‘What do you mean?’
‘I...’ She looks frustrated and I realise that Bron is heading back in our direction. ‘Look, if you end up here again, come and find me and I’ll explain everything. I’ll be by the river.’ She stands up. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you some other time, Bron.’
‘I thought it was important?’
‘It’ll keep for now.’ She throws a tight smile in my direction. ‘Maybe I’ll see you around, Zoe.’
I try to smile back. ‘Maybe.’
She walks out and Bron takes her seat. ‘I’m glad she’s gone. Ashley’s wonderful but now I can get to know you better without any interruptions.’
I look at his smiling face. ‘I think I’m going to need another drink first,’ I admit.
Chapter Six
Deep in that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
Edgar Allen Poe
––––––––
When I wake up on Sunday morning, my head is pounding. I can’t work out why until I remember that I drank several more pints of beer in the dream. Bron was remarkably good company but I’m not sure that makes an imaginary hangover any more pleasant to bear.
I massage my temples then recall what Ashley said and frown. Perhaps it’s not an imaginary hangover at all.
I pad into the bathroom and throw a couple of paracetamol down my throat. As I’m still wearing the same clothes, which now feel sticky and uncomfortable, I strip off and have a hot shower. If nothing else, it might wake me up and push away the dregs of my headache. When I’m dressed again, I go downstairs, make sure the Chairman has enough food and collect a large piece of paper from my study. I pin it onto the wall.
I start with the old man, drawing a small stick figure in the left corner. Next to it, I write ‘electric shock’. I draw a line and add in Hartman. After he touched me, I was in his dream. Or vice-versa. He didn’t see me in the dream though, and had no recollection of my presence. And when I woke up, I had damp hair as if I really had been there in that alley, standing in the rain. Underneath Hartman I include the postman and his details. They’re remarkably similar to Hartman’s – and surely it’s not a coincidence that my suspicions about his letter hoarding were true?
I frown then draw another line. Two nights ago, I had no human contact but I ended up in the forest; I have scratches on my legs to prove it. Last night, however, the last person I touched was my mother and I ended up in the forest again. Followed by the place that Bron called the Dreamlands, where I drank beer. Now I have a hangover. Obviously whatever physical experiences I have when I dream manifest themselves into reality.
I think about the Dreamlands and the way people there interacted with me in a way that neither Hartman nor the postman had. Lilith aside, the others all seemed to recognise the dream quality. Was it possible that they were experiencing the same thing as me? It does make a kind of sense; it would be beyond belief to imagine I’m unique.
The pattern of where I end up when I fall asleep doesn’t fit. Maybe I didn’t end up in my mother’s dream because she was a family member? But why didn’t I end up in Rawlins’ dream? I stand back and examine my diagram thoughtfully. It’s a shame I’m not more of an artist.
I abandon my chart and turn to the internet, searching for ways to prevent dreams. I scroll through various pages and websites, reading about remedies ranging from chewing mustard seeds to lavender oil on your pillow to hard drugs. Then something catches my eye. I grab the phone and dial.
‘Mum?’ I say as soon as she answers. ‘I need to ask you a quick question.’
Her voice is sleepy and I realise it’s barely seven o’clock on a Sunday morning. I must have woken her up. ‘Zoe? What’s wrong?’
Damn it. I’ve worried her now. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I just wanted to ask you if you still had the present Aunt Brenda gave you last year.’
‘Huh?’
‘The one she brought back from America. The dream-catcher.’
‘Oh. That thing. Zoe, what on earth is this about?’
‘Do you still have it?’ I persist.
‘Yes, it’s hanging up on my window. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ I quickly say. ‘Go back to sleep.’
I hang up. So maybe dream-catchers work after all. I think about Rawlins. Phoning up a police officer to ask them if they own a Native American craft piece is definitely weird but I dig out her number and call.
‘This is Sergeant Rawlins.’ Unlike my mother, she sounds wide awake. At least that’s something.
‘Hi, it’s Zoe Lydon.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Er, nothing. I just ... um, do you have a dream-catcher?’
‘What?’
I wince. ‘You know, one of those circles with the string and the feathers?’