Early Riser

Dreamspace

‘I’m guessing the trip was a success,’ said Jonesy, who was lubricating the offside front drive sprocket of her Sno-Trac with a grease gun the size of her arm.

‘My charm won the day,’ said Fodder, ‘that and a few Debts, Favours and fifty kilograms of banana Nesquik – plus the implicit threat engendered by a Golgotha.’

‘The only live Golgothas we have are the ones in the museum,’ said Jonesy. ‘You used the dummy practice one?’

Fodder shrugged.

‘Big promise is the secret of every campaign.’

Fodder went inside to report everything to Toccata and I stood there for a moment with Jonesy.

‘Was it really just Debts and Nesquik that clinched the deal?’ she asked.

‘Yup,’ I replied. ‘Debts and Nesquik. Fodder’s a fine negotiator. Where did you find Ned’s body?’

‘Pretty close to where we found his clothes. He’d been buried under the snow, and aside from the surprised look on his face we couldn’t see how he died. Oh, and your theory about it being Gronk looks to be correct – his little finger was missing. Unless you removed it yourself. Did you?’

‘No, I didn’t. So you do believe in the Gronk?’

She thought for a moment.

‘I believe there’s something dreamy and inexplicable in the air, and if Gronk is the best way to describe it, then Gronk it is. Look,’ she added, ‘Toccata’s not going to be in a great mood, so why don’t you make yourself scarce for an hour?’

I took her advice and, deep in thought, walked across to the Wincarnis, where the snow had blown up against the door. Exterior doors were always double-hinged; outwards for fire, inwards for drift. There were early snows once at St Granata’s, and when we tried to get out there was merely a wall of snow facing us – with an impression of the front door in minutely fine detail. That sort of thing really sticks in your mind.

The winsomniacs had just lunched on spaghetti that looked as though it had been bulked up with string, and were settling down for a busy afternoon wholly committed to the fine art of not doing very much. Given the vivid nature of my dreams I wanted to speak at greater length to Shamanic Bob and I found him reading a book next to the unlit fire. There was paper and kindling and logs but they had so far failed to assemble themselves into anything useful. I knelt down and started to lay the fire.

‘Well, now,’ said Shambob when he saw me, ‘you’ve kinda been making a name for yourself. Killing Lucky Ned and you and Aurora a thing. Wow. Just… wow. Never would have thought it. Not of you. Hey, don’t let her fall asleep halfway through – she’d wake up as Toccata. That could take one whole heap of explaining.’

‘World-class awkward,’ I agreed, ‘but I didn’t kill Lucky Ned, and Aurora and me aren’t a thing.’

‘It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not,’ he said, ‘it’s what everyone believes that’s important. Come to help us get seriously dreamed up?’

‘Another time.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Shamanic Bob cheerfully, ‘we’ve got a hiccup in supply anyway, but that will soon be sorted. So, what can I do for you?’

I struck a match and the newspaper flared as it caught.

‘When we last met, you told me Don Hector’s initial quest was not for us to dream less, but to dream better. I was wondering what you meant by that?’

He looked at me and narrowed his eyes.

‘You been dreaming, Newbie?’

‘Nope.’

‘Truthfully?’

‘Okay, a little.’

He smiled and moistened his lips.

‘I meant what I said. Don Hector’s initial research was not to find a way to stop us dreaming, but to help us do it better – and more productively.’

I said nothing, just waited for him to continue. He peered at me conspiratorially and looked around to ensure we were not overheard, which we were – the room was full of the sleep-shy. But there you go. Winsomniacs are like that.

‘Did I mention Dreamspace?’

‘Yes, but without details.’

Zsazsa had also mentioned Dreamspace when she was explaining about Mrs Buckley and the remote farm in Lincolnshire. Shamanic Bob laboured to sit upright and beckoned me closer.

‘It’s not common knowledge, but the original breakthrough drug at HiberTech was a powerful dream enhancer named E-28. It was synthesised during Don Hector’s early attempts to make hibernation more useful through something known as Active Control Dreaming.’

‘I’ve not heard of that,’ I said, suddenly even more interested. The last time I was in the Birgitta and Buick dreams, I was in control – making decisions for myself, guiding the narrative.

‘Few have. HiberTech guard their secrets closely. Active Control was designed so that we could carry on our lives during the Winter. But not out here, burning fat and victim to the hunger, cold and vermin predation, but in here.’

He tapped his temple.

‘Cosy, safe and happy in a personalised dreaming environment where one would have sovereignty, a place where you could do what you wanted while still remaining fully aware, fully in control of your actions – yet fully asleep.’

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but wouldn’t Active Control be as lonely as staying up over the Winter? Worse, perhaps?’

He smiled.

‘This is where it gets good. The idea was that you could share the Dreamspace. It was going to become a place to meet, a place to socialise, a place to work and remain productive. There were plans to found the first Hiberversity. A degree in anything you chose – while you slumbered, deep in the abyss of hibernation. Education for the masses. There was even talk,’ he added, laughing, I think, at the audacity of the idea, ‘of implanting Dream Avatars in the sleeping mind in order to establish a link with the outside world. News and views as you slept, perhaps even live entertainment – and also establish a potential revenue stream by suggesting goods and services to the sleeping individual.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yup.’ Shamanic Bob grinned. ‘They wanted to monetise the Dreamstate by selling entertainment and advertising space. Is nothing sacred? What’s the matter? You look kind of… shocked.’

‘It’s nothing,’ I said, but it was. If what he and Zsazsa said was true, then it would explain how Mrs Nesbit got into my dreams. But they weren’t trying to entertain me, sell me thermal socks or double glazing, they were demanding information. I had another thought, this time more unpleasant – about Agent Hooke and his in-dream interrogation techniques.

‘This Dreamspace idea,’ I said, ‘did it ever work?’

‘Not really. Twenty-one years and thirty billion euros later there was still one vast and wholly intractable problem: did you just learn about Charlotte Brontë, or did you dream you learned something? The person you just met in the Dreamspace. Did they really say what you thought they said, or was that just an invention? You are invited to have an affair in the Dreamspace. Does that make it adultery? Or even consensual? And if it wasn’t consensual, then what was it? Business deals: legally binding or not? The point is, there would be no easy way of knowing whether what happened in the Dreamspace was real, and what was imagined. Ten per cent? Eighty per cent? None?’

‘I see the problem.’

‘Right,’ said Shamanic Bob, ‘because when you merge the real and the fantasy, you can never quite define the boundaries. Dreamspace was a wonderful concept, but owing to the quirky nature of a sleeping mind prone to tangential invention, doomed to failure.’

He sighed wistfully, as though this was the greatest disappointment he could imagine. A world of permanent dreaming, navigating your own way through fantastic worlds of your own creation.

‘Dreams are the one true freedom,’ continued Shamanic Bob, ‘the place where you can be yourself; do anything, be anything. The mind set free.’

‘So long as it’s Active Control,’ I said, ‘or you’re just a passenger, right?’

‘Guilty as charged,’ said Shamanic Bob with a sad smile, ‘and that’s the Night Grail we seek: a dream indistinguishable from real life. A dream where you can lose yourself, a dream where you can be anyone you want, and do anything you wish, at your own choosing.’

‘Could you dream yourself a principled and confident leading member of the Campaign for Real Sleep?’ I asked. ‘Deep undercover on a dangerous mission with the girl of your dreams?’

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘if that’s your thing. Me, I want to fly. But not like a pilot – like a bird. High on the wing above the hushed nation, chasing the spirit of freedom. Or maybe a saxophonist,’ he added, ‘playing for Holroyd Wilson, there at his last gig, before the Winter took him. Or maybe I could dream myself popular,’ he said, ‘or even respected. Or normal. That would be nice.’

Shamanic Bob came over all dreamy and his eyelids began to droop. I wasn’t sure if it was hushed reverence because we were talking about dreams, or simply because he had dozed off. Winsomniacs doze off a lot.

‘Ever dream of the blue Buick?’ I asked.

Shamanic Bob was suddenly wide awake, and a second later his bony fingers had grasped my jacket and pulled me close.

‘That’s why so many of us are scabbing[58] in the Twelve, friend. We heard there was this dream that was more real than real, so vivid you were there, shielding your eyes against the sun, smelling the Summer, tasting the dust on your lips. Active Control, the Night Grail we seek. Where is it? Somewhere close? Which Dormitorium?’

I had to think about this for a few moments before speaking again.

‘I’ve one last question,’ I said. ‘Can the memory of dreams ever unfold in your head retrospectively, influenced by later experiences?’

‘I’ve not experienced such a thing myself,’ he said after a moment’s thought, ‘nor heard of anyone who has – but narcosis can throw up an interesting-shaped bone from time to time. Are you sure you don’t want to get all dream-faced with us?’

‘I’m sure.’

I walked to the door, then turned. Our conversation had been followed by every winsomniac in the room. They were all watching me, dark-rimmed, wide eyes, blinking like owls.

‘Understand this,’ I said to the room in general, ‘there is no blue Buick dream, it’s definitely not Active Control, and it’s certainly not at the Sarah Siddons.’

The winsomniacs all smiled faintly and nodded their heads in a languid manner. Lloyd had said I could have four tins of Ambrosia Creamed Rice for each winsomniac I got into the Siddons. For every one that arrived, Birgitta was four hours closer to Springrise, and four hours farther from cannibalism. Ambrosia Creamed Rice, good at the best of times, had never seemed more attractive.