Night Shade (26 page)

‘And you’re Zoe.’ He eyes sweep over me. ‘I can see why he likes you.’

I stiffen slightly. ‘I’m a dreamweaver. It’s pretty clear why.’

His grin widens. ‘If you say so.’

‘Is the man in question around?’ I ask casually.

Rob shakes his head. ‘It’s a bit early for him. Though I’d say that he’s certainly made himself a lot more visible since you showed up.’

I shrug. Dante’s absence will make life less complicated. ‘Well,’ I say airily, ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Are you up to something, Dreamweaver?’

It’s on the tip of my tongue to blurt out everything. After all, he told Dante to go up against the Mayor. But I don’t know if I can trust him. To be perfectly honest, I’m getting damned irritated at the lack of people I can trust around here.

Rob doffs his hat. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep a lady back from important business.’

I scan his face, wondering whether he has any inkling what I’m up to. He smiles at me innocently, so I grunt farewell. I have bigger fish to fry.

My next movements are the most dangerous. I can’t afford to get caught – or seen – by any of the Mayor’s people at this point, whether they’re his goons or the people who naively believe that he’s the best thing since sliced bread. Therefore, when I emerge into the town, I don’t even wait for my eyes to adjust to the sunlight before I dash to my left and behind the nearest building. I sidle round it, blinking, and peer into the street. There are still too many passers-by. Pulling my head in, I try to think. What would Ninja Zoe do?

Ten seconds later, I’m shimmying up the drainpipe. When I reach the roof, I press myself flat against the thatch. It’s bloody itchy but I ignore the discomfort and peek over the edge, sighing with relief that no one is glancing up in my direction. I duck my head down. There are enough buildings between here and the castle; I can do this.

It’s slow going but I slide from roof to roof, ensuring that I stick to the houses on the outskirts of the town so there’s less chance of someone looking up and spotting me. The only tricky part is when I’m forced to leap from one roof to the next because of an unusually large gap and I almost lose my footing. I’m able to dig my fingernails into the thatch to avoid falling to the ground. All the same, by the time I get back to the cottage where the mares were imprisoned, I’m panting. When I get out of this –
if
I get out of this – I’m going to join a bloody gym.

There’s no sign of a guard in front. I’m relieved; that means the Mayor hasn’t had time to trap any new mares. I move towards the back and work my toes into the roof. When I have enough grip, I swing down so I’m hanging headfirst down the wall. My fingers scrabble around until I find the gap where I hid Bron’s knife. I have to prise out the stone so I can free it from this side, and I cut myself as I grip the blade. I slide it into my back pocket, pull myself back upright and suck the drops of blood from my fingers; then I go back to the roof in front of the castle forecourt.

There are still too many people around although, as Esme said, no one seems interested in going inside the castle. Few Travellers even bother looking at it. I suppose there’s something creepy about all those unconscious bodies lying inside. If nothing else, however, it’ll make it easier for me to get inside.

I slide down until my feet are back on solid ground. There’s a group of chattering women heading my way so I hold my breath until they’ve rounded the corner then I make a run for it. Their backs are turned to me so they won’t see me and they’ll block me from anyone else’s view. I sprint across the cobbles and under the ornate portcullis.

Now that I’m inside, I breathe a little easier. I retrace my steps until I find the massive room where Esme had taken me. I drop Bron’s knife in plain sight before entering. The room is as dark and gloomy as it was before. My shoulders and neck are stiff with tension. I can only hope this bloody works.

I tiptoe forward, even though trying to be quiet now is unnecessary. I want to select the best possible candidate for my trial run – the one who is most likely to be stirred – so I edge over to the far corner and the sleeping figure whom Esme called Bob. I gaze down at him for a moment; he’s in his fifties and, somewhat disturbingly, only has one arm. I wonder whether it was the same accident that took his limb and placed him here. A wave of sorrow hits me; I should be thanking my lucky stars that I’m not one of these unfortunate souls, instead of complaining about my lot.

I kneel down at Bob’s side and smooth his brow. I have no idea whether this will work or not but I’m a dreamweaver and I’m supposed to have control. And this is Sleeping Beauty’s castle, as Esme pointed out.

I wet my lips. It occurs to me that might look creepy so I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve. ‘Sorry, Bob,’ I mutter. ‘I’ve never done this before. With a complete stranger, I mean.’

Bob, naturally, doesn’t respond. I take a deep breath and lean over until my face is hovering over his. Lips? Or can I get away with the forehead? It’s hardly true love’s kiss – and I’m desperately hoping that doesn’t make a difference – so I aim for his brow. I pucker up and press my mouth against it.

‘Wake up, Bob,’ I whisper. ‘Wake up.’ I pull back and watch him. He doesn’t stir. I stare at his face, willing his eyes to open or his body to disappear, something to show that he’s coming out of his coma.

I’m so disappointed when nothing happens. I knew it was a long shot but it would have made my plan more likely to work. I shake my head; this dreamweaver nonsense isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I’m about to leave when there’s a sudden groan. I freeze. ‘Bob?’ I ask, hope stirring deep inside me.

His eyelids flutter open and he gazes at me, confused. Then there’s a noise like a crack of thunder. A heartbeat later, Bob has gone. I stare at the space he just vacated, I even get back down on my hands and knees on the off-chance that he’s still there but now invisible – but he’s definitely left the building. I fist-pump the air and let out a screech of joy.

‘You go, Bob!’ I yell. ‘You go!’ I dance round in a twisted version of an Irish jig. It worked! It bloody worked! I’m no longer Ninja Zoe; I’m now Prince Charming.

Aware that I’m wasting time, I calm down and get to work, kissing everyone in the place. Not all of them see me before they go; sometimes they just vanish but one or two speak to me. The little girl who Esme called Pixie stares at me with huge blue eyes and asks, ‘Are you an angel?’ Before I can answer her, she too is gone.

It takes some time to get round everyone. Obviously not every unconscious person in the world is here – but there are still plenty of comatose bodies. I guess that the ones who come here are close to being Travellers but maybe they don’t believe enough, which is why they don’t wake up like Esme. Or maybe it depends on what brain activity they still have. It doesn’t really matter. There are going to be a lot of very happy families today. Even if things don’t work out for me, I’ve achieved that much at least.

Insomnia is a vertiginous lucidity that can convert paradise itself into a place of torture.

Emil Cloran

I
t’s frustrating to have to return to the real world. Not long after I happily survey the now empty room in the castle, I’m being shaken awake. I feel groggy and oddly drained.

‘You don’t look much better than when you arrived,’ Rawlins comments. ‘Are these slow-acting pills that you’ve taken?’

I groan and rub my forehead. ‘A coffee and a full English might help me come round.’

She raises her eyebrows. ‘Well, you’re certainly not the shrinking violet you used to be. Come on, Ms Lydon. We need to talk.’

I struggle to my feet. ‘We spend so much time together these days,’ I say. ‘You can call me Zoe.’

I receive a sidelong glance in return. I’m sure she’s biting her tongue to stop herself from saying anything more. She is, however, the ultimate professional.

‘So, Ms Lydon,’ she says once we’re both back in the interrogation room with Brown. ‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’

I’m rather nervous about this. I check the clock; the police can only detain me without charge for twelve hours, unless they request an extension. Considering the three-hour nap I’ve had, there’s not much time left so they’re not likely to let me sleep again. But I can’t go free because the Mayor is lurking around. I take a deep breath. My only chance is to delay.

‘I’ve always been a difficult child,’ I start.

Rawlins rolls her eyes. ‘We don’t need an autobiography. Tell me how you first met Dean Salib and Thomas Miller.’

I give her a steely stare. ‘I’m getting to it. Do you want to hear this or not? I’ve already confessed, you know. You could just charge me.’

I get the feeling her fingers are itching to strangle me. Instead she smiles, although there’s no humour in her eyes. ‘Go on then. You were a difficult child?’

‘I was a difficult child. You could ask my mother – except she’s gone off on holiday. She got a last-minute deal this morning for Malaga.’

‘Funny that.’

I cock my head and look innocent. ‘Is it?’

‘Just get to the point.’

I don’t. I talk for over an hour, which is quite an achievement for me. I go into detail about my night terrors, about the anger I felt towards my teacher when I was seven for awarding Becky Kinsley a star for her homework when mine was better. Brown gets more and more puzzled and Rawlins gets more and more annoyed. Every time she snaps a question at me to bring me back on topic, I swing things round again. I prevaricate and ramble in a way that an MP would be proud of. I’m rather impressed with myself but I’m the only person in the room who feels that way.

‘You are skating on thin ice. Why did you kill them?’

‘But you said you wanted me to start at the beginning... Don’t you want to understand my motives?’

Brown clears his throat. ‘Uh, Zoe, perhaps we could have a word in private?’

Excellent. More time-wasting. I beam at the solicitor. ‘Sure.’

Rawlins sighs. The second she leaves the room, Brown’s bland expression changes.  ‘What are you up to?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘It’s obvious that you’re playing for time. What’s going on?’

I act dumb. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You’re only going to annoy the police with all this wishy-washy crap.’

I wonder what he’s worried about. I’ve already confessed to murder; what else are the police likely to do? Pin Shergar’s kidnapping on me? ‘I’m trying to explain my mindset,’ I say.

‘Use fewer words,’ he tells me through gritted teeth.

I shrug. ‘I’ll try.’ I lick my lips. ‘Could I get a drink of water though?’

***

I
spin things out for a while longer. When even I think I’ve run out of rope, I finally accede to Rawlins’ demands and answer her questions properly.

‘So,’ I say, ‘because his help essentially turned me agoraphobic and crazy, I killed him.’

Next to me, Brown suddenly sits up. I can almost smell his relief that I’ve said something noteworthy.

‘And how did you do that?’ Rawlins asks.

‘The proof is in my house. In the cupboard under the stairs.’

‘What proof exactly?’

‘I can’t explain it properly. You need to see it for yourself for it to make sense.’

‘We’ll need to get a search warrant – and it’s already late. Ms Lydon, as a result of your inability to answer questions, we also need to request an extension on your detention.’

‘You could charge me.’

Rawlins hisses. ‘Something’s going on here.’

‘Sergeant!’ Brown does a good job of acting shocked. ‘I hope you’re not threatening my client.’

‘This morning, you were adamant you were innocent; now you’re adamant you’re guilty. What’s all this really about?’

I realise that despite her fear of me, Rawlins doesn’t think I’m capable of murder. It makes me like her even more. She wasn’t so convinced the first time around; I wonder if my intervention in her dream changed her mind.

She leans in towards me. ‘What are you afraid of, Zoe?’ she asks softly.

For the first time, I don’t know what to say. My face pales and I start to stutter to cover my tracks but the damage is done. Rawlins gives a tiny smile. ‘Let’s take a break. Let Ms Lydon get some rest.’

***

I
ignore Brown’s repeated requests to talk to me alone and ask to go back to my cell. Night has already fallen so there’s a good chance I’ll be able to start my final play. I lie down again on the small narrow bed. Sleep, Zoe, I tell myself. Bloody sleep.

I close my eyes and try to relax. When that doesn’t work I fall back on my meditation techniques but it’s no use, I’ve slept too much in the last few days. I do what I can to squash down my frustration. If I can’t get to sleep, I’m impotent. I need to get to the Dreamlands to have any hope of bringing down the Mayor.

I switch positions. It doesn’t work. I count sheep. It doesn’t work. I’m completely wide awake and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

The door rattles and my small cell is flooded with light. I moan softly. They can’t want to question me again already, I’ve not been back here more than thirty minutes.

‘Your solicitor is here to see you,’ says a gruff voice.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. ‘He was here half an hour ago. What’s changed?’

‘Not that one,’ comes the answer. ‘Hop to it.’

The panic induced by my insomnia solidifies into something far, far worse. If it’s not Brown then it has to be the Mayor. Him, or someone he’s sent in his stead. I curse and try not to hyperventilate; I’m not ready for him yet.

I push myself up onto unsteady legs. How did he find out where I was so quickly? I tell myself that I’m surrounded by police officers and he can’t hurt me but it doesn’t calm me down.

‘I don’t want another solicitor,’ I protest. ‘I’ve already got one.’

I don’t receive a reply. I force one foot in front of the other, desperately trying to think of a way out. I can feel my throat closing. I want to tell the policeman again that I don’t want this, they can’t make me, but I can barely speak. I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything’s lost.