‘You mean in the Bubble?’
‘Yes.’ He reads out. ‘Jones, Alan. Born Ipswich, UK, 1969. Engineer.’
I stare at him. ‘Find that door and you’ll find Alan Jones?’
The Mayor smiles. ‘You’ll find his dreams anyway.’ He replaces the card and points to another cabinet. ‘These are the latest acquisitions.’ He takes out the first card and licks his lips. ‘We found this one yesterday. A young up-and-coming backbencher.’
I start. ‘A politician?’
‘Yes. Labour – not that it matters at the moment. But he’ll be in a position of power one of these days. And we’ll be able to see into his head.’
I feel sick. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Imagine knowing what the government is planning in advance. Any government. If there are plans for an invasion or a military strike, you could inform the victims in advance. You’d save lives. In fact, we’ve done that in the past. How do you think so many terrorist plots are foiled? We see what those bastards are dreaming and we know what they’re going to do next. Of course, we can’t find all of them but I have a lot of people working on tracking the doors and creating these cards. It’s amazing what you can discover.’
He makes a convincing argument but the potential for misuse is terrifying. Forget CCTV cameras, phone hacking and Orwell’s Big Brother. This is snooping on a whole new level.
I wonder whether I’m any different for wandering into dreams in a similar fashion. I tell myself that I am; I’m not deliberately seeking people out, not to manipulate their real lives.
‘It’s hard though,’ the Mayor adds. ‘There are a lot of people out there and we can’t track them all. There are the old myths about dreamweavers, of course...’ I stiffen and he gives me a sudden, hard look. ‘A dreamweaver can change the fabric of the mind. Apparently.’
‘Sounds silly,’ I say, my mind racing back to Dante’s accusations.
‘You’re right. They’re probably myths. In the absence of dreamweavers, however, having a few mares around to send out and create nightmares...’ He laughs. ‘Not that we would. I’m as much one for animal rights as you clearly are.’
He’s still watching me carefully and I suddenly realise where all of this is leading. The Mayor also suspects me of being a dreamweaver. It’s obviously something to do with me only just showing up here in the Dreamlands despite my advanced age.
Regardless of his terrorism-foiling argument, I can’t see how he means well with his dream-mapping project. And it’s pretty bloody obvious why he wants the mares.
‘You could come and join us,’ he says smoothly.
I demur. ‘I don’t think this is for me.’
‘It’ll be better for you if you do.’
There’s something about his tone that puts me on edge. ‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Not if we’re going to be friends. You don’t want to cross me.’
I hold my ground. ‘I thought you were one of the good guys?’
‘Oh, but I am, Ms Lydon. And I have a lot of power, here and in the real world. Right now, I’m the only one controlling what dreams can be seen. Work with me and we can do a lot of good.’
‘You’re not taking the mares because you want to do good,’ I say softly.
His face twists. I bunch my fists. I’m not afraid of him.
Just then, I feel my whole body being tugged. I’m waking up. Goddamnit. I let out a howl of frustration that sounds both in the Dreamlands and my bedroom. I slam my fists down on my mattress and sit up. On the one hand, I’m amazed that I was mentally and emotionally strong enough to confront the Mayor; on the other hand, I’m bitterly angry that I couldn’t see it through. There’s something rotten going on and I’m going to find out what.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and push back my hair. Suddenly, I freeze. The Mayor. He called me Ms Lydon. All I’ve ever told anyone in the Dreamlands is that I’m called Zoe. How does he know my last name?
Chapter Eleven
Life is an unfoldment, and the further we travel the more truth we can comprehend. To understand the things that are at our door is the best preparation for understanding those that lie beyond.
Hypatia
I feel like I’m dying. Lights flash in front of my eyes and my chest is tight. I can’t breathe. Any sense of coherence has flown. I want to run and hide but my legs won’t work, though they spasm and jerk. I’m sure I’m going to throw up. Bile rises into my mouth. I choke and claw at my throat with trembling fingers. My stomach is empty – nothing more comes up. My face is flushed. One second I want to lash out, to beat down my invisible attackers; the next second I can think only of hiding. I’m seized with paralysing fear. They’re going to come for me and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to...