Night Terrors (17 page)

There’s a resigned look on his face. Poor Mr Powers looks even more agitated but I don’t feel much sympathy for him. What’s the point in paying through the nose to live somewhere with a twenty-four-hour guard when you end up getting kidnapped right in front of them?

I’m desperate to get into Ashley’s flat and see what the situation is but when I try to join the police in the lift to go up again, I receive a warning look from Rawlins. I grit my teeth and hold back. Bringing her along was a good idea; she has access to information and people that I’d never be able to contact. It’s just unfortunate that she also has to abide by the rules.

As it is, the police don’t spend very long up there. When they appear on the ground floor again, I look at Rawlins anxiously. She shakes her head; Ashley’s definitely not there. I’d been expecting that but it doesn’t stop my stomach from sinking. Maybe it’s a good thing and it means she’s more likely to be alive. My guilt and worry still increase.

‘They’re calling a forensics team to sweep for fingerprints,’ Rawlins says quietly, as the two Manchester policemen speak to Powers and Carter.

I watch, frustrated. I need Carter to come out from behind the desk but he seems determined to stay put.

‘What on earth’s wrong with you?’ Rawlins asks, as I hop from foot to foot. ‘It’s not the agoraphobia again, is it?’

‘You mean what is wrong apart from the fact that a…’ I pause ‘…a friend of mine’s life might be in danger?’ Rawlins’ eyes narrow. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘And it’s not the agoraphobia. I need to touch him. The, um, fat one.’

She gazes at me with an unfathomable expression. ‘I’m really not sure what I’m mixed up in.’ She exhales loudly but doesn’t ask for further details. For that, at least, I’m grateful.

She marches over to the glass entrance door and makes a great show of examining it. ‘Mr Carter,’ she calls out finally, ‘can you explain to me what this is?’

‘It’s a door.’

All three police officers’ heads snap in his direction. He rolls his eyes and trudges out from behind the desk towards Rawlins as if it’s a massive effort. Just as he’s about to pass me, I stumble and land against him. Rather than reach out to help me, he throws me an irritated scowl. I apologise profusely. Sorted. Rawlins engages the unpleasant Mr Carter in a long conversation about the undamaged lock.

Unsurprisingly, I also have to answer several questions from the police. My confidence – at least in this – is growing; other than a slight hesitation when I’m asked how I know Ashley, I think I respond satisfactorily. Rawlins promises to keep in touch and, with that, we leave them to it.

‘According to the computer, the last time the keypad on the door to her flat was accessed, it was Wednesday, around one in the afternoon. It’s a strange time of day to kidnap someone. There’s the benefit that most of her neighbours were out at work but it was also broad daylight.’

It had to have happened during the day; if she’d been sleeping, she could have alerted someone in the Dreamlands. The Department clearly wants to keep this as quiet as possible until it can bring her round to ‘its way of thinking’.

‘So,’ she says, once we’re back out on the pavement. ‘What now? Back home?’

It’s a long journey and I am desperate to return. My house, with my cat and all my belongings, not to mention my steel-reinforced door that doesn’t have a keypad, is drawing me magnetically, like an immutable force that I’m powerless to deny.

I straighten my shoulders and shake my head. ‘Wherever she’s been taken,’ I say, ‘it’s probably nearby. It makes more sense for us to stay here.’

‘You seem confident that she’s still alive,’ Rawlins observes.

I snort. As long as the Department and whoever’s kidnapped her believe that she’s the dreamweaver, she’ll be safe. She’ll be suffering from hallucinations and a severe lack of sleep but safe. They won’t do anything to harm her because they want to use her.

Up to this point, I’ve felt like the worst person in the world for not revealing that I’m the dreamweaver. Now it’s imperative that I don’t.

I bite the inside of my cheek. It’s the afternoon; very few people will be sleeping and Powers and Carter are definitely awake. I’m worried that the sleep paralysis and the invading dream monsters will cause me problems when I try to analyse their dreams to give me a clue about Ashley. I could, as everyone keeps telling me, do with some practice first. There will be some people napping at this hour, even if it’ll take me a while to find them.

I yawn loudly. Rawlins looks at me sharply. ‘All that travelling takes it out of you, doesn’t it?’ I say. ‘Perhaps we should check into a hotel. I could do with a power nap.’

It’s a long while before Rawlins answers. ‘Fine,’ she says eventually, ‘we can do that. Will you be able to manage it, though?’

‘I have to,’ I say to myself. ‘There’s no choice.’

Chapter Twelve

The world’s not a very comfortable place if you have a nightmare to face.

Tommy Lee Jones

It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself that I’m safe; coping with encompassing fear exhausts me completely. In the end, Rawlins and I are forced to share a room so that I don’t fold in on myself in a puddle of panic. The thought of being alone in a hotel room where anyone with a key – and, yes, here at this cheap hotel the entire system is run on keycards with all our personal information on them – is far more frightening than having Rawlins with me. I know her well enough to believe she means me no harm; I’ve been inside her head.

Rawlins flicks on the television, searching through the channels until she finds the one she wants. There’s a decisiveness about her actions that makes me pause. She shrugs. ‘I work night shifts a lot, remember?’ she says, as a genial host introduces a pretty blonde ‘wronged wife’ onto the stage. ‘I like this show.’

I’m not in a position to judge. I give an amiable shrug and lie down. Rawlins raises her eyebrows at the fact that I don’t even kick off my shoes. Her suspicions are solidifying by the hour but there’s nothing I can do about them. I’m going to need my shoes.

Despite the noise from the television, I drift off easily. I know it’s because of the tension and fear I’ve felt travelling so far from home but, for once, I’m glad. I should count myself lucky that I don’t suffer from insomnia.

This time, as I jog through the forest I don’t catch any glimpse of Lilith. That worries me but at least when I hit the town I’m not stopped by any of the Department watchers. I’m sure they’re tracking my progress as I meander my way through the streets and towards the Bubble but I can’t worry about that now. I try not to look as though I’m moving with a purpose. It would probably be safer to avoid the Dreamlands entirely, but I need to position myself.

The good thing about apparating at this time of day is that there are fewer people to worry about. There’s a solitary guard in front of the Bubble. He frowns at me.

‘Hey,’ I say cheerily. ‘Can I get in?’

‘No.’

I try to appear small and unthreatening – it’s not particularly difficult. ‘The thing is,’ I say, using their own tactics against them, ‘yesterday I was dragged into a dream with a guy on a clifftop. Your friends told me I had to save him. Needless to say, I didn’t. I’ve been worrying about it all day. He’s obviously suffering. He’s probably not even sleeping right now but if he is, I’d like the chance to try again. I can’t get him out of my head. If I can stop him from leaping off the cliff then…’ My voice trails off and I gaze at the guard with mute, beseeching appeal.

‘Only the dreamweaver can do that.’

I cross my fingers tightly. ‘But your friends thought that I might be the dreamweaver. If I am, then I can help him.’

He looks me up and down. ‘You’re not the dreamweaver.’

Ha! ‘How do you know? Maybe I am. Maybe I just need to try and then…’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ he mutters. ‘Go in. Fail. You’re not going to achieve anything.’

I beam. ‘Thank you.’ Then, before he can change his mind, I skip past him.

That was easier than I expected. I congratulate myself on using the truth to blind the Department and pick up speed. The deeper I get into the Bubble, the harder it will be for the Department to drag me out.

I head down the main corridor, pretending not to notice that there are already more doors which are turning black. A faint scent of sulphur trickles through the air. As the fear that I’ve worked so hard to control threatens to return, I grit my teeth. Being scared isn’t going to help anyone – not Ashley, not all the people suffering from ongoing nightmares and sleep paralysis – and definitely not me. Logic doesn’t help me, though and I feel my legs shaking. Rawlins is watching, I remind myself. And nobody else is here in the Bubble. I slap myself on the cheek. Get a grip, Zoe.

I’m not as far from the exit as I’d like to be but I need something to focus on other than the doors. I stop and try the nearest one: it’s locked. So is the next and the one after that. It’s the wrong time of day, too many people are awake. This could take hours.

I step from side to side so I can rattle each doorknob more quickly. Closed. Closed. Closed. Shit. The fear is being replaced by frustration. I keep going. Sooner or later I have to find someone who’s asleep if I’m going to get the practice that I need.

I reckon I’ve tried well over two hundred doors when I finally succeed. I’m so surprised that I almost fall in the door when the handle turns. I take a moment or two to prop myself back upright, both physically and mentally, and walk in.

It’s a classroom. There’s an old-fashioned blackboard at the front, complete with chalk scrawls that looks like conjugated Latin verbs. Wooden desks with lids that flip up are laid out in regimented rows. There are even inkwells.

Suddenly it makes sense. The only people likely to be sleeping at this time of day are either children, people who work nights or the elderly. No prizes for guessing whose dream I’m in. The only curious thing is that I can’t see anyone: no teacher, no pupils and absolutely no dreamer. I wait for a minute or two – sometimes it takes them a while to appear – but nobody shows up.

Frowning, I walk down the rows, glancing down at the desks. Some have graffiti marring the varnished wood but others are better kept. My foot kicks a balled-up piece of paper on the floor; when I pick it up and smooth it out, there’s nothing there apart from some simple mathematical formulae. I leave it on a desk and examine the blackboard, squinting to make sense of the Latin, in case it’s a clue. It’s gobbledygook.

I step back. This is a strange dream and the absence of any person who I can latch onto is going to make it harder, but it could take me another hour to find someone from the Bubble corridors who is asleep. I’ll just have to go with the emptiness and see if I can use it to my advantage.

One of the first dreams I apparated into was my postman’s. It turned out to be rather illuminating because his guilty conscience had manifested itself in his dream. He’d been hoarding mail rather than delivering it and when he slept he was attacked by swirls of flying envelopes. Thinking about that gives me an idea. I gaze at the piece of paper. Maybe I can make it move.

I stare down at it but it lies motionless on the desk. I empty my mind until there’s nothing there apart from me and the paper. As I imagine a paper aeroplane, I will it to fold in on itself. For a moment I think that the corners are vibrating but nothing happens.

There’s an odd pressure in the back of my skull. I sigh and reach up to massage my temples.

Abandoning the paper, I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m not in a classroom, I decide, I’m in a field. I envisage Friesian cows dotted around, chomping placidly on emerald green grass; a bunny rabbit hops up, nose twitching. When I open my eyes again, however, I’m still in the classroom. Bugger.

Maybe I need a magic word. I point at the paper. ‘Abracadabra!’

Nothing. I curse under my breath. I snap my fingers, this time imagining the paper setting itself alight. Dreary sunlight filters in from the windows but there are definitely no flames. It’s no good: I can’t interact with inanimate objects and I can’t change the dream. Not without facing the person whose mind created it in the first place – and even then it’s a long shot.

Just then, I hear a faint buzzing. I cock my head and listen harder. It’s coming from the windows. I take a cautious step forward and the buzzing gets louder. When I peer at the source of the noise I see it’s a fly, desperately seeking a way out. I watch it for a moment: it’s an ugly bluebottle. Even from a few feet away, I can make out its shiny, kaleidoscopic eyes. Its movements grow more and more frantic. I purse my lips and gaze round the empty classroom once more. I wonder…

I track it carefully. It attacks a pane of glass then, when it fails to find an escape route, moves on to the next one. I flip open the nearest desk. Inside is a battered old exercise book, a wad of used chewing gum and a pencil sharpener – one of those where the shavings are collected in a small plastic cylinder beneath the blade. I untwist the top, discarding the sharpener, and get closer to the fly. When it darts down towards the window sill, I slam the cylinder over it. The fly buzzes in frantic rage.

‘Are you the dreamer?’ I ask, as it rattles against the sides of its small plastic prison. I wet my lips and focus. ‘Change,’ I whisper. ‘Become the person you’re supposed to be.’

The cylinder jumps. There’s a strange heat emanating from it. I hear a squeak and step back quickly, releasing the fly. The air crackles as molecules shift; it’s as if the atmosphere is expanding. A second later, there’s a young girl curled up on the floor, her head buried against her knees. Yahtzee.

I kneel down. ‘Hi there.’

Her shoulders jerk. I smooth her hair, an unruly mess of curls which someone has attempted to tie into pigtails. The result is just frizz, however.

‘I’m Zoe. What’s your name?’ She sniffs, murmuring something into the fabric of her checked dress. ‘Pardon?’

She lifts up her head, revealing a tear-stained face. ‘Rebecca.’

Judging by her clothes, my assumption is correct. This might have been what Rebecca looked like sixty years ago but I bet it’s not what she looks like now. I go with the flow and speak to her as I would to a real child.