Daniel's Dream (32 page)

Was it possible that Robert’s book was having some subliminal effect on Daniel? Was he replaying the events of the novel in his subconscious, with himself as hero? It was too strange to contemplate. With a shudder, Lisanne replaced the book on the floor, but as she did so Daniel awoke with a start and, seeing Lisanne bending over him so closely, yelled out. Lisanne leapt back in astonishment.

‘It’s only me,’ she said hastily, unable to hide the hurt in her voice: Daniel had screamed when he saw her; if ever there was an ill omen...

‘Oh God, what are you doing? You frightened me half to death!’

Daniel sat up swiftly and swung his legs off the sofa. He took a deep breath and sank his face in his hands. 

‘Sorry,’ said Lisanne pathetically. ‘I’ve only just got in. I saw you asleep and... I’m sorry.’

She turned to leave. Daniel’s outburst had shocked her. She could feel her hands shaking and felt close to tears, but she was damned if she was going to let him see her cry. She strode over to the staircase and paused for a moment on the bottom stair.

‘Just one question, Daniel. Why are you reading that book again? Just explain that, will you?’

Daniel turned and stared at her. ‘What do you mean, “again”? I haven’t read this book before.’

‘Oh yes you have. Robert’s one of my authors. You read it in manuscript - or at least, you tried - last year. I can’t believe you don’t remember. You hated it.’

Daniel shook his head. ‘You’re wrong.’

‘Don’t tell me I’m wrong, Daniel! I know! I brought the book home to read. We even discussed it. I remember you saying that it read like a parody of
The Magus
, which, incidentally, none of the reviewers seemed to pick up on. You tore it to shreds. I can’t believe you’d want to give it a second look. Well?’

But Daniel did not answer. He picked the book up from where Lisanne, in her panic, had dropped it, and gazed at the cover.

‘And another thing,’ said Lisanne, now emboldened by her anger. ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me about this dream of yours?’

Daniel looked up at her, clearly shocked. ‘How...?’

‘Vince told me about it. Why did I have to find out from Vince? Why don’t you trust me for God’s sake?’

Daniel’s mouth went dry. He tried to clear his throat, but the shock and the embarrassment of being found out had unnerved him. ‘I didn’t want to burden you. You’ve got enough troubles.’

‘But I could have helped you.’

‘I don’t want help, Lisanne. Don’t you see? I don’t want to be helped or healed. I don’t want to be released or absolved or any of those things. I just want...’

Daniel did not finish his sentence. Lisanne watched with growing unease as he stood up slowly and, deeply absorbed in his own preoccupations, dragged himself across the room to the bottom of the stairs.

‘I’m tired,’ he muttered as he shuffled past her. ‘I’m just so tired.’

Without further explanation, he headed straight to the bedroom. 

Daniel wandered into the Pumphouse. It was dark inside, save for a single candle flickering on a table near the back. Through the gloom he could make out the silhouettes of several people huddled together; if they were talking, they were doing so not much above a whisper. Daniel walked over slowly. He couldn’t understand why the lights weren’t on, why there was no music. Had there been a power cut?

‘Hi,’ he called out. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Hello, Daniel.’

He recognised Kate’s voice. ‘Come and join us,’ she said. 

As he neared the table he made out the familiar faces of Barry, Kostas and Imogen. Imogen was playing distractedly with an empty glass and staring at the table; she didn’t look up when Daniel sat down. Barry was smoking a cigarette; his legs were crossed and he leant back in his chair, blowing the smoke out slowly so that it spiralled up into the rising heat and light of the candle. Kostas was tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table and looking at the floor, his face half-shadowed in the wavering light of the candle. It took a few moments for Daniel to realise that something was wrong; save for his own moods and tantrums, everyone else in Atheenaton always acted as if life was one long party; he rarely saw a long face.

‘What’s up? Is the electricity down?’

‘Nah,’ said Barry softly. ‘Let me get you something to drink, Daniel. How about a scotch?’ Barry sounded tired, very tired, as if he had been awake for several days; Daniel felt suddenly uncomfortable.

‘Sure, scotch would be fine,’ he said, pulling a chair up to the table beside Kate. ‘Does someone want to tell me what’s going on?’

Kostas got up and went over to the bar. Imogen looked at Kate, then looked away again. Daniel felt a chill creep into the room.

Kate spoke, ‘It’s Véronique. She’s gone, Daniel. Véronique is dead.’

Lisanne wandered into the travel shop. It was still early and, save for the staff, she was the only person in there. It made her feel conspicuous.

She had left Daniel fast asleep, as usual. Following the previous evening’s disastrous confrontation she had decided to do a little detective work herself. If Daniel would not tell her what was going on, she would find out for herself. And she would start by finding out about the origins of this ridiculous dream world of his.

Feigning nonchalance, she headed over to the racks of brightly coloured brochures, picked one up at random, and flicked through it absentmindedly. Most of the travel agents in the area were run by Greek Cypriots: if anyone knew about Greek islands...

‘Can I help you?’

Lisanne looked over her shoulder at the young woman behind the counter and smiled uneasily.

‘I’m not sure.’

The travel agent glanced at the brochure in Lisanne’s hands. ‘You’re interested in Greece?’

Lisanne nodded. ‘Yes, I...’ She hesitated, fearing that her prepared question would yield nothing but blank looks. ‘Do you know of a place - it may be an island, I’m not sure - called Atheenaton?’

The young woman’s polite expression turned to one of sly amusement, and Lisanne’s creeping discomfort erupted into full-blown dread. ‘What?’ she said. ‘What is it?’

The travel agent leant across to her colleague, a handsome young man with sleek black hair and deeply chiselled features, and rattled something off in the language that Lisanne heard every day in the shops and stores of the neighbourhood, but of which she understood not a word. The young man burst out laughing. Lisanne felt her face redden. What had she said, for God’s sake?

‘It’s not a place,’ said the young woman, giggling.
Αδηνατο
: it’s a Greek expression. It means “impossible”. You want to go to an island called “Impossible”?”

Lisanne felt her heart explode in her chest. As she ran out into the crowded street, she could still hear the woman laughing.

Daniel was still in bed. Lisanne had had enough. She was determined to have it out with him once and for all and did not care about disturbing him.

‘Daniel?’

Daniel did not stir. She sat on the bed beside him, and touched his arm. He did not respond. She grabbed his arm and shook him roughly, but Daniel remained fast asleep, and try as she might, she could not wake him.

Daniel recognised the place the moment he came round the corner: the empty sand, the same azure sea; the branches of the olive tree that intruded into the scene were the same shape as those on the cover of
Greek Idyll
. And there on the sand, its pages fanned open, was a book which cast the shadow of a face on the sand.

Daniel stood for several minutes staring at this extraordinary sight. He wondered where the owner of the book had gone, and why it had been left open. With a hint of trepidation, he wandered across the sand until he stood just a metre away from the book. He looked along the beach in both directions, and even peered out to sea, but there was not a soul to be seen. He knelt down and picked up the book; he turned it over and examined the front cover. There were no pictures or photos on the front, just the name of the author, and the title:
Daniel’s Dream
.

Daniel sat down on the warm sand, opened the book at page one, and started to read.   

About the Author

Peter Michael Rosenberg is an award-winning novelist, screenwriter and self-confessed nomad. He has travelled in over seventy countries around the world but has yet to find one to call home.

To learn more about Peter Michael Rosenberg visit his website
http://www.petermichaelrosenberg.com