‘He’s in America,’ I say.
Bron nods. ‘I heard. I’m going to disapparate and try to contact him. We need him here.’
Because I’m next to useless, I think miserably, as Bron starts to vanish. I clench my fists and sigh. I need to pick up the pace and become the dreamweaver for real. If I don’t, we could all be doomed.
I glance back at the three black doorways, then freeze when I realise that there’s now a fourth. It’s still spreading. And it might be my fault.
Chapter Nine
The fairytale has turned into a nightmare.
Ian Thorpe
There’s nothing more debilitating than feeling impotent. We all like to believe we’re in charge of our own fates. Otherwise what’s the point of anything?
I stand in front of the four dream doors, debating whether to enter one of them. They represent four minds of four separate people who are suffering right now, whether they’re ‘only’ dreaming or not. But I’m exhausted and I still have Dante’s warnings ringing in my ears: if I slip up, I could get seriously injured. Or worse. Despite that, I’m not sure I can just walk away. I know what it’s like to suffer and be alone at the same time.
I half turn and stare down the corridor. It curves off into the distance, with many other corridors branching off it. There are dozens of them. I wonder how far I would have to walk before I find more black doors. Terror squeezes at my heart. Why me? I’m not brave enough for this. I’m not strong or particularly clever. The dreamweaver should be someone else.
I need to pull myself out of this funk but funk is what I do well. I press my palms against the surface of the first black door and draw back, hissing as an unpleasant tingle runs across my skin. My nose tickles with the faint scent of sulphur. It has to be the Badlands but how it’s leaching into the Bubble is beyond me.
I sigh heavily and am about to turn away when something flickers up ahead. I see a flash of blue.
I glance behind; there’s no one else here. The movement was too fleeting for me to determine what it was but my curiosity is piqued. I shove my hands into my pockets and march deeper into the Bubble. Maybe whatever I glimpsed is something to do with all of this mess so I can’t afford to ignore it. It might be nothing more than one of Bron’s cronies, dipping in and out of different dreams for kicks ‒ and it might be something more.
When I reach the first crossroads, there are pure white doors stretching out in every direction. The odd black ones stand out as much as Dante did against the snow of the ski dream. I catch the movement again. Far down to my left, I see a black door open and close. From this angle, I can’t see who went in. I start to run.
Door after door blurs as I pick up speed. The urge to find out what’s going on overcomes my exhaustion; suddenly, nothing is more important than discovering who else is delving into infected dreams. Before I get close, however, the black door opens again and a small figure steps out. It’s the blue-haired boy who pointed so threateningly at the Badlands dragon. He catches sight of me and grins, then turns and starts to walk away.
‘Hey!’ I yell. ‘Wait!’
He doesn’t stop. I start to run again. There’s a paucity of children in the Dreamlands; most Travellers don’t apparate until they’re past puberty. There are always exceptions but I’ve never seen anyone this young before – and I’ve certainly never seen anyone with blue hair. He has to be the boy that Lilith mentioned. I bet he’s the one who left the tracks by the forest campfire as well.
I dart forward and shout again. He keeps on going at a remarkable speed for one so young. He flings open another black door and steps inside. Damn it. I finally reach it, breathing heavily. I’ve gone further and faster than I realised.
This time I don’t stop to think. When I reach the door I grab the handle, ignore the unpleasant sensation as my skin touches it and then I’m inside.
Everything is bathed in red. This isn’t another sleep-paralysis victim because I’m not in a bedroom; it’s some kind of corridor. I can hear distant shouts, filled with anxiety, followed a burst of staccato gunfire. The light begins to pulse, as if it’s in tune with a heartbeat.
Tension spreads across my shoulders and I bite my lip. I try to quash my fear and plunge further down the corridor.
One corridor leads into another. I search desperately for a sign of the blue-haired kid. I pass a stainless-steel trolley, covered with surgical implements. The red glow makes the sharp blades look as if they’re drenched in blood; that’s not a particularly good sign.
When I peer inside a glass-fronted room and spot a cadaver lying on a table as if awaiting a post-mortem, I flinch. No, this doesn’t look good at all. I spur myself on, carried forward more by momentum than a conscious decision. I keep looking nervously over my shoulder, worried that something’s going to spring at me from behind.
Whoever’s mind I’m in, they certainly know hospitals. As well as the eerie red light, there are a lot of authentic details. That’s not always the case; some dreams are as insubstantial as shadows. A few weeks ago, after brushing past a stranger in the street, I found myself on a tropical island. It wasn’t as much fun as it sounds: there wasn’t a lick of air and, although it looked real enough, there were no physical sensations to support it. I couldn’t feel warm sand between my toes and I couldn’t smell the salt of the ocean. I think that happens when a dream is inspired by nothing more than an image or a television programme.
Here, however, there’s the metallic tang of disinfectant and a heavy, oppressive feeling. This dreamer knows hospitals and dislikes them. The corridor is lined with doors, each one leading to a different room. Complicated medical terms are written on signs above each one but, curiously, most of them are spelt wrong.
I turn, gingerly peering round the corner first to make sure I’m not about to be jumped. The blue-haired kid is nowhere in sight. Another round of gunfire fills the empty space. I check behind me once more: still nothing.
When I look ahead again, I panic. Standing about twenty feet away is a black shape. It’s wearing a white coat but the person inside is as dark and indistinct as the cloud monster was in Archie’s dream. It starts to walk towards me. The fact that it’s not in any hurry causes me more fear than if it hurtled itself in my direction. I spin round, ready to run away.
‘This way.’ I hear a hushed, childish whisper.
I stare at another glass-fronted door. The blue-haired boy beckons to me from the other side. I can already hear the heavy footsteps of the monster doctor as he approaches. I’m too afraid to look back at him so I keep my gaze trained on the boy. He gestures to me again.
I could apparate out and ensure I live to fight another day, or I could find out who the hell the kid is. I’ve made it this far so of course, I have to choose the latter option.
The door opens an inch. I widen the gap with my toe and enter, closing it firmly behind me and turning the key in the lock.
‘Who are you?’ I demand, inwardly praying that the creature behind me doesn’t have his own key.
‘Have you seen the dreamer?’ the boy asks, ignoring my question. His voice sounds familiar but I can’t place it.
‘Not unless he’s Doctor Evil.’ I squint at the kid. Not only is his hair blue but his eyes are too. They’re not cornflower blue or the darker shade that you see on real people; his eyes are bright chips of glowing lapis lazuli which almost hurt to look at. His skin is smooth and blemish free and he’s wearing a tunic like shepherd boys wore centuries ago. There’s a small cloth bag tied at his hips.
He folds his arms in a gesture which makes him appear older than his years. ‘We have to find her.’
I open my mouth to respond but the creepy doctor appears at the door and rattles the doorknob, his black shape looming through the glass.
I look at the kid. ‘I think we should leave.’
His expression is calm. ‘You’re correct. You go first. I’ll follow.’
I hiss in irritation. The doctor raises a fist, smashes into the door
and a spider’s web of cracks appear. We’re running out of time. ‘How about you go first? Apparate out.’
The boy’s brow furrows. ‘What’s that?’
He doesn’t know what apparate means? For a moment I block out the forbidding sight of the doctor and stop worrying about his impending attack. ‘What’s your name?’ I ask softly.
The boy doesn’t answer. I don’t think he’s being rude; I don’t think he has an answer to give me. I reach out deliberately slowly and brush his arm. He doesn’t flinch or pull away and he certainly feels solid – but that doesn’t mean much.
‘Are you real?’
The doctor starts to howl. It’s an inhuman sound which chills me to the bone.
‘Are you?’ the kid asks.
I crouch down and take his hands in mine. I press them to my face and his fingers dance across my skin. ‘Do I feel real?’
The boy’s blue eyes widen and he pulls back. ‘Weaver.’
The doctor thumps his body against the door, hurling himself with such force that the whole room seems to vibrate. The door frame splinters.
‘Yes. And I’m not sure I have the energy left to take that thing on. We need to get out of here now.’
The boy’s chin tilts stubbornly. ‘I must find the dreamer.’ He pulls away from me and blinks and a heartbeat later he’s gone. I’m left alone in the small room with only the doctor outside for company. Shit.
I look for a weapon but there’s nothing here. There’s a tinkling of glass and the doctor’s hand shoots through, flailing around. The smart thing to do would be to leave.
I spin round and launch a kick at the doctor’s arm before he can reach for the lock. He howls, his jaw dropping open to reveal even more darkness, and draws back. I pick up a shard of glass from the floor ‒ it’s as lethal a weapon as any.
I delve inside myself to gather the last vestiges of energy from my tired body. If I’m the damned dreamweaver then it’s time I started acting like it. I can’t let little things like fatigue or fear get in my way. I eye the monster doctor and brandish the glass. ‘Come on, then.’
He steps back and turns his head to his right, then he flies out of my line of sight. My stomach drops. I’m not stupid enough to believe that my show of bravado has terrified him and he’s run away – something else has made him go. Trying not to cut myself, I kick away the last of the glass in the door and step into the corridor. The dark shape of the monster doctor is visible in the distance. He’s after something.
I curse and run after him, still clutching the shard. With every step, I’m aware of pain shooting down my spine and flaring out at my tailbone. What had been a dull ache is now far worse. It hampers my movements but I can’t give in to it. Not yet.
I turn the corridor in time to see the doctor advancing on the blue-haired boy. The kid’s back is turned and he’s reaching into his little bag. I make out a small girl with Oriental features in front of him. She’s wearing a hospital gown and her skin is pale with the tell-tale signs of long-term sickness. She’s the dreamer the boy was looking for.
I’m filled with alarm. The doctor will be on them in seconds. I sprint forward ‒ just as something snaps in the small of my back and my legs give way. I crash to the floor.
No! Not now! I try to get up but my legs don’t want to work. No matter how hard I try, I can only raise myself up on my hands. I drag myself forward, my useless legs trailing behind. Come on, Zoe.
The boy still hasn’t turned around. There’s only a few feet between him and the doctor when he suddenly flings out some dust in the girl’s direction. The doctor roars in agony.
Then the red light vanishes and the stark hospital walls are replaced with the sunny outdoors. I hear children yelling, not in pain or fear but in delight. I squint round. We’re in a park. The little girl squeals and runs off towards the swings while the boy turns and walks towards me. The monster doctor has vanished.
I sag in relief while the kid bends down. ‘Are you hurt?’ he enquires, gazing at me curiously.
‘What…’ I gasp. ‘What did you do?’
He gestures at his bag. ‘I helped her.’ He smiles. The girl is on a swing; a woman is behind her, pushing her higher and higher. Her mother.
‘Who are you?’ I ask again. Did the boy change the dream or did she? Either way, he has more power at his fingertips than I do. I feel hope spread inside me. Maybe I’m not the only one after all; maybe I don’t have to do this alone.
He pats my head, like an adult would do to a child. I decide I don’t like this role reversal at all. ‘You can go now. We both can. But come and find me later.’ His eyes sparkle. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’
And then I feel my body tugging: I’m waking of my own accord. The pain in my back must have seeped through and my conscious mind is taking over.
‘Wait! Not yet!’ I cry out in useless protest.
It’s too late. I’m already back in my own house. Bloody hell.
***
I spend most of the day lying on my stomach with a bag of frozen peas on my lower back. I’m not convinced it’s doing me any good but it numbs the area so that I no longer moan in pain when I try to move. Getting up to use the bathroom isn’t particularly easy: I have to roll clumsily off the bed and shuffle to the toilet like I’m old enough to receive a telegram from the Queen.
I’m wary of taking strong painkillers because I know I’ll be affected in the Dreamlands by whatever I take here in the real world. I need as clear a head as possible ‒ but I also need to be able to walk.
The Chairman seems to be enjoying my prone state, snuggling up next to me and purring loudly. When he gets up to nibble some food and performs a series of nimble stretches, I watch him with narrow-eyed jealousy. Once or twice I try the same manoeuvres, wondering if I can work out the pain yoga-style, but I’m left hissing in agony.
The shadows are beginning to lengthen when there’s a knock at the door. I ignore it and remain slumped face down. It’s not long before I hear the door opening. Only one other person has the key but I freeze, worried that it might be the Department coming for me in real life.
My mother knows me well. The second the door is ajar she calls out, ‘Zoe? Is everything alright?’
‘I’m in here,’ I shout, trying not to let relief overwhelm me. I’m assailed by gratitude; she’s checking up on me after my ‘episode’. I don’t want to worry her but it’s good that she cares. Everyone needs someone in their life to do that.
She appears in the living room, a scarf wrapped elaborately round her neck and the familiar scent of Chanel washing across the room. She takes in my position and frowns. ‘I think you’re meant to eat peas, my dear.’
I grimace and struggle up to a sitting position. ‘I’ve hurt my back. I was trying to relax the muscles.’
Her nose wrinkles. ‘You shouldn’t ice it for too long. You might end up with burns.’
‘I’ve been careful,’ I reassure her. I rub my spine. ‘I think it’s getting better.’
‘What on earth did you do?’
The truth will not help me but my mother’s ability to scent when I’m lying is nothing short of uncanny. I have to tread carefully. ‘I think I slept badly,’ I say. It’s not exactly a lie.
Her mouth tightens and she folds her arms. ‘And what really happened?’
Damn it. How can she always tell? ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘This isn’t much of a holiday, Zoe.’
I shrug then regret it as I succumb to the pain once more. I sink down. I really don’t need this. ‘How’s Henry?’ I ask snidely, willing to do anything to change the subject.
She sighs. ‘Sleeping badly as well.’ She tuts and shakes her head. ‘Honestly, something’s not right. There are people up and down the country who are too scared to close their eyes because of what they might dream.’ She knocks her fist against her temple. ‘Touch wood, I’ll be fine. I have been so far.’
That’s because she has a dreamcatc
her strung up in her window. Who’d have thought that such a twee ornament would have the power to affect dreams? I’m sure the Native Americans believed in them but I’ve always suspected that the ones which found their ways to these shores were factory made, probably in deepest China and about as far away from America as it’s possible to get. At least my mother’s dreamcatcher was a gift from the States. I wonder if I could get Dante to bring over fifty million of them, then the country would be safe.
‘Of course,’ my mother continues, ‘they’ve been playing that silly song all day on the radio. Now I can’t get it out of my head.’ She starts humming. ‘Mr. Sandman, give me a…’
I bolt back upright. My spine twists and I suck in a breath but I still manage to gape at my mother. ‘Sandman.’
She frowns at me in confusion. ‘Pardon?’
The phone rings. ‘Can you get that?’ I ask, lurching painfully to my computer and tapping the keyboard to bring it to life.
My mother gives me another puzzled look but does as I ask. I quickly type into the search engine and scan the results. The blue-haired kid is certainly no man but everything else seems to fit. The hospital dream belonged to a young girl and, according to the first website I read, the Sandman visits the dreams of children and sprinkles dust in their eyes to bestow good dreams on them.
Unhappily, the second website paints him as a villain, disturbing children with night terrors and stalking through dreams to cause havoc and fear. He helped the girl, though; I saw evidence of that with my own eyes. I gnaw at my bottom lip and think about the bag tied to his hip. It makes sense that he’s the Sandman, especially if that bag contains the magic dust – or sand. What doesn’t make sense is why no other Travellers have mentioned him.
‘Well, I’m very pleased to talk to you too,’ my mother murmurs, walking back into the living room with the phone glued to her ear. ‘I can’t believe Zoe hasn’t introduced us yet.’
I freeze. ‘Who is it?’
She beams at me. ‘A charming man.’ She waggles her eyebrows. ‘Is this your new beau, Zoe? He sounds very handsome.’