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Hartman 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.