Dreamweavers: Awakening

how you felt this morning?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. What do you have?’

  ‘Let’s go and have a look,’ said Ryan, getting up and showing her the door. ‘Mum’s not done any proper cooking for a while now. She’s been buying a lot of ready meals and leaving them in the oven for me to heat up. Dad’s back soon though, so she’ll probably get something decent in before long. Not that it bothers me. As long as there’s meat, I’m happy. Oh, but she has been making me get these crappy salad sandwiches for my lunch. Something about eating healthily.’

  ‘Don’t you like them?’ asked Daisy as they arrived in the kitchen and turned on the lights.

  ‘Nah, they are so boring and tasteless.’

  ‘I love salad,’ said Daisy. ‘I like it that there’s stuff you can eat just growing out there in the countryside. Wouldn’t it be great to just live off the land? You know; just eating what you can grow or forage for?’

  ‘Or kill,’ added Ryan. ‘So long as there was meat on the menu, I’d be fine. Give me a hunk of cow or pig over a pile of leaves any day.’

  Daisy laughed.

  ‘Well, if that would make you happy, then fine. We’ll have to set up our own little farm somewhere. I’ll tend the vegetable patches while you go out hunting.’

  This suggestion caught Ryan off guard. Whether it was just a throwaway comment or betrayed some of the inner workings of Daisy’s mind, it did not matter. The mere thought of it was enough to scare him back onto the defensive.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said resolutely. ‘I like being able to come to the fridge and have what I want right there. I couldn’t deal with spending all my time hunting and preparing food. I couldn’t live without crisps and chocolate either.’

  ‘Relax Ryan, I’m joking,’ said Daisy.

  Are you? he thought. He was glad she couldn’t see the look on his face as he rummaged around in the freezer.

  Conversation was scarce while they cooked and ate dinner, at least on Ryan’s part. Much of the magic from earlier in the evening had been lost, and he was back to thinking of Daisy in much the same way as he had done before the week started. He regretted asking her if she wanted something to eat, since all he wanted now was to return to his fortress alone and feel in control of things again. For her part, Daisy kept the situation from becoming really awkward by talking away about nothing in particular, only requiring the odd cursory grunt of acknowledgement from Ryan in return.

  Time wore on and they cleared their plates. Soon afterwards Daisy left, but not before she had reminded Ryan that he owed her a walk in the countryside in return for playing the games. He hastily agreed, purely to get her out of the house and with no real intention of going through with it.

  As he shut the door behind her a wave of relief broke over him. That had been a close one. He didn’t know what to make of some of the comments Daisy had come out with. On the one hand, she had shown a jovial side to her personality that he had not known existed, while on the other, her reputation as a weirdo had been all but confirmed. It was hard to know what to think, but thankfully she was gone and thinking was the last thing he intended to do. He headed back to his room, where the computer was still whirring away quietly in the corner, and settled down to watch some films.

  12

  It was about half past midnight, and the second movie had almost reached its conclusion, when Ryan heard the front door slam shut. He had been slightly on edge; trying to make sure he didn’t fall asleep with the computer on in case his mum came home and busted him. It was a dangerous game to play, and had it not been for the violence of the noise Ryan may well have drifted off into a light doze before too long.

  Now wide awake, he quickly shut the PC down and hid the cables, while a series of bangs and crashes filtered up from downstairs. For a moment he thought that the house was being burgled – poorly, he noted – but then he remembered the bottle of wine his mum had been carrying and concluded that she’d probably had it all to herself. With everything safely out of sight, he crept out of his room to see what she was up to.

  The landing was dimly lit by the glow of the downstairs lights; at least his mum had managed to find the switch. Ryan trod quietly as he made his way to the top of the stairs. He could have just blundered his way down there and demanded to know what all the noise was, but it would have been uncharacteristic and he was curious about what he might witness if she didn’t know he was watching. Besides, it gave him the opportunity to practice his commando skills.

  Crouching down and peering carefully round the corner, he surveyed the terrain. The immediate vicinity was clear. There were no hazards in sight and no sign of the target. He shifted his vision to the middle distance.

  WARNING! DISTURBANCE DETECTED, went a voice in his head.

  His eyes locked onto a few shards of broken glass gleaming on the floor. Scanning them thoroughly from his vantage point, he detected a few traces of blood on and around them. He looked for the source of the glass, which turned out to be the family portrait in the hallway, which was shattered in the middle and also streaked with blood.

  MEDIC! I NEED A MEDIC OVER HERE!

  It was clear that his mum was in quite a state, and from the noises he could now hear coming from the kitchen she was attempting to fix herself something to eat. Given how much of a meal she had made of turning the lights on, Ryan did not like the idea of her using knives or electrical devices. He stealthily made his way down the stairs – fourteen, definitely fourteen. Just as he reached the bottom the air was rent by an almighty crash, followed by a string of expletives, some of which even Ryan struggled to recognise. The time for playing commando was done. The situation was now a lot more serious.

  He ran through the dining room and stopped in the open doorway. The kitchen was in even more of a mess than it had been that morning he had raided it. Half the cupboards were open and the worktops were strewn with bread, biscuits and crackers; anything his mum had found to nibble on. She was now on her hands and knees with a spoon in one hand, scooping up pieces of cereal from a puddle of milk and smashed porcelain in the middle of the floor. Her left hand was bleeding and the blood was mingling with everything else on the ground, making what looked like some twisted strawberry milkshake.

  ‘Mum, what the hell are you doing?’ asked Ryan, scarcely able to believe what he was seeing.

  ‘Ryan, baby!’ she replied, surprised and yet seemingly delighted to see him. ‘Was just getting summat to eat,’ she slurred. ‘So hungry.’

  She made to scoop up some more cereal, but Ryan saw a shard of the broken bowl slip into the spoon.

  ‘Mum, stop!’ he cried, dashing forward and knocking the spoon out of her hand.

  ‘Hey!’ she drawled. ‘Was gonna eat that.’

  She really was in a state. Her make-up was smeared and the ends of her hair were damp and matted from trailing in the puddle of milk. She also stank of booze. Even Ryan’s friends would have struggled to fancy her at that moment.

  ‘Mum, look at this place! It’s like a bomb’s gone off in here or something. How much have you had to drink?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, wagging her bloody finger at him as she attempted to climb to her feet. ‘I had a bit… then I had a bit more… then all of a sudden I’d had a lot. But it’s okay. I feel great.’

  ‘You look like crap,’ said Ryan, moving quickly to support her as she staggered. ‘Look, let’s go and wash your hands. Did you know you’d cut yourself?’

  ‘Wha…?’

  ‘Your hand. Look.’

  He grabbed it and waved it in front of her face, but then realised immediately that he had made a mistake. His mum had never been that good with the sight of blood. On seeing her hand, what colour remained in her complexion drained away and her whole body lurched violently as a surge of nausea swept through her.

  With three quarters of her weight already bearing down on him, Ryan man-handled her in the direction of the sink, knowing full well what was coming next. A second later he was regretting
not having washed up his and Daisy’s dishes, as his mum threw up heavily into the sink and over the crockery he had left there. Unable to retreat in time, Ryan found his bare arms and T-shirt peppered with droplets of booze-laden vomit, the smell and sight of which almost caused him to heave too.

  ‘Mum that’s gross!’ he shouted angrily, shutting his eyes and trying to turn away from the spray.

  His mother just groaned and coughed, before bringing up a second wave of illness. Ryan wished his hands were free to put over his ears, for the sound, more than anything, was repugnant. All he could do was hang on to her and ride it out until she had nothing left.

  ‘It hurts,’ his mum wailed, clutching her stomach as she continued to dry-retch into the sink. Ryan opened one eye and chanced a look at the mess she had made, but he quickly shut it again. While the majority of it had gone into the sink, the plates he’d failed to clean had done a terrific job of dispersing a thin layer of the stuff over everything within reach. It was the most god-awful sight he’d ever laid eyes on.

  His mum was now just leaning on the work-top, breathing heavily as the last shreds of her illness faded away. She had nothing left inside save tears of shame and misery.

  ‘I’m so sorry baby!’ she wailed. ‘I don’t mean to be a bad mother. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Hey, it’s okay,’ said Ryan, helping her down onto one of the kitchen chairs.

  ‘No it’s not. You deserve better. I love you, you know.’

  Ryan ignored her and headed into the utility room to fetch a bucket.

  ‘A bit late for this, but just in case there’s any more,’ he said, giving it to her. He then went and fetched some kitchen roll and gently cleaned the mess off her left hand. It was not badly cut, but he put a plaster on it to make sure no more blood found its way into any of the other rooms.

  ‘I love you baby,’ she said again as he finished.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, look; we need to get you upstairs. Can you help me please? I can’t carry you.’

  ‘No Ryan. You know I love you, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘Give us a kiss then.’

  She puckered her lips, which were still moist with sick.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. Just get up will you?’

  Using the table for support, she got to her feet, and with Ryan’s assistance made her way upstairs to the master bedroom. That was as far as Ryan was prepared to go. Helping his mum undress for bed was beyond the call of duty, but luckily he was saved from making a choice on the matter when she simply flopped down on the bed and went straight to sleep.

  Satisfied that she was going to be all right, Ryan headed back to his room to get his phone. While he had been helping her out, the thought had occurred to him that he had been given the opportunity to negotiate his way out of his punishment. All he needed was the proper leverage, which his mother had kindly provided. It was somewhat ironic that a camera phone would be the source and solution to all his problems.

  He went back downstairs and began making a detailed photographic log of the carnage his mum had wrought. He started in the hallway, carefully making sure he got good, clear images of the broken glass on the floor, the shattered picture frame and the blood-stained light switch. There were also a few red finger marks on the wall where she had presumably missed several times before finally managing to flick the lights on.

  When he was done he moved on to the kitchen, which was a far greater and much less pleasant task. Still, he needed all the back-up he could get, therefore every detail, from the smashed bowl of cereal to the vomit-filled sink, was logged. He even took a picture of his T-shirt, which was still damp in places from its disgusting shower. Then he crept back upstairs and quietly turned on his computer.

  ‘That ought to do it,’ he said quietly to himself, as he browsed through the fruits of his labour. The phone had taken some pretty reasonable images and he was certain that, come the morning, he would have no problem getting the rest of his cables returned to him.

  He stopped on a picture of the sink which, although it was a grim sight, brought a strange pang of sorrow to him. His mum had known that she had done something bad and she was ashamed of herself. When the morning, or possibly the afternoon, arrived she would go downstairs and be faced with the battleground she had created, then would have to live through it all again. Something told Ryan that it wasn’t right. She wouldn’t do it to him. As she had said several times, she loved him, and despite his anger over the punishment she had administered over the Miss Ward incident, he loved her too. He couldn’t let her go through the shame again. He would clean the place up.

  With his leverage material safely stored on the computer, he headed back downstairs to make a start. There was no longer any point in him tiptoeing around, given his mother was passed out and probably wouldn’t wake even if a tornado ripped through the house. Ryan fleetingly wondered what she might be dreaming, and which side of the mountain her dream would be flowing down, but his return to the kitchen swiftly focussed his mind on the job at hand.

  It had to be said that in all Ryan’s life he had barely lifted a finger around the house. He would never have called himself spoiled – although there were many who would beg to differ – but it was just that his mum usually kept the house so spotless that there was never anything to do. She even came in and dusted his room occasionally, and the only task allocated to him was keeping his stuff tidy. Which he didn’t. After all, he was a boy.

  However, despite his inexperience, he was blessed with a modicum of common sense which allowed him to figure out where all the detergents lived and what they were for. The labels such as ‘Kitchen Cleaner’ and ‘Floor Polish’ did give the game away somewhat. As much as he wanted to put off dealing with the sink for as long as possible, he needed it for running water, so he attacked it head-on, scrubbing every surface in the vicinity. From there, he worked his way across the work tops and down the cupboards, until any dirt that remained lay on the floor tiles. Then he got out the mop and bucket and finished the job.

  He wasn’t done there, though. With the kitchen completed, he headed out into the hall and picked all the glass up from the carpet. He removed the picture frame and dumped the broken shards from that into the bin. He also did his best with the blood-stains on and around the light switch and was surprised by how well it all came up. When he finally stood back and admired his handiwork, he had an unexpected feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment. It was confirmation that he had done the right thing.

  It was close to three o’clock when, at last, he sloped off to bed. He knew he would be late getting to the Dream Isle, but it didn’t matter. For once he’d done something for someone other than himself. And it felt good.

  13

  At first there was nothing but a pure white sheet spread out in front of him. It was everything and nothing at the same time; his entire world and an empty void. Then onto it the outline of a mountain started to be sketched, seemingly in pencil or charcoal. Little by little, its features were shaded in, giving it depth and form. Then came colour, working up from the golden sands, first in pastel shades and then in brilliant watercolour, filling the scene with joyous life. From the ground at Ryan’s feet to the gleaming tip of the Spire, it was an image of true splendour. Even the lack of greenery could not detract from its beauty. Every time he laid eyes on it, there was more to admire.

  Ryan stood on the beach and flexed his robotic joints experimentally. He was growing to really like his avatar, especially having seen what some of the other novice Dreamweavers had been stuck with. The angular features of his face were instantly recognisable as being him, but, at the same time, he felt it gave him a chiselled, manly appearance that he somewhat lacked in the real world. His squat torso was bulky, yet reasonably well defined and easier to carry around than a stone or two of fat. Then there was his apparent inability to grow fatigued, which was probably the biggest difference of all from real life. A small part of him was still not satisfied and y
earned for the ability to fly, or to jump over mountains, or for him to be equipped with some cool gadgets or weaponry. But on the whole he was pretty happy.

  He shifted his gaze from the distant Spire to the slopes that lay before him. There were several miles of rugged terrain for him to negotiate, but rather than baulking at the prospect he felt an unfamiliar urge to take up the challenge.

  ‘After all,’ he said to himself. ‘If I can’t grow tired then what’s the big deal?’

  And with that in mind, he set off at a steady jog. The soft sand, which would have sapped his energy in the real world, posed no problems and soon gave way to dry, hard-packed earth. Stones and clumps of dirt crumbled in a most satisfying way under-foot, and Ryan found that even when the land began to rise, his pace remained metronomic. Happily, the pain and exhaustion he would usually have been feeling, even after the slightest exertion, were blissfully absent.

  He pounded up the mountainside, following the course of a different river from the one he had traced on his previous visit. Strangely, he found that he was really enjoying himself as he took in all his surroundings. When he was normally forced to go running the pain was always so great that he had little time to concentrate on anything else, and he would simply trudge along under a cloud of misery. He wondered whether the feeling of enjoyment was what pushed marathon runners to keep going for hours on end.

  Whatever it was, it was truly liberating, and before he had even considered looking back to check his progress he rounded a corner and found the main gates of the Spire not a hundred yards ahead of him.

  Stunned by how quickly and easily he had made the ascent, he stopped to admire the view for a few moments as a light breeze whipped swirls of dust into the air around him. Perhaps there was something to be gained from running after all.

  He made his way up to the gates, passed under the high archway and arrived to find the terraces all but deserted. A ghostly man was pacing back and forth on the top step, mumbling softly to himself, while a bizarre figure with the torso of a woman and the four-legged body of a tiger was heading out along one of the walkways towards the outer wall.

  ‘You okay there, son?’ came a gruff voice behind him.

  Its owner was a scruffy-looking border collie, with flashes of metal and sinew exposed within gaps in its patchy coat.

  ‘Yeah, I’m good,’ replied Ryan. ‘It’s a bit quiet here, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’

  Ryan nodded.

  ‘This is what we call The Lull,’ said the dog. ‘It’s a bit like the calm before the storm. You see, very shortly all the Dreamweavers from across the pond will start heading off to bed and this place will be overrun with