehow discourage her, Laura is going to go looking for him days In from Doorhandle. She isn’t strong or experienced enough to do that.’

Chorley wiped his eyes on his sleeve and faced Marta. ‘So — you won’t go along with our plans for a memorial service, even for the sake of appearances?’

‘I’m a religious woman; I never pray for the sake of appearances,’ Marta said. ‘And — who knows —
I
might be holding out a foolish hope.’ She shrugged.

Chorley stared at her for a long moment, then said,

‘Where is he?’

The question hung between them in the quiet, plain, sunlit room. Marta put out a hand, a shy hand, but one without the slightest tremor, and laid it on Chorley’s. ‘Listen,’ she said. Her hand was warm. ‘I’d like you to go out and help the poor postman restore the chain to his bicycle. Now, don’t protest, I know you’re a mechanically minded man, Chorley Tiebold. While you
do that I’ll write a letter for you to carry to my friend. He will tell you what to do.’

CHORLEY SAT ON
the steps and restored the chain to the bike. He got some grease on his trousers. The postman sat in a cane chair, at a wicker table, sorting the mail. Every so often he would look expectantly along the veranda. He clearly hoped tea would appear. Downright the dog sat at his feet, sighing.

Laura came and sat near Chorley. He asked her whether Aunt Marta was giving her singing lessons. Despite her impressive piano playing Laura had never shown much interest in learning to sing.

‘I wanted to learn some more of the old songs,’ Laura said. And then she sang one of the Tailor’s, a short song:

‘That wasn’t what you were singing when I arrived,’ Chorley said. ‘It was something older. Something foreign.’

‘It’s in
koine
, demotic Greek, with some additional Cabbalist-type words. It’s a song they say St Lazarus heard in the tomb.’

‘Sing it,’ Chorley said.

Laura got up and backed off from the steps till she stood in the centre of the yard. She clasped her hands, as if it was important that each hand held the other still. She began to sing. She was still practising the chant — that much Chorley could hear, because her voice faltered sometimes. The chant was made of complex, shifting tonal patterns, of strings of words that didn’t sound like sentences, because each word sounded like a
new
word, as if no word was used twice, as if the language of the song had no use for ‘and’ and ‘to’ and ‘it’. Laura scowled in concentration. Chorley even saw sweat start on her face, swelling beads of it, big enough to tremble as a breeze got up. For, as she sang a wind did get up and sweep around the yard, around and around, till it had raised a little dust devil which danced for a moment about Laura. At the same moment that Laura lost her place in the chant and broke off with a coughing sob, the dust devil collapsed and vanished. ‘Damn it,’ she said, panting.