Dream Paris (11 page)

His voice softened as he talked of his family. I remembered the picture of ’Chelle and little Emily.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” I asked.

“No.”

I looked at him: he’d answered too quickly. But before I had a chance to question him further, the road bent to the left and we looked down a new stretch.

“Look!”

I saw it too. Two figures waiting, one on either side of the road. Sentinels.

“What do we do?”

“Just keep walking…”

We walked on. The sentinels were taking their duty seriously, neither moved as they watched us approach. And as we got closer, I realised why.

“More china dolls. Just like that first one, back in the city.”

We stopped. The golden thread on the dolls’ clothes shone in the sunlight, their golden hair shimmered in the sea breeze. Each held out a piece of paper in its right hand.

“It’s a note…” I said, looking at the left hand doll. My voice almost failed me as I saw who it was addressed to. “
That’s my name
!”

Can you believe me when I say that, since I had entered the Dream World, this was the most frightening thing that had happened to me? The clowns, the machine: that had been exhilarating, scary, shocking, but not terrifying, because none of that had been personal. But this, this clearly was. It took every last shred of my self-control to force me to walk up to that doll, and even then I couldn’t bring myself to meet the sightless gaze of the painted blue eyes. I snatched the note from the doll’s hand.

“What does it say?” asked Francis.

I read the note before me a second time, unwilling to acknowledge the words.

“It says,
Anna, don’t cross the line.
”

I felt strangely light-headed. I looked at the line that had been scratched into dust of the road, running from one doll to the other.

“What’s the other doll holding, Francis?”

“A letter. It’s addressed to you.”

The sky seemed so big and blue here, we were insignificant figures, lost beneath it. And the world knew I was here; it had mentioned me by name. I took a deep breath and whispered, “Please open it. I don’t think I can read it myself.”

“It’s from your mother.”

I wobbled across the dusty road. Can you believe I kept to this side of the line? My mouth was so dry as I took the letter.

Anna. They showed me a piece of paper with your fortune on it. It says that you will try and find me. Don’t. Turn around now and go home. You’re being used. Mother.

I looked at him. I looked down at the line scratched into the dusty path.

Twenty-four hours ago I’d been heading home after a day in school. Back in London, back in the real world. In the past twenty-four hours I’d seen a woman die, I’d left my home at the word of a man with fly eyes, I’d agreed to be accompanied by the objectionable Francis to Dream Paris. All of these things I’d done at the behest of strangers. So what was I to think when I read a note written by someone I knew, someone I should have trusted?

My mother was right. Of course she was. It was obvious that I was being used. What was I doing here? Anyone with any sense would turn around and go back home right now. My own mother had told me to.

“Is it genuine?” asked Francis, sensibly. I hadn’t thought of that. He held up the letter before me and I examined it. My mother had written that, I was sure. I recognised the handwriting, I recognised the tone. It was my mother’s way of speaking.

“It’s genuine.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

I gazed at the letter. What could I do? What difference, exactly, did this letter make? I spoke slowly, marshalling my thoughts.

“I marched into the parks. I thought I might die then. Everything since has been a bonus.”

“You were being used when you marched into the parks. You’re being used now.”

“By who?”

“Mr Twelvetrees, the government. You’re being used, Anna.”

“So are you,” I said. It sounded childish.

“I signed up for this. You didn’t.”

I looked down at the line in the earth.

“It would be nice to turn around, to go home,” I said. “But then I’d never know, would I? You understand that, don’t you, Francis?”

“It’s got to be your decision, Anna.”

I wasn’t thinking of him at the time. What would Francis have wanted? To go home, of course, back to ’Chelle and Emily. He wouldn’t have cared about my mother. He just wanted to do his duty, and he was conscientious enough not to try and influence me. I didn’t think of that then, though. I was only thinking of myself.

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “If I go home, I’ll never know.”

“If that’s what you want.”

I looked at him, I looked at the dolls. I closed my eyes, thinking.

I stepped across the line.

DREAM DOVER

D
REAM
E
NGLAND ENDED
quite suddenly. The coastal wind whipped away the heat of the butterscotch sun, and we walked the shortened road with a feeling of being right on the boundaries: between earth and sky, land and sea, hot and cold, home and abroad, friendship and enmity. All too suddenly we found ourselves standing on the top of a way-too-tall white cliff, looking out at the simplest and freshest of scenes.

A horizontal stripe of dark blue flecked with white; above it, a thin, dark dividing line, and then above that a stripe of bright blue, daubed with white. The sea, the distant land, the sky.

To the side, standing on its own little island, the truncated cone of a lighthouse in alternate red and white stripes. Blue, light blue, red and white. So simple and fresh, it lifted my spirits after the fug of the Dream Country.

And then I looked closer.

I caught the flash of black and white in the water and I saw sea monsters, patterned like orcas, but much, much larger. I recognised their shapes from books. Mosasaurs – sea dinosaurs. Liopleurodons – long, crocodile-like creatures with four giant flippers. The water was so clear you could see them as they hung just below the surface – patterned bodies perfectly camouflaged in the ripples of the shifting waters – and then they would push hard with their flippers and they were gone, down into the depths after their prey.

“We have to cross that,” said Francis.

“We must make it somehow. My fortune says we do.”

We gazed across the water at Dream France.

“Can you see the tower?” asked Francis.

“I’d wondered if it was an illusion.” The tower rose from the far shore, higher and higher into the air, blue with the distance, almost invisible against the sky.

“It’s a clock tower,” I said. “There’s a clock on top.”

“It must be miles tall,” said Francis. “That can’t be right.”

“The towers in Dream London grew every day,” I said. “They only had a year or so to grow. I wonder how long that clock has been growing?”

Francis looked at his watch.

“That clock is an hour ahead,” he said. “They still keep different time, even in the Dream World.”

D
REAM
D
OVER NESTLED
at the bottom of the sheer white cliffs. The ruined castle we’d seen looked down on the town from a rocky outcrop. The town was a pretty little place: buildings painted cheerful pastels, yellow-white sand, green grass lawns, red-tiled roofs. A little harbour wrapped itself around the town, though the sea-walls seemed much higher than would seem necessary. Then I remembered the black and white monsters, out to sea. Stone steps zig-zagged from the cliff-tops to the town.

Dream Dover looked trim and prosperous.

“What do they eat, though?” asked Francis. I knew what he meant. The boats in the harbour had obviously not been used in some time. They bobbed in neat rows, painted in bright colours, their decks filled with pot plants and flowers. Creepers grew from boat to boat.

“The boats aren’t going anywhere,” I said. “How are we supposed to get across?”

“I don’t know. Look, let’s find an inn. We’ll need somewhere to sleep anyway. Maybe they know a way across.”

We descended into the town. A girl in a petticoat stood on tiptoe to unpeg the clothes from a washing line. A basket full of hastily folded clothes sat at her feet.

“It’s always the girls who do the work,” I noted. I smiled at her. “Excuse me, is there an inn nearby?”

Wordlessly, the girl pointed to an alley squeezed between two houses. Another set of stone steps led downwards.

“Thank you,” I said.

We found ourselves in a tiny square next to a white-painted building, its narrow windows framed by blue striped shutters. A sign painted with a picture of one of the black and white sea monsters hung over the door.

“‘The Mosasaur,’” read Francis. “Shall we go in?”

“What about your pack? Are you going to leave it outside? What if someone trips on the wire in the dark? You’ve trailed it all the way down those steps.”

“Give it a rest, Anna.”

I glared at him, but he was already pushing his way inside, pack still on his back.

The bar of the Mosasaur was a nautical cliché: dark and small and filled with nets and buoys and all sorts of other fishing decorations. Three men looked up from their pints as we entered, their gazes travelling from my breasts to my face, to Francis and then back to their pints.

“Hello there, lover. What can I get you?”

The barmaid was young and buxom and clearly taken by Francis. I wondered what she imagined her chances with him would be, given that she had octopus tentacles for arms. I suppose the answer to that would depend on whether she had the same for legs. But then again, who knew? Francis was a man, and this woman had big tits and a welcoming manner. Wrap a pair of octopus legs around him and he’d probably welcome being pulled in.

“Two rooms for the night, and passage across the Channel,” said Francis.

“And why’s that? Why would you want to go across there?”

The words were spoken by one of the drinkers. I’m not sure which, all three of them kept their gazes firmly fixed on their pints. Francis turned to face them.

“We want to go across so we can find this young lady’s mother. Do you know of someone who might have a boat?”

“You’ll not find a boat that will take you across that water. Not in this port.”

“I’m sorry. Would you mind looking at me when I’m speaking to you?”

I felt a little shiver at that, that edge of cold politeness in his voice. I have to hand it to Francis: he spoke the words with just the right amount of menace. I’d have quite fancied him if he wasn’t such a sexist pig. One of the men looked up. He was small and stocky, with the pale skin and smooth hands of a sailor who had not been to sea for some time.

“Try heading for Folkestone. They go hunting for mosasaur and liopleurodon in their big ships. I heard they sometimes trade with the French. Maybe one of them will take you across.”

His gaze returned to his pint.

The barmaid wasn’t having it. “Go to Folkestone, indeed! Why are you always so bloody awkward, Graham? There’s lots of people go to France nowadays. There’s no shame in it!” She winked at Francis. “Passage across the Channel can be arranged, lover. Just make sure you’re in bed for eleven.”

Francis grinned, and his whole manner changed. He was no longer the quiet menace, now he was the cocky wideboy, the cheeky charmer. He was hot, yes, but I find his sort of arrogance a turn off.

“My mum told me to always be in bed on time. I’m a good boy, I am.” He gave a wink.

“Are you sure? My mother warned me about boys like you!”

I was fed up with this. Had he forgotten he was engaged?

“I’m hungry,” I announced. “Do you serve food?”

“Certainly,
madam
,” said the barmaid, suddenly all brisk efficiency. “We’ve got stew, eggs or pork. Oh, there might be some salmagundi.”

“Two plates of stew,” said Francis. “And is it okay if I leave my backpack by the door?”

It was odd, but no one seemed to have noticed the backpack until then. No-one had noticed the silver wire trailing back through the door and out into the street. Now the barmaid and the three locals were all staring at the wire, looking at where it passed through the side of the door. Now we came to look at it properly, we could all see it stretching across the room.

The barmaid shook her head. “Put your pack here by the bar, lover.” She noticed me looking at her. “Are you okay?”

“Aren’t you going to point out that you like a man with a big package?”

She wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she settled on ignoring me. I was quite happy with that, anything to distract attention from the silken thread of the wire. Francis’s face was a closed book. What was he thinking? What did he know about the pack?

The barmaid shook her head again. Finally, she seemed to snap back into herself.

“I’ll get the boy to take it up to your room later. Now, do you want a drink?”

“I’d love some tea,” said Francis.

“Two mugs,” I said.

We sat down in a little booth, facing each other across the table. The barmaid brought two bowls of brown stew. I noticed that Francis’s helping was much larger than mine. Half of his hadn’t been slopped over the side, either. Still, it looked tasty. There was rich brown gravy, yellow fruit, white potatoes, chunks of meat.