Night Shade (8 page)

I think about the Dreamlands and the way people there interacted with me in a way that neither Hartman nor the postman had. Lilith aside, the others all seemed to recognise the dream quality. Was it possible that they were experiencing the same thing as me? It does make a kind of sense; it would be beyond belief to imagine I’m unique.

The pattern of where I end up when I fall asleep doesn’t fit. Maybe I didn’t end up in my mother’s dream because she was a family member? But why didn’t I end up in Rawlins’ dream? I stand back and examine my diagram thoughtfully. It’s a shame I’m not more of an artist.

I abandon my chart and turn to the internet, searching for ways to prevent dreams. I scroll through various pages and websites, reading about remedies ranging from chewing mustard seeds to lavender oil on your pillow to hard drugs. Then something catches my eye. I grab the phone and dial.

‘Mum?’ I say as soon as she answers. ‘I need to ask you a quick question.’

Her voice is sleepy and I realise it’s barely seven o’clock on a Sunday morning. I must have woken her up. ‘Zoe? What’s wrong?’

Damn it. I’ve worried her now. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I just wanted to ask you if you still had the present Aunt Brenda gave you last year.’

‘Huh?’

‘The one she brought back from America. The dream-catcher.’

‘Oh. That thing. Zoe, what on earth is this about?’

‘Do you still have it?’ I persist.

‘Yes, it’s hanging up on my window. What’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ I quickly say. ‘Go back to sleep.’

I hang up. So maybe dream-catchers work after all. I think about Rawlins. Phoning up a police officer to ask them if they own a Native American craft piece is definitely weird but I dig out her number and call.

‘This is Sergeant Rawlins.’ Unlike my mother, she sounds wide awake. At least that’s something.

‘Hi, it’s Zoe Lydon.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Er, nothing. I just ... um, do you have a dream-catcher?’

‘What?’

I wince. ‘You know, one of those circles with the string and the feathers?’

‘I know what a dream-catcher is, Ms Lydon. What I don’t know is why you’re calling me up first thing in the morning to ask me such a personal question.’

It could be worse. It wasn’t like I was asking her to describe her underwear drawer. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘I know it sounds strange but it’s, um, research I’m conducting for my work. There aren’t many people these days who I can ask.’

Rawlins, thankfully, seems to buy my explanation. ‘Then the answer is no, I do not own a dream-catcher.’ Disappointed, I’m about to thank her for her time when she continues. ‘I’m not sure how much good one would do me anyway. I rarely see my bed these days.’

I freeze. ‘You’re on night shift?’

‘Twelve till twelve,’ she says. ‘Yesterday, today and tomorrow. Government cutbacks.’

I make a noise that hopefully suggests commiseration and hang up. I didn’t share my mother’s dreams because of the dream-catcher and I didn’t share Sergeant Rawlins’ dreams because she didn’t sleep.

I swivel round and stare at the diagram. I think I’m starting to understand what’s going on, even if I don’t have the faintest idea as to why.

***

I
’m desperate to get back to the Dreamlands and find Ashley again. I’m certain she’ll provide me with more answers. But, thanks to my enforced solitude, I’m no longer as trusting as I used to be. I want to test my theories first before I trust a stranger who may not even be real. So I decide to try and enter another person’s dream first, and forego the Dreamlands for a night.

I start by ordering in groceries. My fridge and cupboards are fairly full, and I’m aware that deviating from my routine might mean I end up with a different delivery person to the one who usually calls. That does my terror-filled agoraphobia no good but I swallow my fear and force myself to shake the hand of the spotty kid who eventually shows up with my bags.

Once that ordeal is over, I call Interflora. I’m aghast at the prices – I don’t even like cut flowers – so I order the cheapest bouquet. When it comes, and I’ve brushed the hand of the woman who hands them to me, I’m pale and sweating.

Three, however, is supposed to be a lucky number so I call MailQuick to pick up a delivery for Jerry. It’s nothing urgent, just some papers that needed signing. Once it’s done though, I feel relief rippling through me. The odds of all three of my delivery personnel having blocked dreams is too unlikely.

I go to bed early, taking a Valium for good measure. Even with the drug it takes a long time to drop off. When I finally feel the now-familiar ear prickle, I smile. Here we go.

I’m beside a river. There’s no sound, despite the fact that it’s extraordinarily wide. In fact, the water doesn’t seem to be moving at all. Beyond it is a majestic mountain range, fringed with trees of all hues. There’s something oddly flat about it, though, as if I’ve stepped inside a postcard. It’s pretty – but it’s not real.

I turn to my right. There’s a person there, whom I immediately recognise as the kid from the supermarket. He’s crouching down, throwing fish into the river. It makes little sense until I realise there are several bears there, lined up and waiting their turn. They’re not the sort of mountain-dwelling bears you’d expect to see in this kind of landscape – they are all manner of shapes, colours and sizes; I’m sure I can even see a polar bear. All the animals are large and healthy with glossy coats and shining eyes.

I grin. ‘Well, this is almost bearable,’ I murmur.

I stride towards the kid but he’s engrossed in his task. I clear my throat, then speak to him but he continues tossing fish into the yawning mouths of the animals. I watch for several moments until my attention is caught by the appearance of a small fluffy shape by his side. It’s a puppy with long floppy ears and chocolate-brown eyes. It sniffs the basket of fish and wags its tail. The kid reaches down and pats its head and the puppy groans in delight. I can’t help smiling.

I’m about to try to attract the puppy’s attention when there’s a deafening roar. One of the bears has snapped its jaws shut and is staring not at the man but at the little dog. Its eyes are round and black and I feel a sense of foreboding. I bend down to pick up the puppy but my movements are too slow and too sluggish – the bear is already moving. It swoops down more swiftly than I’d have thought possible, grabs the puppy in its mouth and shakes it from side to side.

The dog yelps while I scream in horror. Blood streams from the bear’s mouth. The kid stops throwing the fish and freezes as the bear throws the lifeless little corpse to one side. I step back, double over and retch.

When I recover and stand up, the kid has returned to feeding the bears – and another puppy is by his side. Or the same puppy: I can’t tell because it looks identical. It wags its tail and seems happy but I can already see the same bear starting to shift its gaze. Taking charge of the situation, I tap the kid on the shoulder. He doesn’t turn round but he does jerk his head towards me. I move round to his other side and tap him again and he jerks again. I rock back on my heels. He’s not conscious that I’m there but he does feel something, which corresponds with what I experienced in my first dream.

I snap my fingers in front of his face while the bear licks its lips. The kid blinks. Recalling what the dark man – Dante – told me, I reach his arm and pinch his skin. Suddenly, I’m yanked backwards, as if someone has grabbed the scruff of my neck and is pulling me. I lose my footing and fall over – and then I’m no longer by the river.

It’s my local town square. I may not have been there for more than eighteen months but I’d recognise it anywhere. The shops are the same but there’s a strange absence of traffic. I get to my feet and look around: the place is completely deserted. A single tumbleweed that would be more at home in a street in Arizona than a little Scottish town blows in my direction, followed by a familiar rattle and whistle, just like you’d hear in the soundtrack to a cowboy film. Alarm bells ring in my head. Slowly backing away, I keep my eyes trained in front of me. A woman pops up at one end. She’s wearing a business suit but she has boots with spurs above her ankles and a gun belt round her hips. Her hands hover above the holsters. I look in the other direction and spot the florist in a similar pose.

‘It’s time, Belinda,’ the florist shouts. ‘You’ve had your fun and now you need to face the consequences.’ Her Scottish brogue has been supplanted by an American twang.

‘I ain’t no lily-livered, yella whore,’ the other woman calls back. Her fingers twitch.

I wonder whether I should interrupt them. If this is like the other dreams, they won’t see or hear me but I might be able to distract them. I picture the dead puppy; the last thing I want is to see this pair blast each other into oblivion, even if they are not real.

‘You stole my hoss!’ the florist yells. ‘Draw!’

Before I can react, they both lunge for their weapons and fire. Dust rises from the ground as shots echo around the empty street. I cover my ears and duck. The noise seems to go on for an eternity.

When silence finally returns and I peek out to see what’s happening, Belinda is standing over the florist. I run up to her.

She nudges her fallen victim with her toe. ‘He’s a no-good hoss. He ain’t worth dying for. But dying’s what you’re doing.’

The florist chokes, blood gurgling up from her mouth. Her skin is the colour of chalk. ‘He’s all I got,’ she croaks. Her eyes roll back and, yet again, I feel myself being dragged violently away by a force I cannot control.

The final dream is the worst. I’m surrounded by thick fog that tastes sulphuric. I can hear someone – I assume it’s the MailQuick worker – calling out for help and stumbling around. No matter how hard I try, I can’t reach him. I search blindly, doing what I can to stay calm. The more he shouts, the more my panic grows. ‘Hold on!’ I cry hoarsely. ‘I’ll come and get you!’

It’s no good, of course; he doesn’t hear me and doesn’t stop. I start to run. My lungs burn and my eyes stream and sting. I don’t want to be here but I don’t think I can get out, not until the dream ends naturally or I find Mr MailQuick and pinch him.   Bile rises in my throat as I realise how foolish it was to stumble into someone else’s head with no idea of what I might find there. The other two dreams had a surreal quality; this is different. Eventually I hunker down and hug my knees as tightly as I can, rocking for comfort.

And when I wake up, my clothes and my hair stink of the smothering mist. My cheeks are wet with tears. My limbs are stiff and painful and I am trembling. It’s the first time in any of these dreams that I’ve felt genuinely afraid. I’m already trapped in my house. I don’t want to be trapped in my own head too.

***

O
ne of the more positive results of my condition – at least as far as today is concerned  – is that I have a mountain of cards and leaflets from local doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists and trauma experts. Almost all of them have been donated by my mother but a few have been passed on by friends. I study them carefully before selecting one who lists sleep disorders as a speciality. Doctor Miller: I remember he made some home visits during the early days. At the time he struck me as efficient and capable, even if his therapy didn’t do me a scrap of good.

I phone him. ‘I’ve, er, been having trouble sleeping,’ I tell him once I’ve re-introduced myself and given him time to locate my sparse file.

‘Insomnia?’ he asks.

‘More like dreams. Um, bad dreams.’

‘Has this happened before?’

I wrap a strand of my hair round my little finger. ‘It’s only a recent thing.’

‘Then it’s good,’ he tells me confidently. ‘It means your mind is trying to heal itself. Our daily lives often manifest themselves through dreams. It’s a way for your subconscious to work through problems.’

‘There were bears. In one of the dreams, I mean. I was trying to feed them.’ It’s only a small white lie.

‘Were you succeeding?’ He sounds eager.

‘Um, yeah, I guess.’

‘That proves you’re starting to win. You’re learning to handle your problem. This is a fantastic step forward, Zoe.’

I murmur non-committally. ‘One of them killed a puppy.’

‘Oh.’ He pauses. ‘Do you like dogs?’

‘I do.’ I say it quietly. ‘There was another dream after that when I was lost in some kind of fog. I couldn’t get out no matter what I did. It was pretty frightening.’

‘Dreams often are.’ He lays on the reassurance. ‘But the best thing about them is that you’re safely wrapped up in your bed.’

‘The thing is that when I dream,’ I swallow hard, ‘it seems like I’m in control. That I’m aware of what’s going on.’

‘Ah, that’s interesting. Oneironautics.’

‘Oneira... what?’

‘Oneironautics,’ he repeats. ‘Or rather, lucid dreaming. It’s more common than you’d think.’

I’m flabbergasted. ‘It exists?’

‘Of course! You’re aware you’re dreaming?’

‘Yes.’

‘Aware of your own identity?’

‘Yes.’

‘Aware you can make your own decisions within the dream?’

‘Yes.’

‘They are all classic signs. It’s all related to the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex. There have been numerous studies on it.’

I sink down into the chair. I hadn’t expected to have my condition explained to me. ‘It’s not real,’ I whisper. Then I think of the physical evidence afterwards and doubt returns. ‘What if I dreamt it was raining and I woke up with wet hair?’ I ask.

There’s a short pause. ‘Well, that is fascinating. Sleepwalking combined with lucid dreaming.’

‘You think ... you think I just sleepwalked?’

‘Well,’ he laughs, ‘what else could it be?’

What else indeed? Suddenly I feel like an idiot for thinking otherwise. ‘How do I stop it?’

‘Hm, that’s a different proposition. Dreams cannot be stopped per se. I can send you a prescription for something that might dull your senses, however, and prevent the lucidity from recurring.’

‘Please.’ I stare at my drawing, my eyes drifting from one scrawled line to another.

I snatch it off the wall and screw it up.