I slide down until my feet are back on solid ground. There’s a group of chattering women heading my way so I hold my breath until they’ve rounded the corner then I make a run for it. Their backs are turned to me so they won’t see me and they’ll block me from anyone else’s view. I sprint across the cobbles and under the ornate portcullis.
Now that I’m inside, I breathe a little easier. I retrace my steps until I find the massive room where Esme had taken me. I drop Bron’s knife in plain sight before entering. The room is as dark and gloomy as it was before. My shoulders and neck are stiff with tension. I can only hope this bloody works.
I tiptoe forward, even though trying to be quiet now is unnecessary. I want to select the best possible candidate for my trial run – the one who is most likely to be stirred – so I edge over to the far corner and the sleeping figure whom Esme called Bob. I gaze down at him for a moment; he’s in his fifties and, somewhat disturbingly, only has one arm. I wonder whether it was the same accident that took his limb and placed him here. A wave of sorrow hits me; I should be thanking my lucky stars that I’m not one of these unfortunate souls, instead of complaining about my lot.
I kneel down at Bob’s side and smooth his brow. I have no idea whether this will work or not but I’m a dreamweaver and I’m supposed to have control. And this is Sleeping Beauty’s castle, as Esme pointed out.
I wet my lips. It occurs to me that might look creepy so I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve. ‘Sorry, Bob,’ I mutter. ‘I’ve never done this before. With a complete stranger, I mean.’
Bob, naturally, doesn’t respond. I take a deep breath and lean over until my face is hovering over his. Lips? Or can I get away with the forehead? It’s hardly true love’s kiss – and I’m desperately hoping that doesn’t make a difference – so I aim for his brow. I pucker up and press my mouth against it.
‘Wake up, Bob,’ I whisper. ‘Wake up.’ I pull back and watch him. He doesn’t stir. I stare at his face, willing his eyes to open or his body to disappear, something to show that he’s coming out of his coma.
I’m so disappointed when nothing happens. I knew it was a long shot but it would have made my plan more likely to work. I shake my head; this dreamweaver nonsense isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
I’m about to leave when there’s a sudden groan. I freeze. ‘Bob?’ I ask, hope stirring deep inside me.
His eyelids flutter open and he gazes at me, confused. Then there’s a noise like a crack of thunder. A heartbeat later, Bob has gone. I stare at the space he just vacated, I even get back down on my hands and knees on the off-chance that he’s still there but now invisible – but he’s definitely left the building. I fist-pump the air and let out a screech of joy.
‘You go, Bob!’ I yell. ‘You go!’ I dance round in a twisted version of an Irish jig. It worked! It bloody worked! I’m no longer Ninja Zoe; I’m now Prince Charming.
Aware that I’m wasting time, I calm down and get to work, kissing everyone in the place. Not all of them see me before they go; sometimes they just vanish but one or two speak to me. The little girl who Esme called Pixie stares at me with huge blue eyes and asks, ‘Are you an angel?’ Before I can answer her, she too is gone.
It takes some time to get round everyone. Obviously not every unconscious person in the world is here – but there are still plenty of comatose bodies. I guess that the ones who come here are close to being Travellers but maybe they don’t believe enough, which is why they don’t wake up like Esme. Or maybe it depends on what brain activity they still have. It doesn’t really matter. There are going to be a lot of very happy families today. Even if things don’t work out for me, I’ve achieved that much at least.
Chapter Nineteen
Insomnia is a vertiginous lucidity that can convert paradise itself into a place of torture.
Emil Cloran
It’s frustrating to have to return to the real world. Not long after I happily survey the now empty room in the castle, I’m being shaken awake. I feel groggy and oddly drained.
‘You don’t look much better than when you arrived,’ Rawlins comments. ‘Are these slow-acting pills that you’ve taken?’
I groan and rub my forehead. ‘A coffee and a full English might help me come round.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Well, you’re certainly not the shrinking violet you used to be. Come on, Ms Lydon. We need to talk.’
I struggle to my feet. ‘We spend so much time together these days,’ I say. ‘You can call me Zoe.’
I receive a sidelong glance in return. I’m sure she’s biting her tongue to stop herself from saying anything more. She is, however, the ultimate professional.
‘So, Ms Lydon,’ she says once we’re both back in the interrogation room with Brown. ‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’