Dreamrider (7 page)

The door opened. A thin, frail woman stood like an old person, as if bent by an invisible weight. Her hair was thin, wispy and faded, like something left too long in the sun, but when I looked at her face I knew she couldn't have been more than fifty. Her skin was baggy, yet it was her eyes that held my attention. She had deep and kind eyes, but the pain under the surface made me flinch. It was like seeing calm water and catching a glimpse of monsters beneath. It was such an arresting face that I stood for some time before I noticed she was watching me with amused patience. I cleared my throat.

‘Mrs Atkins?' I said.

‘Yes. What can I do for you?'

‘My name is Michael Terny, Mrs Atkins. I am one of your husband's students.'

She gave a small smile.

‘Well, Michael. I'm pleased to meet you, but I think you'll find my husband is at school. Can I ask why you are not there too?'

I felt uncomfortable under her gaze. This Dream seemed different from normal. In the early days of lucid dreaming, I hadn't had much control. The Dream had its own logic and I could only influence minor details. It had been a long time since that had happened. I could shape everything now. True, I would often allow the Dream to flow in the surreal manner of ordinary dreams. But even that was a conscious choice to let go. Not now, though. The dog and Mrs Atkins appeared to be independent of me in some way. It was strange, but I had come this far and I wanted to know what would happen.

‘Mrs Atkins, I am not here to see your husband. I have come to see you. To help you.'

She gave a tired smile, as if a child had said something cute. But it was impossible to take offence.

‘Well, Michael, that is very kind of you. I'm not at all sure I need your help, but do come in and tell me more.' She stood aside and I moved past her into the hall.

‘First door on the right,' she said. ‘Make yourself comfortable and I'll put the kettle on.'

I went into the living room. There was a couch against the window and a couple of easy chairs, both threadbare. The room was lined with bookcases. Every bit of wall space was taken up with rows and rows of books. It was like a library. I squeezed past the coffee table in front of the couch and sat down. The air was dusty, the smell of musty paper thick in the room. It was wonderful, calm, reassuring.

I looked at the books on the shelves. Mrs Atkins came in with a teapot and two cups on a tray. She moved carefully, as if afraid of breaking herself, put the tray down and sat with a small sigh. I poured the tea and she didn't protest. She took a cup, sat back and closed her eyes. There was a bowl of old-fashioned sugar cubes. I liked their hardness beneath my fingers. I put four lumps into my tea. On impulse, I dropped one into the top pocket of my shirt. Mrs Atkins sipped her tea, leaned forward and put the cup back on the coffee table.

‘You're sick,' I said.

She gave a small laugh. ‘Well, Michael,' she said. ‘You're not wrong there. I think I can safely say that.'

‘I can help you.'

‘I don't need your help, Michael. My husband gives me all the help I need.'

‘I don't mean that,' I said. ‘I mean I can help with your illness.'

She looked at me and there was a twinkle in her eyes.

‘My illness?' she said. ‘Well, Michael, that is indeed kind of you. But I'm afraid there is not much you can do. There's nothing anyone can do. I've consulted more doctors than you have probably seen in your entire life. So I appreciate your offer, but . . .'

‘You have a brain tumour,' I said.

The twinkle disappeared. She turned to face me and I saw the beginnings of anger in her eyes.

‘Has my husband been talking to you? If he has been talking about me to his students . . .'

‘I can see it, Mrs Atkins,' I said. I could too. There was a dark mass under her skull, above her right eye. ‘If you'll just sit back and close your eyes, I'll get rid of it.'

For a moment I thought her anger was going to flare. Emotions struggled across her face. Then, abruptly, she smiled and her face cleared. Maybe I wanted her to see me as a harmless lunatic. Maybe I'd decided she had nothing left to lose, not even dignity.

‘Faith healing, is it, Michael?'

‘Something like that,' I said.

She leaned back and closed her eyes, the smile still there. I put my hands on her skull. It felt frail, as if with only a little pressure I could break through bone and tissue and put my hands on the brain beneath. And that's what I did. I pressed gently and my hands parted flesh and bone like water. I could feel the tumour beneath my fingers. It felt hard and there was something about it that made my skin crawl.

I moved my hands around the growth and felt its attachment to the tissue beneath. I could also sense rather than feel the other knots of cancer spreading from it, an infection staining her brain.

I can't explain how I did it. In the Dream things work differently. I didn't tear the cancer away. I willed it to be gone. I put my mind into my hands. Gradually, the tumour separated from the healthy tissue and gathered in my palms. When I was sure I had it all, I removed my hands. The skull flowed beneath my fingers and closed behind them. The whole thing took less than a minute. Mrs Atkins lay with her eyes closed, a dreamy look on her face.

‘It's done, Mrs Atkins,' I said. ‘It's gone.'

She opened her eyes and her expression was dazed. She put her hands slowly to her head. I knew something felt different to her. An expression of wonder passed across her face, like a burden had been lifted. Or maybe something added. Wholeness, perhaps, or a sense of cleanliness where before there had been contamination. She shook her head slightly and her fingers clenched. She stared at me.

‘It
has
gone, Mrs Atkins,' I said. ‘Believe me.'

Not that her belief had anything to do with it.

‘Well, I've taken up enough of your time,' I said. ‘I'd best get back to school.'

She rose carefully, but I could tell she was surprised by how easy it was. We walked to the door.

‘You're a strange boy, Michael,' she said. Then she put out her hand and I shook it. ‘But I want to thank you. Truly.'

‘Take care, Mrs Atkins,' I said.

I walked off. I needed to get back to my body, lying under a tree on the school oval. I could have done that instantly, but I didn't feel like it. I walked back slowly, feeling the sunshine on my legs and arms. My body was singing.

When I reached the edge of the school oval I could see, in the distance, my huddled shape under the tree. I had done this many times, but there was always a jolt, a sense of overwhelming strangeness, when I closed on my sleeping body. I walked on until I was standing over myself. Mounds of flesh hung under my chin. My T-shirt was slightly rucked, exposing rolls of pale belly. I saw myself the way others saw me and I shared their disgust. I
was
disgusting. That's why the Dream is so good. I can be what I want to be. Back in that huge, unwieldy body I am trapped. But in the end, there's never a choice. I always have to return.

I turned to face what couldn't be avoided. The glass filled my vision, an expanse of darkness. The urge to reach out and touch its surface was irresistible. In my mind, I could see the ripples I would create, my hand stirring its curve, sinking, finger by finger, into black depths. I could see my hand stretch slowly towards it.

But I knew what would happen, what always happened. Maybe I got closer this time. It seemed that each Dream brought my fingers closer to the surface, that it was only a matter of time before I would touch it. More – that it was important, even vital, to make contact. The flash of yellow came from the top right-hand corner. My hand flinched as if from a flame. Beads of perspiration broke out on my forehead. My heart raced. The yellow flashed across the glass towards the bottom left-hand corner, then dimmed. In that brief instant, I could see a shape moving within the surface. I felt its panic. Then, with a dull roar, like a far off explosion, the colours pumped towards me – deep orange, mingled with fire-red and harsh, violent yellows. They came in waves, as if to swallow me. I tried to scream, but no sound came. For a moment there was nothing but blazing colours. They swamped the world.

My body jerked into a sitting position and my eyes snapped open. I felt the stiffness of my limbs. A string of drool was draped over my chin. My body was a frightening weight. I had difficulty raising myself up on an elbow. It always happened like this. It was as if I was in someone else's body, dragging a strange carcass.

After a few moments my heart slowed and breathing became easier. I noticed that someone had pinned a note to the leg of my shorts. It read ‘Beeched whale'. Not Martin, I thought. He wouldn't make a spelling mistake like that.

Jamie.

The oval stretched out around me. I forced my eyes, heavy with sleep, to look at my watch. I had slept through twenty minutes of the afternoon's first lesson. No one had woken me. Why should they? It must have given them a good laugh. I didn't feel like laughing. Not when I saw that the oval wasn't quite deserted. One person was watching as I struggled to my feet, plucking the note from my shorts. Miss Palmer, the Assistant Principal, was walking towards me.

I hadn't made the best start at Millways High.

3
.

‘I don't care that you fell asleep, Michael.' Miss Palmer ran her hands through her hair. Her eyes were tired. ‘Though, having said that, you need to make sure you're getting a decent night's sleep. Are you drinking enough water?'

I nodded.

‘It's the note that bothers me. This is exactly the kind of bullying I was talking about. Let me ask you again – do you know who wrote it?'

I shrugged.

‘I'll find out. Even if I have to check the handwriting of every student. I won't let this behaviour go unpunished in my school.'

I wanted to tell her to forget it, that a fuss was only going to make my life more difficult. But I didn't. She kept me in her office until the start of the last lesson. That was okay. I didn't like the idea of going into class halfway through. So I turned up to SOSE, hoping no one would notice me. No chance. Kids pointed at me, laughed and sniggered. The whole school, it seemed, knew about my lunchtime nap and found it funny. Apart from Leah. She was in my SOSE class and she sat next to me. That was good of her, particularly since her friends were in a group having a good laugh at my expense. It takes courage to be seen with a loser. She leaned towards me.

‘Bloody hell, Michael,' she whispered. ‘You don't exactly help yourself, do you? I mean, falling asleep at lunchtime!'

‘Yeah, well . . .'

‘I didn't find out about it until last lesson. I don't want you to think that I'd have left you there if I'd known.'

‘I don't think you'd have done that.'

‘What's this I heard about a note pinned on you?'

‘Nothing. No big deal.'

‘Yeah, well, if I find out who did it . . .'

We didn't finish. The SOSE teacher suddenly slammed his fist down on the desk.

‘There seems to be an unnecessary amount of noise in this classroom today. School has not finished yet, so I suggest you get your textbooks out and turn to page 35. The ecology of the Murray River system. Right . . .'

When the bell rang I stayed behind to ask about our homework, but only because I didn't want to leave with the rest of the students. The teacher answered patiently, even though he had already clearly explained the assignment. When I thought most students would have left the building, I thanked him and gathered up my books. Leah was waiting for me in the corridor.

‘Getting the bus, Michael?'

Normally I would have been pleased to walk with her. I was touched she had waited for me. But I had business to attend to.

‘Thanks, Leah, but I've got something to do. I'll get the bus later.'

After she'd gone, I waited in the corridor for a minute and then left the school grounds by a side entrance. A few kids were hanging around, but they didn't bother me. Down the road I found a bench to sit on, and waited. I had a clear view of the school. I needed to check something. It was crazy. It was impossible. But my heart wouldn't stop hammering.

After twenty minutes the stooped figure of Mr Atkins appeared at the main entrance. He walked straight past the staff car park and left the grounds by a side gate. This was a bonus. I had expected him to get in a car. A rego was all I had hoped for. I waited until he was some way down the road and then followed. If he turned around, he'd spot me. Someone of my size is difficult to miss. Mr Atkins, though, seemed deep in thought. I stayed as close as I could.

It was madness. What happens in the Dream is the product of my brainwaves. It has nothing to do with the outside world, the real world. But the visit to Mrs Atkins had been strange. It wasn't just the way the dog seemed to sense me. It wasn't even that I couldn't fully control Mrs Atkins's reactions. I patted my pocket, and I almost hoped I would find that Mrs Atkins wouldn't bear any resemblance to my creation. Mr Atkins probably wouldn't even have a dog. But I couldn't still the rush of excitement in my blood.

Mr Atkins took a totally different route to the one I had followed at lunchtime. I suppose he might have been heading somewhere other than home, but it didn't seem likely to me. After twenty minutes, he turned into the drive of an elevated house in a quiet street. This took me by surprise, but I quickened my steps and was across the street and watching as he went in the front door. I sat down on the grass for a few moments. I was sweating from the walk and my legs felt rubbery. I waited until my heart stopped hammering. Then I started a slow walk back to the bus stop. I needed to think.

Mr Atkins did have a dog. It jumped up at him as he searched for his house keys. It wasn't the dog in the Dream. The real dog was brown, rather than black, but it was about the same size and roughly the same breed. But the main thing that bothered me was Mrs Atkins. She opened the door while Mr Atkins was fumbling with his keys and trying to stop the dog from jumping.