handed a cup of tea by the revolting Francis Cuppello.
“Put it on the side.”
If he heard the contempt in my voice, he didn’t register it.
“There you go. I’ll leave you to it, then. Take a shower, I’ll meet you in the mess for breakfast. We depart at 07:45 hours.”
“’kay,”
He looked at me for a moment, wondering, and then he turned and left the wonderful place they’d given me to sleep in. An empty room, metal skeletons of empty beds lined up on either side. The sound of rain on the windows.
Today was the day that I would depart for Dream Paris. I didn’t want to go. Who would? If you think that you would, then you’ve never been in the Dream World. You’ve never woken each morning wondering if your personality has changed in some way, wondering how you could tell if it had. You’ve never seen the fear in other people’s eyes as they gaze at you, weighing you up, deciding who or what you are. The Dream World is not a place where humans can live.
I was terrified. My fortune said I would meet my mother in Dream Paris. It never said anything about coming back. Back during the Incursion, as Therese Delacroix had called it, once you’d entered Dream London, you were trapped. The railway lines looped back on themselves, bringing you back to where you started. Would Dream Paris be the same?
I sipped the tea. Hot, sweet and milky. I loved this room. The bare, swept floor, the pale green walls, the metal lockers, the empty beds. It was so ordinary, so unchanging. I didn’t want to leave it.
B REAKFAST WAS A dream. I can’t believe I used that word; dream means something else nowadays. What I meant was that breakfast was wonderful. I heaped my plate with bacon, eggs, mushrooms, beans, fried bread, tomatoes, sausages. I hadn’t eaten so much since, well, the night before, when I’d eaten all that stew. Francis sat opposite me, scraping the pattern off a huge bowl of porridge. I refused all attempts to start a conversation, kept things strictly business.
“So, what subjects are you studying at school, Anna?”
“How are we going to get to Dream Paris, Francis? Is it far?”
“I don’t know. There’s a path we have to follow.”
“Where’s the path?”
“Not far. A short drive.” He looked unhappy. “Are you sure that you’ve everything you need? Wouldn’t you like a couple of books to take with you? It can get boring.”
“Have you seen the path before?”
And so on.
We finished our breakfast and headed back to the barracks. I sorted through my equipment for the last time, mixing things from the Army with the things I’d brought from home. I kept my own comfortable boots, but I took the Army’s raincoat and over-trousers. I pulled on the dark blue oiled woollen jumper they’d provided and that was it. I took a last look around the barracks, hoisted my pack on my back and headed out into the cold drizzle.
No one paid me any attention as I walked through the busy base. Everyone was hurrying this way and that on missions of their own. We found Mr Twelvetrees waiting for us, listening to Tchaikovsky’s Sixth in the back seat of his shiny black car. Darren took my pack and stored it in the boot, next to a much larger pack that I assumed belonged to Francis.
Darren turned the music right down as I climbed into the car.
“Any last questions, Anna?” asked Mr Twelvetrees.
“Why should I trust you, Mr Twelvetrees? I’m walking out on my old life on the word of a man I met barely twelve hours ago. How can I trust you?”
“You can’t.”
Oddly enough, that satisfied me. He wasn’t promising anything.
Francis climbed in with us and we were off. The car pulled out of the barracks and we drove through a grey, drizzly London morning. A group of girls about my age walked to school: they’d shortened their uniform skirts by rolling them up at the waist, their faces were thick with orange foundation. They would go to class, chat through lessons, gossip through break,
“Put it on the side.”
If he heard the contempt in my voice, he didn’t register it.
“There you go. I’ll leave you to it, then. Take a shower, I’ll meet you in the mess for breakfast. We depart at 07:45 hours.”
“’kay,”
He looked at me for a moment, wondering, and then he turned and left the wonderful place they’d given me to sleep in. An empty room, metal skeletons of empty beds lined up on either side. The sound of rain on the windows.
Today was the day that I would depart for Dream Paris. I didn’t want to go. Who would? If you think that you would, then you’ve never been in the Dream World. You’ve never woken each morning wondering if your personality has changed in some way, wondering how you could tell if it had. You’ve never seen the fear in other people’s eyes as they gaze at you, weighing you up, deciding who or what you are. The Dream World is not a place where humans can live.
I was terrified. My fortune said I would meet my mother in Dream Paris. It never said anything about coming back. Back during the Incursion, as Therese Delacroix had called it, once you’d entered Dream London, you were trapped. The railway lines looped back on themselves, bringing you back to where you started. Would Dream Paris be the same?
I sipped the tea. Hot, sweet and milky. I loved this room. The bare, swept floor, the pale green walls, the metal lockers, the empty beds. It was so ordinary, so unchanging. I didn’t want to leave it.
B REAKFAST WAS A dream. I can’t believe I used that word; dream means something else nowadays. What I meant was that breakfast was wonderful. I heaped my plate with bacon, eggs, mushrooms, beans, fried bread, tomatoes, sausages. I hadn’t eaten so much since, well, the night before, when I’d eaten all that stew. Francis sat opposite me, scraping the pattern off a huge bowl of porridge. I refused all attempts to start a conversation, kept things strictly business.
“So, what subjects are you studying at school, Anna?”
“How are we going to get to Dream Paris, Francis? Is it far?”
“I don’t know. There’s a path we have to follow.”
“Where’s the path?”
“Not far. A short drive.” He looked unhappy. “Are you sure that you’ve everything you need? Wouldn’t you like a couple of books to take with you? It can get boring.”
“Have you seen the path before?”
And so on.
We finished our breakfast and headed back to the barracks. I sorted through my equipment for the last time, mixing things from the Army with the things I’d brought from home. I kept my own comfortable boots, but I took the Army’s raincoat and over-trousers. I pulled on the dark blue oiled woollen jumper they’d provided and that was it. I took a last look around the barracks, hoisted my pack on my back and headed out into the cold drizzle.
No one paid me any attention as I walked through the busy base. Everyone was hurrying this way and that on missions of their own. We found Mr Twelvetrees waiting for us, listening to Tchaikovsky’s Sixth in the back seat of his shiny black car. Darren took my pack and stored it in the boot, next to a much larger pack that I assumed belonged to Francis.
Darren turned the music right down as I climbed into the car.
“Any last questions, Anna?” asked Mr Twelvetrees.
“Why should I trust you, Mr Twelvetrees? I’m walking out on my old life on the word of a man I met barely twelve hours ago. How can I trust you?”
“You can’t.”
Oddly enough, that satisfied me. He wasn’t promising anything.
Francis climbed in with us and we were off. The car pulled out of the barracks and we drove through a grey, drizzly London morning. A group of girls about my age walked to school: they’d shortened their uniform skirts by rolling them up at the waist, their faces were thick with orange foundation. They would go to class, chat through lessons, gossip through break,
Similar Books
