Blake and I drag our feet on
the way home from the border. Mist curls around our ankles as we turn into my street. When we let ourselves in I don’t even look to see if there’s a light on in Paul’s room.
‘I had an idea about what we could do with the pills,’ says Blake. ‘I think my friend will know what they are.’
‘This friend wouldn’t happen to be the Queen of the Night, would she?’
Blake nods.
‘Good. We’ll go see her tomorrow then. I don’t have anything else to do.’
Doubt flits moth-like across Blake’s face. ‘I’m not sure.’ She folds the pill bag into ever-smaller squares. ‘I could ask. I suppose.’
‘Doesn’t she like visitors? Is what she does illegal?’
‘No, of course not. She has a lot of valuable equipment, and…and things, at her house. She doesn’t want people to know how much she has.’
‘You can tell her I can be trusted. Get some sleep, Blake. You’ve earned it.’
As soon as I’m alone my head starts to teem. I lie down on the couch in the front room. It’s cold in here, and there are cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling, but I can’t deal with the chaos of the upper floor.
Finding out what sort of pills the blue people take won’t help us if we don’t find Paul. The thought that I might have to email Paul’s mum, who is sailing somewhere up the east coast, to tell her that her son is missing doesn’t thrill me.
I close my eyes, willing myself to drift off. I want, for a few precious moments, to not exist at all.
I succeed better than I thought I would, because when I open my eyes again it’s the morning. A sound has woken me. I lie still, listening. A car getting closer, then fading away. It could have been part of a dream, but I go out into the hallway to check. The corner of an envelope pokes through the mail slot.
I haven’t had mail in nearly a year. There’s no such thing as a postal service in Shyness anymore.
The envelope is pale blue, without a postmark, and smaller than regulation size. My name is printed on the front in neat purple letters. I already know who it’s from.
The letter is handwritten, with a familiar signature at the bottom: Dr W. Gregory. Doctor Gregory used to send me letters regularly, but I haven’t had any in a while. The old letters were typed forms, with my name pasted into the greeting. This letter is more personal.
Dear Jethro,
It has come to my attention that you have an interest in the workings of the Datura Institute. I’m keen to discuss my innovative programs with you, as well as several other matters of importance. Call this number to arrange a meeting: 9342 45860.
Please pass on my kind regards to your friend Paul. I have enjoyed my recent conversations with him very much.
Best,
Dr W. Gregory
A pulsing, buzzing feeling blasts away the whispery remnants of sleep. The doubt that’s been eating away at my insides becomes more solid. I considered it a reprieve that Doctor Gregory didn’t chase me down after Nia and I broke into Orphanville. But maybe this is how he’s getting back at me.
My second impulse is to call the number. Call his bluff. And maybe he knows where Paul is. But now I’m wondering all over again if I really want to find him.
I go to Blake’s room, but she’s curled up under the covers, breathing heavily. We got home well after midnight, and it’s only 8 a.m. now, too early to wake her. I find myself in the kitchen without knowing how I got there, pulling my phone out, dialling the number.
‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice.
I almost hang up.
‘Hello?’ she repeats.
‘I think I have the wrong number.’
She must put me on speaker, because her voice becomes echoey. ‘You’re the only person with this number,’ she says.
I catch a glimpse of Orphanville as I crest the hill near my house. The towers are dark, as they have been for the last few weeks, except for the closest one, which blazes with fire. The Kidds like their bonfires, but this is bigger. Flames lick the entire top floor. A pillar of smoke climbs into the golden sky. The Panwood fire brigade won’t be rushing to the scene. The late afternoon is flushed through with a warmer breeze.
It took some fast-talking with Doctor Gregory’s secretary to organise a meeting place. There was no way I was going to the Datura Institute. She put me on hold several times before accepting my suggestion: a dusty, unpopular cafe on O’Neira Street. Last night must have exhausted Blake, because she’s been asleep all day. I didn’t bother waking her. I might be able to get more information on my own from Doctor Gregory before we go see the Queen of the Night.
A gaudy, flashing Mother Mary looks down benevolently on me at the entrance to the building. I cross myself automatically, the habit of too many years of Catholic schooling. The owner of the cafe has an obsession with Mexican Day of the Dead paraphernalia. Skeleton statues lurk in every crevice of the main passageway. I walk through to the main room, which is as quiet as a crypt.
Doctor Gregory has already arrived. He sits in a sunken square pit with benches all around and a lace-draped table in the middle. A man at supreme ease. The very sight causes a nasty taste in my mouth. I don’t even want to be in the same room as him.
He makes to stand up and shake my hand.
‘Don’t bother,’ I say, and sit on the other side of the table, as far away as I can get. Doctor Gregory is dressed for business, in a white shirt, striped tie and suit pants. Everything about him is glossy and fake—from his tan to the hefty watch on his wrist. I check the corners of the room. A suited bodyguard stands next to the bar. Of course he didn’t come on his own. I suppose the fact that he didn’t bring a small army is a good sign that I’m not about to be kidnapped.
‘Jethro, it’s a pleasure to see you again.’
The way he says my name makes me realise he already thinks he’s won by getting me to meet him.
‘Spare me.’ I shift on the hard bench. I deliberately wore my oldest jeans and a ripped flannie. ‘What’s this about?’
A waiter deposits a tray of drinks on our table. Doctor Gregory waits until he leaves before speaking.
‘We might have to work on your manners,’ he says, plucking a cigarette from a pack on the table. ‘You’re a touch savage, I must say. Do you have a light?’
I shake my head, refusing to play along. Doctor Gregory shrugs and finds his own lighter in his pocket. He places two shot glasses in front of me, and two in front of him.
‘You’ve been asking about my dream program.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you want to participate?’ A mocking smile creeps onto his orange face. Smoke unfurls from his mouth.
‘No. I want to know why Paul is treated differently from your other patients.’
That makes him raise his eyebrows.
‘You have done your research,’ he says with fatherly approval. He raises his glass with his spare hand. ‘Paul is a special case. Cheers.’
I move the glasses away from me. ‘Special how?’
‘Half of the participants in my dream program are insomniacs. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Being surrounded by night, yet finding sleep elusive?’ Doctor Gregory smiles without showing his teeth. ‘Their dreams are nothing to them, so they give them to me readily in return for a few hours of oblivion. Following an extremely strict pharmaceutical protocol, I might add. Then there are the patients who are addicted to dreaming, Dreamers of the most dedicated kind. Our medications are ten times cleaner than what they can buy on the street. We negotiate taking a portion of their dreams, and they keep some for their own recreation.’
Doctor Gregory pauses to alternate sips from his remaining glass, and draws from his cigarette. His thin dry lips make me feel sick. I notice he also talks as if dreams were objects, commodities, capable of transaction.
‘Your dear friend Paul, however, is different. Paul has no interest in sharing his dreams with anyone. Which is not to say I haven’t taken a small peek occasionally. Clinical interest, you understand. Most fascinating. Paul is unhealthily fixated on the past. He wants to cycle through the same events, again and again. He has little interest in exploring the stranger horizons of nocturnal travel. You know, parallel universes, prophecy, and the like.’
I decide to humour him and pretend that he’s bottling dreams like Sanjay said.
‘What do you do with their dreams? You go to so much effort, you must really need them.’
‘Well, thank you for asking me that, Jethro.’ Doctor Gregory attempts to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. ‘Dreams are windows onto people’s desires— desires they try to keep secret, or even desires they didn’t know they had. And if you know a man’s desires, then you can make him do anything.’
I have to stop myself from jiggling my legs. He’s told me nothing concrete. ‘Why do you need to make people do what you want them to? Aren’t you too old to be playing with dolls?’
Another sip, another draw.
‘Reasons, reasons. The one thing humans have in common is that they are all searching for answers.’ He stubs his cigarette in an ashtray. ‘Except for our Paul; he thinks all we need is love.’
I feign standing up to leave.
Doctor Gregory slaps both hands on the table. Gold rings line up across his knuckles. ‘I don’t discuss my work with many people, Jethro. Only those who can grasp it.’
‘You think I’m dumb enough to fall for your false flattery?’ I sit back down despite my words.
‘You’ve matured recently, Jethro. Changed. I can see that. I get the feeling you regard me as an enemy. I’ve searched my conscience for a likely reason. That business with the Kidds? That was nothing. I don’t particularly care if you visit Orphanville. I don’t particularly care if you pick fights with people in my employ. I was already planning on scaling back the Kidds’ activity. You even did me a favour when you released the tarsier. Doesn’t that make you think some of our interests might be the same? That we could work together?’
I would never stoop that low, but I see an opportunity. ‘You can start by telling me why you’ve targeted Paul. If he doesn’t give you his dreams, what do you get out of it?’ I try not to make it obvious that I’m holding my breath.
‘I thought you would have figured that out by now, Jethro. I give Paul the necessary pills to put him in his perfect dream universe, and he gives me information about you.’
I blink. Everything flashes white for a few seconds. Then I’m back in the room.
‘He wouldn’t do that.’ I regret my words immediately.
Doctor Gregory smiles more successfully this time. With teeth. His eyes are two coal-black voids. Empty eyes. ‘It’s never nice to admit that we don’t know our friends as well as we thought we did.’
I grip the edge of the seat. Paul betraying me. This is the rotting dark possibility that has been sitting in my stomach.
‘Tell me where he is.’ I can barely get the words out. Doctor Gregory looks genuinely surprised. He’s a hammy actor so I can tell the difference.
‘I don’t know where Paul is. Maybe you’ve scared him into hiding. If it makes you feel any better, he was initially very reluctant to tell me anything. But once he became more dependent on his cherished dream state, he was far more obliging.’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I say. My fingers are cramping.
‘You’d be surprised what I can do with the smallest detail.’
I let go of the seat. Flight seems the most useful response right now. That, or smashing the slimy look of concern off Doctor Gregory’s face.
‘You can’t mess with people’s lives like this. It’s wrong.’
‘Shyness is a unique environment, Jethro. A battlefield in one way, a petri dish in another. Some of us are better equipped to take advantage of this. Some of us are better equipped to make sense of the phenomena that surround us. Why are you so resistant to embracing the possibilities?’
He lights another cigarette and blows smoke at the ceiling. I don’t know what to say. I’ll never come out of a conversation with Doctor Gregory on top because he manipulates words better than I ever could. But a few of his words stick, and I realise he needs Shyness more than it needs him. I pull Delilah’s book from my pocket.
‘I’ve been doing some light reading in my spare time.’ I hold the book up so he can read the cover. ‘Are you familiar with this particular branch of the family tree?’
For a microsecond, Doctor Gregory’s mask slips. It gives me courage to keep talking.
‘You’ll be screwed if someone upsets your petri dish. If what this book says is true, things won’t stay the same in Shyness forever. Are you really going to sit there and pretend you haven’t noticed the changes around here?’
His face hardens. ‘I make the changes.’
‘Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.’
‘You can’t decide if you feel unique or alone, Jethro, but I have others like you in my care. Yours is not the most severe case I’ve seen, not by a long shot. It really is so very fascinating to watch the battle of nature and civilisation up close.’
I stand up, tuck the book away again.
‘But you’re not the only person I have my eye on,’ he continues. ‘That Diana, she’s a special little girl, isn’t she?’
I’m by his side in a flash, grabbing him by the shirt, hauling him up off the seat. Doctor Gregory’s face is abstract. Terracotta-coloured. A collection of shapes and lines. The bodyguard moves into my peripheral vision, a blurry dark figure, but Doctor Gregory shakes his head.
I pull my fist back, cocked, ready to strike.
‘I’m winning the battle,’ I say. I let him go. He falls onto the seat, breathing heavily. I jump out of the pit and head for the door.