Night Shade (21 page)

‘That’s correct.’

‘So how exactly did you know his name when we couldn’t trace him?’

‘I...I...’

‘How many other people have you killed, Ms Lydon?’

Brown starts to protest but she speaks over him. ‘How many other times have you used your agoraphobia as an alibi?’

‘I haven’t!’

‘Why did Mr Salib come to see you?’

My shoulders slump. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Ms Lydon, do you see how incredible your story appears? You’ve been determined to stay abreast of the investigation by calling me constantly and asking questions ‒ such as whether I own a dreamcatcher or not. Haven’t you been trying to find out if you’re a suspect or not?’

I don’t know what to say. Nothing makes any sense apart from the truth and no one’s going to believe that. Not unless... I look at the solicitor. ‘Mr Brown, can you leave us for a moment?’

He’s obviously startled. ‘That’s highly irregular.’

‘Please.’

He looks at Rawlins who gives him a tight nod and pushes back his chair, scraping it along the floor so that my spine shudders at the sound. As soon as he’s gone, Rawlins leans over the table, knitting her hands under her chin. ‘This interview is still being recorded,’ she reminds me, ‘whether your solicitor is here or not.’

I suppose there’s not much I can do about that. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘I realise all this seems strange but I really was agoraphobic. Who would make up something like that?’

‘And now you’re suddenly cured,’ she says drily.

‘Yes, but that’s not important. You see, the thing is I have special powers.’

Rawlins lifts her eyebrows. ‘Right.’

‘I can go inside people’s heads. When they dream. I see what they’re dreaming.  That’s why I knew Constable Hartman’s pet name was Ally Bear. And about the postman hoarding the letters.’

‘I was just getting to him,’ Rawlins says expressionlessly. ‘Go on.’

I decide that mentioning the Dreamlands is a step too far. ‘I was in Miller’s dream when he died, that’s how I knew something was wrong. And I found out that Salib knew I had these powers and he was trying to contact me.’

Rawlins folds her arms. There’s a furrow between her eyes; she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. Not that I can blame her. ‘I can prove it!’ I burst out. I reach forward and touch her hand. She jerks backwards and frowns at me. ‘If we sleep at the same time, I’ll be in your dream. I’ll tell you what happens. Then you’ll believe me.’

She stands up. ‘I think before we proceed with any charges,’ she says aloud for the benefit of the recording, ‘Ms Lydon needs to be assessed medically by an expert.’ She looks down at me. I’m filled with soul-sucking despair. ‘I’ll inform your solicitor.’

***

I
’m put in a small cell to await the arrival of the doctor. Its depressing nature fills me with horror. I’m aware of how precarious my situation is and the thought of spending more than a few hours in here makes me want to beat my forehead against the stained breeze blocks. I know this is only a small town police station but, given the apparent fragility of my mental state, they could have provided padded walls.

At least I’m not hyperventilating. Yet.

I’m desperate to ask the policeman who keeps checking on me whether Rawlins is still on night shift – and therefore on her way home for a well-deserved sleep ‒ but I don’t need more people thinking I’m a total nut. So I cross my fingers and pray inwardly that she has, then I lie down on the narrow bunk and close my eyes.

Given how much I’ve slept recently, I should have expected not to drop off easily. I can’t force my mind to quieten down and I keep turning Salib’s letter over and over in my head. Destroying it might mean that I end up in a jail cell for the next decade. It’s almost ironic – jail should be an agoraphobic’s dream destination. I try counting sheep, I practise my normally helpful meditation techniques and I do everything I can to will myself to sleep. Nothing works. The harder I try, the more awake and frustrated I become.

I’m not sure how much time passes before the door opens and Hartman beckons me out. I debate whether to appeal to him; after all, my knowledge of his pet name had to come from somewhere. He gives me such a wide berth, though, that it seems easier to keep my mouth shut. He takes me back to the same interrogation room where Andrew Brown is waiting.

‘They have no real evidence to hold you on,’ he explains cheerfully. ‘It’s all circumstantial so I can’t see any reason why they will keep you once the twelve hours’ detention time is up. It’ll be helpful if you can get the doctor on your side.’

‘How am I supposed to do that?’

‘Just be yourself.’

My Dreamlands adventures aside, I’m hardly practised at meeting new people and winning them over. Even when I wasn’t trapped in my home, I found small talk difficult. I sigh and tell myself that if I can stand up to someone genuinely evil like the Mayor, then I can answer a few bloody questions.

When the doctor strolls in, I’m disappointed that I don’t recognise her. Along with Miller, I’ve met so many mental health specialists that you’d think I could count on seeing one who knew I wasn’t making up my agoraphobia.

She gives me a genial smile and sits down.   ‘How are you feeling, Zoe?’ she asks in a faintly patronising manner, after introducing herself as Doctor Pat.

I bite my tongue to avoid snapping that I’m locked up and a murder suspect so I’m feeling pretty sodding crap and instead just murmur, ‘Fine.’

‘Take me through your agoraphobia. How did it start and what triggered its hold on you?’

Making a snap decision, I lie through my teeth. It’s not as if she’s going to believe me about the dreams. I need to prove it to Rawlins – and the only way I can do that is by entering her subconscious. This doctor can’t help me with that. The only thing she’s likely to do is send me off to the nearest loony bin. I spin a story based on an old contact I used to have on an internet forum, supplanting my experiences for theirs.

Dr Pat nods as I speak. She tilts her head to one side but I can tell she’s not really listening; she’s already made up her own mind about me. ‘And can you explain to me about your dreams?’ she asks, once I’ve finished.

‘You mean because I told Sergeant Rawlins I could see what people dreamed? I, um, made that up. I don’t know why. I just panicked. She thinks I murdered Salib and Miller and I didn’t.’ There’s a note of hysteria in my voice. ‘I just didn’t.’

‘I see.’ Dr Pat folds her hands together. ‘And do you have dreams that seem real, Zoe? Voices in your head telling you what to do?’

Good grief. ‘No,’ I say flatly.

We continue in this vein for some time. I can see that Dr Pat is getting frustrated because I’m not giving her the answers she wants to hear. When she’s finally had enough, she stands up and pushes back her chair.

‘I think that’s enough for now,’ she says briskly.

For now? I force a smile. ‘Thank you for your time. What happens next?’

‘I will look over my notes and make a recommendation to the police.’

It’s obvious from her expression that she’s not going to tell me what that recommendation will be. She holds out her hand and I stare at it for a moment, then make a decision. I reach out and shake it. Her grip is limp, which makes me dislike her even more.

‘The police have agreed to release you for now,’ Brown states, looking satisfied. ‘As long as you agree to come back for further questioning tomorrow morning.’

That could work in my favour. I nod slowly. ‘I can do that.’

‘If you try to leave town, it’ll end badly.’

I meet the solicitor’s eyes. Clearly that has happened to him before. ‘I won’t abscond,’ I say. ‘I don’t have anywhere to abscond to.’

He beams. ‘Brilliant. Don’t worry, I’m sure all this will be sorted out in no time.’

The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity. The fears are paper tigers.

Amelia Earhart

––––––––

H
artman gives me a lift back home to keep an eye on me rather than out of concern for my well-being.  Despite his silence, I appreciate it. It’s a long time since I’ve been in a car. When he drops me off, I straighten my shoulders and walk up my path as if nothing is wrong. If the police have been round all my neighbours, I’m pretty certain they’ll all be watching me from the safety of their own houses. I try not to let it bother me.

Once inside, I make sure the Chairman is fed and watered. I thought he’d be happy to see me but, once he’s done eating, he pads away to find a corner where he can sleep. I let him be and focus on other matters. If I really am a dreamweaver – and to be one means I can control people’s dreams – then I know what I need to do: I need to learn some damn control and learn it bloody quickly.

I go online and visit three separate websites: the supermarket, the florist’s and MailQuick. There’s no guarantee that I’ll get the same people as last time at my door but hopefully the law of averages will work in my favour.

Living in a small town encourages the heavens to smile down on me; both the kid making the supermarket delivery and the guy who shows up to take away my MailQuick letter are the same. Only the florist is different – but I recognise her as the other woman from the dream, the one who did the killing. It’s an effort to smile politely at her and accept the flowers when all I can think of are her callous words while she watched the other florist die. I know it’s not fair: she was a figment of her co-worker’s imagination, she didn’t actually do anything, but it’s still hard.

The rest of the day seems interminable. Several times a police car sweeps through the cul-de-sac. To keep life simple, whenever I see it I go to the window and give them a little wave. To hell with what the neighbours think.

As long as I can lie in my own bed, I’m sure I will sleep. It’s annoying to have to wait until nightfall, though. For a moment, I understand the Mayor’s desire for a serum that would let you control when someone nods off; having to wait until my dream targets are also asleep rather limits my actions. Then I’m horrified by the thought that I might be sympathising with the murderous bastard and take a cold shower to cleanse myself from him.

Still, it’s a relief when it’s late enough for me to lie on my bed and close my eyes. I’m worried that I’ll have trouble falling asleep again. I’d take another couple of Valiums if I didn’t need to be alert when I do nod off. I puzzle over the conundrum of being clear-headed at the same time as sleeping until unconsciousness sucks me under and my ears prickle.

I quash down the nerves that suddenly attack me – after all, entering what could be five separate dreams might just about do me in – and look around.

Everything’s in black and white. Even though I’d read that this was possible, it’s still odd, as if I’m trapped inside an old Hollywood film. I’m half-expecting Ingrid Bergman to suddenly show up. It doesn’t help that I seem to be at the door of a grand palace. Gingerly, I open it to reveal a vast lobby and a huge curving staircase.

‘Just like Tara,’ I mutter to myself.

I look left and right. Everything is sparkly and clean but there’s no sign of any people. Then I hear a squeak and glance down to see a small white rabbit with a pocket watch and waistcoat bounding up the stairs. Talk about mixing your pop-culture references. I shrug and follow the rabbit.

I pass a wooden door with a splintered gap in one panel that reveals nothing but dark shadow on the other side. I give it a wide berth. I’m still not sure whose dream this is – I’m hoping it’s Rawlins’ – but if it includes horror films as well as romantic adventures, I need to stay on my toes. That thought is reinforced when the corridor widens and I have to skirt round a muddy dinosaur footprint.

I keep looking back over my shoulder, worried I’m about to be chased – or worse. It’s not until I reach the end of the hallway, however, that I realise I’m no longer alone.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Inside a room, surrounded by open wardrobes and masses of clothes, is Sergeant Rawlins herself. She’s bent over an old-fashioned trunk and is humming to herself while she neatly folds items of clothing before laying them inside.

‘Rawlins!’ I say sharply.

She doesn’t respond. Damn it, if all I can do is shout at people who can’t hear me, then this will be pointless. The last time all I managed to do was make the dreamer flinch slightly. I’m supposed to be a dreamweaver and dreamweavers are supposed to be able to control dreams. I’ve got to work out how.

I move round to Rawlins’ side. The trunk is almost full. I watch her take a final dress and fold it deftly then place it inside. Once she’s satisfied with her efforts, she closes the trunk with a snap and stands up.

‘Now what? What are you going to do?’ I ask.

She puts her hands on her hips and frowns. As I watch, she crouches and gives the trunk a tug; it barely moves an inch. She tugs again. The trunk scrapes along the wooden floor, jolting forward an inch or two. I kneel down beside her.

‘You’re trying to move it? Here, I’ll help.’ Mirroring her movements, I wait until I she pulls it again and do the same. This time, the trunk moves further. Rawlins jerks back, surprised.

‘You know why it moved further?’ I ask. ‘It’s because I helped you. Me. Zoe. The crazy one who’s really in your dream after all.’

She walks round to the opposite side of the trunk and crouches down again.

‘Good idea. You push, I’ll pull.’ I look at her face but she still doesn’t see me. Gritting my teeth in exasperation, I continue to help. We actually manage to shift the damn thing by several metres.

‘It wouldn’t take Freud to work out what’s going on in your life,’ I grunt. ‘You’re burdened by your problems, aren’t you? I’m guessing it’s work. Maybe you have a secret desire to be a film star, too. What I can’t work out,’ I puff as I exert myself to move the trunk, ‘is how on earth I can get you to listen to me.’

The trunk doesn’t slide as far as I expected. I glance at Rawlins and realise that she’s staring right at me.

‘Ms Lydon?’ she whispers.

I almost scream with joy. ‘You can see me?’

Her face is white. I’m about to grasp her shoulder when I feel a sudden involuntary pull across my whole body. ‘No, no, no,’ I mutter in desperation, ‘not now. Please.’