Table of Contents

- Dedication

- 1. Caretaker Council, Zone Five

- 2. Lending a helping hand

- 3. Panic stations

- 4. Moving house

- 5. A wayward child

- 6. A bumpy landing

- 7. DreamScape unveiled

- 8. SunnyDene

- 9. Off the beaten track

- 10. A drop in the ocean

- 11. The search begins

- 12. Settling in

- 13. A visitor

- 14. A day out

- 15. Phase 2

- 16. Breakthrough

- 17. The mission

- 18. Progress report

- 19. Welcome back

- 20. The professor calls

- 21. Bad dreams

- 22. Finished unpacking

- 23. Undercover assignment

- 24. Santa calls

- 25. Time to wake up

- 26. Grand Central

- 27. Sector Five-Six

- 28. Virtuoso

- 29. The name rings a bell

- 30. The chain gang

- 31. All hell breaks loose

- 32. Close to curfew

- 33. Panic over

- 34. Why so happy?

- 35. The security meeting

- 36. One last draw

- 37. Emergency treatment

- 38. A new arrival

- 39. A model prisoner

- 40. Reassignment

- 41. Back home

- 42. Awakening

- 43. Alone again

- 44. Accident & Emergency

- 45. Ellie's dream

- 46. A phone call

- 47. Making enquiries

- 48. A quick getaway

- 49. In hospital

- 50. Ellie's escape

- 51. Night raid

- 52. Break-in

- 53. In the cells

- 54. Wrapping it up

DreamScape: In the Beginning

First edition

By Etienne de L'Amour

A prequel to Ellie and the Elvenstone.

Copyright © 2002, 2008, 2012, 2013 by Etienne de L'Amour

The right of Etienne de L'Amour as the owner of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Copyright throughout the world.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or photographic, by recording or any information storage or retrieval system or method now known or to be invented or adapted, without prior permission obtained in writing from the publishers, except by a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review written for inclusion in a journal, magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

First published: 2002

First edition for Kindle: 1 June 2013

Sher Point Publications, UK

http://mystical-faction.blogspot.co.uk/

Front cover image: Girl at a Window by Nicolaes Maes (1634-1693). Source: Wikimedia Commons.

Dedication

Dedicated to Mushkil Gusha,

remover of all difficulties.

1. Caretaker Council, Zone Five

Uncle Az*Oth was seething with rage when he came round to see Mother and Father. Ellie and Rohan thought it best that they stay well out of the firing line.

“I demand that you call an emergency session of the Caretaker Council,” Uncle Az*Oth said, barging straight in through the front door without wiping his feet or even saying “Good morning.”

“Things in Sher Point have got totally out of hand. It's time we put a stop to their shenanigans – once and for all. Before their malevolent antics down there put a stop to us!” his voice boomed through the hallway. And as this great barrel chested lump of a man spoke, his whole body heaved up and down and made the floorboards flex, so that you almost felt his loud words as much as you heard them.

Things hadn't been going to well in Zone Five recently. The sky had been hung over with a slate-grey air of doom and gloom for months now and Mother didn't seem able to cope with things recently. First of all the washer packed in, then the drains got all bunged up, filling the back yard with raw sewage. And then when they had the builder round, he took one look the place and went off to get the foreman. The foreman just stood there shaking his head and started muttering about the state of the foundations.

“Saints preserve us!” Mother had cried. “Whatever next?”

“It's the same at our place,” Uncle Az*Oth had told her. “The whole place is going to wrack and ruin. Spreading like a cancer, it is! And you know why, don't you? I'll tell you why – it's all because of those blessèd hoodlums Downstairs.”

By “Downstairs”, Uncle meant the people in Sher Point. But quite what he meant by that, Ellie couldn't fathom.

It was early evening on the following day when all the Council members had finally been mustered. And by that time Ellie and Rohan had had quite enough of dutifully standing around just to say a polite hello to all the relatives and to pass the time of day, as Mother had required.

Everyone was going into the Conference Room now and Mother shooed the two of them away. “Off you go upstairs,” she told them. “You can play quietly or read for a while, then I want you in bed. I'll be up in a while to tuck you in.”

Ellie was far too inquisitive for that, however, and as soon as Mother was in the Conference Room and had closed the great, arched double doors firmly behind her, she was off along the passage, down the stairs and tiptoeing across the hallway to have a listen at the keyhole.

Mother was at the head of the long octagonal table addressing the others. “Good evening everyone,” she said and she waited whilst the others stopped talking and looked her way. “Now, things haven't been going well down in Sher Point …”

There were loud murmurings around the table at this understatement, but she carried on unabashed. “... And, as you'll no doubt have heard by now, the effects of the disharmony there are beginning to make themselves felt up here, too. It is for that reason that Az*Oth kindly asked that we convene for an emergency meeting of the Caretaker Council.”

Kindly asked? Uncle Az*Oth had probably never asked kindly for anything in his whole life. Arrogantly demanded more like. He wasn't the sort to suffer fools gladly, as Father might say.

“Nester, perhaps you'd care to bring Council up to speed on the general picture and most recent events in Sher Point?”

Ellie's elder cousin Nester stood up politely, cleared her throat, took a sip of water and addressed the assembly. She seemed quite nervous and fidgety and her voice had a slight quiver about it. “Madam Chair, Council members: Due to a catastrophe of cosmic proportions several millennia ago, shortly after the seeding of the planet and the establishment of the Free State, as it was originally known, the populace's link with the Source has been greatly attenuated. Due to a wobble in the planet's rotation, this link also oscillates.”

“Oscillates?” Mother asked on behalf of the others. “What do you mean by that, Nester?”

“I mean the link is sometimes a little stronger at certain times and even weaker at others. And it's also greatly influenced by alignments with other planets in the solar system.”

“Thank you. Pray continue.”

“For this reason, Federation engineers installed a system called Psi. It acts as a local 'stand-in', as it were. In much the same way, at night when the sun is absent, the moon is able to provide a modicum of reflected light, or whilst the owner of a house is away, a caretaker may be employed to look after the building.

“It would appear that the misalignment with the Source is beginning to bottom-out and, in the longer term, I am glad to say that we can expect a gradual improvement in the Link; and that the planet will eventually be drawn back into a permanent re-alignment …”

Cousin Nester paused to take a sip of water.

“However?” Uncle Az*Oth prompted.

“However, at present the planet is going through some kind of transitional period. The whole Experiment is in a great state of flux and upheaval.”

Aunt Millie spoke up: “Personally, I blame that on the establishment of Sher Point metropolis. It's become a dumping ground for all the folk the Federation has taken exception to through the ages for one reason or another.”

“That's being rather charitable towards the varmints and their offspring!” Uncle Az*Oth spat. “Dregs!”

“We can hardly blame the offspring,” piped-up Nester, but her protestation was ignored.

“I thought you were all for incarcerating such miscreants in this way, Az*Oth?” Father challenged. “But not so close to your own back yard, as it were, eh?”

Az*Oth, the great, neckless lump of a man, flushed bright red and sat there simmering.

“What's going on?” Rohan wanted to know, coming up behind her and jostling Ellie for a peep through the keyhole.

“Shh!” Ellie said. She pushed him brusquely out of the way. “That's what I'm trying to find out, dumbo.” That was what Father called being assertive.

Rohan gave her a withering stare. “If you don't let me look, then I'll tell Mother of you.”

She frowned. “Oh, very well. But only for a minute or I'll miss what's being said and then neither of us will be any the wiser.”

Rohan put his eye to the keyhole and peered through. Then he huffed. “Hmm. Just boring grown-up talk,” he said, and turned on his heel to go back upstairs.

“So,” Uncle Az*Oth wanted to know. “What's your prognosis?”

It was her elder sister Olivia's turn to stand up. “The systems they've built are far too complex and unsustainable. They're way out on a slender limb and the wind's blowing,” she told them.

“Flowery words,” he huffed, and pressed the issue. “Your prognosis.”

“Unless they make radical changes in the way their society's structured; implement more appropriate technology and dismantle much of their existing technological infrastructure …”

“Spit it out, woman!”

“I'd say they have five percent chance of surviving beyond the next hundred years.”

“And if they were to make such wide-sweeping changes, which I cannot myself envisage?” he retorted scornfully.

“Maybe a fifty percent chance. But I still figure the population is going to be decimated.”

There was a stunned silence.

“And the effect up here?” Az*Oth probed.

Olivia thought for a minute. “As above, so below, as they say. Or in this case: as below, so above. I figure it's going to be catastrophic, unless we act in some way.”

“As I thought,” he echoed smugly.

“Okay.” Mother drew a deep breath. “Would someone care to run through the options? Bradley?”

Uncle Bradley rose nervously in his seat, then appeared to have second thoughts and quickly sat down again. “As I see it, the primary option is whether or not we act at all. I propose we have a vote on that one first.”

“Seconded,” Uncle Az*Oth chipped-in, his stomach bouncing up and down as he half stood up to raise his hand.

“Could we have a show of hands, please?” Mother asked.

“Thank you. Motion carried.”

“Very well,” said Uncle Bradley. “So let's look at the options.”

“One: we send down a messenger to warn the people of what might happen and the consequences if they don't get their act together down there.”

“Oh, come on,” Uncle Az*Oth replied, shaking his head. “Look what happened the last time we sent someone down. And times have changed somewhat since then. I tell you, if you presented them with the four horsemen of the apocalypse, they'd probably try to have them locked up for acts of terrorism or bomb the living daylights out of them!”

“Nevertheless, they should be warned,” Bradley contented. “There'll always be some who'll take heed and try to do the right thing.”

“Option 2?” Az*Oth prompted.

“We send a delegation and act in an advisory capacity, liaising with the prominent Heads of State.”

“Hmm. Hold talks about talks, eh? Sorry, but I can't see them really going for that one. Look at the situation in Putechnik: been going on for centuries.”

“We have a show of force and negotiate from a position of power through deterrent?”

“Carry on ...” Uncle Az*Oth prompted, rubbing his hands together, which he also did whenever presented with a plate of rich food, Ellie had noted.

“We invade and take over control in a peace-keeping capacity.”

Father scratched his chin. “Area Command would surely never sanction that one? Besides, with the Earth-sickness so rampant, it wouldn't be long before the forces succumbed to it – then things would be ten times as bad as when we started. And besides, that would utterly undermine all the work that's been put in over the centuries to keep knowledge of extraterrestrial involvement from them.”

Uncle Bradley upped the ante: “We could use weapons of mass destruction. By which I mean we nuke them.”

Aunt Millie suddenly looked up, the colour draining from her face.

Mother shook her head. “Even if you use neutron bombs – and Heaven forbid that you do! – such an act would send shock waves through all the zones up here, too.”

“Chemical then?”

“That would poison the region.”

“Biological? There'd always be some who'd survive. That's one way of reducing the population. Or we put something in the water to sterilise people, maybe?”

“Oh yeah? And who's to say that all the nice guys die and only the die-hards and psychos survive? You know as well as I do that the place is littered with nuclear power plants that will need shutting down and safely decommissioning, not to mention all the warheads that need reprocessing. How are you going to arrange it so all the key people are protected? And who's to say exactly who the key people are?”

Uncle Bradley shrugged. “Hey, guys: don't shoot me, I'm just running through all the options and leaving it up to you to judge their merits and demerits.” Then: “Okay, in my opinion – for what it's worth – we don't have the requisite skills or resources to embark on such a project.”

“Jeez.”

“You're suggesting we call in Area Command?”

“I don't see what else we can do.”

“You know what? They'll take one look at this little boil on the backside of creation and they'll order a surgical strike.”

“But that would devastate things here, too.”

“So? Do you think Area Command would give two hoots? They'll ship us all out to safety, maybe collect a few specimens for the Central Museum, and simply erase the planet. From their point of view, the decision could not be simpler.”

“What makes you think that, Az*Oth?”

“Oh, you think I'm making all this up off the top of my head, do you? Well, I'll tell you: I've done my research, too. I brought the matter up with Area Command earlier today, and that's what I was told. That they'd simply terminate the Experiment. Erase the planet. If needs be, take out the Sun itself, and hence effectively erase the whole solar system.”

Mother was overwhelmed. “But that's preposterous. It's barbaric. It's genocide. It can't be allowed to happen! It simply can't. We're not talking about lancing a boil on someone's backside here, we're talking about billion upon billion of souls.”

“Arseholes,” Az*Oth countered. “Billion upon billion of arseholes.”

Mother rose to her feet menacingly. “How dare you, Az*Oth? How dare you? You should know better than that!”

Father stood up, embraced Mother and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Don't pay any attention, honey,” he said. “I'm sure Az*Oth didn't really mean what he said. We're simply becoming overwhelmed by recent events – and I dare say the disharmony that is creeping into our lives here is, I am certain, due to the Earth-Sickness itself making itself felt even here.”

“I'm sorry. I was out of order,” Uncle Az*Oth sighed. “I didn't mean to cause offence, Rae (that was Mother). And you're quite right, Mitch: it does indeed underline the grim reality of the dilemma facing each and every one of us here today.

“The fact is – whether we're up here or down in Sher Point: in a sense, we're up the proverbial creek without a paddle.”

2. Lending a helping hand

Ellie was just wandering back across the wide, carpeted hallway when Mother emerged from the Conference Hall during a short recess. The floorboards still squeaked where Uncle Az*Oth had been hopping up and down, throwing a temper tantrum.

“And where do you think you're going, little Miss Lauriel El*Eth?” Mother asked. When Mother addressed Ellie by her full Sunday-best name, it usually spelt t.r.o.u.b.l.e., though fortunately it was usually only with a little “t”.

“I was, um … getting a glass of water,” she fibbed, scampering up the stairs before her mother could see the tears in her eyes.

Billions of souls? That was even more than millions and she knew that was a lot.

“Well, that's strange,” Mother called after her: “since you've got a sink and a beaker in your own room, El*Eth.”

Ellie wasn't listening. The tears were flooding down her cheeks and dripping off her chin as she ran along the passage. She went into her room and climbed straight into the top bunk.

“What's up?” Rohan asked, leaning over the side of the bunk and looking up at her.

Ellie didn't answer. She just pulled the quilt up over her head and lay there sobbing.

Billions of souls? Billions of little people – mums and dads and children and pets – spending thousands and thousands of years building homes and cities, writing music and designing cars, having babies and growing food and stuff like that. And for what? So that someone they'd never seen before, most likely never even heard of, could sign a bit of paper like grown-ups did and send in a battle-cruiser to blow it all away?

There had to be another way. There just had to be. Father said that for every problem there was most likely at least one solution: it was just a matter of finding it.

Suddenly, Ellie had an idea. Father's “Gizmo”! She shot up in bed, then clambered down the ladder, put on her dressing gown and headed out of the room. “Stay there,” she commanded as Rohan sat up in bed.

If Mother and Uncle Az*Oth and the others wouldn't try to help those poor innocent people down there at Sher Point, then she would. Ellie was quite determined. What was it Mother called it? Oh yeah: she'd restore their faith in hooman nature.

Ellie sat astride the banister at the top and slid all the way down to the bottom, careful not to bang her backside on the post at the foot of the stairs, then she hopped off and darted across the hall toward Father's den.

He usually kept the room locked, but he'd been in there earlier that day and left the door slightly ajar. Ellie noticed things like that. Father said she was very observant and that she had an enquiring mind. Even Uncle Az*Oth admitted she had a busy body, or something like that.

Once inside, Ellie pushed the door-to behind her and ran her hand over the panel on the wall to switch the lights on.

There was an old rosewood desk in the centre of the room with an upright chair where Father used to sit and work and bookshelves crowded three of the walls, full of books on everything from wild flowers to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Mechanics – whatever that was about. The fourth wall, however, was taken up with a control console bristling with flashing lights, knobs and switches. At least, the lights would have been flashing had the machine been switched on. This was Father's “latest gizmo” as he called it. She'd seen him using it on numerous occasions and he'd let her have a go once on one of the safer test runs, under his strict supervision.

Ellie sat at the controls, closed her eyes and tried to remember which buttons he'd pressed and in which order. It didn't matter about the knobs: all you had to do was press the button marked “Preset” and they turned automatically to preset values, as the name suggested.

Yes, that was it. She clicked the button marked “Standby” to the “On” position and she beamed with delight as the electronics sprang to life, lighting up the indicators on the metal fascia of the desk.

A display monitor lit up now and the machine asked for a password. That was easy-peasy: Father was hopeless at remembering things and he'd written it in the front of his diary which he kept in his desk drawer. And he'd told her where it was because he knew she was good at remembering things. She ran her fingers over the keyboard, typed in “San Serif” and pressed the Enter key.

A head and shoulders popped up on the display now. It was ALICE. She was kind of cute. “Welcome to the Zone Five central utilities network. Please insert your smart card.”

She reached over the desk and selected the card that Father used for test purposes. ALICE wouldn't let her in using her own.

“Identity validated. Which service do you require?”

“Patch me through to ETHEL,” she said, mimicking her father's deep voice. The machine didn't actually have voice recognition, but it was fun all the same.

“Hello, ETHEL here. Which service do you require? Remote observation or Immersion?”

She had to think for a minute, then said “Immersion.” That sounded pretty cool.

“Confirmed, test subject. Please state the sector into which you wish to be immersed.”

“Sher View.”

There was a pause then ETHEL came back to her. “There is no sector in my database which matches your criterion.”

Oh, bummer.

“Perhaps you mean Sher Point metropolis?”

Oops! “Yes, that's the one: Sher Point metro-thingy.”

“Confirmed. Please sit back and relax, test subject; then press the green button on the arm rest when you're ready.”

She did as ETHEL told her and cushioned restraints sprang out of the framework of the chair to gently but firmly hold her arms, legs, torso and head in position.

Then a device emerged from the metal fascia of the control panel at the end of a snake-like limb. It attached itself to her forehead and fanned out to completely obscure her vision.

Ellie panicked for a moment and tried to break free, but the restraints held her. She felt a slight scratch in her buttock as the machine administered a measured dose of a sedative and within seconds she began to relax.

Suddenly the restraints gripped her more tightly and she felt a cold, numbing sensation in the centre of her forehead. She winced as an object like a dentist's grinder bit into the bone and penetrated her skull. Then the object retracted and a series of thin fibrils snaked out of the device, burrowing into her grey matter and making connections with her neural network, like a plant taking root.

Now her vision was filled with all-manner of flickering images. It was as if the brief life that she'd had was being reviewed, telescoped into a few brief moments, filed away in boxes and stored further down in the darker, labyrinthine depths of her mind. Then this was replaced by a new series of images and video clips that seemed to have some strange bearing on a future life, like some blueprint.

Dear God, what had she done? Again Ellie attempted to break free, to press the red button marked “Abort” on the arm rest, but she couldn't. She was slipping away now. It was like falling down, down, down into a sea of sumptuous, soft, black velvet or marshmallows. And then she could remember no more.

3. Panic stations

Half way through the evening session, Rae had adjourned the council meeting and they had all wandered through into the lounge for a welcome break. Rae had gone through to the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a tea trolley piled high with sandwiches and cakes that she'd prepared earlier. Mitch brought up the rear with a tray of drinks. With an effort, Az*Oth finally managed to push himself up off the settee and made a bee-line for the trolley, returning to his seat with his plate piled high. Rae looked first at the plate, then at the rapidly dwindling pile of sandwiches, then back at the plate once more.

Beginning to fret, she looked to Mitch. “Be a dear, would you, and rustle up a few more rounds. I think perhaps I've miscalculated the appetite of the, um … assembled throng. And while you're doing that, I'll just pop upstairs and tuck the children in.”

Mitch glanced over at Az*Oth, already munching his way through the first helping, raised his eyebrows and headed toward the kitchen. “Sure thing.”

“I think you'll find another tin of salmon in the cupboard, dear: I usually keep one or two things in reserve,” she called after him, gnawing at her lip. “At least, I hope I have.”

Mitch shook his head at his wife's unnecessary worrying. “Don't fret, love: I'm absolutely certain to find something.”

~~~O~~~

Two or three minutes later, Rae opened the children's bedroom door and went in to make sure that the pair of them were properly tucked in. Having sorted out Rohan, whose bedclothes were pulled out at the bottom and bunched up around his head, she reached over the top bunk. It was empty. Little Miss Lauriel El*Eth was either in the toilet or she'd gone walkabout for a second time that evening.

She walked briskly along the landing and rapped on the toilet door. “El*Eth, are you in there?”

There was no reply. She tried the door – it wasn't locked – and peered inside. Nobody.

Rae checked the bedroom again. No El*Eth.

She checked the remaining bedrooms and the bathroom. Still no sign of her. That meant that she must have gone walkabout downstairs after all, the little madam.

Trotting down the stairs, Rae systematically checked the ground floor. The front door was locked and the porch empty. The living room was empty. Mitch was through in the kitchen, alone.

“You haven't seen El*Eth by any chance, have you, Mitch?”

“Not all evening. I thought she was in bed.”

“So did I!” she sighed.

“You've tried the bathroom?”

“Darling, I've tried just about everywhere.” She had a thought. “Well, everywhere except your den.”

“I keep it locked.”

“You were in there earlier,” she called back as she strode briskly back through the living room toward the hallway. It was unlocked – she just knew it. If Mitch's head wasn't so well screwed on, he'd probably have forgotten that, too. He was so absent-minded.

Rae flicked on the light switch. El*Eth was sitting at Mitch's console, her face illuminated in the bright, flickering lights.

“El*Eth! What on Earth are you doing in here? You know that you're forbidden to come in here on your own.”

El*Eth said nothing. She simply sat there, unmoving, as if she hadn't even noticed that her mother had entered the room.

Rae walked forward and swung the chair round. There was a transparent helmet-like device over El*Eth's face and she just sat there, unblinking, her eyes wide open yet staring vacantly as if into outer space.

“El*Eth!” Rae called loudly. “El*Eth!”

There was not one single flicker of recognition on El*Eth's face.

Rae was about to reach forward to take Ellie in her arms, but in that instant, her daughter's body began to shimmer around the edges and become translucent. Next second, she was gone – she simply vanished before her mother's eyes – and the chair was empty.

“What's going on?” It was Mitch, who'd come into the room, having delivered up a fresh plate of sandwiches to their guests.

“You tell me!” Rae retorted. “You tell me!”

“Oh hell.” Mitch clapped a hand to his mouth and came forward. “Oh, you silly, silly little girl …”

“Silly girl? Silly girl!” Rae exploded. “If there are gadgets in here that El*Eth is not supposed to touch then you should make damn sure that she hasn't got access to them, Mitch! You know how inquisitive children can be. You should have made sure the door was firmly locked.”

“Okay, okay!” Mitch bent over the console, examining the dials and tapped away feverishly at the keyboard.

“So what is this gadget you've been working on?”

Mitch raised his hands, not knowing where to begin. “I call it DreamScape,” he explained. “It's a device to allow you to observe environments, or even immerse yourself in them.”

“What sort of environments?” she demanded to know.

Mitch peered at the monitor. It read “Sher Point”. Oh hell and damnation.

“Well, er … like Sher Point, for example.”

“Sher Point!” She stepped forward to observe the writing on the monitor screen for herself. “And you say you can observe environments from this machine or you can 'immerse' yourself in them. Just what do you mean by that, Mitch?”

Below the word “Sher Point”, was the word “Immersion”.

“I mean … what do I mean? I mean travel there. Be in that world as if in a lucid dream. Live it, breathe it … be totally immersed in it.”

“You mean to say that this DreamScape gadget of yours has transported our darling little daughter to Sher Point!”

Below “Immersion” it read “Dim memory”.

“Right now, El*Eth is living a life (perhaps 'life' wasn't quite the right word to use?) down in Sher Point, only dimly aware that there might be life beyond the confines of that, um, prison world.”

“You've got to bring her back, Mitch – NOW!”

“It's not as simple as all that, dear.”

Below “Dim memory”, it read “Life”.

“And what does it mean: 'Life'?”

“Rae, time here and time in DreamScape are two different things. Yes, all I have to do is press the abort button and El*Eth will be back in the land of the living, as it were. But 'Life' means that whether I press the button now or in a few minutes time, next week or in a year's time, El*Eth will have lived out a full life – and died – in DreamScape.”

She beat him to it. Without thinking of the consequences, she leant forward and stabbed the abort button with her hand. But – fortunately or otherwise – nothing happened. She stabbed the button again and again – to no avail.

Mitch's features went as white as a sheet and his hands were shaking now. This just wasn't right.

“And what's this?” Rae wanted to know, pointing to a wristpad by the side of the console.

“It's used by the subject for remote retrieval,” he explained.

It dawned on her in a flash. “What you mean is, you can't retrieve her because she's left the wristpad behind. And she can't retrieve herself for the same reason.”

He said nothing. He didn't have to.

“And so what this boils down to, Mitch, is that you mean she'll serve out a life sentence down there?” Rae was aghast. “Why, that's monstrous. It doesn't bear thinking about! Oh, my poor baby!”

Then, fixing Mitch with her big brown eyes: “Mitch, I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to forgive you for this.”

Mitch had a lump in his throat and he gulped. Beads of sweat were forming in Mitch's hair-line by now and dribbling down his forehead.

“So what are you going to do?”

Mitch drew in a deep breath and looked around the room to see if there was a dark corner he could crawl into and curl up in. There wasn't.

“Surely, you could go down there after her and take the wristpad with you, then she could be retrieved.”

He shook his head. Apparently it didn't work like that.

“There's only one thing we can do,” he said at length. “And that is to alleviate El*Eth's suffering. Someone else must go into DreamScape to locate and join her, protect her and make her life more bearable before we bring her out of that life here.”

“And,” he added: “That, in itself, is more easily said than done.”

“But surely, like her, whoever you send down there will forget the reason he or she is there? I'm presuming that that is what is meant by 'Dim memory'?”

“It's possible to immerse yourself in DreamScape in near-perfect knowledge, remembering where you've come from and why you're down there – though this does place a considerable strain on that person. It's not easy holding onto the two sets of knowledge, as it were – that of the world up here and the world of somewhere like Sher Point. It requires a lot of training, self-discipline, that sort of thing. And it's possible to help someone with only dim memories to remember life in the 'real world' before the immersion.”

“Well,” Rae said, showing Mitch the door, her eyes filling up with tears. “I suggest you take the earliest opportunity to tell the Council what's happened – before they decide on some drastic course of action for Sher Point – if the matter isn't already out of their hands! And that you make all the necessary arrangements to take care of El*Eth.

“Lord only knows how little Rohan is going to take this …” she sobbed, wiping her nose on a pocket handkerchief.

4. Moving house

Huw Lawrence pulled the ramshackle car into the side of the road and got out. He heaved on the door and wrenched it open. Before long, they'd have to consign the old jalopy to the breakers' yard and buy another, which was an expense they could barely afford yet couldn't do without. Ahead of him, the removals van had already arrived and the crew was busily wheeling in the packing boxes.

“Hi Safia,” he beamed, giving his wife a hug. “Our new home looks great, don't you think?”

The house was a little on the dinky size, perhaps, but it was a whole heap better than the tenement block from which they'd come. All that had going for it was a certain, dubious Dickensian charm.

Little Mo came running up and clutched his leg, then put her hands up. “Carry, carry please, dada,” she called and he picked her up and swung her round in his arms.

“And how's my little angel?” he asked.

“Kissy, kissy,” she pleaded and he obliged. “Nice house. Me like.”

“Yes, it's a nice house,” he agreed. And so it should be at the price. “With a big garden full of beautiful flowers, a swing and a sand pit for you to play in when the sun's shining.”

“Sun shining,” she repeated. “Nice and warm.”

“Yes, it's a lovely sunny day, Mo. Now off you go and play. But stay away from the road. The road's dangerous, remember.”

“Me remember.”

“So, how's it going sweetie?” he asked Safia, walking up to the house with her, arm-in-arm.

“Oh, the guys are pretty experienced. It's like military logistics. But I bet we'll still be opening boxes come the Fall, when they're long gone. Sorry, I'll rephrase that – I bet I'll still be opening boxes come the Fall.”

“Any idea where my 'puter is?” he asked.

“Your computer?” The way she said it, in a pejorative way, it sounded like she was blessing the thing. “But I thought you were bringing it over?”

His heart leapt and he looked at her askance.

“No, silly: I had big sis' bring it over in her car to be on the safe side. It's all on the floor in the study: that's the second door on the right as you go in. Your desk is in there against the wall, but it'll need reassembling. Oh, and the Allen key for it is taped to one of the legs.”

Then: “Anyhow, I thought you were taking a few days off to help with the move? I don't know what we'd have done if we hadn't had Samira helping us out.”

“I am,” he said. “Except I've just got to make one or two amendments for an article I'm doing for a mag. Don't worry: it won't take long.”

“Hmm. Now where have I heard that old chestnut before, I wonder?”

Safia was standing in the porch arranging some potted plants they'd brought with them. Meanwhile, Huw was being a sweetie for a change, helping Samira hang the new curtains in the front lounge. She'd feel a little better once the window dressing was done.

“Hello there,” someone called.

“Oh!” Safia spun round, clutching her chest. “You made me jump.”

Samira came through from the front lounge to see what was going on.

There was a woman there. A dumpy looking woman in a summer frock and a cardigan with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses balanced on the end of her nose.

“Bridget Pendleberry,” she introduced herself, briskly shaking hands. “Your next door neighbour at number 24.”

Ah, the source of the mysterious twitching lace curtains, no less.

“Hi, I'm Safia Lawrence,” she smiled back. “And this is my sister Samira who's helping us out.”

“I hope I haven't called at an inconvenient moment?”

“Not at all. As you can no doubt tell – we just moved in. We were up late last night shifting stuff around. I hope we didn't disturb you. And if little Mo starts bothering you, just holler.”

“Didn't hear a dicky-bird, my dear. Not a dicky-bird. And it's good to have such a lively spirit in the street. Your daughter has already been peering over the fence to make my acquaintance.”

“Would you like to come through, Mrs, um, Pendleberry? We're about due for a brew.”

“Allow me,” Samira volunteered, going ahead to plug the kettle in.

“Oh, do please call me Bridget, dear. And, yes, I'd love a cup of tea. Earl Grey if you have it.”

“Oh, I'm sorry – we're fresh out,” she fibbed. “We have some regular tea, though, if that's okay?”

The lady's eyes lit up and she waved her finger in the air. “If you can just hang on one minute, my dear, I'll go and get some. I nearly always have a spare pack in the pantry. When you get old you tend to stock up on things like that, in case you're ill or the weather turns nasty and can't get out to the shops, you see. Vaughan's had to give up driving now – too old to be driving what with all the traffic these days – and though I did actually pass my test a good few years back, it's seldom that I venture out in the car. Anyhow … I'll go and get the tea, shall I?”

“If it's no trouble …”

“Oh, it's no trouble at all, my dear.” And with that, the lady was off down the garden.

~~~O~~~

“There you are, my dear,” the woman beamed as she came back up the driveway.

The woman had been eyeing up Huw's jalopy as she passed by. “Seen better days,” she remarked, disdainfully, as if to say that it perhaps lowered the tone of the area.

“Do come in, Bridget,” Safia said, ignoring the remark and leading the way. “And make yourself at home in the kitchen while we prepare a brew.”

“I'm sorry, you just think me awfully rude,” the woman said, pulling up a chair. “But I didn't catch your name.”

“Safia Lawrence,” she said. “That's Samira, my sister. And my husband's called Huw. Mo – her Sunday name is Maureen – you've already met.”

“Tell me – is that a foreign name, if you don't mind me asking?”

“My grandfather was from Afghanistan.”

“Oh, really? A refugee, you mean? My word, life under the Taliban must have been absolutely awful: I followed it on the news at the time.”

Samira laughed out loud. They'd heard that old chestnut so many times. There was a twinkle in her sister's eye and she hoped she wasn't going to come out with her standard reply: asking whether they looked like they'd fallen off the back of a banana boat.

“Not exactly ...” Safia replied. “You see, he came from a fine line of Afghan chieftains. He came here as a child years before the Russians invaded and he was educated here in England at a public school. He died just after the Taleban took control.”

“Really? How fascinating. You must tell Vaughan – that's my husband – all about it. He's quite a keen historian, you know.”

Samira brought the tea over and broke out the biscuits.

“Thank you, Samira.” The woman took a sip of tea. “Mmm: just what the doctor ordered, as my own dear mother used to say.”

“Honey? There's a tea in here for you,” Safia called.

“Be through in a minute,” Huw returned.

“So, what do you and your husband do for a living, Safia?”

“I'm a controller at Grand Central; Huw's a freelance journalist, and Samira is a fashion designer.”

“Really?”

That seemed to be one of the woman's favourite words. “Yes, really,” Safia nodded.

“How interesting. You must show me some of your work sometime, Samira. As for my part – my husband is Managing Director of Virtuoso and I'm the office administrator.”

Huw poked his head round the corner. “Virtuoso? Hey, isn't that run by some nutty professor who's just invented some kind of lucid dreaming gizmo? What's his name? Wendleberry?”

“Pendleberry, with a 'P',” the woman corrected him. “Professor Vaughan Pendleberry. And I'm his wife, Bridget.”

Whoops! Now that was a great note to start off on. Safia gave him one of her more withering looks, but it was like water off a duck's back to their new neighbour.

“Hi. I'm very pleased to meet you,” he said enthusiastically. She caught the twinkle in his eye as he got whiff of a potential story. “You and the professor must come round for a drink one evening.”

“As it happens, Huw … Virtuoso is unveiling a project called DreamScape on Friday at the laboratory just up the hill.”

“A new project, you say?” He looked up. “My word. Yes, I'd love to learn more.”

“In fact, if you're interested, I'm sure I could get you tickets and you'd get a chance to meet Vaughan there.”

“Oh, I'm interested alright. That would be tremendous. Thank you. We'd love to come.”

“Er, there's just one thing, Huw,” Safia pointed out.

“Hmm?”

“Who's going to look after Mo?”

Samira was about to volunteer her services, but she was pipped at the post. Bridget held her hand up. “Heck, that's no problem. Bring her along, too. I'll keep her amused. Got two grandchildren of my own.”

5. A wayward child

There was a bitter chill in the air as Safia walked back from the shops along the avenue with some provisions, her head filled with jobs to do in the house to make it fit to live in. She had begun to cross the road when she thought she saw something move in the bushes and she swung round defensively. Then Safia noticed the small child, huddled up on the pavement with her arms around her, and she turned back and went over to speak to her.

The child was wearing only a thin night-dress, a dressing gown and a pair of fluffy pink slippers.

“God Lord!” Safia greeted her. “What on Earth are you doing out dressed like that and on a winter's night like this – you'll catch your death of cold.” She took her ski jacket off and draped it over the girl's shoulders. It was so long that it went all the way down to the girl's feet.

“Here, let me take you home. Which house do you live at?”

The girl burst into tears. “I-I really don't know,” she blurted out, shivering with cold. “I d-d-don't think I come from round here at all. I don't recognise any of these houses.”

“How did you get here?” Safia wanted to know.

“I don't know. Really I don't. One minute I was at home – in a room full of books, I seem to recall – and the next minute I woke up to find myself here.”

Safia thought for a minute. Surely, she couldn't have been sleepwalking, although such a thing was apparently not unheard of.

“Okay. Well, hold my hand and I'll take you back home with me and then we'll see if we can find out where you've come from.” She'd phone the police as soon as she got in: the girl's parents must be going frantic by now, if they'd noticed she was missing.

The girl wasn't quite sure. “I s-s-seem to recall my Mother saying I wasn't to t-talk to strangers,” she replied. “I don't know why, but everything is so hard to remember.”

“Seemed to recall”? Now that was a strange thing to say. Maybe she'd had an accident and lost her memory temporarily? Safia examined the child's head, but there were no bumps or bruises.

“It's okay, you're safe with me: I've got a little girl of my own called Mo – that's short for Maureen – and I live just down here at number 22.”

“Anyway,” she said as the girl took her hand. “My name's Safia. Safia Lawrence. What's yours?”

The girl pursed her lips and thought a little, and scratched her head, then finally said in a peculiarly grown-up kind of way: “You must think this strange, Safia, but I can't for the life of me remember what my name is, except that perhaps it begins with an 'E' or perhaps an 'L'.”

And from quite a well-to-do family, by the sound of her. “Emily, perhaps?”

“No.”

“Or Elizabeth?”

I don't think so, but maybe almost? I'm sure I'd recognize it if I heard it, though. I'm trying to imagine my Mother calling out my name.”

“Laura? Lily? Lorraine?”

“No. I don't mean to sound rude, but I don't think I've got a particularly common name.”

Safia smiled. “Don't worry. I'm sure you'll remember sooner or later.” Then: “Anyway, here we are – number 22. This is my house.”

“22 Maple Grove,” the girl pondered. “I saw the sign at the end of the road. “But what town is this?”

Safia raised her eyebrows. “Why, Newby, of course, on the outskirts of Sher Point metropolis.”

The girl pricked her ears up at the mention of Sher Point, as if it rang some distant bell with her. And she had a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Sher Point? I think I've heard of that and it gives me the shudders for some reason.” Then, quick as a flash, as if a light had come on: “You know, that's an anagram of 'The Prison'.”

“The Prison”, eh. That was a new one on her. “Who told you that?” Safia wanted to know.

“Nobody,” she replied. “I just thought it up, all by myself. Father – at least I think it was Father – once said I have an 'enquiring mind'.”

It rather seemed the child did, at that.

“And someone else, I think, said I had a busy body.”

Safia tried to keep a straight face. Well, if the child did have amnesia, hopefully it wasn't a total or permanent thing. This had to be a good sign.

“Sher Point is something to do with DreamScape, but I don't know what that is, either.”

“DreamScape?” How on Earth could the child have heard of that?

“I seem to recall my Father working on something of that name. His latest 'gizmo', he called it.”

Really?

~~~O~~~

“Well, well. And who do we have here?” asked Huw, getting up from the chair by the roaring fire as Safia entered the room, holding the girl's hand. It was hard to surprise Huw with anything: he was so laid back.

“I found this little girl down the road,” Safia told him. “I think she may have had an accident, because she can't seem to remember anything – not even her own name. And she seems to have got herself lost.”

“Here, come over by the fire and get warm,” invited Huw. “Would you like a nice hot drink? Coffee do you?”

“Um, I'm not entirely sure, but I think I like it sweet,” the girl replied. “Yes, please.”

“That's my husband, Huw,” Safia explained as he went through to the kitchen to make a drink.

“Where's Mo?” the girl asked.

“My little girl? Oh, she's only three and she's already fast asleep in bed.” Then: “Anyway, how old are you?”

The girl mentally weighed herself up. “I think I'm eight,” she said.

Huw came back through with a steaming mug of coffee. “Here, sit yourself down in front of the fire.” He pulled the coffee table closer to her and placed the mug on a free DVD which he used as a coaster.

Huw drew Safia aside. “We should call the police,” he told her. “Her parents must be frantic with worry.”

Safia nodded and took the roaming phone through into the hallway to make the call.

~~~O~~~

There was a knock at the door half an hour later. Huw went to answer it, while Safia stayed to comfort the girl. He was met on the doorstep by a policewoman and another jolly-looking, rotund woman.

“PC Jan Mitchell,” the policewoman introduced herself, flashing her warrant card, without the merest flicker of a smile.

“Ethel Simpson, Social Services,” the other woman explained, with a brisk handshake. “And you must be Mister Lawrence.”

“Yes, do come in,” he said, leading the way. “We're in the living room, through here. I presume my wife Safia explained things over the phone?”

They went down the hallway and through into the living room.

“Just moved in?” the policewoman asked, eyeing the half-emptied packing cases which adorned the room.

“Yes, earlier today, in fact,” Huw replied. “This is my wife, Safia, who spoke to you earlier. And this is the little girl, who still hasn't remembered her name.”

“Hello, my dear,” the jolly-looking woman beamed, holding out a hand and taking a seat by the fire near the girl. “My name's Ethel and I've come here to help you find your mummy and daddy and get you safely home.”

“So whereabouts did you move from?” the policewoman asked Huw.

He told her the town.

“And whereabouts exactly in Littletown?”

He told her the address and she radioed the details in, along with their names and the registration number of their car. “Purely routine,” she explained.

Five minutes later and a message came back. The PC seemed satisfied with the reply. Apparently their records hadn't got them flagged as child-molesters.

They were there for over an hour, talking to the girl, but managed to get little further than that her name perhaps began with an “E” or an “L”; that quite clearly she came from a well-to-do family; and that she didn't think she came from around these parts. Even the fingerprint scan and the DNA test yielded a distinct blank: somehow the girl must have missed out on the screening program at school. Surely, she couldn't have been an Outlander, she was too well brought-up for that?

“Well, I must say, this has got me baffled,” said the policewoman at length. “I think we should take her up to the hospital and have her examined, especially as she appears to be suffering from amnesia. They'll probably keep her in hospital for twenty four hours under observation. And then we'll have to find her a place to stay until her parents report her missing – we've nobody on the books right now who remotely matches her description.”

“I'll arrange a place for her at SunnyDene (one of the homes that social services run), until we can find a temporary foster family,” Ethel Simpson added.

As soon as she heard the word “Home”, the girl darted from the chair and jumped in Safia's lap, clutching her tightly and burying her head in her bosom. “No, no!” she screamed. “I don't want to go to a horrid children's home. I've heard all sorts of horrible things about them. I want to stay here with Safia! I won't go.”

Safia gave her a big cuddle.

“No need to worry about that now, my cherub,” beamed the woman from social services. “First of all, we have to take you to the hospital to make sure you haven't banged your head or anything nasty like that.”

The girl was defiant and clutched tight hold of Safia. “I won't go anywhere with you.”

The woman took hold of her hand, but the girl was not having any of it.

“Tell you what, precious,” said Safia. “How's about I go with you to the hospital, eh? How's that sound?”

The girl looked sorrowfully up into her eyes and thought for a minute. “Okay,” she replied at length, jumped down from Safia's lap, grabbed her hand and pulled Safia's arm until she stood up and headed for the door.

“I won't be long, dear,” Safia mouthed to Huw as she made sure the girl was well wrapped up against the cold and pulled on her own coat.

Huw merely smiled. Judging by the way the girl had taken to Safia, she'd probably be there half the night.

~~~O~~~

As it turned out, the girl was put into a side ward in the hospital's children's department and Safia spent the whole of the night in a bed next to the girl. And she spent the next day escorting her back and forth as they carried out a barrage of tests and X-rays. Again, the fingerprint scan and DNA test yielded nothing: it was as though, for all practical intents and purposes, the child did not exist in the System.

At the end of the day, they proclaimed that they could find nothing to account for her amnesia – which they thought likely only temporary. What that meant, of course, was that they were guessing and unwilling to admit that they were baffled by the child's condition – nay, clueless. Some things never changed! Indeed, the only thing physically, or indeed mentally, wrong with her (other than a faint red circular scar on her forehead, which they put down to a birth mark) was a slight head cold. All the same, they kept her in for a second night of observation, just to be on the safe side, so Safia phoned Huw to let him know and to get him to come over in the car with some clean clothes for her.

Ethel Simpson had come in to see the girl during the day and again mentioned arranging a place for her at the local children's home. However, the girl had overheard sufficient of the conversation to tell which way the wind was blowing and again she protested that there was just no way she was going to any home. And if they made her, then she'd simply run away and keep running away until they let her stay with Safia and her family.

Safia offered a solution. “How's about she stays with us for now, until you manage to trace her parents? We have a spare room.”

“Would that it were that simple,” Ethel sighed. “There are so many procedures to go through before we can sign a child over to you even on a temporary basis as foster parents.”

“Then go away and have us thoroughly vetted – to make sure we're not raving child-molesters – and run through all the procedures you have to,” Safia replied firmly. “And I'll be here with Ella (that's what she'd decided to temporarily rechristen the girl) when you get back.”

But, alas, Ethel Simpson's bosses at the Social Services weren't having any of this. And within the hour, the woman was back with a very official-looking piece of paper and two police officers, and despite the protestations and the most heart-felt tears of both Safia and Ella, they took Ella away with them.

And that's how little Ella came to live for a time at the SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children, in the leafy suburbs of Sher Point Metropolis.

6. A bumpy landing

Ellie seemed to be falling down, down, down into a black, velvety pit for an eternity. She thought at first she'd died, but then realized that things wouldn't seem black and velvety if she had done – she'd have been conscious of nothing whatsoever, not even the blackness, let alone any thoughts. Mind you, that assumed that there was no life whatsoever beyond death and that was something about which she could do no more than guess.

And then, quite as suddenly as her descent had begun, she felt an impact, her legs buckled beneath her, and she was thrown onto a cold, hard surface, tearing her free from her reverie.

She lay there for a time, getting her breath back, heart thumping wildly in her heaving chest, then pushed herself upright. Rubbing her eyes and completely disorientated, she bleared around at the scene which met her eyes, trying to take her strange surroundings in.

One minute she was in free fall, as if in a dream. And the next? She'd come-to on a cold, dark concrete pavement by the side of an unfamiliar, tree-lined avenue of houses.

And then she remembered how she'd come to be here. How she'd sneaked into Father's den, sat at the control console, fiddled with the controls and been transported here.

And now? She was here – most likely this was Sher Point – yet hopelessly lost, shivering in the bitterly cold wind that was blowing up the street, wearing nothing more than a thin cotton nightdress, a thin woollen dressing-gown and her fluffy pink slippers.

She turned to look down the road. It was getting dark now and one of the street lamps had sprung to life and was flickering as it warmed up. It was still a salmon pink, whilst the others had turned a bright orange. Someone was coming along the road now, crossing over from the other side. She crawled away into the shadow of a nearby hedgerow and huddled up to keep warm.

The figure stopped quite suddenly ahead of her and turned this way. Then, having spotted her crouching in the shadows, came walking over to her.

It was a woman, quite a young woman, and she had her hands full of plastic carrier-bags. She must have been out shopping.

“God Lord!” the woman greeted her. “What on Earth are you doing out dressed like that and on a winter's night like this – you'll catch your death of cold.” The woman took her jacket off and draped it over Ellie's shoulders. It was so long that it came down to her feet.

Ellie thought for a moment, about whether she dare trust this stranger, about how cold and lost she was and about how she'd ended up there. She could hardly tell the woman that she'd been transported there by a gizmo her father called “DreamScape”, from some mythical realm. She knew enough to know that you didn't tell Strangers anything about Zone Five.

She thought she'd better play dumb, which after all wasn't that far from the truth, and promptly burst into tears when the woman asked her where she lived. Ellie was so dazed and confused by recent events that she could hardly take-in anything of what the woman was saying to her as she took her hand and began to lead Ellie up the road.

And then Ellie was inside, and being ushered to sit quietly by a roaring fire – not an electric heater like they had at her house but an old-fashioned one that burnt real wood and coal, just like she'd read about in history classes – while she came to her senses. It was relaxing sitting by the fireside, staring into the flickering flames. And as she relaxed, so her memories of another world began to slowly but surely slip away.

~~~O~~~

Meanwhile, in the distant realm of Zone Five, of which few in Sher Point had even heard rumour, let alone visited, things were anything but relaxed. Mitch had re-entered the Conference Room, re-convened the meeting and broke the tragic news to the others assembled there – that his daughter El*Eth had transported herself down to Sher Point with the aid of the DreamScape device.

There was stunned silence. Then Az*Oth rose to his feet and broke the spell. He turned to Rae, who was wiping her eyes on a handkerchief. “Rae,” he began, searching for the right words to express his shock and his sympathy for the poor woman. “We may have had our differences over the years – and no doubt we'll continue to have our differences from time to time – but when it comes to family matters such as this tragic event, you have my full and unequivocal support. Please be assured that I will offer you every assistance. If you want me to go down there to find El*Eth, you only have to ask.”

“It's extremely dangerous down there, Az*Oth – you do realize that, don't you?” replied Aunt Millie. “And you're not as young as you once were …”

Az*Oth nodded. “Time is of the essence, if we're to pick up on El*Eth's trail,” he said. “And that being so, I'm ready to leave at a moment's notice.”

“Bless you, Az*Oth,” smiled Mitch. “But let's not be too hasty: I don't know El*Eth's precise coordinates and we really need to think this thing through first of all if we're to have a hope of tracing her. We're going to have to enlist the help of the Residential Agencies in this. This sort of thing has happened before and they'll know how to deal with this incident.”

“Residential agencies?” asked Bradley.

“CROP,” Mitch explained: “Covert Residential Operations. From time to time we have to make interventions down in Sher Point; to anonymously nudge things in certain directions; to assist in the evolution of the culture. And so we – and others with an interest in the Experiment, including the Dark Forces – maintain covert networks of inspectors and field operatives resident in Sher Point. One of their many tasks is to keep a lookout for potential recruits, to offer them training and opportunities to rise in the ranks, even to triumph over the difficulties down there and rise to join the ranks of the elite up here.”

“Hah! You know the odds against that?” Az*Oth couldn't help but blurt out: “One in a million. That's how bad the Earth-sickness is down there! One in a million, on a good day, downhill, with a tail wind!”

“Thank you for that useful piece of information,” Mitch replied quite sarcastically. “I'm sure that's just the sort of thing we need to hear at this precise moment.”

Az*Oth flushed bright crimson. “Forgive me,” he replied, his head bowed to avoid eye contact. “That was quite remiss of me.”

“Much as it pains me, there is no denying this truth,” Mitch agreed, much to Az*Oth's surprise. As soon as a new training enterprise opened up, the organisers would be deluged with thousand upon thousand of interested parties – of whom perhaps only one in a million would have the potential to make it successfully through the course. The last thing the Directors could afford was to let any of the other “Unsuitables” through. That could jeopardize the whole operation, the secret of which must be preserved at all costs. Such unsuitable people had to be weeded out or encouraged to fall by the wayside in an often-harrowing process of elimination and increasing self-knowledge that frequently took years, even decades, if not whole lifetimes. And hence, for the very few who genuinely were the right material, the study courses were made far, far more tortuous than they need otherwise have been.

7. DreamScape unveiled

The hall was full to overflowing when the Lady Mayor of Sher Point took to the stage.

She bent her head down to the microphone. “Hello? Can you hear me at the back?” she called in a broad accent.

Several people toward the rear of the hall cupped their hands to their ears. “What you say, love?”

“No?”

She motioned to one of the stage hands and he turned the volume up on the public address, then down a notch when the system began to howl round with feedback.

“Is that better? Good. If not, please feel free to change your seats and come closer.”

“I said: if you cannot hear me, then please feel free to change your seats and come down to the front,” she repeated.

“No need to shout, lady!”

She waited impatiently, drumming her fingers on the lectern, whilst the stragglers came in from the ante-hall.

“Welcome, welcome,” she addressed the audience at length. “Please be so kind as to take your seats.”

She waited patiently as the scraping of seats subsided.

“Distinguished guests ...” she bowed her head slightly to the VIPs sitting in the front row. “... Ladies and gentlemen: It gives me great pleasure to introduce to you the distinguished Professor Vaughan Pendleberry, President of the Sher Point Institute of Dream Research, or 'SPIDER' as it's affectionately known.”

There was a hushed silence as the hall came to order, briefly interrupted by a spate of nervous coughing.

The Lady Mayor shook hands with the elderly professor and helped the attendant guide him to the lectern at the front of the stage.

Dispensing with the usual diplomatic salutations, indeed dispensing with his script altogether, the frail but incredibly lucid old man launched straight into his public address.

“This is a most auspicious occasion, unprecedented in the history of the people of Sher Point,” he began, pausing to let the import of his words sink-in.

“Nobody knows how long this fine city has stood or who actually built it. All manner of theories abound, little more than working hypotheses really, and many myths and legends and sheer tittle-tattle. But the truth of the matter is that we know little to nothing of our real origins. Admitting to this is at least a start.”

There were mumblings in the ranks of the self-appointed experts, the distinguished guests, at this last remark.

“All we really know is that Sher Point has stood since before official records began, certainly for several hundred years; perhaps, some say, for several millennia – if not longer.

“One thing we do know about the place is that it is so vast and sprawling and intricate in its design that there are, in its darkest most labyrinthine depths still parts of the metropolis which we have yet to re-discover. And what function the intricate machinery plays in the life of the city, the fact is, we know little to nothing.

“Of course, these days with the great increase in anarchic factions and criminal activity in the outer reaches, it is unsafe even for our courageous Security Services to venture forth.” He placed a particular emphasis on the word “courageous” which did not escape the Assistant Commissioner's attention. The man sat there and glowered at him for the rest of the evening.

“Now, how many of you wake up on a morning and groan at the thought of yet another day at the tread mill? Another week? Another month? Another year? Perhaps wondering if the daily grind will ever end. For many of you who are not fortunate enough to be working in an area which suits and exercises your talents and interests, I dare say that retirement cannot come soon enough.”

The professor paused and drew a deep breath.

“Jeez,” Huw remarked. “He's a cheerful old soul, isn't he?”

A woman on the row behind tapped him on the shoulder. “Shh!” she hissed intolerantly.

“Indeed, I would go further and say that for those who are over the hill or in the gutter, for whom life holds no great meaning, even death must seem a blessed relief.”

Huw exchanged silent glances with Safia.

“But that is not why I have come here today. I have come not to dwell on the dark side and carp at our inadequacies. Rather, I have been invited here to unveil a bright new vision that will positively revolutionise life as we know it.

“Yes indeed, this is an auspicious juncture in the history of the human race.” He slowly scanned the faces of the assembly, looking into their eyes. “As one of our distant ancestors once said: 'I have a dream ...'”

A shiver of rapture seemed to sweep through the crowded hall at this point and the crowd broke out into spontaneous applause. The old professor smiled and waited for the applause to die down as naturally as it had arisen.

“Well, I have a dream, as well,” the professor declared with gusto.

Huw wondered whether he should cry “Hallelujah, brother!” at this juncture. “Now you'ze talking Lizah.”

“And it is my dream,” the professor continued, “that each and every one of us should have the opportunity to share that dream, if we wish to do so.”

He motioned to one of the stage hands lurking in the wings and they came in, trundling a large glass-walled cubicle on a low-loader. It looked like one of the stage props that illusionists used. They set the container down and brought on a thick umbilical cord which they plugged into the side of the unit.

Now this was more like it. Huw rummaged in his pocket and produced his digital camera.

“Distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen,” the professor announced as the cubicle lit up and appeared to spring to life: “I give you the reality of my dream: DreamScape, the product of ten million network-hours of research and development by colleagues at SPIDER.”

There was a ripple of excitement around the hall. But it was not nearly as intense as the shiver that ran its icy races up and down Safia's spine at mention of the word “DreamScape”. That was the very thing that little Ella had spoken of when they'd first found her. Most peculiar.

“Now, I'd like to carry out a practical demonstration. Do I have any volunteers?”

The professor cast his eyes around the hall which was a sea of eagerly waving hands. He scanned the front row and picked one of the experts who seemed to have done nothing but mutter under his breath since the presentation had begun.

“You, sir. On the front row, with the loud pink tie and the dark jacket. Yes sir, you. If you'd care to step this way.”

The man was ushered to a short flight of stairs leading up onto the stage.

“And your name, please, sir?”

“Doctor Theodore Belcher, Sher Point MediCred Facility,” he announced, puffing out his chest, as the professor pumped his hand in ritual greeting. Meanwhile, one of the professor's aides opened a sliding door on the booth to reveal an interior bristling with electronics.

“Now, Doctor Belcher, would you be willing to submit to a MediScan before entering DreamScape?”

Again, Safia's ears pricked up at the mention of DreamScape.

The man agreed and the professor gave him the once-over with his hand-held.

“Thank you, sir. You'll be glad to hear that you're all clear.”

“Naturally – fit as a fiddle. And I shall expect it to be all clear on completion of your, um, demonstration. I presume you're adequately insured?”

“Naturally,” the professor returned.

“Okay, now what I intend to do is this, Doctor Belcher: you sit in the booth and we induce a light sleep and put you into lucid dreaming mode.”

The man shook his head. “I don't have dreams,” he pointed out, exchanging a smug grin with one of his confederates in the audience.

The professor was not one to be easily ruffled: he'd presumably seen it all before. “What time is it, please?”

“Why it's 10:35, of course,” the man replied, nodding in the direction of the clock mounted high on the wall of the lecture theatre.

“And what day is it?”

“Thursday. The 13th of February actually. And – no – I'm not superstitious,” he laughed.

“10:35 on Thursday 13th February, 2020, to be precise,” the professor reminded the audience.

“Now, if you'd just step into the booth, take a seat and insert your personal smart card for identification purposes, we'll begin.”

“Please note that the booth has been fitted with glass sides, for demonstration purposes, so that you can see that there's no jiggery-pokery going on. And I should state that Doctor Belcher and I have never met before, so there's no collusion between us.”

He turned to the Lady Mayor: “If you consult the public record on ALICE, ma'am, you'll see that this is the case.”

The woman tapped away at her hand-held comms unit and, after a pause whilst the machine searched ALICE's memory banks, she looked up and nodded. “Confirmed,” she responded.

“Now, in the production version your privacy and security would be maintained with the use of a sturdy, fire-proof screened-metal enclosure. I regret that at present it is not possible for us to be able to view the processes going on in the candidate's head, although our people are working on a VideoCast facility. Therefore we will be reliant on external video and the good doctor's anecdotal evidence after he emerges from DreamScape.”

One of the aides ushered the doctor into the booth. As he entered, the door closed behind him and the interior lit up.

“Welcome to DreamScape,” a voice called out and a head and shoulders popped-up on the video display set into the control console. A netcam emerged from the console on the end of a long boom and looked the doctor up and down as if with some disdain, for the benefit of the audience. “Please take a seat and insert your personal smart card in the slot provided.”

The doctor complied.

The audience sat agog watching the large videoscreen as cushioned restraints emerged from the framework of the seat and swung into place to gently but firmly hold the doctor in position. Then a long snake-like device began to extend from the fascia of the control console beneath the video display. It attached itself to the doctor's temple and fanned out to completely obscure his vision.

The professor watched from the podium.

Then, scarcely thirty seconds after the doctor had entered the booth, the probe folded up, retracted itself, the restraints were released and the door slid silently open.

The professor signalled to his aides and the men went over to swing the chair round and help the doctor out of the booth. They'd wheeled a settee onto the stage and they settled the doctor there whilst he came around.

“Well, what do you think, then?” asked the professor, going over and sitting next to him.

The man was wide-eyed. “Professor Pendleberry!” He looked around the room, then at the clock on the far wall.

“And what time is it now. might I enquire?” the professor asked him.

“10:42.”

“The date?”

“Thursday 13th February …” The man frowned. “2020? But that can't be true. It simply can't. It's a physical impossibility.”

“A physical impossibility you say, but what makes you think that? Perhaps you'd care to enlighten this august company with an account of what happened when you entered DreamScape?”

“But it would take an age. It's been so long. I did so many things. I visited places you cannot even begin to imagine, beyond the walls of Sher Point.” Of course, as everyone in the audience knew, this was an absurdity, since there was nothing beyond the walls of Sher Point, well save for the Outlands.

At the back of the hall, one of the audience, a distinguished looking old gentleman in a heavy grey ex-RAF overcoat and trilby put the finishing touches to a text message and shuffled out of the theatre. He'd seen enough – indeed, more than enough. Somehow, and as yet he knew not how, Sher Point had got hold of the embargoed DreamScape technology. And, to his way of thinking, and no doubt to the thinking of “The Powers That Be”, this was going to have tremendous – unthinkable – repercussions. How on Earth they'd manage to cover up this lapse, Heaven only knew.

“My dear Doctor,” the professor continued as the man made his quiet exit, “as anyone here in the audience will confirm, you have been in the DreamScape cubicle for no more than five minutes.”

“That can't be true.”

The professor ran the hand-held MediScan over the doctor to confirm that he was still All Clear. If anything, his health – certainly the cognitive and emotional aspects – seemed to have been improved by the experience.

“But I swear, it was as if I were really there. Doing things I would not have credited ever being able to do in my wildest dreams ... enough to write an academic treatise on – if I could be bothered to write another blessed academic treatise. It was breath-taking ...”

Now that was weird, thought Safia. In fact, it was weirder than weird.

“And, for what it's worth, I take back all I said or thought about the device, Professor: it is truly a dream machine. As far as I'm concerned, DreamScape has my full backing. And when I return to committee I will strongly recommend that it has the official blessing of the Sher Point Metropolitan Health Council.”

“Thank you, Doctor Belcher. That will be all.” He motioned to the set of steps and the doctor returned to his seat, still scratching his head and mumbling to himself.

The professor turned back to the audience once more and addressed them: “Imagine that – a day's experience, a week, a month, even a whole lifetime's experience – squeezed into a few minutes. Can you comprehend that and comprehend the consequences?

“Imagine that and think of the wondrous possibilities. You say given half a chance, instead of doing such and such a thing, I might have done some other; I might have followed my heart instead of my head, or the other way about. Instead of being a secondary school drop-out, I might perhaps have trained for a better job, perhaps a career in medicine, or trained to be an actor. If only we hadn't been so poor. If only this, if only that, if only the other – whatever excuse you can come up with.

“Well, here's your chance to prove it to yourself. Here's your chance to have that luxury holiday in some exotic clime that you so badly needed but couldn't afford. Or the chance to spend more time with a loved one with a terminal illness whose precious time on this Earth is so short. Here's your chance to meet all those friends so far away in geographical terms and to make new ones. To take time out to study; to train for something better. Your chance to research your new novel and have the time to write it amidst the hustle and bustle of modern life – my, what tales of daring-do you could bring back to tell! Spare time to research your invention or perfect your product. Spare time in which to play out a number of different scenarios. Here's a chance for the mentally ill and the offender to be rehabilitated – in a fraction of the time that conventional therapy might take. Why, you could even set up your own hippie commune if that's what tickled your fancy.

“Ladies and gentlemen and distinguished guests, here is your chance to revolutionize your lives and the lives of those around you. There is nothing else holding you back other than the walls of your own imagination. So be imaginative. Dare to dream. Dare to make those dreams a reality.

“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests – I give you DreamScape, the marvel of the 21st Century.

“Thank you and good night,” the professor concluded, leaving the podium, and the audience stood to give him a hearty standing ovation.

“My God, the mind boggles,” Huw remarked, amidst the roar of applause. “The possibilities are virtually endless.”

“That's true,” Safia agreed. “But there's one thing it won't help with – and that's all the blessèd housework.”

“Well, no, but it would make life in between housework more enjoyable. I mean, you could do a spot of hoovering and then, feeling bored, you can take five minutes out to have a nice relaxing month-long holiday somewhere, before coming back to do a spot of washing-up, perhaps?” he laughed.

“Sod the housework,” Samira pondered: “Why bother coming back at all?”

~~~O~~~

“Vaughan Pendleberry,” the professor greeted them as the lecture ended. He'd finally managed to extract himself from the middle of a great huddle of people asking incessant questions about the device. “Good to see you.

“Now let me get this right – you must be Safia and Huw, and Samira – is that right? Bridget's told me quite a lot about you.”

About life with the fuzzy-wuzzies, no doubt, in Afghanistan. Ah, ignorance is bliss, they say. “Only good things I hope,” Samira replied, milking the cliché for all it was worth.

“Of course.”

Professor Pendleberry sighed: “It's a pity that girl – what's her name? – Ella – couldn't be with you. Still no luck with Social Services?”

Safia shook her head sadly.

“I really can't see why they couldn't have let you foster her: fine, upstanding citizens like your good selves.”

“Bureaucratic Rules and Regulations,” she shrugged. “The philosopher Burkins certainly knew a thing or two.” He specialized in dark satirical works about the machinations of bureaucracy.

“Dear, dear. I'm sure she'd have loved to have been here with you. I take it that her parents have not yet shown up? Most extraordinary.”

Bridget was coming down the aisle now, indeed she looked as if she were being towed along by Mo.

“So, you must be Mo? Pleased to meet you. I'm Professor Pendleberry.” The professor bent down and shook Mo's hand. “But you can call me Uncle Vaughan.”

“Anyhow, what do you think of the show so far?”

“I'm impressed,” Huw said.

“What about you, Safia – was it too computer nerdy for your liking?”

“Not at all. To be honest, I quite fancy a go in one of those gizmos myself sometime.”

“I'm sure it could be arranged. Of course, with a wee mite like Mo here to brighten up your days you wouldn't want to be away long. The fact is, when folk go into DreamScape they're perfectly capable of pulling out any time they like. Belcher was only in there for so long in 'dream time' because his everyday life is so damn boring. And you can also program the thing so you're only in there for a short space of time. By the time we get the production model going, too, you'll be able to save the co-ordinates so you replay a good dream or carry on from where you last left off. Maybe even meet up for a date?”

“Mmm,” Safia cooed. “Now that sounds like my style. You know of any eligible single men?”

Huw looked horrified.

“Only teasing, honey: only teasing.”

“… Or even start up a completely new pioneer colony,” the professor added, apparently missing the joke.

“I'm sure you've had lots of requests, Prof,” Huw said, “but is there any chance of an interview? I can think of any number of popular and scientific periodicals who'd just lap this story up. If you want my credentials, I've got a fat portfolio of my work …”

“No problem, Huw. Here's my number at work. Give me a call tomorrow and I'll see what I can set up. And don't take any nonsense from Doris, my secretary – get her to put you straight through.

“As for the portfolio? I had someone check your work out already. And the word on the street? To use the vernacular, I understand your work is 'damn hot', hey what?!”

8. SunnyDene

“Nearly there, little one,” lilted Ethel Simpson as she swung the car off the main road and brought it to a halt outside a set of huge, rusty wrought-iron gates surmounted by barbed wire. Whether that was to keep people in or keep them out was open to debate. “I'll just be a moment.”

Ellie was not looking forward to this one bit and she sat resting her head on her elbow hardly saying a word the entire length of the journey.

A flaking sign hanging off one of the gateposts read: “SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children”.

She watched through the open car window as the woman got out of the car and went over to the gatepost. She pressed a button and a speaker crackled. “Yes?” enquired a voice.

“Ethel Simpson, Social Services,” the woman said in a loud voice. “I've come with a new girl: Ella.”

There was another brief crackle, then a whirring sound as the big gates began to swing open, and Miss Simpson came back to the car, then drove through the open gates and on up a noisy gravel road towards a sprawling old house with mullioned windows, set back from a wide expanse of lawn.

“Here we are,” the woman smiled. She reached inside her glove compartment, pulled out a bag of toffees and offered Ellie one. Ellie unwrapped it and stuck it in her mouth: “Thanks.”

“Ready then?” She helped Ellie unfasten her safety belt and together they left the car and crunched over the gravel and up a wide set of stone steps to the front door of the tall building. Their every step was watched by inquisitive children who pressed their faces against the window panes, squashing their features into grotesque, less-than-welcoming shapes.

Miss Simpson stopped at the front door and pressed a button. Again there was the pop and crackle of a loudspeaker. “Yes?” answered a voice curtly.

“Ethel Simp …”

There was a buzz and a catch on the door was released. Miss Simpson turned the handle, pushed the door open and ushered Ellie inside before shutting the door firmly-to behind her.

“Wipe your feet, there's a good girl,” the woman said, pointing to the doormat.

They were in a hallway with a squeaky cork floor. The air was laden with the smell of polish. To the left was an office marked “Reception” with a hatch cut out of the wall; ahead was a corridor going off to either side and a wide, sweeping marble staircase leading up. There was a small boy standing at the foot of the steps watching their every move, with a filthy-looking security blanket held close to his face.

Ellie could hear loud footsteps now, coming along the corridor and echoing through the hallway. “Dobbs?” a loud voice called demandingly.

The child ahead of them turned and started chewing on his security blanket.

“What are you doing out of your class?”

“Going to the toilet,” the child answered.

“Going to the toilet – what?”

“To the toilet, Ms Arkwright.”

“Well, go on then. If I find you here in five minutes time, you will feel the flat of my hand on your bare bottom, young man!”

The boy dashed off. “Yes, Ms Arkwright.”

“And walk, boy! Do not run, or I will have your guts for garters!” the woman called after him, then turned the corner and strode across the hallway to greet the newcomers.

“Ethel Simpson …” Miss Simpson held out her hand.

The battleaxe of a woman ignored the proffered hand and stood there looking them both up and down with some disdain.

“Ms Arkwright: Director.”

Then: “A new inmate, I see. Well, out with it. Cat got your tongue, girl?”

“This is the girl who's lost her memory,” Miss Simpson explained. “She can't remember her name …”

“Cannot remember her own name. Well I never!”

“… So we've temporarily rechristened her Ella.”

“Really?” She seemed quite put out, as if she'd been done out of a task which was hers. “Ella what?”

“I don't know. We hadn't thought of a second name.”

“Let me see,” said the Director: Too many Smiths and Joneses here already. Grubbs, then: we will call her Ella Grubbs after my grandfather.”

“Thank you,” replied Ellie, between chews on her toffee, trying to be polite, and smiling.

“Thank you – what?” Ms Arkwright prompted, ignoring the smile.

“Thank you, Miss.”

“You may call me Ms Arkwright.”

“Thank you, Ms Arkwright.”

The woman stalked across to the side of the hall and picked up a waste-paper basket. “And you can get rid of that disgusting thing for a start,” she said, holding the basket up to Ellie's face.

Ellie spat out the remains of the toffee.

“Disgusting,” Ms Arkwright repeated as she replaced the basket.

Ethel Simpson bent down and gave Ellie a little peck on the cheek.

Ms Arkwright frowned, as if she didn't approve. “Right then, leave her with me,” she said, grasping Ellie's hand in a vice-like grip. “Good day to you, Miss Simpson.”

Then the Director turned on her heel and marched off with Ellie in tow, running to keep up. “Matron first, I think. Get you bathed and checked over for things like creepy-crawlies and into some more suitable attire.”

9. Off the beaten track

Az*Oth came down with quite a bump when he landed, sending him sprawling. they'd obviously miscalculated the altitude of the terrain. Still, better that than burrowing into the ground up to his knees.

A vagrant, sitting on a park bench close-by saw him appear as if out of nowhere, did a double take and pinched himself to see if he was dreaming; then, with an incredulous shake of his head, he took another deep swig from his bottle to calm his nerves.

“Are you alright?” asked a woman, dashing over, having seen him stumble. She helped Az*Oth to his feet and, reaching down, passed him his briefcase.

“Yes, thank you. I'm okay,” replied Az*Oth, brushing himself down and taking the case from her. “Blessèd flagstones.”

“I know, love – they're a menace. If I were you, I'd report it to the council and sue them for your injury. Milk them for all they've got, I would.”

“No, really, I'm okay. Hurt my dignity more than anything.”

“Well, if you're sure you're alright,” she said, taking a peek at her watch. “I'm sorry, but I'm already late for an appointment.”

“I'm fine, thanks again.”

The woman smiled and then she was on her way, thankfully none the wiser about his sudden emergence in Sher Point, otherwise he'd have had to erase the mishap from her memory.

Az*Oth took out his pocket compass, stared at it for a moment to get his bearings, then consulted his street map. Finally satisfied, he folded the map up, tucked it in his pocket and wandered off across the park, heading for the town centre. He made a mental note of the side streets as he walked down the high street, and stopped when he came to Castle Road, turned left and walked along until he came to the junction with Nelson Street.

Now, if his memory served him correctly, there should be an old junk shop (“George's Olde Antiques Emporium”) halfway down on the left-hand side. Yes, there it was, looking every bit as shabby and dilapidated as it ever had, and fortunately though it was half day closing just about everywhere else, the shop was still open.

Az*Oth peered in the window for a few moments, then looked furtively up and down the street just to be on the safe side. Fortunately, there was nobody else around: that was one of the advantages of having establishments off the beaten track: for most intents and purposes, they remained invisible to Joe Public.

Az*Oth opened the door and stepped quickly inside. A man came through from a back room as he entered. “Yes, sir? May I help you? Are you looking for anything in particular, sir?” the proprietor asked, as he must have done on countless occasions over the years, rubbing his hands almost gleefully. Clearly, he didn't remember Az*Oth from his last visit. Time to jog the old man's memory: the technique never failed.

“Yes, perhaps you can, my good man,” Az*Oth said carefully. “I was in here the other day and I believe I mislaid my umbrella.”

The man looked at him and scratched his chin. “Umbrella, you say? Now let me see.”

Then understanding suddenly dawned on him. Boing! “Oh, my word!”

The man took a step backwards on hearing these words and a big, cheesy grin swept across his face. He rushed from behind the counter and began to pump Az*Oth's hand. “Mr Armstrong, sir!” he chirped. “Well, I never!”

“Emily!” he called through into the back room. “Put the kettle on, love – we've got a Visitor.” He used the term advisedly. Then he fair ran to the front door, clicked the latch and turned the sign on the door to read “Closed.”

“Come through,” the old man insisted, leading the way into the back. He pulled a curtain across the door as he went (“Keeps the cold out,” he explained). “It's ages since we've had one of you, um … Council types here.”

“Had one last August,” his wife corrected.

Then: “Hello, dear, she greeted him, already pouring a drink out. “You must have smelt it brewing!”

Az*Oth took the tea gratefully and had a sip. “Mmm, best drink I've had all day. 'Just what the Doctor ordered', as my old mum would say.”

“So … take a seat by the fire, get yourself warm … you here on business or pleasure, then, Mr Armstrong, sir?”

Az*Oth took another sip of tea – best bone china, too – then placed the cup down. “Business, I'm sad to say, George.” He rummaged in his briefcase and brought out a wad of photographs. “I'm looking for a missing girl – my niece, El*Eth, in fact. Answers to the name of Ellie. She had a mishap with DreamScape and we lost her.”

Emily took one of the photos. “No, can't say as I've seen her around,” she said. “Mind you, we don't get out as often as we used to do, especially in this weather – the cold air gets on George's lungs, you see. We still get up to the Corporation Club on a Wednesday night for darts and dominoes. Keeps us young at heart. What about you, George?”

He shook his head. “DreamScape, you say? I seem to recall something about that in the local paper …”

The old man had to be mistaken, surely?

“… Never could get my head around the likes of that. Expect you're used to all that newfangled technological wizardry, though, working for the Council?”

Az*Oth thrust half a dozen photos into the woman's hands. “Pass them around one or two of your Friends, anyhow,” he requested. And again, he too used the term advisedly. “People 'in the Know', as it were.”

“Right you are, Mr Armstrong, sir.”

“I s'pose you'll be wanting to stay here for a few days?” asked George. It was a rhetorical question. Az*Oth always stayed there when he had business to attend to.

The old man rummaged in a drawer and produced a set of keys for the spare flat upstairs at the back of the shop. A large tag made out of an empty Wheatflakes packet was attached with the words “Spare flat” scrawled upon it in blotchy ballpoint.

“Thanks,” said Az*Oth, draining his cup and rising to his feet. “Now, if you'll forgive my haste, I must press on …”

“Sure you won't have another? And I could soon rustle up a sandwich to tide you over.”

“No, thanks all the same, Emily, but I really have to make a few more calls before the day's out.”

And with that, Az*Oth picked up his briefcase and went upstairs to the flat to unpack his laptop and leave a cryptic email message with the Society for Advancement of Human Knowledge to say that he'd safely arrived. They in turn would pass it on through official channels and, sooner or later, it would land on the desk of the Caretaker Council's Secretary, Mitch.

10. A drop in the ocean

Huw had made his way up to Professor Pendleberry's research establishment, which was housed in the sprawling grounds of his estate at the top of the hill not far from where he and Safia were now living.

“Well, here you are, Huw,” said the professor, when they arrived at the laboratory. “You're still happy about going ahead with this?”

Huw had to admit, amidst his excitement and euphoria, he had a queasy feeling deep down in his gut.

“You're a little afraid, perhaps?”

“Who wouldn't be?” Huw asked. “In a sense I'm to be brought face to face with the subterranean workings of my mind.”

“Of the Ur-Mind, Huw, the Collective Over-Mind, as it were. This is the point where science and religion truly meet.” The professor smiled. “But you have wonderful dreams every night and often fantasies during the course of the day. What is there to fear but fear itself? Fear of the unknown? Fear of change? Trust me – there is really nothing for you to worry about.

“And just in case, I will personally supervise the session. There's MediScan monitoring throughout: of your heartbeat and blood pressure, your temperature; breathing rate; your brainwaves; dopamine, serotonin ...”

“Yes, even your testosterone levels!” the professor laughed and slapped Huw on the back.

The professor tapped the illuminated panel on the outside of the booth to open the door for Huw and he went inside.

A face appeared on the video display. “Welcome to the Sher Point central services facility. This is ALICE speaking. Please take a seat and insert your personal smart card.”

“Thank you. Which service do you require, Huw Lawrence?”

“DreamScape, please.”

“Very well. Patching you through now.”

“Hello. This is CELESTE. Please sit back and relax.”

As CELESTE spoke, cushioned restraints sprang from the framework of the chair and gripped him tightly so that his arms, his legs and his head were gently yet firmly clamped in place. A probe then emerged from the fascia on a slender, flexible stalk and attached itself to his forehead. It fanned out to completely obscure his vision.

At first, all Huw could see was pitch blackness and he wondered if something had perhaps gone wrong. For a moment he panicked and tried to break free from the device, but the restraints held him fast. He felt a tiny scratch in his buttock as the system administered a measured dose of sedative and he began to relax more fully. Then, as his eyes began to adjust, in the centre of his vision he could make out the friendly face of CELESTE, the DreamScape controller as if she were standing there in glorious, full-spectrum, 3D holographix.

“Well, hello there,” he greeted her, staring into those big, twinkling witch-hazel eyes. He mentally ran his fingers through her long, raven-black, glossy tresses. Wow! He was in love.

Suddenly the restraints gripped Huw more tightly and he winced. He felt a cold, numbing sensation in the centre of his forehead, then he shuddered as something like a dentist's grinder bit into the bone and penetrated his skull.

A delicate probe was now being inserted through the keyhole opening and attached itself to the surface of his brain. It was like a plant taking root, the tendrils burrowing into his grey matter and patching into the neural network.

Now his vision was filled with all-manner of flickering, psychedelic neon images and sequences. It seemed as if the whole of his life were being reviewed, telescoped into a few brief seconds. Was that all it had amounted to? Shucks.

One minute he was Huw Lawrence, the freelance hack. The next? It was as if he'd taken off an overcoat of the same name and hung it up on a peg in a cloakroom and put on some other robes.

He seemed to spend an age in some distant land, to join a group of people whose apparent object was to bring enlightenment to the oppressed people of the world and empathy to their rulers. But he himself felt like an absolute novice under their tutelage. He worked with those people for years – far longer than it would have taken to train as, say, a doctor.

Most of his time was spent unlearning things and developing his self-knowledge. He learnt about the vast differences between opinion – thinking you know something; and emotion – feeling you know something; and knowledge – really knowing and being experienced at something. His Master said that this could be likened to talk about the theory of a fruit such as an orange; the feel and smell of a fruit; and of actually eating that fruit and assimilating the nutrients. Knowledge was the total experience of that orange.

He found new value in all manner of qualities that he'd so taken for granted, merely paid lip-service to or been ignorant of altogether: things like patience and restraint; repentance; humility; courtesy; sincerity; trust and intuition; service to humanity. He found inspiration; and eventually harmony and serenity. He found love and a sense of duty; and a growing remembrance. Remembrance of a greater life.

And as well as that, simply spending time with these people, being in their presence, something rubbed off; bit by bit he found himself knowing things that he'd thought only they knew; developing skills he thought only they possessed.

Huw learnt all manner of arcane skills.

He learnt how to take an object that belonged to someone and to descry from its emanations the state of that person – their circumstances in life; their health and their own developmental state, for example. He knew what obstacles stood before them (more often than not they stood in their own way), and what it was that they truly needed, rather than simply desired.

He learnt how to apply his mind and special techniques to cure these people, sometimes by taking on their disease himself and transmuting that disease in his own mind and body. He had to endure all manner of trials and tribulations in his own life, so that he would eventually have the experience to help others in similar plights.

He learnt how to cause an action at a distance – the science (or was it an art, or both?) of telekinesis.

And he learnt how to be in more than one place at the same time.

~~~O~~~

Then, quite suddenly, with a wave of his Master's hand he was dismissed from his presence and from the School, and the scene shifted. He was swept up from the face of the planet and found himself expanding. Then there was no thought whatsoever of ever being anyone other than the Essential Being he now was, a free radical whose name was Az*El. It was as though his limbs, his body, his mind were made up of countless billions of stars instead of biological cells. He felt as though he'd been splattered across the Universe and, for a few moments, Huw felt like he was going to lose his mind completely.

Huw seemed to remember a Jewish psychoanalyst once saying during the trial of the Nazi war criminals at Nuremberg that he'd got close to defining evil as the lack of this thing called empathy. That was the ability to put oneself in another's shoes as if you were that person; to feel for them, with them from deep down in one's heart of hearts – one's essential being. Even just to think of it sent a quiver of ecstasy through him.

When Huw awoke, there were tears of joy – nay, ecstasy – streaming down his cheeks.

The professor didn't have to ask him what he thought of the experience. It was written all over him in glowing terms.

11. The search begins

The first thing Az*Oth did on leaving the old junk shop was to head for the local library to wade through past copies of the Sher Point Times held on microfiche. He had to check for any reports on children either being found or going missing in the last year. He'd had to guestimate the date for El*Eth's arrival as the winter of the year 2020 and he sincerely hoped that this was right.

However, after spending several hours of fruitless searching, he left feeling somewhat dispirited – but not entirely empty-handed. And the reason for this was that he stumbled across an article about a Professor Vaughan Pendleberry of the Sher Point Institute for Dream Research (SPIDER) which made his heart skip a beat. It was all about a fascinating and revolutionary new invention … DreamScape. The device was still quite secret and yet – somehow – the embryonic, embargoed technology had found its way into the hands of someone in Sher Point. And that spelt trouble with a capital “T”.

Az*Oth took a mental note of the newspaper's edition and made a bee-line for the Times' offices on Duke Street, where he could hopefully get hold of a back issue. Back at the flat he scanned it in using a hand-held scanner, attached the picture to an email and sent it off to Percy Dougleby, who was one of the resident Inspectors for the area. It was his job to gather together such consequential nuggets of information and send in regular reports which – eventually – would find their way up to the level of the Caretaker Council, assuming that the information was sufficiently “newsworthy” – as this certainly was, in his humble opinion.

While Az*Oth had been at the newspaper, he'd shown the reception staff the photograph of Ellie and asked if they recalled running an article on a child being found. One of the receptionists had button-holed the editor, who happened serendipitously to be passing through reception – he was sure to remember – but no, either someone lower down had considered the article insufficiently newsworthy or else the incident hadn't been reported to them.

Whatever: it was early days yet. The following day he'd phone a contact – Detective Inspector Mumsford of the Sher Point Metropolitan Police Service – who was “in the Know”. He could be trusted to check discreetly through police records without going through official channels or asking awkward questions about Az*Oth's interest in the matter, which Az*Oth would be unable to truthfully answer. You see, the girl, Ellie, didn't officially exist as far as Sher Pointers were concerned and that would take an inordinate amount of explaining.

The D.I., in turn, would hopefully be able to come up with the names of Friendly operatives with access to hospital and social service records. Failing that, he'd go on-line and hack into the systems himself; but that was risky business.

Az*Oth went over to the wardrobe and looked in the mirror, rubbing his eyes, wondering how much longer he could remain in Sher Point. There was something about the place – the discord caused by the Earth-sickness, he knew, that sapped you of everything truly alive and vital; everything Real. Within a week, he'd probably have leave and return “upstairs” to Zone Five to recuperate. He wondered how Residents like George and Emily managed, but then they'd been born to the atmosphere; they'd become rather more seasoned to it.

And again, his thoughts turned to El*Eth. How would she, such a frail child, be managing? How long before she lost her “spirit” and succumbed to the sickness?

12. Settling in

Ellie had just got out of the bath – which had been barely tepid – and was standing there shivering in the unheated room. As she dried herself with a damp-smelling towel, Matron (who looked like one of her mum's dumplings on legs) popped her head round the door.

“Come on, then, let's be having you, um … Ella … we haven't got all day, you know.”

The woman dumped a set of clothes on a cabinet next to the bath (“That's the best I can do for you right now.”) and had another quick rummage through Ellie's long auburn hair, looking for signs of parasitic infestation.

Ellie waited until the woman had gone before dressing in the clothes she'd been left: a long, pleated grey skirt that went down past her knees; some off-white socks; an equally off-white blouse with somebody else's name in it and a stain down the sleeve; a grey v-necked jumper, and a pair of patent leather shoes that were too small for her and cramped her toes.

“Yes, that looks much better,” the matron smiled when Ellie emerged from the bathroom with her night clothes and fluffy pink slippers under her arm.

“Have you eaten at all today?”

Ellie shook her head.

Matron looked at her watch. “Ten o'clock,” she echoed, adding: “Breakfast is usually between 7:30 and 8:15 sharp.

“Well, you can have a late breakfast if you like – I'm sure we can find some cereal in the kitchens. Or, you can hang on until 12:30 and have some lunch in the dining room with the other children. Which is it to be?”

Ellie thought for a moment, then said: “Both, please.”

Matron laughed. “Right you are, then,” and walked Ellie down the long corridor which was lined with ugly portraits of members of staff by the look of them, down two flights of shiny marble stairs and along another corridor lined with children's paintings, until at last they came to the dining hall.

“I shan't ask you what kind of cereal you like, Ellie, as there's only ever Wheatflakes unless there's porridge on the go, and it's too late for the porridge or anything cooked.”

What was it they said? “Beggars can't be choosers”?

Matron disappeared across the room, behind a long counter and through into the kitchens, to reappear a couple of minutes later with a tray.

“There you are, my dear,” she said. “It's not much, but it'll keep you going 'til lunch. I'll send one of the children along in a few minutes to escort you to Mrs Finchley-Smythe's lesson: you'll be in her class all this year.”

“Lesson?” Ellie asked.

“Yes, my dear, you'll be taking lessons here as well. We can't have you gallivanting around town getting up to mischief, now can we? Rule Number One at SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children: 'Pupils must on no account leave the premises without the written permission of the Director (Ms Arkwright), a teacher, or Matron (that's me).'”

And with that, the woman turned on her heel and scurried out of the dining hall.

Ellie took one mouthful. Yach – powdered milk. And the Wheatflakes tasted like damp cardboard. Still, it was food and she was mightily hungry.

Thankfully, it wasn't until she'd finished most of the soggy Wheatflakes that she came across the rat dropping in the bottom.

~~~O~~~

Ellie had just discarded the remainder of her Wheatflakes and taken the tray back to the counter when her escort arrived. “Thank you, my dear,” said a dinner lady, taking the tray from her, apparently impressed by her polite behaviour. Mother had taught her to be especially polite to adults.

“Are you Eleanor Grubbs?” asked the tiny, ginger-haired girl.

“Ella,” Ellie corrected. “That's not my real name, though. I um … had an accident and I can't remember my real name or where I come from.”

“I'm Bethany Sparkes,” the girl said, smiling. “Matron asked me to … er … escort to Mrs Finchley-Smythe's class. And she said we'd better hurry up about it, because Ms Arkwright is on the warpath, or something, and we'd better not get caught dawdling in the corridors.”

“Right.” Ellie got up from her chair and ran after the girl.

“No running there!” a familiar voice boomed across the hall. “Speak of the Devil and he (or she, in this instance) is sure to appear”, as her father had once said.

“Sparkes! Why are you out of your class?”

“I … er … um …”

“Spit it out, girl!”

“M-m-matron sent me to g-g-get the new girl, Ms Arkwright,” the ashen-faced girl hastily reported.

“I see. Well, hurry along, then. No dawdling.”

There was no pleasing some folk.

When they were out of earshot, the girl – Bethany – breathed a sigh of relief. “Arkwright's a regular prat!” she hissed: “That's what my brother Justin says. He's eleven and he's lucky because he's old enough to go to a real school – St Bartholomew's up the road.”

Ellie wasn't sure what a prat was, but it sounded quite awful. She's only seen Ms Arkwright twice and already she'd decided that the woman wasn't a very nice lady and certainly not the sort of person to cross swords with.

They arrived at Mrs Finchley-Smythe's class at last, half way down the corridor in what Bethany called the West Wing. Bethany knocked and when a voice called “Enter!” she pushed Ellie inside and scuttled timidly off to her desk.

“Ah,” said a petite lady with short blond hair, peering over the top of her half-moon glasses. “You must be the new girl?”

“Yes, Miss.”

The woman got up, walked across and steered Ellie to the front of the class. “Class, this is um … Ella … Ella …”

“Grubbs, Miss. Ella Grubbs.”

“Ah, yes, Ella Grubbs. She's come to join us. Now, I'm sure you all remember your own first few days here, children, and how nerve-racking that was … So I trust you'll be especially nice and thoughtful toward Ella, won't you?”

Someone near the back of the class – a freckle-faced, greasy-haired lad – was sneering at her, but most of the class called out in unison: “Yes, Mrs Finchley-Smythe.”

“Good. And woe-betide anyone who steps out of line!” the teacher added, giving the freckly-faced boy a particularly long stare.

“Now, where shall we put you? Are yes. Neil Fletcher – you move over to sit beside Jeremy Marshall. Yes, take all your belongings with you.”

“Oh, but Miss!” the boy with the freckles and the greasy hair protested.

“No 'buts', Fletcher.”

“And Bethany Sparkes, the new girl, um … Ella … Grubbs can sit beside you. And you make sure you look after her well and show her around so that she doesn't get lost. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mrs Finchley-Smythe.”

“Good. Now where were we, class, before we were interrupted?”

One of the other girls shot her hand up in the air.

“Yes, Millicent?”

“You said something about reading, Mrs Finchley-Smythe.”

“Ah, yes, you're quite right. Everyone form two tidy lines by the door please. Girls on the left, boys on the right. No, leave your things here, Fletcher. Rosalyn, I said girls on the left, dear. On the left! And then follow me – quietly! – down to the library. You are each to select one suitable reading book, get Mr Harris who's on library duty to stamp it out – yes, Fletcher, take your library card with you – and come back here and begin reading. Is that clear?”

“Miss,” piped up Bethany Sparkes: “Ella hasn't got a library card, Mrs Finchley-Smythe.”

“That's quite right, Bethany – very perceptive. Then I shall have to get Mr Harris to issue her with one whilst we are down there. Good. Form two lines. Right. Follow me. And remember, class – talking in the library is strictly forbidden.”

“Clever clogs,” said Fletcher, leering at Bethany Sparkes as they set off down the corridor. “Teacher's little pet!”

~~~O~~~

As soon as Ellie entered the library, she had the distinct feeling that she'd find the book for her. She'd had that feeling before, one day when she and her parents were away on holiday, and had searched and searched the shelves of a bookshop they'd entered, to no avail. And then – quite out of the blue – she'd turned and seen the book: part five of a series of books by Dorothy Bartlett. Ellie had the first four, but for some reason the fifth one had gone out of print and she'd looked high and low for it. And there the book had been, not in the place it should have been, under “B” for Bartlett, standing all alone amongst the non-fiction – the only book on those shelves pointing face out. Now that had been weird – or else it would have seemed quite extraordinary to her if things like that hadn't happened to her so many times before. Ellie didn't know quite what she was, but of one thing she could be sure – she was no ordinary girl.

However, as Ellie surveyed the shelves of fiction in the school library that day, her heart gave out. She'd never seen such a motley collection in her life. They all looked so dull and uninteresting; so – what was it? – moral? Dickensian?

Half the class had already picked their books and she still hadn't hit on anything vaguely interesting – at least any of the books that were old enough for her – she had a very advanced reading age, as she recalled.

Bethany came quietly across, which cheered her up a little. She'd been trying to find a book on kite making in the crafts section, and had a boy in toe. He was a little taller than Ellie and had tussled brown hair which made him look like he'd only just got out of bed, and brown eyes as big as saucers.

“This is Gareth Jones,” Bethany whispered, and they discreetly shook hands.

“Pleased to meet you,” he smiled, and she smiled back.

But Mr Harris had taken his nose from under the book he was reading at the desk and was looking their way. And across the room, Neil Fletcher was there, with his two sidekicks Rees and Mogg, talking in whispers, most likely about her. “Best go,” said Bethany, pulling the boy away and heading back toward the craft section.

Ellie pulled out a book.

All of a sudden the whole shelf of books tipped forward and fell into her arms and all over the floor, making a clatter which filled the library. Heads were turning. She flushed bright red.

“What's the hell is going on?” Mr Harris had risen from his seat now and was marching over. “What the devil do you think you're doing, girl?” he demanded to know.

She looked across the room. Everyone was gathering around to look at her. “You're in for it now,” she distinctly heard Fletcher hiss amidst the sea of heads and he drew a finger across his throat. He was in a huddle with his two spotty friends, Rees and Mogg, sniggering over the top of a book. She knew then that this was something to do with them.

Bethany rushed forward to help her and took the remaining books out of her arms and laid them delicately on the floor.

Mr Harris stood there, towering over them. He looked at the bookshelf, teetering on three pegs. Someone had removed one of the pegs so that as soon as anyone pulled a book from the shelf, the shelf toppled forwards, shedding its load. He found the peg on the floor and pushed it back in.

“Put those books back this minute!” Mr Harris spat at her. “And make sure they're in alphabetical order! If any of the spines are damaged, you'll pay for them!”

Ellie bent down and picked up a handful of books and began to rearrange them with Bethany's help.

“Who's your teacher?”

“I am,” replied a horrified Mrs Finchley-Smythe, surveying the scene of carnage. “Ella Grubbs! I can see we're going to have trouble with you. Stay behind after class. I want a word with you, girl!”

Again, Ellie flushed bright red and a horrid, leaden wave of guilt (which wasn't really hers to bear) engulfed her, making her hands shake and bringing a lump to her throat. She tried to explain that someone must have booby trapped the shelf, but to no avail: the more she spoke, the deeper the hole she dug herself into.

One thing, at least, though. As she picked up the last book in the pile, she knew she'd found the book for her: The Dreamwalkers by Hamish Hawkins.

~~~O~~~

When Mrs Finchley-Smythe had finished with her that day after class, Ellie was in tears.

“What did she give you?” asked Bethany, who'd waited outside the classroom for her.

“Two hundred lines to write out,” Ellie said, wiping away the tears on the sleeve of her grey jumper: “'I must be quiet and not misbehave in the school library'. It'll take me years to finish all that off.” Well, maybe not years, but certainly long enough. And while she was preoccupied with the lines, she couldn't read the book she'd found.

“That's so unfair!” Bethany retorted. “I saw Fletcher and his two confederates hanging around the shelves sniggering to themselves. And I reckon they meant to catch me out, not you, 'cos they reckon I keep 'greasing up to teacher'. They're always full of tricks, that lot. Best stay well clear of them.”

Ellie thanked her for the advice.

“Anyhow,” Bethany sighed at length. “Best put the book back in your desk for now. If we don't hurry, we'll miss lunch. They stop serving at 1:00 sharp.”

~~~O~~~

At last she'd finished the lines, by which time she had a severe case of writer's cramp and her writing had begun to get very untidy. She hoped that Ms Arkwright wouldn't make her do the whole thing again because of this – the woman was like that.

And now she could settle back and read her book. It was a strange work. The author claimed that we largely sleepwalk our way through life, and that the world we live in is a mere shadow compared to what he called the Real World that lay beyond. There were numerous stories about the foolish ways of people in this shadowy realm and the greater wisdom of the other world, and there were also jokes and riddles sprinkled amongst the contents.

There was one tale in particular, “The Precious Jewel” that both delighted Ellie and sent a peculiar shiver through her as she read it. Strangely, the tale reminded her of something perhaps deep down inside her, or long forgotten, though she could not say quite what, except perhaps it reminded her in some way of her own plight, or perhaps it echoed the plight of anyone who found themselves in Sher Point?

In a remote realm of perfection, there was a just monarch who had a wife and a wonderful son and daughter. They all lived together in happiness.

One day the father called his children before him and said:

“The time has come, as it does for all. You are to go down, an infinite distance, to another land. You shall seek and find and bring back a precious Jewel.”

The travellers were conducted in disguise to a strange land, whose inhabitants almost all lived a dark existence. Such was the effect of this place that the two lost touch with each other, wandering as if asleep.

From time to time they saw phantoms, similitudes of their country and of the Jewel, but such was their condition that these things only increased the depth of their reveries, which they now began to take as reality.

When news of his children's plight reached the king, he sent word by a trusted servant, a wise man:

“Remember your mission, awaken from your dream, and remain together.”

With this message they roused themselves, and with the help of their rescuing guide they dared the monstrous perils which surrounded the Jewel, and by its magic aid returned to their realm of light, there to remain in increased happiness for evermore.[1]

There was another tale, too, “The Captive Bird” which again sent delicious shivers through Ellie. It felt to her as if the hair on her head was standing up on end. Again, she thought that this might be because she somehow recognized herself in the tale. Indeed, as she read the tale, it was almost as if the author had written these words just for her, or at least for many poor souls far from home just like her. She often wondered if anyone would hear her own cries for help, and here perhaps came an answer? “Yes, child, I know that you're there, and I do heed your call.”

A merchant kept a bird in a cage. He was going to the East, the land from which the bird came, and asked it whether he could bring anything back for it. The bird asked for its freedom, but was refused. So he asked the merchant to visit a jungle in India and announce his captivity to the free birds who were there.

The merchant did so, and no sooner had he spoken when a wild bird, just like his own, fell senseless out of a tree onto the ground.

The merchant thought that this must be a relative of his own bird, and felt sad that he should have caused this death.

When he got home, the bird asked him whether he had brought good news from the East. “No,” said the merchant, “I fear that my news is bad. One of your relations collapsed and fell at my feet when I mentioned your captivity.” As soon as these words were spoken the merchant’s bird collapsed and fell to the bottom of the cage.

“The news of his kinsman’s death has killed him, too,” thought the merchant. Sorrowfully he picked up the bird and put it on the windowsill. At once the bird revived and flew to a nearby tree.

“Now you know,” the bird said, “that what you thought was disaster was in fact good news for me. And how the message, the suggestion of how to behave in order to free myself, was transmitted to me through you, my captor.” And he flew away, free at last.[2]

She was particularly intrigued by one riddle she came across. It was entitled “Boolean Algebra”:

A seeker was travelling along a road in search of a Teacher when he came to a branch in the road. Down one of these paths, he had been told, was the house of the Real Sufi; down the other, the house of the False.

Two knights took alternate daily turns to stand guard over the way ahead.

The knights knew which path was which, but as a test the seeker was only allowed to ask one question before making his choice; and in response to a question one of the knights would tell the truth, the other would tell a lie, depending on who was on duty that day.

“Ask your question,” commanded the knight....

The question was – “What question would you ask the knight?”

Hmm. She thought she'd heard a similar tale before somewhere, but for the life of her she couldn't think of the answer. Never mind – it would come in its own due time. Anyhow, she read on avidly. The next was called “{To Be {Not}} or {Not {To Be}}”, which was rather weird:

Some time later, a friend of the seeker arrived at a gateway leading into a large walled city.

At the gateway, however, the King had had a gallows erected and people wishing to enter the city were queuing up to be questioned by the captain of the guard. If they answered truthfully, they were to be let in, if they told a lie, they were to be hanged.

The bodies were already stacked high on a wagon standing close-by and the heap was growing by the minute.

The seeker stood there trembling with fear for some time – then out of the blue she suddenly remembered her friend telling her about his earlier experience on the road and she pushed forward through the crowd.

“Hey, where you going, witch?” the captain demanded.

“I am going to be hanged,” the seeker replied in a loud voice.

“I don't believe you!”

“Very well,” she said. “If I have told a lie, then hang me.”

“But...,” the captain spluttered [and you could almost hear his left brain momentarily seize up at this point]: “that would make it the truth....”

“Exactly,” the seeker replied as she headed on toward the gate: “Your truth.”

“Eh?! You can't let her do that!” the crowd bellowed. “Pushing in like that, ruddy little harlot! No blooming manners at all! Come back here you and join the back of the queue!”

Hmm. Now wasn't that just typical of people. If only they'd have paid attention to what the seeker was really showing them, they could all have been saved, thought Ellie.

But just as she was getting interested in the book, their Housemistress, Mrs Ermintrude Fothergill was doing her rounds. “Right, then, you lot. Settle down! Lights out in two minutes!”

Oh, bother. If only she had a torch like Bethany. She could have read under the bedclothes and nobody would have been any the wiser.

She snuck one last look at the strange book before putting it away. Serendipitously it was called “A Parting Thought”:

Ten billion green bottles, standing on a wall

Ten billion green bottles, standing on a wall

And if one green bottle should accidentally fall …

Would anybody notice it had fallen off at all?

Now that had to be the story of her life!

13. A visitor

The police skud glided slowly up the street as the officer peered out of he window studying the numbers. It hovered for a moment, then came to a stop right outside the house, the door swung open and a man dressed in the uniform of the Sher Point Metropolitan Police Service stepped up, hopped over the gate and came trotting up the garden.

The doorbell rang and Safia came through from the kitchen. “Hello? Who is it?”

“SP-MPS, lady. Open up.”

The Met? What on Earth could they want. Hell, there hadn't been an accident, had there? Or something worse: Aunt Emily had been ill for some time ...

Safia finished drying her hands and opened the door in trepidation.

The officer stood there with his helmet on and visor down.

“Good morning, officer. Who is it you're looking for?”

“Morning, ma'am.” The policeman flipped through his notebook.

“We're looking for an IC1 female. 55 kilos. Slim build. Jet black hair. Big green eyes ...,” the officer read out.

“Charles!” Safia laughed. “Hell, you had me fooled for a minute.”

Officer Charles Davies raised his visor and gave her a peck on the cheek. Then he reached down by the side of the door and thrust a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine into her arms. “For the new home,” he said.

“Why, thank you, Charles – that's really sweet of you.” She couldn't remember the last time a man had bought her flowers, let alone Huw. Other than the occasional lingerie, choccies and music, they both tended to buy each other practical presents.

“Huw's though in the study – as usual. Second door on the right. You want a drink, Charles?”

“Please, Safia: I could go a coffee.”

“Sure you don't want anything stronger?”

He shook his head. “Not right now, thanks. I'm not off duty for another hour yet.”

“So what brings you up this way?”

“I was passing through and I thought I'd stop by. Been a spate of burglaries and car thefts recently. The Crims have found ways of breaching the perimeter fence on the border with Sector Six-Five. Ruddy delinquents. I'd like to see these filthy hoodlums taken out into the desert someplace and machine-gunned.”

Safia was stunned.

“Only joking,” he laughed. “Only joking.”

They called Sector Six-Five many things: “the Outer Reaches”, “the Hell-Hole”. It was a sink estate and it had spawned a virulent new strain of delinquent criminal underclass, the Outlanders.

“You know, Charles. For all the trouble they cause, I can't help but feel sorry for them: they're largely dispossessed, disenfranchised, disillusioned. And they have no future to look forward to except more of the same. In a sense, it's our society that's at fault and they who are the victims.”

“I respect your point of view, Safia – but if you've ever had your placed trashed by these, um, people, and had excrement smeared over your carpet and walls, you'd maybe feel – and think – differently. Like anybody else, they have personal responsibility for their actions.”

She sighed and poured Charles his coffee. “I agree: it must be awful for the victims of such wanton acts. I'd like to think that we're both partially right, Charles.”

Huw popped his head round the door. “Hey, Charles – how you doing, you old devil?” he said, coming forward and embracing him. “I'm just in the study. Come on through.”

“Still beavering away at the writing, I see. I read one of your articles in the Times about some nutty professor and his DreamFuck machines.”

Huw laughed. “I tell you, Charles...” He checked the passageway to see if Safia was out of range: “DreamScape is amazing. Think of your wildest wet dream – like making love to Laura Harper behind the bike sheds at school. Playing a superman. Or meeting His Holiness. Then imagine really being there. Hell it is so lucid; words simply cannot describe the thing. It is such a total, mind-blowing experience!”

14. A day out

Safia Lawrence phoned Ethel Simpson every day for a week to enquire on what progress – if any – had been made in her application to foster Ella. And each day she received the same reply: that there was a backlog of work in the department, but as soon as possible, they'd be looking into the matter. If it had been up to Huw, she'd have called it a day at that, but she wasn't Huw – and she'd made a point of saying so.

At the end of the week, Safia asked to speak to Miss Simpson's supervisor and then someone else “in authority”, and received the same evasive replies.

The following day, she turned up at the gates of the Home, hoping to be allowed in to see Ella, only to be told that she would have to write and make an appointment to see the Director, Ms Arkwright. And, no, she could not make an appointment over the intercom on the gate.

If The Powers That Be hoped to deter her with this treatment, however, they were quite sadly mistaken, for the more the immovable object stood in Safia's way, the more her equally irresistible force sought a way past it.

At last she had cajoled Ethel Simpson so much that the woman sent her a letter of permission to see Ella just to get Safia off her case; and, armed with this, she made the requisite appointment and went to see Ms Arkwright in person.

“I want to see Ella,” Safia requested, sitting herself in front of the Director's desk. And when the right noises were not forthcoming, she passed over the letter of authorisation from Social Services.

“Really,” huffed Ms Arkwright. “This is most irregular. In all my days here – and I have been here for the past twenty – I have never known of permission being given to anyone other than family or authority.”

“We're going through procedures to foster Ella,” Safia explained, though omitting to let the woman know about the lack of progress she was making in this endeavour.

“The girl is in class all afternoon,” Ms Arkwright said at last, returning the letter. “And I am afraid it is out of the question to disturb her.”

“Tomorrow's Saturday,” Safia returned quick as a flash and not to be outdone. “I shall pick her up after breakfast at 9 o'clock and, with your permission, I'd like to take her for a walk into town and a decent meal.”

“The letter says nothing about taking the girl off the premises, Mrs Lawrence. It is quite unheard of.”

Safia fixed the woman in the eye. “After the visit, I shall, of course, be seeing Social Services,” she pointed out. “And I would hate to have to report that the way you run this establishment is um … shall we say … deficient or even neglectful in any way …”

The woman huffed and puffed for a few moments and then stood up. “Very well,” she said. “But I shall expect you to return Ella before six o'clock in the evening, or I shall have no option but to contact the police.”

“You have my guarantee,” replied Safia, rising to her feet.

Without another word, Ms Arkwright led her from the office and showed her off the premises.

~~~O~~~

Ellie was already waiting for Mrs Lawrence on the steps leading up to the main block, and she waved as the car came sweeping up the driveway.

“Hello there, Ella,” the woman greeted her, getting out of the car and going over to give her a big hug.

“My teacher, Mrs Finchley-Smythe, told me you were coming to visit and that you were going to take me into town,” she said enthusiastically. This was the first visitor she'd had since she'd been sent to the place. If Sher Point were some kind of open prison, she thought, then this was a prison inside a prison. And, if the truth be known, that's precisely what it was.

“I hate it here,” she added, as they walked back to the car.

“Why's that?” asked Mrs Lawrence.

“Because Ms Arkwright is so strict.”

“That's not always such a bad thing, Ella.”

“No, Mrs Lawrence – I don't mean just strict, I mean really strict. Bethany Sparkes' brother said Ms Arkwright's 'a regular prat'. And she's not the only one.”

A smile etched itself across Mrs Lawrence's face.

“Have you made any friends yet?”

“A couple. Bethany Sparkes and Gareth Jones. They're my best friends. But as for Fletcher, Rees and Mogg, they're horrid.” And she told Mrs Lawrence all about the incident in the library. Then: “I shouldn't be there, you know. It's not right.”

Mrs Lawrence seemed to be weighing something up in her mind, then said: “Perhaps I shouldn't be getting your hopes up, Ella … there's still no sign of your parents … but I'm trying to get you out of the place. I want to foster you – to have you live with us – until your parents do turn up.”

“That would be great,” Ellie beamed. “Thank you, I'd like that very much.” And, but for the tight safety belt, she'd have given Mrs Lawrence a big hug for saying that.

~~~O~~~

“So, where do you want to go, Ella? Any ideas?” Mrs Lawrence asked as they parked the car on the main street and went to get a parking ticket from the machine.

Ellie's eyes lit up and she fumbled in her pocket and produced the address for the shop where the book The Dreamwalkers had come from, which she'd found on a small sticky label at the back of the book. She told Mrs Lawrence all about the book.

“Yes, I can see why that should appeal to you,” Mrs Lawrence nodded: “It does sound rather like your own story, doesn't it?”

The woman looked at her watch. It was still early in the morning. “How's about we go there and have a walk around the other shops to get you some new clothes, then we'll have something to eat in a café or a restaurant, and pop along to the Saturday matinee movie at the pictures?”

Ellie's eyes nearly popped out of her head at the prospect. She hadn't realized all this was going to happen today – she'd thought they would just be going for a walk round town.

~~~O~~~

The old man got up from cleaning the shelves behind the counter when the shop door bell went “Ping!” A girl came into the shop with a woman with long black hair in tow. Strange – it was nearly always the other way around, and men were the worst: unable to hide their boredom and frustration they couldn't wait to get their wives out of the place. If he lost a potential sale to a woman, nine times out of ten it was because the man pooh-poohed the idea. And in the case of children, it was nearly always the parents.

He did a double take when he saw the girl: there was something rather familiar about her. Then he remembered the photos that Mr Armstrong had left with them – the memory of his visit was already fading, but fortunately photos didn't. He went over to the till and fished one out under the counter. Yes, it was her alright, that and no mistaking.

The only thing was, Mr Armstrong had had as much of the atmosphere of Sher Point as he could take and he'd left over a week ago. And there was no way of contacting him directly. The best he could do was to get a message passed on up the line via the Society's old boy network, which could take weeks.

“Good morning,” he said at last, smiling at them. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, we're just browsing, if that's alright,” the woman said.

The girl spent a little time looking around, apparently not finding what she was looking for, then she came across. “I read a book,” she announced. “I found it in the school library, but it came from here originally. It had your address in it.”

George pointed her in the direction of a narrow passage into another room further back in the shop. The girl seemed quite surprised to have missed it, but then that's the way things worked “in the Know”. Ordinary folks more often than not managed to miss the shop altogether, as it was so “off the beaten track”. He guided her through.

Out of earshot of the girl's mother, he spoke up again: “Which book was that, if you don't mind me asking?”

“The Dreamwalkers …”

“… By Hamish Hawkins,” he added. “Yes, I know the one. Read it myself a long time ago.” It was a rather special book, of course, written most likely by one of the Society members using a pseudonym, designed to provoke memories of the Real World, “Upstairs” as they called it.

“It reminded me of my own story,” said the girl, confirming his thoughts.

Hmm. Sensitive type, eh? But then so many youngsters coming across a powerful story such as this might identify with the story and swamp the author in fan mail, so that you couldn't see the wood for the trees – the truly sensitive from the curious and the clambering.

“Do you have any others like it?”

George bent down, examining the bookshelves. They were in any old order, but he knew exactly where each book was to be found. “Yes, here's one that might interest you,” he said at last: “Time and Time Again.” It was by the same author.

“Thanks,” the girl beamed. Then: “How much is it?”

“Fifty pence to you, my dear.”

The girl looked forlorn. “I don't have any money, Mrs Lawrence,” she whispered to the woman with her as they rejoined her. Lawrence, eh? He went over to the till and jotted the name down on a scrap of paper.

The woman smiled and gave her a five pound note. “Keep the change, Ella,” she said to the girl. And he made a note of that name, too.

George wrapped the book in a paper bag and gave her the change, then out of the blue asked: “I haven't seen you around before. Do you live here or are you from away?”

“I live on Maple Grove,” the woman said “Only recently moved here from Littletown.”

“And you?” George asked, looking at the girl.

“I live at SunnyDene,” she said. That was a home for wayward children, not that this child looked particularly wayward in his opinion. How on Earth had she ended up there? Was she orphaned perhaps?

“Oh, the Home,” he said. “Lost your parents, did you? I've heard a lot about that place – and not very good things at that!” He shot the woman a sharp glance, thinking perhaps she was on the staff there.

“My husband and I are hoping to foster Ella,” the woman hastily added, perhaps reading his mind. “I'm visiting; taking Ella out for the day.”

“Lovely.”

They were leaving the shop now. George would have loved to have let the girl know that even now people were looking for her, but he dare not. It wasn't safe to talk to Strangers about such matters: the Dark Forces (and the Sher Point authorities, for that matter) were forever trying to penetrate and disable the Friends” underground network.

“Thank you again,” he called after them. “And do pop back any time. If I get any more good books in, I'll put them aside for you.” In fact he'd do better than that: he'd cajole a bundle from the Society himself. That girl seemed a bright Prospect indeed, and whether she found her parents or not, she needed properly looking after. He'd have to have a word with Emily: she knew a kindred spirit – a Mrs Hardcastle – who had a part time cleaning job at SunnyDene. But first, he had an urgent message to get to Mr Armstrong.

~~~O~~~

That evening, back at SunnyDene, Ellie sat in the common room with her eyes glued to the pages of her book. She was just reading a strange story called “The Legend of the Cake-Making Islanders”:

A king who was also an astrologer read in his stars that on a certain day and at a particular hour a calamity would overtake him. He therefore began to stockpile all manner of raw ingredients such as flour and eggs and milk and posted numerous guardians outside, stacking them from floor to ceiling until he could no longer leave the warehouse he had built-up. By this time he was beginning to have second thoughts about the whole matter, but he could no longer conceive of any means of escape.

Then one day a Sufi mystic, passing by, looked in through one of the remaining small openings, took in the situation and called to the King:

“Friend, if you wish to escape, you must first of all use some of these provisions to bake me a cake.”

The King could make no sense of what the Sufi was saying. Besides, he had read a lot about the dangers of going out and baking one's own cakes, let alone the dangers of forming groups of people to learn and discuss the craft.

The Sufi continued: “You must have the constituents, they must be mixed correctly, and then they must be cooked correctly. You cannot go on amassing the raw materials without finally making a useful attempt to bake a cake.”

“What a load of absolute codswallop! What have cakes got to do with my predicament? I remember now why it was that I chose to seclude myself in here: to avoid such raving maniacs as you!”

And with that, realizing from within that he could still see daylight, he found an opening, which he filled up, to prevent further misfortune entering. In blocking this door he made himself a prisoner with his own hands.

And because of this the king died.

Then there was the tale about a man going into a tailor's and asking to see a robe. He's shown one and says that it's not quite what he's looking for. The tailor thinks fast and disappears into the back room, quickly carries out some alterations to this same robe and then reappears, with the self-same robe. This robe, however, he says craftily, is a lot more expensive than the first the man was shown. So the man scratches his chin and says “Okay: I'll take this one – and the one you showed me earlier ...”

15. Phase 2

There was a long queue outside the new café when the Mark IV DreamScape device was unveiled. It had been fully integrated into Sher Point's public services system, via the existing MultiBooth network.

Professor Pendleberry himself was on-hand to offer advice, assist with post-op debriefing and to sign copies of his new book: DreamScape: The Reality.

Charles was near the head of the queue. Security had turned a blind eye as he'd camped out all night on the high street along with several others, eager to get a place in the free trial being offered.

When his turn came, he mentally crossed his heart, more out of superstitious habit than anything, tapped the illuminated panel on the side of the booth and stepped inside.

It didn't take long to get Charles hooked on the idea. A week in a tropical paradise with all the hula girls he could handle and they'd got his measure. It was amazing how much you could find out about a person when you gave them free-rein to live out their fantasies. And Professor Pendleberry employed a small army of analysts to work on such things. It was their job to find out what really turned the punters on, to give them what they really, really wanted and hopefully keep them coming back for more, more, more. And that in turn provided the essential revenue to march on with their all-important research and development programme, the serious side of the operation.

Mark IV was only the beginning. These were stand-alone devices, which meant that the processing power had to be duplicated in each MultiBooth. But before long they'd have the thing so miniaturized that it would fit into a wristpad and would communicate like a phone network with base stations, meaning that they could operate from a central processing system. And that, in turn, would mean that the devices could be made cheaply enough for mass production. It was the professor's aim to get at least one of these more advanced devices into each household within the year. And then the real fun would begin!

Two minutes later, the door slid open and Charles stepped out of the booth, beaming all over his face and looking a little shell-shocked. Huw was there to meet him.

They wandered across the café to the counter and ordered two large coffees with an extra shot.

“On the house,” the Professor called to the cashier, coming over to join them.

“Professor Pendleberry, meet a good friend of mine from the days I spent at the Times: Charles Davies. He's with the Met.” They exchanged handshakes.

“Well, what do you think?” the professor asked.

“What can I say? That it's the best thing since sliced bread?”

“Would you care to talk about it?”

“There isn't a superlative that I could use short of 'cosmic'. How can I put it? I'm not a church-going man, but I tell you: it was like a religious experience for me.”

“In what way?”

“I was simply overwhelmed – swamped – by a feeling of intimate connection with everyone and everything. A feeling I can only describe as Usness.”

“So you'd go into DreamScape again?”

“Too right I would.” Then: “Not every week, though.”

“How's that?”

“Well, I'd say DreamScape makes our everyday life and our petty grievances rather pale into insignificance.”

“You think that's a good thing or not?”

“I'm not sure: my mind's in too much of a state of flux as yet. In one way, yes of course it's a very good thing – like Christmas.”

“But?”

“But I'm not so sure I could handle or would even advocate having Christmas every day, Prof.”

“You mean you could get hooked on DreamScape?” asked Huw.

“Maybe. It's a definite high.” He thought for a minute. “For the likes of you and Safia who've got something precious to live for, who are well integrated into mainstream society, I'd say – like most things that offer a high – DreamScape would be fine in moderation. Like an annual holiday.”

Charles scratched his chin thoughtfully. “But for those for whom life holds no great meaning or find themselves in the gutter ...”

“I understand from the professor here that those who are unemployed or in a low income bracket are to get substantial concessions,” Huw told him.

“Indeed: that's one of the fundamental privileges that the Sher Point Council insisted upon,” Professor Pendleberry concurred.

“Shouldn't that be a right, rather than a privilege?” Charles asked. “Just as it is a fundamental human right that people have access to education without prejudice?”

“Indeed, that is something for the legislature and for us to ponder.”

“As I said, though,” Charles added: “for those for whom life holds no great meaning or find themselves in the gutter … If I were in their shoes, I'm not sure whether it would spur them on to make something of their lives, and give their lives new meaning. Imagine coming back and finding yourself in the same place – the gutter? I don't know about you, but that would break my heart.”

The professor smiled. “You may rest assured that these questions are something which the team of scientists at Virtuoso are looking into. I'll be frank with you: the only group of people who we have found difficulty in providing for or who displayed contra-indications are sociopaths and psychopaths, the 5% of the population who simply do not 'have a heart', you might say.

“And – I must say – it has been long known that something like 30% of the population are so indoctrinated, so conditioned, so prejudiced that they are unable to change for the better. As yet, we have had little success with these people and they have derived little of any real consequence from sessions in DreamScape.”

The professor sighed a deep sigh. “Sad, but true, my friends. Sad but true.”

~~~O~~~

Officer Charles Davies was feeling strangely woozy that day and he brought the police skud to rest outside an interesting looking olde-worlde pub on the outskirts of the city centre. He wasn't on duty until later, but he had the use of the vehicle that day. His governor was good about that sort of thing.

“Yes, what can I get you, chum?” the steward asked as he walked up to the bar.

“A brandy, please, mate,” he replied and tossed his debit card on the bar top. “In fact, better make that a double. Have one yourself?”

“Thanks very much, sir – I'll have half a lager, if that's alright with you?”

Charles took the drink and strolled across to a vacant table in an alcove by the window. There was a copy of the Sher Point Times laying close by and he picked it up and thumbed idly through the pages to pass the time. Grown man that he was, he always felt a little embarrassed sitting in a public place on his own. He felt as though all eyes were upon him – hah! As if he was that important or anything of a celebrity! Standing around in the city centre – that was different. His uniform gave him the excuse and the right to be there without feeling self-conscious. But in civvies, sitting around on his own? That was entirely different. If the truth be known, he felt like a sad and lonely old anorak.

To be honest, he still hadn't got over the divorce from Claire. In fact, he thought, self-consciously running his fingers through his rapidly-receding hair line, he wondered if he ever would get over it. Whether he ever would find someone else – a real soul mate. Was there such a thing? Charles didn't like the idea of growing old – and to society at large, conditioned as they were by the media, forty was old, especially if you were unfortunate enough to be a baldy to-boot. It was all down hill from here – or so he felt right then. Who'd want him now that he was past his prime, past his use by date?

Time for another brandy, methinks.

Charles still felt young at heart, though, and he didn't want your average older woman. They were too conditioned, so often set in their ways. Hah! He should talk. Twenty years in the Met and he should talk about being institutionalized.

He turned back to the newspaper, intrigued by an article. After road rage and trolley rage in supermarkets, already there were reports MultiBooth rage. They put it down to the long queues outside them with the integration of DreamScape into the MultiBooth facilities. Whatever next?

A couple of youths had come into the pub now and sat at a table near him, though thankfully not too near him – one of them stank to high heavens of body odour. He looked up momentarily, recognizing one of them as a youth he'd seen in the queue for DreamScape earlier that very day. And he was just as loud as ever – that's what had given him away. They were talking blithely about shagging girls and their sessions in DreamScape, as if without a care in the world. Huh! Life had been so much simpler when he was younger; now everything had to be just so. Everything had to be checked and double checked before he embarked on anything new. Everything had to be weighed against his conscience and his adult sensibilities. It was all so deep and complicated. In his youth, everything had been so spontaneous and care-free and immature, or else hopelessly dreamy and idealistic.

Such was life. My word, wasn't he feeling sorry for himself today? Perhaps that was one of the unspoken psychological side-effects of immersion in DreamScape?

“Whatchoo looking at, Granddad?”

Huh? Charles had been staring vacantly into space. “I'm sorry, did you say something?”

“Leave it, Mike,” his companion hissed.

“I said, whatchoo looking at, baldy””

Charles could feel anger welling up inside him, but he merely shrugged. “Nothing. I was miles away – daydreaming, that's all.”

“Well, why don't you just push off, you sad bastard. Drink up and go some place else, eh?”

“Mike!” Then: “We don't want no trouble, mister.”

“The hell we don't!” snapped the youth, pushing his friend firmly back down in his seat and rising to his feet.

Charles finished his drink and sauntered back to the bar for a top-up. “Same again, please, mate.”

“Hey, Granddad? Obviously you weren't listening … He came across and stood there, slopping his drink over Charles' shoe before strutting back to his seat.

The steward came round the front of the bar and walked anxiously over to the youth. “Now, listen you two. Either you shut up or else I'll have to bar you.”

“Oh, yeah! You and whose army?” He stood up again, with his beer glass held high, perilously close to the steward's face.

“Mike! Sit down, will you? I swear, he hasn't been the same since he went into that DreamScape booth this morning.”

Charles polished off his third drink.

The youth was coming over in his direction now and Charles knew he was in for a glassing.

“Met!” he snapped, taking a few steps back to widen the distance between them, and took aim with his stun pistol.

Thwack! Next minute the lad was flat on his back, knocked cold by the blast from the weapon.

So much for his time off-duty, eh?

The other lad was getting to his feet now, a terrified look on his face and his hands held high. “Don't shoot, mister. Like I said, I don't want no trouble. Mike's not usually like this at all. Sure, he's a loud mouth, but he's never been violent like this before.”

~~~O~~~

Quite how the news made the headlines in the Sher Point Times remains a mystery, but you can imagine the headline and the as yet unsubstantiated rumours concerning the new DreamScape facility. The Lady Mayor was particularly outspoken and called for use of the device to be suspended pending the outcome of an official enquiry. If anything, though, the report did not have the effect of reducing interest in the device but of increasing it still further.

Nevertheless, when Professor Pendleberry opened the newspaper the following morning, he was livid. It seemed that the new device had an unforeseen side-effect, perhaps the result of some undiscovered flaw in its design. And most likely the only person in the world who could help root out that flaw was Mitch, and he was in Zone Five, which was way off limits for the residents of Sher Point – if not a realm beyond this lesser beings' comprehension.

For her part, when Safia read the article it did not come as any great surprise. Like the Lady Mayor, she too was coming to view DreamScape with a certain amount of suspicion; but they were in the minority in Sher Point by far and there really was nothing she could do to stop its dissemination.

16. Breakthrough

“Yahoo!” cried Mitch as he checked through the day's mail. He hurried through to the den, where Az*Oth was pouring over a heap of documents. “Az*Oth old chap, I think you've just struck gold.” He handed a letter to Az*Oth.

It was from George.

“So, she's at a place called SunnyDene, eh?”

Az*Oth studied the letter for a time, racking his brains. “SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children,” he said at last. “You know, I could kick myself for not thinking of that: where else would they place a girl who'd appeared out of nowhere, whose parents were lost, and most of her memory, too? Either there or in some Mental Institution like St Mary's, for observation.”

“And we have a couple of names,” added Mitch: “She's going by the name of Ella and some woman called Lawrence is hoping to foster her.”

“So what now?” asked Az*Oth.

They'd been over the options so many times before, since El*Eth's sudden departure.

“Well, we have to get her out of SunnyDene for a start.”

“There's this Lawrence woman. If she were to adopt Ellie, she'd hopefully live a decent enough life there.”

Mitch scratched his chin. “You know, I'm still not convinced with the idea of leaving her down there. There has to be another way …”

“We can arrange for it that she is given every support from the Residential Agencies until the time comes when she is safe enough to be told of her true predicament.”

“I'm still toying with the idea of bringing her back,” said Mitch. “You don't know what Rae and I have been through …”

“I can guess,” replied Az*Oth.

“Sure, you can guess – and I mean no disrespect by this, Az*Oth – we're very grateful for the help you've given us thus far – but not being her parent, you can't really know.”

Az*Oth conceded the point.

“This Professor Vaughan Pendleberry who's somehow managed to get access to DreamScape technology despite the embargo (I can only assume someone's been hacking into the caretaker, Psi). Just how far advanced is this technology of his?”

Az*Oth had read his mind. “Within the year, he'll have the thing shrunk down to fit in a headband or a wristband. They aim to have them in the shops by Christmas. Within the decade, you'll just need a brain implant. But that's not the answer you're looking for, is it? You mean, if we could input our coordinates we could use his device to transport Ellie back here, am I right?”

“Why not?”

“Well, Security is one good reason why not. If the Dark Forces ever found out our coordinates, they could make life for us here very unpleasant indeed.”

Mitch sat down beside Az*Oth and began to scratch his chin again. “We could have the Residents Special Operations Executive disable his technology once it had served its purpose …”

“I'm not convinced,” replied Az*Oth. “To be honest, I'm not sure how we can bury the technology now. Once it's dispersed amongst the people, there's no way they're going to let go of it; it's so compulsive.”

“Someone will just have to go down there and fill in the missing blanks, Az*Oth.”

“Mitch, you know as well as I do what the Earth-sickness can do to people. By this time, Ellie might no longer be Safe (it was a technical term). She's not been trained for life down there – well, maybe 'life' is too strong a word to use for subsistence. One wrong word in the wrong place from her – even without any subterfuge or malice on her part – and we could end up with her and whoever's sent to help her out in the Sher Point gaol, or the morgue. And potentially, the operation blown wide open.”

“I appreciate the danger, Az*Oth, and for that reason I shall be volunteering my own services. However, it's a risk we'll just have to take.”

“And that's your final word on the matter?”

Mitch nodded. “Yes, Az*Oth, that's my final word. Unless, of course, we receive any better suggestions.”

17. The mission

When Mitch emerged in Sher Point, he didn't mess around. He immediately went to the Olde Emporium and introduced himself. At first the old man, George, who looked after the shop didn't recognise him, but when he repeated the magical code phrase about leaving his umbrella there, his eyes lit up. It was almost as he'd pressed a button in the old man's head and switched on some dormant circuitry. Most of the time, George and Emily were merely sleepers.

It was several years since he'd last seen George and he was quite startled by how old and frail he seemed to have become. Without doubt he'd have to be retired in the next year or so and they'd have to start training someone else to take over the safe house.

Another customer entered the shop as they stood exchanging pleasantries and Mitch had to bide his time, looking around the shop until the newcomer had left. Then, after the obligatory cup of tea and slice of Emily's wonderful home-made date and walnut cake, he was off upstairs to the flat to unpack. Mitch had brought a bottle of malt whiskey and a box of chocolates with him which he'd give to the couple when he left – it was customary to leave a gift for their gracious services.

There was an envelope on the dressing table already waiting for him when he arrived. It contained the keys to a car – the black Rover outside the shop – and a forged identity card making him an officer of Sher Point Social Services.

~~~O~~~

As Mitch entered the shop, a figure in a car parked a little way down the street was watching him through a pair of binoculars.

He was Special Agent Martin Clint attached to Sher Point Metropolitan Police Service, but this was not police business, for he held a higher allegiance. It was not headquarters he was in contact with but Professor Vaughan Pendleberry of the Sher Point Institute for Dream Research (SPIDER), itself a front for the Secret Service. And the Secret Service was above the Law.

He flicked through the dossier the professor had given him. “Yes, I'm sure it's Mitch,” the agent reported, pouring over the composite image in the file. “Your informant was right about the shop – it is being used as a safe house. Looks like he's fallen for the bait hook, line and sinker.” The girl's accidental emergence in Sher Point (which had not gone unnoticed) could not have been more fortuitous and they were eager to capitalize on it.

“Clint, that's great news!”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked. “Should I arrest him and bring the shopkeeper and his wife in for interrogation?”

“No, not yet. Just keep tabs on Mitch. I'll have someone else keep the premises under observation. The word is, they've discovered that the girl is at the Home, so you can expect him to turn up there and probably attempt to snatch the girl.”

~~~O~~~

“Oh, hell,” Az*Oth gasped as the intelligence report came through. D.I. Mumsford had heard rumour that the Olde Emporium on Nelson Street was being staked out – and not by the Met – at least not officially. That could only mean that it was the Secret Service who had the place under observation. They'd been trying their best to penetrate the network for years.

He sent word to the clean-up department to close the place down immediately and spirit the couple away into the Outreaches (a sector outside Sher Point considered to be a no-go area by the security forces). And he sent word via the long chain of contacts that the operation had been compromised and not to return to the Olde Emporium. But whether the news would get through to Mitch in time, Heaven only knew.

~~~O~~~

In actual fact, Mitch had already left the shop when news arrived to warn him that the safe house's security had been compromised. Without a word, the couple latched the front door, slipped out the back and were off down a warren of narrow alleyways, to be picked up by car and driven to safety outside Sher Point.

Moments later, as the Secret Service moved in to take the safe house, the whole street was rocked by an almighty explosion and a great fireball erupted through the blown-out shop window.

~~~O~~~

When news did arrive by text on his mobile phone, Mitch was faced with a dilemma. Should he abort the mission and make a clean getaway himself, or should he simply bring things forward and snatch Ellie at the first opportunity?

He chose to settle on the latter option and drove on towards SunnyDene.

“Michael Johnson, Social Services,” he announced at the gate. “I'm here to interview the new girl, Ella …”

“Ella Grubbs?”

“That's right.” At least, he hoped that was the right girl.

The heavy gate slowly opened and he drove through.

A formidable looking woman, who introduced herself as Ms Arkwright, met him in the entrance hall and he explained that he was there to interview Ella as part of the fostering procedures.

Fortunately the woman appeared to buy his story and made no objection. She led him through the Home to an empty office. “You may use that room,” she told him. “I'll just go and have the child brought to you.”

Mitch kept gazing anxiously at his watch as the minutes ticked past, then finally the door opened and in walked Ellie.

“Dad!” she exclaimed as soon as she caught sight of him, recognizing him instantly. He put his finger to his lips to hush her up, but fortunately the pupil who had escorted her to the office appeared none the wiser and left without ado.

“I've come to take you back,” he said, rushing over and giving her a big hug. “But as far as anyone here is concerned, I work for Social Services and I'm here about you being fostered.”

Ellie was full to overflowing with questions.

He cut her short. “We have to move right away, Ellie,” and grabbing her hand he made for the door. “I have a car outside. The engine's still running.”

“I think not,” came a voice ahead of them, as they left the building and dashed across the car park. Mitch was momentarily startled that his ruse had been discovered, and he stopped dead in his tracks, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. He was startled, and yet it came as no great surprise to him.

Mitch recognized the man as the customer who'd entered the shop just after he'd arrived. He didn't know it, but this was the Special Agent, Martin Clint, who'd been tailing him all day, and the man was armed. That being the case, and with Ellie in the firing line, there could be neither fight nor flight, Mitch decided, heaving a deep sigh.

“You and your darling daughter have another more pressing engagement to keep at Sher Point Institute for Dream Research.”

“SPIDER? So Professor Pendleberry's in on this, is he?” asked Mitch. “I might have guessed.”

“SPIDER? Oh, that's just a front, Mitch, for something far, far bigger. Something way beyond your comprehension.”

“So what do you want with me?”

“Your insight into the DreamScape technology. The professor's prototype device isn't behaving quite as we anticipated. There have been a spate of mishaps and it's been a devil of a job keeping this out of the media's attention.”

“And my daughter, El*Eth? You don't need her. Why don't you let her go? You have me.”

“No, no, no. She stays to keep you sweet and focussed on your task, Mitch. Let me think … it would be a good idea if she were to remain at SunnyDene. I'm sure Ms Arkwright will be able to handle her and make sure she gets up to no mischief. You behave and give us what we want – fully functioning technology and coordinates to take us out of this prison, Sher Point …”

That could only mean the coordinates for Zone Five.

“… And both of you will be free to return to your own realm. We'll even provide the transportation for Ellie, thanks to your contribution. Fair deal?”

“And if I don't help you?”

“Then you die, Mitch, and Ellie will never be able to leave Sher Point. It's really quite as stark and simple as that.”

Mitch sighed deeply. “Well, if you put it that way …”

“And I do.”

“… Then how could I possibly refuse?”

“Precisely. I'm glad we're in agreement on something at least, Mitch,” the Special Agent smiled smugly. “And the sooner we get started, the sooner all this will be over and the sooner you have your daughter safely tucked up in bed back home.”

~~~O~~~

“Tell me one thing,” said Mitch, pouring over the plans spread all over the table before him. True, he could see the same thing on the Computer Aided Design (CAD) package on the computer, but there was still nothing like seeing a thing in black and white. It was only then that all the little errors came to light.

“Tell you what, Mitch?” asked the professor.

“Why are you doing this? What do you hope to gain from using this technology down here?”

“It's quite simple, really, Mitch. Here we are, stuck down here in this hell-hole called Sher Point, surrounded by madmen. And there you are, Upstairs in Zone Five, with the most lavish scenery and possessions, living lives of ease.

“Soon I will have DreamScape devices in every home in the land, and thanks to an ingenious conversion of mine, at the click of a switch I can have the majority of the population at my beck and call.”

“Stage a coup, you mean?”

“Something along those lines.” The professor paused to have a drink. “And with your help, I and a number of my most trusted aides will be able to escape this sordid prison realm and rule from on-high.”

“The Council will never let you stay, Professor, not once they hear about your antics down here. You'll be expelled.”

The professor smiled: “Huw, you seriously under-estimate my strength and my bargaining power. I have more than the odd ace up my sleeve, you know. I know for a fact that there will be many there glad to have me stay. There are plenty of people who believe that I should not have suffered the inhumanity of being sent down there in the first place. How else do you think I could got hold of the passwords to hack into the caretaker system, Psi, to retrieve these plans?”

So, he even knew about Psi, thought Mitch. Things were rapidly turning from bad to worse.

“And as for the Council there will be plenty of others glad to have the situation in Sher Point stabilized. After all, it's infinitely better to suffer the indignity of a coup than some of the other options you lot have been toying with. You know damn well what Area Command would have done were you unable to remedy the situation yourselves …”

18. Progress report

The hooded figure at the head of the table brought her gavel down. “Order, order! Your report, please Professor.”

The Professor rose to his feet and bowed his head. “Lord Develin. All is going according to plan.”

“You've ironed out the teething problems with the earlier versions, I trust?”

“Yes, indeed: Mitch has been most co-operative in that regard. Not only did he spot a component missing from the printed circuit design, he also uncovered an error in the coding of the software. DreamScape Mark V is undergoing tests even as I speak, and we hope to have it in the shops by Christmas.”

He opened his briefcase and produced a small device that resembled a wristwatch and passed it around.

“Excellent,” the shadowy figure said, examining the device, then to an aide standing by the double doors into the conference room. “Have one of the test subjects brought in.”

The Council sat around the conference table and watched intently as the subject was led in chains and struggling into the room.

The Grandmaster, Lord Develin passed the Mark V DreamScape device to one of his aides, and while the burly guard twisted Klein's arm behind his back, the aide slipped the band over his wrist and clipped it in place.

For a few more seconds the subject continued to struggle. Then, as if he'd suddenly come to his senses, he shrugged the guard off and straightened up to face the assembled Council.

“What is your name?” the Professor asked him.

“George Klein,” the man answered, without the merest flicker of emotion.

“And why are you here?”

“I fraudulently stole money from my employer's clients.”

“And would you be tempted to do it again, if you had your old job back?”

“I would not,” the man replied. “I am sorry for the crimes I have committed over the years and have learnt my lesson.”

“Tell me, Mister Klein: what is your social directive?”

“To be a model citizen.”

The Professor motioned to the guard. “You may release the subject.”

The guard fished around for the key and unlocked Klein's chains.

“Very well, Mister Klein. You are free to go. Please go back to your work.”

Then to the guard: “Show Mister Klein the way out, please.”

“Thank you, sir.” And with that, Klein turned on his heel and left the room.

“Are you certain that it's safe to let the man loose?” asked the Grand Master.

“Don't worry: he'll be kept under round the clock surveillance,” the Professor replied. “And if he does err, then we'll have him back in chains in the mines.”

19. Welcome back

“So, the wayward girl returns!” the woman greeted Ellie with unctuous delight, coming down the corridor. It was Ms Arkwright, the Director. Ellie had been instructed to stand outside her office until Ms Arkwright returned, and she'd already been waiting there for over an hour with her legs crossed and all fidgety, trying not to wee herself.

“Go to the toilet, girl, if you must. And come straight back here!”

When Ellie returned, Ms Arkwright was standing at the window, biding her time.

“In,” the woman barked, and she stepped inside the office.

“Stand,” she ordered, pointing to a spot in front of the desk.

“And who gave you permission to leave the Home?”

“The man from Social Services,” Ellie lied.

Ms Arkwright stared at her. “Miss Grubbs, you and I both know fine well that far from working for Social Services, the man who came here was in fact your father.”

Ellie couldn't understand what was going on. “But if he was my father, then why can't I go with him? Why am I being kept here?”

“Yours not to reason why, Miss Grubbs ...” She sat down at the desk, idly patting the end of a blackboard pointer up and down in the palm of her hand as she talked, doing her best to intimidate Ellie. “If you must know, my dear, your father has been a naughty man. He is in trouble with The Powers That Be and it has been decided that he is not fit to have you in his charge. And so you will stay here. Do you understand?”

Ellie didn't, but thought better of questioning Ms Arkwright's line of reasoning.

“Well?”

“Yes, Ms Arkwright.”

“Yes – what – Ms Arkwright?

“Yes, I understand, Ms Arkwright – I'm to stay here.”

“Well, I am not convinced that you do, young lady. And therefore, in order to ensure that you do, you are to be punished.”

The woman rose from her seat, grasped Ellie by the scruff of the neck and dragged her from the room and along the corridor to the foot of the steps. Then, opening up a cupboard door in the stair well, under the stairs, she thrust Ellie inside.

“A few hours in there should help you make your mind up,” she called as she firmly bolted the cupboard door behind her.

A few hours? A few hours and she was brought her lunch to eat in there, the only light inside coming through the gaps at the top and bottom of the door. A few more hours and she was brought her tea and allowed to visit the bathroom. Then a chamber pot was found for her and Ellie spent an uncomfortable and cold night in there, huddled up in a corner.

Only in the morning was she let out to have breakfast in the hall with the others and go to her class with Mrs Finchley-Smythe. At least that meant she could continue to read her book Time and Time Again which was certainly more fun than arithmetic, the only other subject that Mrs Finchley-Smythe appeared able to teach.

When Ellie grew up she was determined to become a writer like Hamish Hawkins. She couldn't ever imagine herself becoming a checkout operator or a hairdresser or a teacher or anything like that. Uncle Az*Oth said she was stuck up, but Ellie didn't mean to be: it was just that she was very good at reading and writing, that's all. Other folk were really good at working with numbers or with their hands, which was fine, if that's what they wanted to do. “All power to them”, as Father would say. It wasn't a matter of being better than them, just a matter of horses for courses, that's all.

“Ella Grubbs? Ella Grubbs!” The voice dragged her out of her reverie. “I hope you're reading that book and not sitting there looking out of the window, dreaming! I shall be asking questions later and testing your comprehension.”

“Sorry, Mrs Finchley-Smythe.”

~~~O~~~

She went back to the book and read on:

Speaking of jigsaw puzzles: have any of you ever come across a jigsaw puzzle containing written instructions? It seems an absurdity, doesn't it?

Yet look at the way in which we rational, adult human beings conventionally go about our problem solving. Imagine, if you will, that we take our everyday techniques and apply them to the problem of showing a child how to complete a simple jigsaw puzzle.

And just imagine the look on the observant child's face when we:-

--- Spread all the pieces out on the dining room table, forgetting to leave room for the picture-in-the-making.

--- Dump the pieces, cut out the picture and mount it on the wall in pride of place, next to the Queen's portrait.

--- Toss the pieces in the air, make predictions based on the patterns thus formed; e-mail the results to the tabloid for whom we're freelancing; have a little snooze and make a start on the latest fan-mail.

--- Discard all the red and green pieces in favour of the blues (wearing the right coloured shades is advisable, though not essential to this process).

--- Set up pressure groups and hold top-level hush-hush boardroom meetings to have pieces with undesirable square edges removed from future products.

--- Or demand that the “Map of the World” puzzle be rectangular.

--- Scatter the pieces around the house to keep the tigers away. (“But there aren't any tigers around these parts.” – “Not now there aren't!”)

--- Hold discussions about the techniques used in the punching out of the pieces.

--- Offer the suggestion that money could be saved and productivity raised if this latter process were phased-out entirely.

--- Examine each piece under a microscope to fathom the nature of the mysterious dots.

--- Write a thesis on the chemical structure of the ink.

--- Place each piece in its precise location by careful reference to the design pre-printed on the lid.

--- Insist that the pieces be individually numbered.

--- And that the puzzle should be completed grey side up, with reference to the numbers – not to some bizarre and incomprehensible colourations on the rear.

--- And preferably, that the pieces be glued together once and for all, after this tedious initial process has been completed …

But, of course, we're not as stupid as all that, now are we?

~~~O~~~

Meanwhile, in Zone Five, Az*Oth was pacing restlessly up and down Mitch's den.

“What's the situation, Az*Oth?” asked Rae anxiously.

“Do you want the good news first, or the bad news?”

“This is no time for playing mind games.”

“OK, the first bad news is that our safe house at the Olde Emporium has been compromised and we've had to shut it down. The good news is that George and Emily are safe in the Outreaches. They're getting on a bit – too old to be thinking of starting up a new establishment down there. I think we should consider bringing them Upstairs so that they can enjoy their retirement.”

“And the second bad news?”

“The second bad news is that Mitch has gone off-line. We can assume that he's been taken captive.”

“Or killed?!”

Az*Oth shook his head. “His Retriever is still functioning and showing vital signs.”

“Then why not bring him home?”

“Not yet, Rae – it might compromise his position. We need to get someone in Downstairs to locate him and assess his current situation.”

“Is that it?”

“More good news – the last I heard, Ellie is safe and sound. She's at the SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children. Not exactly a fun place to be, I'm sure, but at least she'll be safe there.”

“So what now?”

Hadn't the woman been listening? “As I said, I want someone to go down again and see if they can locate Mitch.”

“And?”

“And that person is me.”

“Are you mad? Don't you think it's risky? You weren't looking too hot after your last jaunt.”

“I'm feeling a lot better now. You worry too much.”

“What about the safe house now the Olde Emporium's been shut down?”

“There's always the Maiden's Arms. That's in the same district.”

“You sure that's still safe? Remember the Dolan fiasco?”

“I'll play it by ear. If necessary I'll grab some of the spare togs from Lost Property and simply take a hotel room for the duration.”

20. The professor calls

The front doorbell went and Huw got up to answer it.

“Hello, Huw,” the professor greeted him. “Mind if I come in?”

“Not at all, Vaughan. I haven't seen you for a while. How you keeping?”

“Tickety-boo, old chap. Couldn't be better.

“And I'm sorry I haven't been round recently: that's very remiss of me. The fact is, we've been working round the clock to get the Mark V DreamScape ready for Christmas.”

“For Christmas? So quickly?”

“Oh yes. That's one of the major advantages of DreamTime. It gives us all the time in the world for development.” As they wandered through to the front lounge, the professor fished in his bag and produced a small box the size of a spectacle case. He tossed it to Huw and he caught it.

“What's this?”

“Call it an early Christmas present,” the professor smiled. “Open it and see for yourself.”

Huw flipped the box open and saw the device, scarcely bigger than a digital watch. “You have to be joking right? You mean to tell me this is the latest version of DreamScape?”

“Sure is. And I'll tell you what – give us another five years and we'll have a brain implant.”

“But where's all the electronics?”

“Mass integration,” the professor replied: “a lot of the gubbins has been stuffed inside one powerful silicon chip.”

“And the rest?”

“Is back at HQ. The device calls up the central processor just like a mobile phone talking to the nearest base transponder in the cell network.”

“Here.” The professor passed three more of the devices over. “There's also one a piece for Safia, Samira and your sceptical friend – what's his name? – Charles.”

“And what do you want in return?” Huw asked perceptively.

“Just an honest article or two, that's all. Believe me – if you thought the old mainframe DreamScape was hot, just wait till you try out the Mark V.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Well, aren't you gonna try it on, Huw?”

“Thanks, Vaughan, but right now I've got to finish off one or two articles. And I figure once I get hooked on DreamScape I'll never get round to such dull stuff.”

“Well, I'm posting more out to the media. You've got a week's lead on them – but don't leave it too long, because this is gonna be the hottest news item Sher Point has ever seen, believe me.”

21. Bad dreams

Safia Lawrence was being escorted in handcuffs down a long green and grey corridor by two burly security guards. They stopped outside a room marked W21, opened the door and thrust her inside. There was a man in a long white coat in there. He turned toward her.

“Ah, Mrs Lawrence. So good of you to join us,” the man greeted her. It was Professor Pendleberry. “Do take a seat.”

The two guards undid the handcuffs and hoisted her into a reclining chair – the sort you'd find in a dental surgery – in front of some kind of electronic control console.

“What am I doing here?” she wanted to know.

“Don't worry: it's just a routine test following your immersion in DreamScape,” the professor replied without the merest flicker of emotion. “If you'd just roll up your sleeve.”

He took a long needle and held it up to fill it from a vial, then flicked the bubbles out of the syringe.

Then, with one of the guards holding her forearm in a vice-like grip, he injected the contents of the needle into a vein in her hand.

“Youch!” Safia woke up with a start, bathed in sweat from head to toe, and sat up in bed, blearing around her. She reached out to hug Huw but she found the pillow bare.

Getting out of bed, she went through to the kitchen to make herself a coffee and reached inside one of the drawers, produced a packet of cigarettes, took one out and lit it. It was over a year since she'd last quit, but she needed one now.

Within seconds, the shock of the nicotine hit Safia and she staggered over to the sink and ran the cigarette under the tap, then stood there baulking.

Eventually, the nicotine rush receded and she turned on the tap and splashed her face with cold water.

Without warning, she felt two cold hands around her neck. She spun round.

“Jesus!”

It was Huw.

She hugged him tightly, nestling her head in his chest. “Don't do that. You scared the living daylights out of me.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyhow, what are you doing up at this time of night?”

“I had a dream,” he explained. “And when I woke up, I remembered it with such clarity that I had to write the gist of it down. It's got the workings of a great storyline.”

“For crying out loud, Huw: do you know what time it is? Three o'clock in the morning.”

She noticed he still had the wristpad on. “You know, I'm not so sure all this DreamScape stuff is a good thing.”

“It's the most inspirational device I've ever come across,” Huw replied. “And you know what a fickle thing inspiration is, Safia. I had to get it down on paper before the memory faded.”

22. Finished unpacking

Safia flopped down on the settee beside Samira. “Well, that's the last of the boxes emptied, thank God,” she said with a big sigh of relief. Fat lot of help Huw had been. Half the boxes had been standing around waiting to be unpacked since they'd first moved in and, what with her having to work overtime at Grand Central and Huw wrapped up writing article after article about DreamScape, she'd finally got round to completing the mammoth task. She and Samira were having a last minute blitz before Christmas. They'd collected so many possessions over the years, but she couldn't turf anything out … who knew when this, that or the other oddment would come in handy – the moment it had been thrown out, that was usually when you missed something.

“You deserve a medal,” Samira replied, pouring out the tea.

“Well, that's more than I can say for Huw.”

“Still writing, is he?”

Safia stirred her tea. “Oh, he's always writing … Which is fine – the articles he's had published recently are more than paying the mortgage. No, it's the dreams he's been having thanks to that blooming DreamScape thing.”

“Is it some kind of addiction, like computer games or surfing the Internet?” asked Samira. “I've tried DreamScape once, but I can imagine that you could get quite hooked on it – I mean, ordinary life seems so dull and boring after an experience in DreamScape.”

“You know, I think you're right, Samira. At first I thought it was just a fad, but this has been going on for weeks now – morning, noon and night. He never has the wristpad off. And some days he's round Professor Pendleberry's place more than he's here. And he's got his mate Charles into the thing now. They meet up in DreamScape.”

“You need to have words with him, Safia. It's not fair on you. Get him to cut down to one session a day, or maybe a couple of times a week? And you want to get yourself out of here a bit more, too. Go for a walk together or eat out. You know what they say …”

“Yes, I know. All work and no play makes Safia a dull girl – or something like that.”

“Too damn right. And maybe we could do something, too? I hear night classes are starting up again soon at the local college. I quite fancy having a go at pottery. Are you game?”

“What – game for a laugh, you mean? Sure that sounds like an excellent adventure. And who knows, Samira – you might meet some dishy fellah? It's about time we had you married off.”

“Perish the thought – marriage, I mean. Well, not unless the right guy came along. And – before you ask – no, I do not fancy Charles. I tell you what, as well – there's no bloody way I'd let Mum and Dad put me through an arranged marriage to some fat slob I hardly know from Adam.”

“Too right, girl. Life's too short.”

“Are you still happy that you married Huw?” Samira asked. “You're not beginning to regret it, are you?”

My, there was no beating around the bush with her sister. Safia looked at her, fighting back a tear. “Until recently, I was over the moon,” she confided. “But this last week or two, it feels like I'm losing him – and to a blessèd machine.”

Samira took hold of Safia's hand. “I think you'd better have words with Huw,” she said. “And if you don't – then I will.”

23. Undercover assignment

The sturdy metal door slid open and Sergeant Tom Irvine of the Sher Point Metropolitan Police Service strode into the booth. Before him stood a control console bristling with electronics.

He swung the swivel chair round, sat down and inserted his personal smart card into the slot and thumped the green button marked “Ready”.

“You wanted to see me?” he enquired as ALICE's head and shoulders popped up on the monitor screen. As he spoke, one of the netcams mounted into the console sprang out and zoomed in on him, looking him up and down.

“Ah, Sergeant Irvine, it's you. How kind of you to grace us with your presence,” ALICE spoke mechanically. “Yes, the Commission have an undercover assignment for which, I am told, you – um – apparently fit the bill. Do take a seat.”

“Fire away,” he invited.

“The job will require you to assume a new identity and go in under deep cover to infiltrate a criminal element calling themselves the Miscreants. You are to report back at regular intervals with any relevant intelligence you have been able to gather ...”

“Go on ...”

He waited to see if there was more, but ALICE was not forthcoming.

“That's it?”

“For reasons of security, Sergeant Irvine, that is all you get for the moment. A full briefing will of course follow by direct data transfer, should you choose to accept the assignment.”

“Do I have a choice in the matter?”

ALICE looked askance, as if querying her electronic knowledgebase. Then: “I note that you are shortly due a Sal Review ...”

Ah, Snakes & Ladders, was it? – that was the unofficial name given to the Salary Review.

“... And, in view of your recent record – which I am sure you would be amongst the first to agree was somewhat chequered – Sergeant Irvine, I would forecast that you will be due a salary cut rather than a raise.”

Tom shook his head in exasperation. Heartless bitch. “So, I've had a run of bad luck these last few weeks. Check a little further back and you'll see years of loyal and diligent work, with commendations.”

ALICE looked him squarely and directly in the eye. He flinched at her penetrating, all-seeing gaze. “Irvine, you know as well as I do that the days of a job for life and of resting on one's laurels are long gone. All that matters to you and to the Met is how efficient your current output is. Not last week's, let alone last year's output. That is history; it's water under the bridge – for good or ill – as you well know. The bottom line is: how well are you surfing today's wave right here and now?”

He shrugged. There was no point in arguing with the likes of ALICE, except on purely academic grounds or to see how far you could wind a machine up before you were held in contempt.

“Splendid,” ALICE concluded, as if reading his mind. “Then I shall look forward to reviewing your reports in due course.”

The screen flickered and another face appeared.

“Welcome to the NuLife facility of the Sher Point Metropolitan Health Service. Please take a seat, sit back and relax ...”

Without warning, the lights on the booth suddenly dimmed and the display vanished into a white dot briefly, then reappeared. In the far distance, Irvine thought he could make out the sound of a siren starting up. That would no doubt be the anarchists again, having another strike at the local powerhouse.

“Emergency ... Emergency ...” a mechanical voice broke out. “Unsafe parameters entered.”

A wave of fear swept through Irvine as the control console erupted in a blaze of warning lights. As they grew more urgent and intense, cushioned restraints emerged from the framework of the seat and gently but firmly swung round into place.

“Emer-emer-emergency! Attempting to over-ride manually entered parameters and switch back to automatic ...”

The whole booth had begun to shake now and an ear-piercing klaxon had begun to sound.

At this critical juncture, a snake-like device began to extend from the fascia of the control console beneath the video display. It attached itself to Irvine's forehead and fanned out to obscure his vision.

“Attempting to regain control,” the voice droned on. “Assessing damage to NuLife mechanism and instigating running repairs.”

“Operator,” (that was Irvine) “you are found guilty of criminal negligence contrary to Section IV(f) of the Provision of Public Utilities Act 2010, as amended. You are hereby fined 100 credits and your permanent Record will be endorsed with one p-p-p-penalty p-p-point.”

24. Santa calls

Safia had called repeatedly to make another appointment to take Ella out – or even just to see her and talk to her, but for some reason Ms Arkwright was being particularly evasive, and Ethel Simpson at Social Services had been no help whatsoever. Safia knew her applications were being deliberately blocked, though why, she could not fathom.

Finally, she'd decided to go up to the Home and have the matter out with Ms Arkwright.

“I am sorry, but it is quite out of the question,” came the curt reply.

“But why? Won't you at least tell me that? You know how much Ella enjoyed going out to town with me.”

“Mrs Lawrence, I understand – having spoken to someone in authority at Social Services – that your application to foster Ella is to be turned down.”

Oh, my God – that was a real body blow. Safia could feel her legs beginning to buckle beneath her. “Surely, there's some mistake?” she croaked.

“No doubt the department will be writing to you to inform you of their decision in due course. I am sorry to have to be the bringer of such bad tidings.”

“I insist you let me in,” Safia bellowed down the intercom.

“I am afraid that is simply not permissible, Mrs Lawrence.”

“But I have some Christmas presents here for Ella. At least let me in to deliver them.”

“Again, I am deeply sorry for your predicament, Mrs Lawrence, but I simply cannot allow it.”

Dear God, did the woman have an ounce of humanity in her veins?

“At least let me leave them at the door.”

“Thank you and goodbye, Mrs Lawrence. And might I point out that if you insist on harassing either me or any member of my staff over this issue, you will be hearing from the Home's solicitors. The matter is closed.”

And with that, the intercom gave a loud “pop!” and Safia had been cut off.

She turned away and got back to her car, and sat there for a few minutes, her head on the steering wheel, weeping.

~~~O~~~

There was a loud rapping on the car window and Safia bleared around. She pulled a tissue out of her pocket, blew her nose and wiped her eyes, then wound the window down.

There was a dumpy little woman standing there with a bicycle.

“Are you alright, my love?” the woman asked. “Please excuse me if I'm interfering, but you seem to be in a bit of a state. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Safia burst into tears once more.

The lady propped her bike up against the gatepost and came over. “Mind if I join you?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer, she went round to the passenger door, opened it and clambered inside to sit beside Safia.

“Now, what's all this about, my love? Things can't be all that bad, can they?

Couldn't they be? Safia began to blurt out the whole story.

“Dear, dear,” the lady said at length. It turned out that she had a part-time cleaning job at the Home, helping out the caretaker, Mr Dorkins. “I shall never understand that hag.” She was referring to Ms Arkwright.

“Well,” she scratched her chin thoughtfully, then poked a finger up in the air: apparently having a brainwave.

“I'm sorry I can't help you get in to see your friend Ella,” she said. “But there's one thing I can do. The presents you have … I have to clean the girls' dormitory tonight … If you leave the gifts with me, I'll make sure your friend Ella gets them. It'll still be a wonderful surprise for her, finding them in a pillow case at the bottom of her bed on Christmas morning!”

A broad grin spread across Safia's face. “Really? Oh, would you? Oh, that would be so, so kind of you!” She reached over onto the back seat of the car and hoisted the carrier-bag over. “That really is so very, very kind of you. You don't know how much this means to me and how much it will mean to little Ella!”

“You take good care of yourself now and have a merry Christmas, my love,” the woman smiled at her. “And don't go worrying about nothing.”

“Thank you. And a very merry Christmas to you, too!” Safia called as the woman got back on her bike, spoke into the intercom and rode off up the driveway jingling her bell.

25. Time to wake up

At first, all Sergeant Tom Irvine could see was pitch blackness. One of his colleagues at the Met, Charles Davies, had said that both NuLife and DreamScape were like that, that it was quite disorientating at first, but it was one thing being told it and thinking about it and another thing actually experiencing the sensation.

The system seemed to have recovered from the hiccup by now. It felt as if there'd been a power dip. Maybe those Miscreants blasting the power grid again?

Gradually his vision returned and he found himself staring into the eyes of the BABETTE, the NuLife Controller. “Please remain calm,” the controller requested. “Initiating NuLife sequence now.”

Again, he felt a slight prick as the system administered a dose of some drug – perhaps an anaesthetic. And that's the last he knew until he suddenly awoke with a start. His face still felt quite numb and, on the instructions of the controller, he sat in the booth for a few minutes whilst he regained full consciousness.

One minute he was Sergeant Thomas Irvine of the Sher Point Metropolitan Police Service. The next? There's no thought whatsoever of being anyone other than Jo Pestachi, a disgraced ex-Met officer, looking for work in security and counter-measures with Virtuoso.

But the system was not finished with him yet. “Patching you through to ROSIE.” That was the TransMat controller.

“This is ROSIE. Please remain seated. Initiating TransMat now.”

One minute he was strapped tightly into a seat in the booth. The next? Jo was striding across Grand Central, where the main thoroughfares of Sher Point converged, en route for an interview with Professor Pendleberry at Virtuoso.

26. Grand Central

Safia Lawrence emerged from the elevator and strode briskly across the command room. As ever, she was down on the duty roster to work over the festive season: it was their busiest season. “Merry Christmas Wilson, and good evening,” she lilted, clapping the man on the shoulder.

“Lawrence,” came the mumbled response as he took a large bite out of a bacon sandwich and swilled it down with a swig of lukewarm tea. Wilson wasn't exactly Mr. Conviviality at the best of times, but judging by his demeanour it must have been a particularly tedious shift for him.

“So, how goes it, Willy?”

“Quiet,” the man reported, stuffing the remainder of his bacon butty (sandwich) in his mouth and re-lighting his cigar. “Few revellers, that's all.” He removed the smart card which he wore at the end of a long curly cord attached to his waistband, swivelled round in his chair and got up to let the relief take over.

“Too damn quiet for my liking,” he replied, still munching away. “Maybe there's a storm brewing?” Wilson lived for and thrived on the adrenalin buzz of live action.

“That bad, huh?”

Safia Lawrence sat down, inserted her own card key, typed in a password and brought up the Current Status list to see for herself, according to established procedure. QuAD (the Quality Assurance Department) ran random exercises to keep the controllers on their toes, so it was advisable to check, especially since she'd shortly be up for Snakes & Ladders. The authorities ran a tight ship here in Grand Central. They'd throw people in the deep end and rigorously enforce a policy of Sink or Swim amongst their operatives, so that only the best automatons made it through.

“Hmm. See what you mean.” Then: “I see you've got this Klein fellah flagged. Any reason why?”

“Just a hunch, Lawrence; just a hunch. Nothing I've been able to pin down – as yet – but I don't feel entirely comfortable with his overall behavioural Signature. I've seen characteristics like that before and I'd bet money on him going AWOL or utterly gaga sooner or later.”

Safia didn't particularly care for her colleague, Wilson: he could be such a punctilious bastard. But all the same, he was one of the most successful operatives they had at Grand Central and it was wise to pay attention to the man's hunches.

“Yeah, thanks, Willy: I'll keep my eye on him.”

She tapped her manicured finger on the touch screen and added the task to her To Do list; then flipped through the Records to see what ALICE had on this potential miscreant, Klein.

“Hmm. So that's the way you want to play it, eh?”

Wilson headed back from the door to peer over her shoulder.

“I thought you were leaving?” she hinted with as little tact as she could muster.

“You sound perturbed about something,” Wilson noted. Then: “Don't tell me: you've been denied access to certain details in the guy's record, yes?”

“Okay, so you've already been there,” she retorted. “Bully for you.”

He shook his head. “Nope, but the same thing's happened to me, too, a couple of times of late.”

“Bug in the system? Miscreants been hacking into records again?”

“Nope. My guess is …” He looked furtively across the control room and back and mouthed the word “IVY” which was an unofficial shorthand for the Secret Service.

“The files nevertheless make interesting reading.”

She raised her eyebrows. Wilson was like a dog worrying a bone. Once he got his teeth into a problem, there was no holding him back.

“Willy,” she replied quietly yet anxiously: “these are dangerous waters you're swimming in.”

“Is that a threat or a promise, Lawrence?” he snapped.

“Hey, Willy: don't you think you're being just a little paranoid. Forgive me for stating the obvious, but all I was saying is that where you-know-who are involved, it's best to steer well clear. Just good-natured, healthy advice, that's all.”

Wilson straightened up. “Yes, I'm sorry if I snapped at you. And you're quite right, of course. Anyhow, must be off or I'll be in even hot water from my better half, Thelma again. I promised her faithfully that I wouldn't be late home this week: got the in-laws staying with us, you see … But you mark my words: there's something fishy going on here.”

And with that he turned on his heel and scurried from the control room.

27. Sector Five-Six

“You ready to go, Ra?” asked Lemmie, fingering her blast pistol.

It was the night curfew in Sector Five-Six when the public lighting system was dimmed, signalling the official sleep period. Without special dispensation or official business on the night shift it was unlawful for citizens to be abroad during the night. Why things should be so arranged, however, only the authorities knew, and these things were taken for granted by-and-large by the population. Most likely it was something to do with the human need for sleep and the culture's need for people's waking periods to be synchronised.

And the reason for the curfew? Well, the official response to that question would be that certain criminal elements in society took advantage of the sleep period to carry out their unlawful activities.

Of course, there was the RTC (the Round the Clockers), a fringe pressure group who campaigned for the universal provision of public daylight at all times. There was the splinter group CAST who campaigned for the complete abolition of sleep time. And there was EOS who were in favour of saving energy by the extension of sleep time. But few people took the blindest bit of notice of any of these heretical factions.

And then there were the anarchists, like Ra and Lemmie whose chief, moronic delight was in disrupting the public lighting system and the sleep of honest, God-fearing citizens throughout the metropolis. And people had no option but to take notice of them and of the viscious criminal underworld which thrived in the ill-lit gutters of the outer reaches and the sewers of the inner-city ghettos, especially to the east of Grand Central, headquarters of the Metropolitan Utilities Network.

Lemmie was chomping at the bit. “Come on! Let's kick ass, Ra! We haven't got all night, you know. Let's hit them busy-busy people where it really hurts.”

“Okay,” agreed Ra. “Now, you know the plan. Ozzi dumps the incendiary near the main thoroughfare outside the Employment Service; meanwhile, Slug and Gaffa tackle the perimeter, and Ammo, Obo and Jonesy take …”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lemmie had had enough: “We've been over this a thousand times already, Ra. So let's cut the spiel and just do it, shall we?”

“Right then,” agreed Ra, suppressing the urge to bite back at the lad. “Let's go.”

~~~O~~~

The Sher Point People's Liberation Army (SP-PLA) briefing was breaking up now and a masked figure scurried away into the shadows and down a narrow alleyway. Once clear, he flipped open his communicator and keyed in a number.

“JOSIE,” the voice reported. JOSIE was one of the local satellite systems attached to the ALICE network.

“69-743 reporting,” he replied under his breath.

“Go ahead 69-743.”

“Attack on Sector Five-Six by SP-PLA confirmed for tonight – repeat tonight – shortly after curfew. Do you copy?”

“Roger.”

“Incendiary device is to be planted outside Employment Service. Suspect this is a diversion, but cannot confirm. Not in possession of full details due to last minute changes. Suggest we send in a tactical squad and take them out.”

“One moment ...” JOSIE went off-screen, presumably to confer with ALICE and IVY.

She reappeared. “Negative on that, 69-743. You are not to intervene.”

Agent 69-743 sighed. “Can you at least tell me why not? This is a prime opportunity to take them out, in my humble opinion.”

“Your humble opinion is duly noted,” replied JOSIE. “However, your request for information is regrettably denied.”

“On whose say-so?”

“Thank you for your input. Terminating comms link.”

28. Virtuoso

The professor was showing Charles around the installation at Virtuoso. “Well, Charles, what do you think?”

“It's incredible,” he replied.

“Well, any time you want a job here, you know you've only got to give me a call. We could do with beefing up our security.”

“I'll certainly bear that in mind, Professor.”

“I'll make it worth your while. I don't know how much they pay you at the Met, but I'd be willing to double it to have a man of your calibre, your experience – and not least your contacts – on board.”

“Hi,” Charles said as he passed one of the security guards in the corridor. He did a double take. “Oh, I'm sorry: I thought you were someone I knew.”

“You know the man?” the professor asked.

“I thought I did, but I was mistaken,” Charles replied. Then: “Now I remember. He was a detective at the Met. Got a commendation for rescuing some hostages a few years back.”

They were passing through the main office now and the professor tapped away at the keyboard and brought up the personnel files. “Pestachi,” he noted. “Hmm. According to his record he had a dishonourable discharge for accepting bribes.”

Charles looked over his shoulder and shook his head. “Right face, wrong name,” he said. “Can you get into the Met's system from here?”

“Can I? Watch this,” the Professor laughed and he called out to one of the technical staff. “Lance, come across here and help me a minute, will you? I want you to bring up PRUNELLA.”

Within seconds Lance was through. “There you go, Prof,” he beamed.

Charles thought for a minute. “Okay, now can you pull up a record for me? Sergeant Harvey? No Irvine. Yes, that's it: Tom Irvine.”

Lance clicked on the screen then typed the name in. “Blast it!” he cursed.

“What's up?”

“The record's there alright, but I'm being denied access.”

“Is there any way of getting in?”

“Sure, but it may take a while,” Lance said.

“Good work, Lance. And when you do get in, e-mail me a copy of the record, will you? I'm sure it'll make rather interesting reading.”

“Oh, and meanwhile – get the network administrator to log Pestachi's activity, will you? It seems we may have a mole in our camp.”

29. The name rings a bell

“Jesus Christ!” Jo Pestachi muttered under his breath as he checked through the computer files. Virtuoso had kept records of everyone who'd ever tried out DreamScape which contained the most intimate personal details and even cross-references to their files on the Met computer, PRUNELLA.

But more than that: he'd come across one file on a guy called George Klein that definitely rang a bell. According to the Met's records, the guy had disappeared. But according to Virtuoso, he'd recently been found misappropriating funds and had been selected for what they euphemistically called “processing”. Unfortunately the treatment had only been partially successful and he'd been assigned to a work detail in “Mine 6” whatever or wherever that was.

Jo used his password to hack into the Met's computer and pull up a list of everyone who'd disappeared in the last six months. And – lo! and behold! – when he checked through Virtuoso's records, out popped seven out of the ten names. In each case they'd been marked as currently active “research subjects” for laboratory trials.

Did that mean that these subjects were being held in the building somewhere? Well, if they were, then it could only be in the west wing, to which only a select few like Dr Belcher had the requisite security clearance.

“Jo Pestachi?”

Jo looked up sharply as the stern-looking face of Branson, the chief of security appeared on the display. He was just on the point of transferring the details of some dodgy files to his personal workspace back at police HQ. He typed away feverishly, trying to brush over the footsteps in his electronic paper trail.

“Pestachi?” Branson was growing impatient.

“Yes?”

“Please report to my office immediately,” Branson instructed him, locking his keyboard: “This instant.”

He removed the smart card from the slot at his desk and walked across the busy office and down the hall, shaking like a leaf in a breeze.

“Hey, Jo?” a colleague challenged him as he brushed past without speaking. “You okay? You don't look so well.”

Jo muttered something incomprehensible and carried on walking. He did think of making a bolt for it, but really there was nowhere to run. Branson had his eyes on him every step of the way right now, and they'd have the office doors sealed even before he'd crossed the floor.

He stopped outside the office, drew a deep breath and pressed the illuminated panel. The sturdy metal door slid open and he stepped inside.

“You wanted to see me?”

“As you may perhaps have guessed, Mister Pestachi, I have had you under discreet surveillance for some time now.”

“Ah ...”

“And I note that you've been delving into classified files.”

Jo played dumb.

“You see, I too have been doing my homework, Pestachi – or should I say Sergeant Irvine?”

The man pulled open his desk drawer and brought out a stun pistol.

“Well,” Branson said, “since you appear to have such an interest in our research subjects – perhaps you'd like to join them?”

And with that, he put the released the safety catch, squeezed the trigger and in a moment of sheer agony, Jo collapsed in a heap on the floor.

30. The chain gang

When Jo woke up he found his arms and legs in manacles at the end of a long chain gang in some kind of cavern lit by burning torches.

For a few moments he lay there completely bemused. He seemed to vaguely recall being elsewhere – and yet he'd awoken to this nightmare.

“Right, let's be 'aving you 'orrible lot!” called the slave-driver, cracking a whip across the back of the slave at the head of the chain. “Back to work, you dogs!”

The men got up, dragging Jo to his feet.

“Welcome stranger,” the next-in-line greeted him, holding out a grimy paw. “Pat Grimshaw.”

He shook the man's hand: “Jo Pestachi.”

“What am I doing here?” he asked his other neighbour as they shuffled across the cavern and into the mouth of a narrow tunnel. At the entrance, the slave-driver unlocked some of the chains so that they could proceed in pairs through the confines of the low tunnel. As they passed, he handed them picks and shovels.

“I'm buggered if I knows, meself,” the man answered. “It feels like I died and was sent down to Hell for me sins. One minute I was in one of them there MultiBooths getting a MediScan from FLORENCE. The next? I wakes up down here, just like you.”

“Where am I?” Jo demanded. “What is this place? Is this Hell? Or purgatory?”

“It's the Crims' place,” Pat told him as they shuffled off toward the mine face. “This is where they live: hundreds o'feet under the city. Things is gettin' a bit cramped down here, so they're extending the place.”

“Less of the talking there and more work!” The slave-driver cracked his whip across George's back. The tails bit deep and brought blood.

Jo took up his pick and followed the others' example, hacking at the rock face whilst some of the others came up behind with shovels and heaped the broken rock into barrows which they carted away into the cavern. Jo watched them go.

“Where are they taking that rock?” he asked.

“Buggered if I know,” his mate replied. “Can't say as I's thought about it much.”

“Why up to the surface, of course, Pat,” another laughed. “If they digs a hole in the ground the material from the hole has to go somewhere. Otherwise we'd just be filling in the blooming hole as we goes along.”

“So there is a way out of here, then!”

“Well, let's put it this way, matey, I's been here nigh on three years now and in all that time nobody but nobody has managed to escape from the mines.”

“What do they do with all the stone, then? Surely the Metropolitan Authorities must notice and think it strange when hundreds o'tons of stone keep popping up in the city?”

“Why should they? After all, that's what mines are for, isn't it?”

“But I thought you said the mines were run by the Crims?”

“Sure.”

“And the Authorities know about the Crims?”

“Course they do. They need the rock for building work and roads and such-like. The Crims provide it, in exchange for a bit of cash and the Authorities turning a blind eye to their other little operations.”

Jo was shocked. “You mean the Authorities and the Crims have a deal going between them?”

“Hey, is this guy fast or what?” one of the others laughed. “Authorities, Crims; Crims, Authorities. They all amount to much the same thing really. Sher Point is just one big open prison, matey. And every single citizen is a Convict of one sort or another, even the bleeding Lady Mayor herself. Didn't your folks teach you nothing up there, mate?

“And what's more – there's only one way out of this place. Same as there is only one way out of Sher Point itself – in a pine box. You dig?”

“Dumb ass.” Pat went one step further: “Don't you know that there ain't nothing outside Sher Point anyhow? No matter which way you dig: up, down, sideways, backwards, inwards, outwards: there's just rock, rock and more rock. Well, some places there's supposed to be oil and gas and water and coal and stuff, but it's just one ginormous hunk of rock, that's all. So it strikes me that all this talk of escape is just plum crazy talk.”

31. All hell breaks loose

No sooner had Wilson stepped into the elevator and gone on his way than all hell broke out in Grand Central, the nerve centre of Sher Point City. And a very merry Christmas to you, too!

First an incendiary device went off in one of the main thoroughfares in the commercial quarter of Sector Five-Six which drew-in all available Met response units. Then they lost a couple of netcams on the perimeter with Sector Five-Seven. It took a few minutes before it was confirmed that the reason for the failures was sabotage rather than device failure. And by the time police units were diverted to the crime scene, the real dastardly deed of the night had been carried out: Shortly after, presumably making use of the resultant “blind spot”, an explosion rocked the powerhouse, taking out most public utilities.

“Damn!” Safia cursed as the lights dipped even in Grand Central. She typed feverishly away at the keyboard in a vain attempt to divert precious resources to satellite systems in Sector Five-Six connected to ALICE initially so that the network didn't go down. Beyond that to produce a damage report and instigate repairs. Beyond that, and only then, to find out what could be discovered about the perpetrators of the attack.

32. Close to curfew

It was close to curfew and the streets of Sector Five-Six were almost deserted as Ozzi wandered onto the main thoroughfare. Reaching inside his bag he twisted the two red wires together to set the timer going, walked across the street and set his bag down beside a wheelie bin momentarily while he lit a cigarette. Then with his foot he pushed the bag under the bin and walked off, puffing away on his cigarette.

Within seconds he was spotted by a passing police skud and the officer came down close and pulled him over.

“Hey, what's happening, my man,” he asked as the officer stepped out of his machine and walked towards him, his stun pistol at the ready.

“Don't come the sweet and innocent with me, fellah,” the officer addressed him. “Keep your hands up in the air.”

“Sure thing, boss. I ain't looking for no trouble.”

“That's an East Side accent you got there, boy. Bit far from home with curfew only ten minutes away, aren't you?”

Ozzi looked at his watch. “Gee-whizz, is it that time already, officer? Why I've only got nine fifteen. Damn thing must be running slow again.”

“I said keep your hands high where I can see 'em, boy.”

While he was talking he was running his wrist-mounted detector over Ozzi's torso and down his arms and legs. “Okay, looks like you're clean.”

“So why'd you pull me over, then, boss?” Ozzi was shaking like a leaf but trying not to show it.

The officer pointed to the cigarette. “You know damn well that it's a criminal offence to smoke tobacco in public, boy, under the Protection of Public Health Act 2010.”

“Oh for Pete's sake, boss,” Ozzi cast his arms about him. There wasn't another soul within a hundred metres in either direction. The fact was, the officer simply had nothing better to do.

“You got your ID handy?”

Ozzi stuck the cigarette in his mouth and drew hard on it. If he was going to get busted for it, he might as well enjoy the damn thing. He gingerly reached in his top pocket and produced his personal smart card and handed it to the officer.

“Surely you're not gonna fine me for one dumb cigarette? Hey, I mean you can have the rest of the packet if you like: I got lots more where that came from.”

The officer nodded knowingly: “Yes, sure: straight off the black market, eh? Or the back of a freight liner?”

Where else, since the bio-engineering of tobacco had been outlawed these past twenty years?

The officer inserted the card in the system attached to his jacket, typed in a code and handed the card back.

“How much is that gonna cost me, then? Another thousand credits. Hell, I haven't even got a current account, man. Can you dig that? I mean, that's poorer than poor in anybody's book.”

The officer shook his head. “No, I just made a note of the violation, but I'll have to caution you that if you are found committing any other offence within a three month period from now, it'll be taken into consideration and you'll be penalised appropriately …”

“Fair enough, boss. That's a very humane and charitable act, if I may say so.”

“… However, I will have to confiscate the remainder. Left inside pocket, according to my detector. And you realise I'll be keeping a very close eye on you from now on.”

“Naturally,” Ozzi reflected, reluctantly reaching inside his jacket and handing over the contraband. And I hope you choke on them, he smiled through gritted teeth.

“Got a light?” the policeman asked.

What if he said “nope”? Ozzi wondered. Better not try it: that scenario didn't bode well. He handed over his lighter and watched as the officer puffed away at one of his precious cigarettes. The sucker hadn't realised yet that the things were laced with cannabis oil.

“Of course,” the officer continued: “If perchance you were able to remember any details regarding the procurement of said contraband ... well, let's just say we might be able to arrive at a mutually acceptable – um – working relationship, if you get my drift. Especially if said contraband were perchance laced with some other illicit substance such as – um – cannabis oil.”

Ozzi was growing more flustered by the minute, all the more because he wanted to be away from the scene a.s.a.p.. “Oh damn, you haven't put that down as well, have you? Look, I'll see what I can find out, okay?”

“Credit me with a little sense, lad. Rest assured that your little secret is safe with me – providing you co-operate. Anyhow, I'll speak to you later: you'd best be getting a shift on if you want to get back before curfew.” He reached in his pocket and produced a card bearing his contact details. “Just in case you have a change of heart. Oh, and if you get picked up again tonight on the way home get 'em to phone that number and I'll vouch for you. You lend me your donkey jacket and I'll buy you a carrot, as they say in the West End or someplace.”

33. Panic over

Safia sank back into her seat and breathed a deep sigh of relief once the panic was over and the repair utilities had started their programmed mopping-up procedures. Willy would be as sick as a pig to have missed out on the adrenalin rush of so much action. Not her. Sure, it was rewarding to see a good job done well, and incidents like this certainly passed the time away. But in this case, it was at best a damage limitation exercise and she was more concerned with ensuring that as few folk as possible were caught up in the incident and suffered from the consequences when the public utilities tripped out.

There were a few more minutes left on the shift so Safia thought she'd have a look at a guy Wilson had flagged for observation. There was something mighty weird about the record, though, so she decided to contact his superiors at the Met herself.

“Hi, this is Safia Lawrence here at Grand Central. I'm checking on the whereabouts of one of your officers, a Sergeant Thomas Irvine?”

“Personnel here,” a voice chipped-in: “You say 'Irvine'?”

“That's right. Hang on, I have a note of his number here: officer number 13658?”

“I'm sorry, did you say you're Mrs Safia Lawrence? Well, Mrs Lawrence, I'm sorry to say we have no record of anyone of that name here, nor the number. I'm not sure where you got that information, but it appears to be incorrect.”

“Hah, must be a gremlin in the system again,” Safia responded, pretending to laugh the incident off.

“It wouldn't be the first time, dear,” the voice returned.

“Well, I'm sorry to have troubled you, chuck.”

“You're welcome, Mrs Lawrence,” the voice lilted. “No trouble at all.”

Now that was strange. Maybe Wilson was right? Maybe it was something to do with IVY after all?'

She went back to the record on ALICE and ran through Irvine's recent routine again: The guy's a sergeant with the Met. He gets up, scoots off to work and clocks on as usual and he's just about to leave HQ for his first assignment, investigating a break-in at some down-town recreation centre when he's summoned to a briefing in the MultiBooth on Level 3 of the TransMat building. Then he simply disappears off the radar screen, as it were. Yet his absence appears to go unnoticed; he's not even filed as having gone AWOL, which has got to be bizarre. Unless, of course, he'd wiped his own record off the Met's system and done a runner? Now that might explain a thing or two.

When Willy came in at the next shift change, she'd tackled him.

“It's even stranger than that,” Wilson smiled gleefully, e-mailing her a page out of his personal log. There were six other names there. “Check those out and you'll find the same pattern. All of them work for various public utilities – according to records on ALICE. Hack into any other public record system, though, or their own personnel departments and you come up with zilch.”

“See? Dig this ...”

~~~O~~~

“Right you lot, get up!”

Ellie rolled over with a groan and buried her head under her pillow.

“Come on – let's be having you!” the woman screeched. “I haven't got all bleedin' day, you know!”

Ah, such dulcet tones. Who could it be? Could it be, perchance, that this was their beloved Housemistress, Mrs Ermintrude Fothergill?

“Grubbs!” The pillow was snatched away. “Up you get. Breakfast in half an hour – and woe betide anyone who's late! Off to the bathroom – now!”

Ellie pushed herself out of bed and stood there for a time, rubbing her eyes.

“Merry Christmas,” whispered a girl in her ear. It was Bethany Sparkes who slept in the bed next to hers. She thrust a small package into Ellie's hands. “Open it after breakfast,” she said, and trotted off to the bathroom before Ellie could say anything.

Ellie fumbled inside her locker and brought out a package of her own and placed it on Bethany's bed. It wasn't much: just a box of chocolates that she'd bought with Christmas in mind, the day she'd gone to town with Mrs Lawrence. She hadn't got any wrapping paper, but at least the paper bag looked quite pretty.

Then she noticed the pillowcase hooked over the end of her bed. At that moment, however, she was rudely interrupted. Mrs Fothergill was going round the dormitory yanking on the curtains to open them. “Are you coming, or do I have to drag you to the bathroom?”

Ellie didn't need any extra prompting. She grabbed her toiletries and pelted down the aisle.

~~~O~~~

There was an air of excitement in the dining hall that morning as they all wolfed their food down. Today was one of the few days – other than Ms Arkwright's birthday – when there would be no lessons and they were free to do whatever they wanted, within reason and within the grounds of the school, that was. A small, spindly tree stood looking forlorn in a pot near the stage, the only pathetic concession in the whole building. Ms Arkwright was not one for entering into the festive spirit – at least not outside her private quarters, that was.

As soon as Ellie had finished, she grabbed Bethany's hand and together they skipped off along the main corridor and back upstairs to the dormitory.

“I'm sorry … It's not very much,” she apologized as Bethany peered inside the paper bag on her bed, but Bethany wasn't having any of it.

“Why, that's really lovely, Ella. Thank you so much.” And she gave Ellie a big hug. “My favourites.”

“I forgot to get anything for Gareth, though, and I feel so bad,” Ellie said. “I hope he's not disappointed.”

“I got him some toy soldiers,” Bethany told him. “They used to be my brother's but you'd hardly know – he took ever such good care of them.”

Then: “Tell you what, Ella – we'll just say they're from both of us, How's that for an idea?”

Ellie breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks. That's really good of you.”

“That's what friends are for,” Bethany smiled. “Anyhow – aren't you going to open the present I got you?”

“Oh, sorry.” Ellie took the present in her hands and carefully and ceremoniously unwrapped it. There was a leather case inside. Ellie undid the press-studs.

“Wow!” It was a vanity case containing a hair brush and a matching hand mirror. She took them out and brushed her tussled hair. “Thanks, Bethany – that's so cool!”

“I'll just sneak through into the boys' dorm and give Gareth his present,” Bethany said, getting up off the bed. “And I'll tell him it's from the both of us.”

Ellie's attention now turned to the pillowcase at the bottom of her bed. It was only then that she noticed that her present had been the only one that Bethany had received, yet the girl seemed to have taken it on the chin remarkably well. Oh, if only she'd known, she could have got Bethany something far more useful than a box of chocolates. She was sure that Mrs Lawrence would have given her the money if she'd only asked.

Ellie took the pillow case and rather guiltily tipped the contents out on the bed before her.

She picked a scrunchy one wrapped in paper with little red robins on it and eagerly tore it open. It was a long woollen scarf – just the thing for playing outside.

In another, smaller package she found a pair of knitted woollen gloves. And in a third was a matching bobble hat.

Then she came to the fourth and final package in a small box. She gingerly took the lid off the box and peered inside. Good grief! Ellie couldn't believe it. It was a mobile videophone!

She pulled it out and hit the “ON” button. And there was a number stored in it. “Safia Lawrence”, it said. Oh, and to think that she hadn't even got Mrs Lawrence a simple Christmas card. In fact, for that matter, she hadn't got anyone a card.

Well, there was only one thing for it. She selected the preset phone number and hit the green “GO” button to dial out.

“Hello?” came a voice and the display sprang to life, and there was Mrs Lawrence, smiling back at her. “Oh, Ella! It's so good to see you! Hang on a moment, will you?”

The friendly, smiling face went off-screen for a few moments, then she was back.

“Merry Christmas to you,” the woman greeted her. “Are you having a good time?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs Lawrence. Merry Christmas to you, too. And thank you ever so much for all the presents – they're exactly what I needed!

“I'm sorry I didn't get you anything. I really am … I …”

“Oh, that's alright, Ella – I didn't expect anything. You know, it's only just occurred to me that you must be short of money. And I had a devil of a job getting the presents to you, let alone seeing you. By chance, I bumped into someone who does a spot of part-time cleaning at the Home, and she managed to smuggle them in.”

“Thanks. That would probably be Mrs Hardcastle. She's a very nice lady. In fact, she's the only nice lady in the whole build …”

“Fothergill!” Bethany called out, dashing back into the dormitory, cutting Ellie off in mid-sentence. The girl saw the videophone and rushed over. “Better put that away before she catches you!”

“Must dash,” Ellie said. “Fothergill's on the warpath.” And, switching the phone off, she hurriedly hid it and the charger in her bedside locker.

“Right, girls – beds made and out of the dorms! Then I want you in one of four places – in the playground or the football pitch at the back of the school; in the games room; in the library; or in the pupils' common room. Look sharp!”

~~~O~~~

Later that day, they were all in for a very big surprise.

“I am sure many of you will have heard of Professor Pendleberry,” Ms Arkwright addressed them, having called them to the hall.

“Can anyone here tell me what Professor Pendleberry's famous for, children?”

A whole host of hands shot up in the air, not least Bethany's.

“Teacher's pet!” hissed Fletcher behind her and gave her a prod up the backside with his foot.

“Yes, Pritchard?”

“He invented a new kind of dinosaur, I think, Ms Arkwright.”

“No, Pritchard, he did not. And species of dinosaur are discovered, child, not invented! Anybody else? Yes Sparkes.”

“He invented DreamScape,” Bethany called out.

“I am sorry, but I didn't quite catch you …”

“He invented DreamScape, Ms Arkwright.”

“That is correct, Sparkes. Professor Pendleberry invented DreamScape. Now, can anybody explain to us what DreamScape is?”

There were far fewer hands up now, not so much because they didn't know what DreamScape was so much as that they couldn't really explain it. Noticeably, Bethany Sparkes still had her hand held high.

“Yes, Bethany Sparkes again. Give that girl a lollipop!”

“It's like having a dream or an experience of virtual reality. That's an advanced form of computer simulation, in which a participant has the illusion of being part of an artificial environment (They all knew what that was, having once visited the seaside and been inside a virtual reality simulator) …”

“Teacher's pet … walking bloomin' encyclopaedia!”

Bethany ignored the cat calls.

“… Except that in DreamScape you're really there, in a parallel dimension …” And she went on to explain all about the time dilation, too.

“Very good, Miss Sparkes. That is close enough, I am sure,” which really meant that Ms Arkwright hadn't much of a clue herself and was grateful that someone else had done the donkey work for her.

“Well now, children, as you no doubt know, the latest DreamScape devices went on sale in the shops this Christmas. And since it is the festive season, the kind Professor Pendleberry has sent us some very special Christmas presents …”

The hall was now filled with “Ooh!”s and “Ah!”s.

“… He and his staff at Virtuoso have sent each and every one of you your very own DreamScape wristband.”

“Wow!” went the children. “Wizard!” “Really cool!” “Wicked!”

There had to be a catch, surely? That was Ellie's immediate reaction on hearing the news, and judging by the looks she exchanged with Bethany, she wasn't the only one to smell a rat.

“So, I want you to file out in an orderly manner, starting with the little ones at the front and working row by row to the eldest ones at the back. And as you leave, Mrs Finchley-Smythe and Mr Harris will be handing out your wristbands.”

“Yes, Fletcher, of course you only get one each, you ungrateful ruffian!”

“Please, Ms Arkwright.” Someone held their hand up. “Are we allowed to wear them?”

“Well, of course you are, silly. That is what they are designed for.”

“Are we allowed to keep them forever or just over Christmas, Ms Arkwright?”

“Yes, Wrightson, they are yours to wear and keep forever – well, as long as they last with the treatment some of you give your precious possessions, anyway! Now do get a move on.”

34. Why so happy?

Zak Wilson came in the next day with a spring in his step.

“Hey Safia, how you doing?” he enquired with a lilt as he swung the chair round and sat down at his desk.

She was quite taken aback to see Wilson with such a happy, smiling face. Maybe the MediCred therapy Thelma was receiving for the change she was going through was taking effect at long last. Their marriage had been bordering on the rocks these last two or three years, and most of it could be put down to quite readily preventable – or treatable – hormonal problems. But when it came to women's gynaecological problems they really still hadn't got much of a clue. They knew more about the inner workings of ancient dinosaurs than they did about women's problems.

“Fine thanks, Willy. And you? Things going well with you and Thelma?”

“Couldn't be better!” he enthused.

Curiosity got the better of her. “So what makes you so bright eyed and bushy-tailed this morning, Willy?

“If that's not a rude question to ask?” she added, as an after-thought. “I don't mean to pry.”

“Not at all: you're quite right about the therapy Thelma's been receiving, of course.”

Safia was quite taken aback. The man had almost stolen the words from the tip of her tongue.

Safia had a feeling that there was more to it than this, however. She'd lay money on the reason for Wilson's jovial spirits being that he'd just had his virgin flight in DreamScape.

~~~O~~~

Precisely how the thief found out about Ellie's videophone was a mystery. Most likely it was through a casual conversation being overheard – rumours spread like wildfire in the Home. But it didn't really matter how, only that it had happened.

Ellie was devastated when she found the phone missing and she had to search the bed and her locker several times before the truth had finally sunk in. She'd been about to phone Mrs Lawrence to ask her how things were going and to tell her all about her friends Bethany and Gareth.

“I'll just have to pluck up the courage and go and see Ms Arkwright,” she told Bethany. There was one good thing about Ms Arkwright – her undeniable ability to deal with troublemakers.

“No, no, no!” Bethany gasped. “You can't do that. Don't you know that pupils aren't allowed their own phones. Not only will you get into trouble, the old bag will confiscate the phone as well, if – or rather when – she finds it.”

“I'm sure it was Fletcher,” Gareth volunteered. “I saw him and his two cronies Rees and Mogg hanging around the dorms just before breakfast.”

“Yes, I noticed that they were late,” Bethany observed. When someone was late for breakfast and the eagle-eyed Ms Arkwright was on duty, there was such generally such a kerfuffle that you couldn't help but notice.

“Leave it to me,” said Gareth cryptically, tapping the side of his nose. “I'll see what I can find out.”

Minutes later, there was one hell of a commotion coming from the direction of the boys' dormitory and Ellie and Bethany pushed through the mêlée of girls to see what was going on.

“What's occurring, chaps?” someone asked.

At that moment, Fletcher came running through heading towards the boys' bathroom, his tail between his legs and clutching his nose. There was a stream of blood flowing from it and it looked as if it might have been broken.

Then the crowd parted and Gareth came strolling through with something clutched tightly in his hands. He handed the things to Ellie. True to his word, Gareth had got her phone and charger back.

Ellie was excited – and at the same time she was horrified. Not for herself but for Gareth. Clearly he knew the trouble he'd be in as well as she did – and yet he'd done it all the same. She hugged him tightly and whispered words of encouragement.

“Well,” the boy said, a little embarrassed by all the fuss. “I'd better go. And you'd best hide that somewhere else.”

There was no need to ask where he was going. Head held high, Gareth was going to do the honourable thing, which was to present himself to Ms Arkwright before he was summoned.

~~~O~~~

When Gareth arrived at the Director's office, he stood there for a moment taking slow, deep breaths to calm his nerves. He'd held his head deliberately high in the dorms, but if the truth be known, even then he was quaking in his boots.

“Come!” the voice commanded as he rapped hesitantly on the stained wooden door.

His stomach lurched uncomfortably as he entered, and for a moment Gareth feared that his bowels would uncontrollably evacuate.

“Excuse me a minute, Miss,” he gasped and made a bee-line for the nearest bathroom.

By the time he'd returned, Matron was already there waiting for him with Fletcher, still clutching his nose in a big, blood-stained handkerchief, and he didn't have to explain anything, he only had to listen to Fletcher's nasal protestations and to the long tirade of abuse from Ms Arkwright.

She caned them both over her desk without further ado and sent Fletcher away with Matron. But for him she reserved the worst punishment – a week in the cupboard under the stairs.

“And you want to consider yourself lucky, my lad!” she spat. “If I had chosen instead to involve the police, you might have found yourself facing a charge of grievous bodily harm and a stretch in an institution for young offenders!”

There was little point in complaining that Fletcher had hit him first and that he'd lashed out only in self-defence. One glance from Fletcher had said it all: you keep quiet about me stealing the phone and I won't grass you and Ellie up for having the thing in the first place. He'd nodded, and they had achieved a silent understanding.

So, all in all, things hadn't gone nearly as badly as they could have done, and for that he was grateful.

~~~O~~~

Alas, however, that wasn't the end of the matter, for a little later that day someone slipped a note under Ms Arkwright's door – some say that it was one of Fletcher's envious confederates who was not in on the silent deal struck by Gareth and Fletcher.

And within the hour, Ms Arkwright had walked coolly from the girls' dormitory clutching the mobile videophone in her hand.

“My office, Grubbs,” she said as she passed the common room. And that was the last that Ellie saw of her treasured phone, her only means of contact with Mrs Lawrence in the outside world.

“That's sick,” Bethany agreed when Ellie told her of the affair, showing her the bruises on her backside to prove it. “That's really sick.” And when Ellie told Mrs Hardcastle, the cleaning lady, she was equally horrified. But like Ellie, there was absolutely nothing that she could do about it. That's how bad things really were at the SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children.

35. The security meeting

In a crowded office close to the nerve centre of Sher Point, they were studying netcam footage taken from the vicinity of the Employment Service in Sector Five-Six with particular interest.

“There you are. See that? Wind the tape back a tad, please IVY,” requested Special Agent Red Moore. “Okay. Now roll it frame by frame ... Hold it there.”

“See the guy set his bag down to light a cigarette in a moment? Can you zoom in closer? That's fine. Can't quite see what's going on but – there! – he walks off without it. I mean, how dumb can you be? And, as you'll see in the later footage and confirmed by the Fire Chief, that was where the seat of the fire was located.”

“Can you ID the perpetrator?” someone asked Moore.

“We already have, and this is all the evidence we need. As luck would have it, two minutes later a passing cop pulled him over for smoking in a public place, would you believe?”

“Five minutes later, just out of shot of his skud-mounted netcam, the officer's lying face down on the sidewalk in a pool of blood.”

“You'll be glad to know, however, that the new rapid response paramedic unit was on the scene within three minutes, signalled by a bio-life sensor in his skud, and that he's making a good recovery.”

“And the perpetrator's ID?” Madam Chairman reminded Moore, bringing him back on track.

“Oh yeah. Here's the guy. IC1 male, 22 years of age. Name of Edward Littlejohn. Street name: Ozzi. Absconded Rehab twelve months ago; been on the run ever since. No fixed abode. No known associates of recent standing. Suspected to be hanging out in the old town quarter of Sector Five-Seven. Probably moved on and in hiding since the assault. We don't go down Five-Seven much since the Crims have such a hold on the place.”

Someone raised an eyebrow.

“Every skud that's been in there these last three years has been torched or ended up ambushed, sending out a call for urgent backup.”

“You mean to tell me that parts of the city are no-go areas even to the Sher Point Metropolitan Police Service?” enquired the citizens' representative. “Why, I find that quite incredible.”

“Yes sir. Now that may news to you, since you're new on this committee – and it's not something I'm particularly proud of. But, nevertheless, it's really common knowledge. The fact is, it suits everyone – not least our respected Lady Mayor – to have the critters penned into certain sectors of the city. That's what democracy is all about: containment and venting, not eradication. Most of the time they spend their time wasting each other. Now, if they were dotted around in mainstream society ... hell, then we'd really be up the proverbial creek.”

“So what exactly do you propose to do about this anarchist?” the Citizens' Rep asked, pursuing the issue. “I presume you'll circulate details and that the next time he shows his ugly face you'll pick him up? I thought that was the whole idea behind these new, vastly expensive smart cards you had the city purchase?”

Special Agent Moore let out a deep sigh. “It seems that the Crims have found a way of partially shielding the devices. They sew some kind of makeshift electromagnetic shield around them: a kind of inner pocket with a fine wire wound round it through which an alternating current is passed. Such a shield reduces the effective range of the beacon from, let's say one kilometre to perhaps five or ten metres. Sure, local police units can pick them up if they get in close enough, but not the main grid connected to IVY via ALICE by which their position is pinpointed.”

“You're working on that, then?”

“Our boffins are working flat-out on that one, believe me. They're bench-testing a more sensitive receiver and – this is classified information, by the way – we're also putting in a sub-network of covert pickups at strategic intervals. You see, the Crims have got their own intelligence-gathering network and they've already figured out where a lot of the main detectors are and from that they've been able to deduce likely spots for the rest. In other words, they've already learnt how to go about their business steering well out of range of the detectors.”

He cleared his throat and took a sip of water. “Anyway, to get back to the incendiary device. Shortly before the explosion, we received intelligence from an operative who's been shadowing one of the anarchists to the effect that an attack was planned for that night.”

“But clearly you did nothing about it.”

“To be honest, high profile as the incendiary attack might have been, it was only really a ruse to divert police units, though admittedly we didn't know this at the time. Our agent is close, but not close enough: we desperately need people inside these groups. And so we can't afford to jeopardise that covert operation at this sensitive stage.

“As I said, the incendiary was merely a ruse and this Ozzi chap is just some two-bit huckster. It's the Crims who planted the plastic at the powerhouse that interest us – and the bigger fish behind that, supplying and financing the anarchists' little operation and taking advantage of the system 'downtime' to hack into the public utilities and commerce.

“I realise how things must look to you right now, but the fact is that we now have an unprecedented opportunity to get close to the real sharks – the brains behind the real racketeering and criminal activity in the city. The anarchists are just minnows; this Ozzi chap is small fry. In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if the Crims don't take him out themselves, to seal a potential crack in their defences, as it were.

“On the other hand, if we were to catch him and reel him in they'd switch their codes; switch meeting places; switch the people in their active cells. They'd simply clam up tighter than a duck's arse and wait it out until we forget the matter; and spring up somewhere else when and where we were least expecting them.

“They operate in cells, you see, and they get to know as little as possible about one-another: least of all each other's real names and addresses. They arrive at staged intervals on anonymous coded orders; they're already togged-out with Balaclava masks; they change their identities frequently; they don't mix socially; they can exist as 'Sleepers' – apparently decent, honest, law-abiding citizens for years, even decades and be activated at a moment's notice. They have certain public faces who act as fronts for their organisation, people who are well programmed but actually know next-to-nothing about the details of the active cells ... You can see what a monster we're up-against ...”

That shut the Citizens' Rep up real good, for a while at least.

36. One last draw

The patrol officer had taken one last draw on the cigarette and tossed the butt in the gutter when the blast hit him squarely in the back of the neck. He lurched forward over the bonnet of the police skud, then slithered down to the ground to lay there motionless in a pool of blood.

“Jeez, man! What the hell are you doing?” Ozzi demanded as a masked figure reached out and dragged him off the sidewalk and into the shadows.

An alarm was going off in the skud now and it let loose a volley of tesla balls in their direction. A ricochet caught Ozzi in the arm and sent him reeling. The man dragged him to his feet.

“What the hell am I doing?” the man asked him. It was Brooster, one of the other cell members. Ra must have had him shadowed in case anything went wrong.

“What the hell am I doing? I'm not the retard who just got himself picked up for smoking in public just minutes away from planting an incendiary device, now am I?

“Come on! Get the hell out of here,” the stockily-built figure demanded, thrusting Ozzi before him down a narrow service alley between the buildings.

Once they were clear, Brooster drew Ozzi aside and took a look at Ozzi's arm which was hanging limply. It looked like the tesla ball had damaged the muscle and he'd lost a bit of blood. One thing about tesla fire: the heat tended to cauterise the wounds.

“This is where our ways part, friend,” he announced. “As soon as you get in, spray the area with some Second Skin. You got some, I presume?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“But tomorrow morning, bright and early you'd better find yourself a MultiBooth,” Brooster warned him – “If you don't, you'll lose that arm.”

“Right. Yeah, thanks man,” Ozzi waved, staggering off toward home clutching the affected limb to stem the blood flow.

~~~O~~~

Meanwhile, at SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children, Mrs Hardcastle, the cleaning lady was coming on duty and she headed for the pupils' common room. “Sorry, my lovelies, but you'll have to clear out of here for a while – I need to hoover the floor.”

They all dutifully filed out, some of them moaning at her under her breath.

“Yes, I know,” she called after Fletcher and his confederates: “I'm an old bag. But at least I wouldn't sink to the level of certain sewer rats! Mentioning no names but looking in certain directions.”

Mogg flushed bright red and Mrs Hardcastle knew in that instant exactly who'd been behind the confiscation of Ellie's videophone. And by the sudden appearance of understanding on the girl's face, she knew as well.

“Not you, my love. You can stay and help me put some of this paper into a black sack.” Fletcher and his friends had spent most of the late afternoon flying paper darts at one-another across the room. It didn't take long to clear the debris with the two of them at it.

“Here.” She fished in her pocket and produced a paper bag. The girl took it, a quizzical look on her face, and peered inside. No, it wasn't her phone – but yes, it was a pad of stationary with pretty flowers on it and a packet of matching envelopes. “Where there's a will, there's generally a way. Any time you want to contact that Mrs Lawrence of yours, you just write a letter and give it to me. I'll make sure it's posted. No need to worry about the money for stamps – I always keep plenty in my purse.

“Oops! Nearly forgot. Ms Arkwright is always mooching around the office and sniffing at the incoming post, so here's my home address. Send it to Mrs Lawrence. She can use that if she wants to write back to you, and if I get any replies, I'll bring them in myself.” She handed the girl a scrap of paper with an address written on it.

“Oh, that's so kind of you, Mrs Hardcastle,” the girl thanked her, looking as pleased as Punch.

“It's a pleasure, my love. It really is a pleasure,” she cooed. “Now off you trot, there's a good girl.”

37. Emergency treatment

Ozzi stepped nervously into the MultiBooth, removed his jacket and sat down at the control console. He fished in his pocket, ruffled through half a dozen personnel smart cards, selected one and inserted it into the machine.

“Greetings, Oswald Mitchell, this is ROSE.”

A netcam sprang out of the console on a slinky cord and looked him up and down.

“You don't look too good. Patching you through to FLORENCE for emergency medical assistance.”

“Hello, this is FLORENCE. Welcome to the MediScan facility of the Sher Point Metropolitan Health Service.”

The probe zoomed in close.

“You appear to have a critical blast wound to your upper left arm. Please remove your vest, sit back and relax while we administer therapy.”

As FLORENCE spoke, cushioned restraints emerged from the framework of the seat and gently tightened, then his arm was swung out on a boom and positioned so that the medical instruments could access the affected limb.

Ozzi felt a slight prick in his buttock as the system administered a general anaesthetic and a probe came out of the fascia of the console and clamped over his face to maintain his breathing. Within a count of three, Ozzi was unconscious and the medical accessories went to work repairing the damaged tissue.

38. A new arrival

The shift was over and Jo Pestachi and the crew were just settling down to recover during the rest period when the goons brought in the newcomer, drugged up to the eyeballs by the look of him.

A few minutes later he began to come round and all eyes were on him. They were going through one of those depressive phases as a group when they could think of nothing new of any significance to say to one-another, and here was a new guy who maybe had stories to tell which they hadn't yet heard.

“Welcome to Hell,” Pat greeted the kid. “So what brings you here?”

Ozzi rubbed his eyes and peered around him into the gloom, his eyes not yet fully adjusted to the dimly-lit cavern.

Suddenly he was wide awake. This place kind of hit you like that. “Where am I?” he asked innocently enough.

His words echoed around the cavern. “Where am I? Where am I? Am I? Am I? I? I?”

“Where am I?” they whined. “Where am I?” until the whole cavern was filled with the reverberations.

“Stop it! Stop it!”

“Top it! Top it!” the words came back.

He clutched his head in his hands, trying to block out the cacophony.

The others in the chain gang clapped and whooped and rattled their chains.

“Leave the poor kid alone, he's one of us, remember,” Jo urged them. “And the last thing we need is another crazy person in the crew.” The more efficiently they dug, the more rations they received – and the converse. Besides, they'd gone too far teasing one of the other newcomers and they'd had to suffer two weeks of his insane jabberings before he finally topped himself.

“Yeah, lay off him, will you?” George Klein enjoined. Apart from anything, he was trying to snatch a bit of sleep. “We're all in the same boat down here and if we're to survive this without getting totally shipwrecked, it'd help if we all pulled in the same frigging direction!”

The crew hushed up. They'd taken quite a liking to George and they'd learnt – often the hard way – to have a healthy respect for Jo Pestachi. He was a nice enough guy, but you didn't mess with Jo and get away with it. He was Top Dog of this rag-bag crew.

“So, what's yer name and whatcha do to deserve a vacation here, kid?”

The crew were all ears.

“The name's Oswald Mitchell.” He held out a hand but nobody shook it. “My friends call me Ozzi. I'm a private in the SP-PLA.”

“What's the SP-PLA when it's at home, boy?” asked one of the old timers.

“The Sher Point People's Liberation Army. We're ...”

“... A bunch of thugs, anarchists and sad bastards based in Sector Five-Seven,” someone explained on his behalf.

The old man looked at him long and hard. “Terr'rist, huh? One of them there varmints what scares the living daylights outa decent, law-abiding folks and maims inn'cent citizens?”

He rose to his feet menacingly. “We don't go much for terr'rists down here, sonny. We got a code of conduct and ethics to maintain, you know.”

Someone pulled the old man down. “Let's not be forgetting, old timer, that we're all down here on account of one misdeed or another. Or in your case, a whole string of them. Now why was it you were taken down, I wonder? Let me see if I can remember …”

The old man sat there gnashing his toothless gums.

“… Oh yeah: killing your old girl, wasn't it?”

“I was sorely provoked. The woman was a bitch through and through.”

“Still, I'm sure she didn't deserve being chopped up into little pieces, now did she?”

That shut the old man up good and proper.

“You mean this is a prison labour camp?” Ozzi wanted to know.

“Sure is, son. Hey, fellahs – I see we got ourselves a real bright spark! And this is where they send the poor bastards who just can't be rehabilitated. The end of the line, boy. The end of the line. This is the Last Chance Saloon.”

“We call it Hell down here,” one of the others informed him. “Abandon hope all ye who enter here. Sher Point topsides? Why that's paradise compares to what we have to endure down under.”

“But I'm only here for a while, right? I mean, they can't give you that long for a bit of arson. That can't be worth more than five or six years max. Less with hard labour, surely?”

Jo Pestachi shook his head. “Kid, you been reading too many fairytales. Time you grew up, son, and faced the real world. Tell him, Seth.”

The old man grinned through rotten teeth. “What year is it again?”

“2020, old timer. You asked me that this morning, remember?”

“Well now, let me see.” He counted out the years under his breath, using his fingers. “Fact is, I been down here nigh on ten years now and in all that time only six folk have ever made it out of here.”

“Really? You mean there's a way out?”

They all laughed raucously – even George who'd asked pretty much the same naive question a few weeks back. Jo patted the kid on the back. “Hey, kid. I'm getting to like you already. You got a real sense of humour!”

He looked at the old man with a twinkle and a tear in his eye. “Tell him, Seth.”

“Ozzi? That's your name, right? Well, Ozzi, the simple facts of the matter is – the only way outa this place is in a pine box. Well, in a black body bag if the truth be known. The goons just ain't got no respect for honourable, God-fearing Crims these days.”

You could see the colour draining from the kid's face as the old man's words registered.

“B-but that can't be true!” he stammered. “P-P-PRUNELLA made a deal with me.”

“Who's P-P-PRUNELLA when she's at home?”

“She's the face for the Metropolitan Police Service.”

“Face?” The old man appeared perplexed by the newfangled terminology.

“She kinda fronts the thing.”

“Like a desk clerk, you mean?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Police service, you say. With women and the like?” He shook his head. “In my day it was called the Metropolitan Police Force. They didn't fanny about, neither: they enforced the law.”

“But she said I could either go up before a judge and take the traditional route, or I could be put through the new DreamScape system they've been working on and be back at my desk, rehabilitated within ten minutes.”

Maybe DreamScape rehabilitation therapy didn't work for everyone? Or maybe he'd been tricked?

George smiled. “That's the yarn they spun me, too, lad,” he said.

The old man's brow was furrowed. “DreamScape? What the hell's the fool talking about? Sounds like gibberish to me. DreamScape? Is that some newfangled drug or something?”

George did his best to explain, but you could tell it was all beyond the older ones. DreamScape was an experience that went beyond words. If you'd experienced it, you knew what it was like. You know, like if you'd eaten strawberry jam, you knew what it tasted like and you could say things about it to other people who'd eaten it, like “Yum-yum! It's sweet and fruity.” But if you hadn't experienced DreamScape, no amount of jawing about it could convey any real understanding. It was quite as simple as that.

You could often tell the folks who'd been through a DreamScape session, too. There was something different about them, though it was difficult to say exactly what. It was some kind of mutual recognition; almost like a flashback.

What was it C.S. Lewis had once written about the realm of Narnia in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe? “Don't mention it to anyone else unless you find that they've had adventures of the same sort themselves. What's that? How will you know? Oh, you'll know all right. Odd things they say – even their looks – will let the secret out. Keep your eyes open. Bless me, what do they teach them at these schools?”

39. A model prisoner

Jo Pestachi had proved to be something of a model prisoner and he'd been moved up-top to help shift the rubble from the trucks at the mine entrance to the heap. The job was a piece of cake compared to what his old buddies had to put up with down below. Some of the old timers had become so institutionalised they wouldn't know what to do if they did gain their freedom.

Not Jo, though. He'd simply been biding his time, lulling the guards into a false sense of security. They'd even given him a set of keys for a lot of the buildings on the site, though not of course to the outer gates. The gates and the perimeter fence were manned round the clock by security guards – and they were all heavily armed.

When Jo saw the trucks coming in that day, though, he decided it was time to make a break for freedom. He waited as the bulldozers filled them up and they began to leave one by one, then he left his work station and snuck round the side of the equipment shacks. When the driver went to relieve himself behind a tree, he snatched up the sack cloth he had with him, raced across the yard and clambered aboard the back of the lorry. Once inside, he did his best to cover himself up with the sacking and raked as much rubble over himself as he could. Then they were off.

“Hold it there,” called a gravelly voice.

The lorry ground to a halt and Jo stiffened.

It was Hendricks, one of the gate guards.

Jo could hear someone clambering up on the far side of the lorry now. Jo squashed himself down into the rubble and lay still, hardly daring to breathe.

“Okay. You're clear to go,” the guard concluded, jumping down to the ground, then they were off again.

40. Reassignment

Wilson was feverishly keying something in when Safia came on duty.

“Hi Willy,” she greeted him. “Got any further with that guy Klein?” she asked.

“False alarm,” he replied. “I don't know what happened – some kind of hiccough in the system, I guess – but anyhow, he's back at his desk beavering away.”

Someone else entered the room and went to sit at her desk.

“Hey, what is this?” she asked.

Wilson looked at her half-apologetically. “This is Pearson.”

“Yeah? So?”

Wilson got up from his desk and sauntered over. “I'm sorry, Safia. but you're to be re-assigned. Orders from the professor.”

“From who? What the hell has Pendleberry got to do with Grand Central?”

“This is John Pearson,” Wilson said. “He's your new replacement.”

“Why?”

Wilson shrugged. “Maybe all the snooping around you were doing.”

“The snooping around I was doing? Let's get this straight – I was the one who told you that you were swimming in dangerous waters, Willy.”

Suddenly she noticed the DreamScape wristpad he was wearing. They both were.

Wilson reached for something in his pocket and produced a wristpad. The new man was out of his chair and had her in an arm lock. “It's alright Ms Lawrence,” he said. “We're not going to hurt you, but it's useless to struggle.”

Wilson was fumbling to put the DreamScape device round her wrist now.

“What the hell are you doing?!” she screamed at the men.

“It's okay. Just relax. You'll feel a lot better in a few moments.”

Safia tried to break free from the man's grasp but he had her in a vice-like grasp.

She brought her foot up and raked her heel down the man's shin, bringing him to his knees, then swung round and kicked him between the legs. He went down clutching his groin.

Wilson was coming at her now, so she side-stepped and made a dash for the door.

~~~O~~~

Slug had just re-appeared at the camp the Miscreants – or the Sher Point People's Liberation Army as they were now more formally known – had set up in Sector Five-Six. They'd taken over a terrace of derelict houses.

“Any luck?” asked Lemmie. Their food supplies were running low.

Slug nodded. “Got a whole truck load of chickens from the abattoir. “Look nice and plump. Only thing is, they still need plucking. And before that they need their necks wringing …”

Oh, well. Beggars couldn't be choosers. “Good work, Slug.”

They helped herd the chickens into one of the empty houses while they figured out what to do with them, and meanwhile Slug had sat down to relax in front of the log fire. He fished something out of his pocket. “Ever seen one of these gizmos before?”

He produced something that looked like a watch, only with a more bulky mechanism attached to the wristband. And it was blood-stained.

“Can't say as I have,” replied Gaffa. “Looks like something you wear on your wrist, though. Sure as hell ain't no watch. What do you think, Lemmie?” He tossed the object over.

“Apparently, whatever it is, almost anyone who's anyone in Sher Point is wearing one,” Slug said.

“It's a DreamScape transponder,” Lemmie told them and she looked with some disdain at the blood stains on the wristband.

“Sorry. Had to cut the wrist off one of the guards at the abattoir. Couldn't seem to get the thing off.”

Lemmie pressed a catch on the side of the device and the wristband sprang open.

“Oh, that's how you do it.” Brains and beauty, that one.

“Easy when you know how,” she pointed out. Well, no prizes for guessing who she'd be volunteering when it came to the task of strangling the chickens.

“So what's a DreamScape thingamajig, when it's at home?” Ra wanted to know.

She told them, but they appeared not to be much the wiser.

“You sure it's not some sort of tracking device?” asked one of the others. “Pretty dumb bringing the thing back here if it is.”

Lemmie assured them that it was not and tossed it back to Slug.

“Anyone here want to try it on?” Slug asked, not wishing to be the first in line. He wasn't too sure about the thing. Messing with people's dreams – with their heads – might cause a person to throw a wobbly or do something embarrassing that they might later regret.

There were no takers.

“Oh, what the hell.” Slug slipped the thing over his wrist and clicked the wristband shut. He waited, expecting something to happen, like fireworks going off in his head. Nothing did happen. “Damn contraption doesn't seem to be working,” he complained.

“It's probably out of range,” Lemmie volunteered. She was a regular Miss Know-It-All.

“How'd you mean?”

“These things work like cell phones,” she told them. “When you're in range of one of the base stations in the network, it's able to communicate with a central computer system. But here in the Outreaches, most likely it's out of range and you can't get a signal.”

“You sure they couldn't notice it was missing and trace us?” Ra asked. “I hear that when someone uses a cell phone they can trace the thing by making a note of the cell in the network that's responding to the call and the relative strength of the signal picked up by nearby cells.”

She shrugged. “I shouldn't think they'd bother. There must be millions of the things out there by now and they're bound to be mislaid or stolen all the time.”

~~~O~~~

Of course, what Lemmie hadn't counted on was that back at the central computer there were trained operators who made it their business to keep track of the people wearing the devices. It was a mammoth task and all they could really pick up on were the anomalies.

“Say, Bart,” one of them said. “I think we've got a problem here. Keep picking up an intermittent reading from a wristpad. Just about out of range in the Outreaches.”

“So?” This was maybe a little unusual, but nothing to get heated up about. It wasn't their job to monitor criminal activity in the metropolis.

“Well, I did a bit of checking and found out that the device is registered to a guy who works as a guard at some abattoir.”

“Big deal. Maybe he's doing a bit of moonlighting? Slipping the odd side of beef to the Crims over the wire in Sector Five-Six?” Such nocturnal trafficking was not unknown.

His colleague was undaunted. “It turns out that the registered owner was butchered last night in a raid on the plant. They made off with a truck load of live chickens.

“Hah! Animal Liberation Front!” his colleague laughed. “OK, so it sounds interesting, but criminal activity isn't our domain. Send the details through to Grand Central if you really must. Let them deal with it. Anyhow, I'm off for a quick fag break – cover for me, will you?”

41. Back home

“Huw? Huw!” Safia called as she dashed into the house.

Huw came through from the lounge and looked at her. “Whatever is the matter, Safia?” he asked.

His friend Charles followed him through

“There's something wrong with those DreamScape pads,” she said and tried to explain what had happened at the control room, but the two of them seemed so distant. They didn't seem to share her concern. Then when Huw reached up to hold her arm, she saw something up his sleeve and realized that he, too, was still wearing one of the new wristpads, even though they'd agreed that he should limit his use.

“I'll tell you what I'm going to do,” he said. “I'm going to call Doctor Belcher at MediCred and have him come over. You're obviously quite distraught.”

Out of the corner of her eye Safia saw Charles creeping up on her, a wristpad in his hand. She ducked away and ran for the door. Charles began to run after her, but Huw called him back.

“No, it's okay, Charles. Save your energy. Just put out an All Points Bulletin on her. Our friends in the police service will have her picked up in no time.”

Safia rushed outside and dived into her car. Two of her neighbours ran across the road and tried to get in the passenger door, but she managed to insert the smart card in the ignition and engage the central locking in time. They were banging on the windscreen now, trying to break the glass.

She started the engine and sped away down the road just as a police patrol car was pulling up at the house. The car stopped momentarily, then came after her.

The police skud had its lights flashing and was gaining fast. She knew that there was no way to outrun the thing.

She hit the reverse thrust and swung the car into a sharp right-hander, heading for the outskirts. One thing that she'd learnt working in Grand Central was that the police never went into Sector Five-Six.

The perimeter fence was looming up ahead and behind her, the police skud. Safia activated the front shield manually, braced herself and rammed straight into the perimeter fence. The car shuddered violently as it battered down the wire mesh and careered across the road. Then, at the last moment, just as the car hit the wall of a building on the far side of the road, she ejected.

The car erupted in a ball of flame and Safia lost consciousness and came down a short distance away.

~~~O~~~

Ellie was sitting in the pupils' common room with her head buried in her book The Dreamwalkers which she'd started reading through for a second time. It was amazing how much she'd missed the first time through. In fact, when she read certain passages it was as if she'd never read them that way at all before. The book almost seemed to have changed in the intervening period, which was weird. She could only imagine that in reality she had learnt something in that time and that she was now reading other, deeper meanings – reading second and third lessons if you like – into the stories and the narratives. It was like … like skinning an onion – that was what it was.

She'd just come across a great joke:

One cow said to another: “Hey! What do you think of all this Mad Cow Disease I've been reading about?”

“Don't ask me,” replied the other: “I'm a sheep.*”

*or a helicopter, in another version of this joke.

Mull it over, or sleep on it – but don't get in a whirl.

There was another one:

The Emperor had just gone out and bought himself one of the latest gizmos at Curry's: a virtual reality play centre.

“Caruthers!” he bellowed, after spending some time struggling to suit-up. “Give one a hand here, damn it, man!”

Caruthers looked askance.

“I don't know how to tell you this, your High-and- Mightiness, but as I see it your chief problem is not in getting the virtual reality helmet on....”

“No?!” the Emperor spluttered. “Then what, in your humble opinion, is the problem here, pray? Spit it out. I haven't got all day, you know. Got the Grand Parade this afternoon and one has to look ones best.”

“Alas, Sire, I fear it's more a matter of getting your present helmet off.”

The Emperor shook his head sadly (and had a furtive glance in the mirror just to be sure). “Remind me to have the head shrink up your dosage, Caruthers. We really can't be doing with this, old chap.”

And there was that super riddle again:

A seeker was travelling along a road in search of a Teacher when he came to a branch in the road. Down one of these paths, he had been told, was the house of the Real Sufi; down the other, the house of the False.

Two knights took alternate daily turns to stand guard over the way ahead.

The knights knew which path was which, but as a test the seeker was only allowed to ask one question before making his choice; and in response to a question one of the knights would tell the truth, the other would tell a lie, depending on who was on duty that day.

“Ask your question,” commanded the knight....

The question is – “what question would you ask the knight?”

Ellie had been thinking about that riddle every since she'd read when she'd first got the book. And now she knew the answer. She checked to see if she was right.

“If I were to ask tomorrow which path leads to the Real Sufi Teacher, what would I be told?”

“The path to the left,” the knight replied.

“Then I choose the path to the right.”

Yes! She was right! Whoopee!

There was a poem, too, entitled “Soul Food”:

In every grain of sand

In the palm of my right hand

In the sleazy brothel bed

In the lowly cattle shed

In the slate-grey cloudy sky

In the frown of the passer-by

Behind the greasepaint smiles

And the drunkard on the tiles

In the salivating dogs of war

In the troubadour's chansons d'amour

Idly eyeing an opportunist fly

Watching life passing me by

In the heated climax of lust

In patience and in trust

Reading between the lines

Listening to my own whines

In a children's fairytale

In the morning junk mail

In the two-bit comic's joke

Meeting common or Garden folk

- Here's food enough for every fool

Who ever set out to find

What it was they were looking for,

Or what there was to find.

But what really gave her an awful feeling in the pit of her stomach, for some reason was this strange passage:

Memo from: Distant Operations Command (Doc), Zone Five

To: Resident Workers and Visiting Field Representatives, Transit Camp 312.567D.

The Council has reviewed recent reports voicing strong concerns about imminent upheavals in your Sector. This will involve widespread social and environmental instability and inevitable loss of life.

In light of the dangers of remaining in your current work settings, the Council recommends that all non-essential staff be evacuated within the next three to four glumps. Though this course of action is not mandatory, it is strongly advised.

Those of you who are unable or unwilling to embark with the first wave will have the opportunity to evacuate at a later date. Please note that after this time, however, the Council will not be able to guarantee the availability of transport for some considerable time.

Please respond with your intended action.

If you choose to remain here, then please provide a detailed analysis of your personal survival plan.

If you choose to evacuate at this time, please indicate the kind of environment in which you would prefer to be re-homed and what materials you wish to take with you. Please be aware that space will be limited and that the transportation of certain materials is prohibited.

In addition, as space is at such a premium, you should be advised that the transport provided will not be sufficient to take all of you in the first wave. Places will be assigned on a merit basis.

NB: It is in your interests therefore to provide in your reply, if you are able, a thorough and objective self-evaluation.

Further details to follow.

Transmission ends.

I mean, that had to be a joke, right? Didn't it? And yet there was another part of her, somewhere deep down inside that was altogether more worried about the terrible plight that she and the human race were in, seeing this not as some kind of joke, but rather a warning or a wake up call.

~~~O~~~

“Head still buried in a book, Grubbs?” It was Ms Arkwright, doing the rounds. The nosey old bat never seemed to be off-duty. “Is that the only pastime you have?”

Ellie put on an innocent smile and closed the book. Ms Arkwright didn't notice her slip the pen into her pocket. The truth was, between readings, she was in the middle of writing a letter to Mrs Lawrence, under the cover of the book.

“I see that you are not wearing your wristband, Grubbs …”

So? Was there a law compelling her to wear the thing? Why should she when she was forbidden to have something far more useful – the videophone that Mrs Lawrence had given her? What was it Father called it – bigotry? Besides, that was one of the things she wanted Mrs Lawrence's advice about. Then she'd decide whether to wear the thing or not. Ellie couldn't quite put her finger on the exact, logical reasons she felt uncomfortable about DreamScape, but she had a feeling it wasn't such a good idea. And quite often her intuitions proved correct in the long run. There was a lot in The Dreamwalkers about using your intuition, too. Not in so many words, maybe, but that was what a lot of the book was about deep down.

“Sorry, Ms Arkwright,” she said at length. “I'd forgotten all about it.” She pulled the wristband from her pocket and pretended to put it on.

“Allow me,” the woman said, marching over to assist her.

Ellie pulled away. “It's alright, thank you, Ms Arkwright – I can manage. Really.”

“No, no, no, my dear child,” Ms Arkwright said. “I insist.” And, grasping Ellie firmly by her forearm she clicked the wristpad into place.

“There you are, see. Now off you go up to the dorm.”

“You, too, Miss Sparkes.” Then: “Show me your arms, Sparkes! Oh, I see. Not wearing your band, either? What is this – a conspiracy? Why, you ungrateful little wretch. What would kind Professor Pendleberry say if he found out? Put your wristband on this minute!”

Bethany reluctantly complied.

“Right then, off you trot. Lights out in fifteen minutes.”

Ten minutes later, up in the dorms, Ellie opened her book again and read over the letter she'd been writing to Mrs Lawrence. Oh, it seemed so daft really, asking her all about the wristband, and she couldn't think of anything else she could be bothered to say anyhow. It was just a waste of time. And with that she tore the letter up into tiny little pieces, tossed them into the waste-paper basket and snuggled down in bed to sleep.

No sooner had her head hit the pillow than she was away in the land of Nod. And after that, she never did get around to writing to Mrs Lawrence or reading her book again. There was really little point.

42. Awakening

The first thing that Safia noticed when she awoke was that it was dark, she was cold and her head hurt. Running her hand over her right temple, she felt a bump and a warm trickle of blood. She must have stumbled in the dark and hit her head on something.

Then she noticed the ejector seat and the crumpled parachute and, further away, the still smouldering remnants of the old jalopy.

Safia was in a strange place, a place littered with broken stonework and twisted metal as if it had suffered some catastrophe or fallen into a state of disrepair.

The infamous Sector Five-Six! she suddenly realized. But quite why she should be here, Safia could not for the life of her remember.

Safia got unsteadily to her feet. The fall seemed to have affected her balance, too. She picked her way through the debris and went to sit down on the stump of a fallen pillar.

Someone was coming toward her now and she stiffened.

“What was that?” someone called and the figures stopped. “I thought I heard something.”

Safia crouched down behind the fallen pillar, shaking with fear, her heart thumping heavily inside her chest.

They were coming toward her now. “Over there: I'm sure I saw a movement.”

She was scared and unsure of whether to make her presence known or to hide.

Suddenly caught in the glare of a torch, she sprang to her feet and made a dash for the shadows – but it was too late. Someone ran after her and whirled her round and she found herself in the arms of a stranger.

“Well, lookie what we got here,” the dark-haired youth beamed. Then, seeing the fear in her eyes he soothed her. “It's okay, ma'am, I mean you no harm.

“Yow, that's a nasty cut you have there.” He fished in his pocket and produced a grubby-looking handkerchief, spat on it and wiped the blood away, then held it pressed against the wound to staunch the flow.

There were others now, all crowding round her. She looked nervously from one to the next.

“Hey, don't crowd the lady,” the youth requested and they backed off a bit, though they were clearly intrigued to see her there.

“Don't worry. They might look fierce but they're actually quite friendly when folk get to know them, and they seldom bite,” the youth laughed, breaking the tension.

“Who are you?” she asked, “and what are you doing here?”

He looked at her closely with his deep blue eyes. “Actually, I was about to ask you the self-same questions.”

Holding out a grimy paw he introduced himself: “Jo Pestachi,” he volunteered. “As for what we're doing here? I guess we're just trying to survive, to eke out a meagre subsistence in this cesspit they call Sher Point.”

He exchanged knowing glances with his confederates.

“To be honest,” she said, “I don't know what I'm doing here.”

“Jeez!” the one called Jo said, surveying the hole in the perimeter fence and the burnt-out remnants of the car. “You must have been in one helluva hurry to get away from Sher Point.”

Of course: the chase. “I seem to recall that the police were pursuing me,” she told them, hoping that this was the right thing to do. “I don't know why. I just can't seem to remember.” At the mention of the word “police”, the others became noticeably edgy.

“The police, you say? Forgive me for saying this, but you don't look very much like the sort of person who'd be trying to get away from the police.”

“Maybe she is the police?” one of the others suggested. “Sometimes they drop spies over this side of the fence.”

“So what do we do with her?” one of his confederates asked, fingering a knife at his belt.

He looked into the distance, deep in thought. Then he said: “That's a nasty gash you got there. And the memory loss – that could spell all sorts of trouble. Personally, lady, I think you should seek medical help.”

“Cops!” someone hissed, running over to join the group.

“What about the woman, then?” the youth's confederate wanted to know.

The youth took her hand and pressed it against the grubby handkerchief stemming the flow of blood from the head wound. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm real sorry. But you need medical help that we just can't give you …

… What I'm saying is, we can't take you with us. So just act real cool and stay here 'til the police come. If nothing else, they'll take you to the nearest MediCred facility.”

“They're here!” one of the others hissed urgently.

43. Alone again

Jo lingered for a moment longer, squeezing her hand tightly in his own, then he was off with the others through the jumble of the ruins and away into the night, leaving her frightened, cold and alone once more.

Safia heard the wailing of the sirens as the police approached. She saw one close-by, but if she had been seen then they paid no attention to her. The craft just passed-by overhead and headed off in the direction that Jo and the others had disappeared.

It was still dark, she was cold and her head was throbbing even more now, so Safia thought that the best thing she could do was to remain active – certainly not to fall asleep. She clambered back through the hole in the perimeter fence and went in search of the nearest MediCred booth.

Heaven only knows how she walked that night, but finally as it was beginning to get lighter she heard a siren abruptly start-up behind her and a police patrol craft swooped down low and settled down in the dust beside her. There was no point in making a run for it. Besides: right now her main priority was to get medical treatment.

“Keep your hands high where I can see them,” a voice hollered her over a public address system. “And stay right where you are.”

Then the hood swung open and a figure stepped out. Pistol drawn, he flipped the visor on his helmet into place and looked this way and that for sign of ambush as he walked warily toward her.

“Up against the wall, please,” the figure called. “And spread 'em. Keep those hands high.”

Trembling with fear, she complied.

The figure came up behind her now and waved a device around her body. It was like a magic wand and it emitted a deep, undulating whine. Presumably it was designed to check for any concealed weapons she might be carrying.

“Okay, you're clean,” the man said at length. “Now turn around slowly and face me.”

Again, with her hands still held high she complied.

“It's okay, ma'am, you can put your hands down now.”

The officer showed her his warrant card: “Officer Rowan Davies, Sher Point Metropolitan Police Service.”

Officer Davies stepped forward and peered at her closely. “Say, that's a nasty gash you got there.”

He flipped-up his visor and took a closer look. “Well, looks like the bleeding's stopped now, but we should really get you in to MediCred and have them examine you. Your vision okay? You're not seeing things all blurred or anything?

“Ops? This is Tango Charlie 2-4 here. Do you copy?” he said, speaking into the microphone mounted on his helmet.

“Ops here. Go ahead Tango Charlie 2-4.”

“Yeah, I got an IC1 female here with a gash to her right temple that needs attending to at the nearest MediCred facility ...”

“You want us to call a paramedic unit?”

“Negative, Ops, I'll drop her by myself.”

He looked at her. “You got any ID on you?”

She shook her head. “Not that I know of. My smart card must have still been in the car's ignition when I crashed.”

“What's you name, ma'am?”

She shrugged. “I really can't remember.”

“No ID and subject appears to be suffering from amnesia. Can you run a check for me?”

A netcam fitted to his helmet whirred and zoomed in close and there was a brief flash as it took a snapshot of her.

There was a brief pause, then Ops was back on-line. “Subject is one Safia Lawrence, Tango Charlie 2-4. Maybe you missed it, but there's an APB out on her. Seems she's got some kind of psychiatric problems. After medical treatment she's to be held and released back into the custody of a Doctor Belcher, a specialist with MediCred …”

“Roger. Over and out.”

Belcher? That name seemed to ring a bell in Safia's head.

“Well, Ms Lawrence,” Officer Davies smiled, taking her arm and helping her into the passenger seat of the patrol craft. “First we get you seen to.”

Then a thought struck him: “You got medical insurance?”

She shrugged. “I'm sorry, but I really don't know.”

“That's okay. Only if you had, then Prince Rupert's is closer. Guess it'll have to be the Radfield Welfare Hospital instead. Not exactly red carpet and five star facilities there, but they've got the MediCred gear all the same which is what really matters.”

~~~O~~~

It was almost light when Lemmie got up to go to the bathroom. Bathroom – that was a laugh! The houses were so old that they didn't have an inside loo plumbed-in. You had to go outside in the yard to a tiny extension built onto the side of the house next to a coal bunker and the kitchenette.

Answering the call of nature that night probably saved Lemmie's life, for as she sat on that cold wooden seat contemplating her navel, all hell broke loose. One of the windows in the house shattered and there was an almighty crack and a dazzling flash of light which lit up the whole yard. A stun grenade. They must have sent the Special Forces in to raid the camp.

Now there were bursts of automatic gunfire and the sound of someone flitting across the concrete yard and crashing through the back door.

“On your knees! Now! Down on the floor! Hands behind your head! Cross your legs! Now!”

Whoever it was, they'd already taken at least one captive. Probably Ra who'd been sleeping in the living room while they made the rest of the house habitable.

There were shrieks and another spasmodic exchange of gunfire. And then there was a deathly silence.

Lemmie was glad she stayed where she was, because seconds later she heard footsteps coming back outside from the direction of the kitchen.

“Eyes forward! Hands behind your head! Now!”

Then came the unmistakable sound of the bolt being drawn on the back gate leading from the yard to the weed-infested street.

“Outside!”

Lemmie could hear a chopper overhead now and it came closer and closer until it blotted out all other sounds. She could catch a glimpse of a searchlight mounted on its underbelly and feel a slight breeze under the door from its rotors.

“In the chopper! Now! Face down on the floor! Move it!”

There were more footsteps now and men running at the double out of the yard, down the stone steps and into the cobbled street. Then the noise of the chopper became a deafening roar again and rose higher in the air. It drifted away. And finally it had gone.

Lemmie sat there on the loo for another five minutes to be on the safe side; cursing the fact that she'd left her gun inside and thankful that she was still alive, both at the same time.

There was silence.

Finally she moved and crept stealthily across the yard and back through the open door. She crossed the kitchenette; went through the living room. Through the door into the hallway.

There was a body in the front room, nearly cut in half by the bullets and the carpet was awash with blood. She gingerly turned the body over. It was Slug, still wearing the wristband. Could it be, after all, that this is what had given them away? Lemmie unclasped the thing, took it over to the stone hearth and ground it underfoot. Better safe than sorry a second time.

She went through that house and the one next door counting the bodies. Slug; Gaffa; Ammo; Obo, her best buddies … No Ra, no Jonesy, and of course no Lemmie, thank the good Lord. That meant the Special Forces must have Ra and Jonesy. That in turn meant that they'd be interrogated. And that meant it was probably unsafe to stay in her current location.

Lemmie checked out back – fortunately they hadn't spotted the car. And, putting in as many provisions as she could, she made off down the derelict back lane to find somewhere to camp further into Sector Five-Six. There were a few things for which there was no room, so she assembled them near the door. She'd have to make a second trip and come back for them later.

As for the bodies, she'd have liked to have given her comrades a decent Christian burial, but of course that was out of the question now that she was on her own. they'd simply have to lay where they fell. But she did at least say a few words of prayer over the two houses.

44. Accident & Emergency

When Safia was eventually seen at the Welfare Hospital's A&E department a nurse looked her over. “My, you have been in the wars, haven't you, my dear? Can you remember what happened?”

“I'm not sure,” she lied. “I think I fell and banged my head against something. Then I remember waking up not knowing where I was – or even who I was.”

“Not to worry. Okay, if you'll just take off your shoes and jumper, we'll have a look at you.”

Safia was placed in the MediScan booth and given the once-over. For some reason she felt quite nervous about entering the booth: it seemed to stir-up some deeply-buried memory, but her fears were quite unfounded. The MediScan itself sensed the head wound, and after performing a brain scan, cleaned up the wound and sprayed on some Second Skin. Despite Safia's initial reluctance, it was a painless process.

The doctor looked up from the MediScan printout as Safia emerged and smiled. “Well, miss, you'll be pleased to know that your fall appears to have caused no lasting damage.”

“It advises that we keep you in overnight for observation. However, I'm sure there's nothing to worry about: it's purely routine.”

“You don't want to carry out any more tests?” Safia asked.

“Nope, not now anyhow: the new MediScan Expert is pretty thorough. We're lucky to have her on-board. One of these days she may even put us mere mortals out of a job,” he laughed.

“As for the amnesia – I can't find any physiological damage to the brain and I'd expect your memory to return bit by bit over the next few hours or days.”

“And if not?”

“In that unlikely event, we'll have to have a neuro-specialist look into the matter again.”

Officer Davies popped his head round the curtain and drew the doctor aside. “You all finished then? Could I have a brief word?”

“I've done all I can do,” the doctor answered, walking down the corridor some way so as to be out of Safia's ear-shot. “We'll be keeping her in overnight for observation, so you'll be able to pick her up at about ten tomorrow morning after doctor's rounds. I understand she's to be released into the care of a Doctor Belcher, a psychiatric consultant.”

“That's fine by me. Only make sure she doesn't discharge herself, huh? There are a few formalities to go through and questions we'd like to ask – we found her car. Apparently she'd rammed straight through the perimeter fence and ejected whilst being pursued by a police skud. And there was an SP-PLA attack close-by about the same time.”

“S.P. what?”

“The Sher Point People's Liberation Army,” the officer explained.

“Hmm, I see. Well she doesn't look like a terrorist to me.”

The doctor's bleeper went. “Look, I'll have to leave you to it …”

“Sure thing, Doc – and thanks. I'll be in tomorrow bright and early.”

“The way things are picking up in A&E, Officer, you'll probably find I'm still here!”

The previous night's escapade had left Safia quite drained. Being in a side ward by herself, she didn't have to stay alert and keep up appearances, she could please herself what she did, and by early afternoon she'd drifted off.

45. Ellie's dream

Ellie woke with a start. She'd just had the most remarkable dream and found a secret place that was like nowhere else she'd ever imagined.

She just had to tell Bethany and Gareth about it. And, with that in mind – after scribbling the Dream Parameters down in the back of her book just to be on the safe side – she slid out of bed and crawled over to Bethany's bedside. “Beth,” she whispered in the girls ear. There was no response.

“Bethany!” She shook the girl's arm.

“Huh?!” Bethany suddenly shot bolt upright in bed, her eyes darting this way and that, and seemed on the point of screaming out.

Ellie put her hand to the girl's mouth. “Shh!” she said – it's only me.”

“God, I was having the most awful nightmare,” Bethany whispered when she'd finally come to her senses. “You saved me just as I was about to get the cane from Ms Arkwright – at the front of the hall in assembly!”

Ellie could imagine the shock and the indignity of that.

“Anyhow …” Bethany peered closely at her watch face. “It's half past one in the morning – what on Earth do you want, Ella?”

“I've found this absolutely amazing secret place!” she hissed. “You've got to come along!”

Bethany was about to get out of bed but Ellie stopped her. “No – in DreamScape, I mean!”

“Well, I'm very happy for you, Ella, but what's that got to do with me?”

Ellie showed her. “These are the parameters,” she pointed out, pressing a little yellow button on her wristpad. She grabbed hold of Bethany's wrist and clicked away. “And now that I've set your wristpad up with the same parameters, we can go back and visit the same dream any time we want to – even meet up there …”

Ellie caught her breath and dived down behind the bed, pulling Bethany down with her. Their Housemistress, Mrs Ermintrude Fothergill, was passing by on the way back from the bathroom. She peered down the aisle and surveyed the beds, then went on her way, none the wiser. Then the coast was clear.

“… And there isn't a thing that Ms Arkwright can do about it!” She keyed in the word “Elvenglade” – that's what she'd decided to call the place – and pressed “SAVE”.

“What about Gareth?” Ellie asked. “We could get him to come along as well …” Her voice trailed off. Ah, but Gareth had recently been punished for punching Fletcher and was still in the cupboard under the stairs.

Bethany slid out of bed and put her slippers on. “Where are you going?” Ellie asked her.

“The cupboard under the stairs,” Bethany said defiantly. And she reached inside her bedside locker to produce a large paper bag.

“What's that?”

“A ham sandwich and a slice of Christmas cake,” Bethany told her. “I've been saving them for Gareth, hoping for a chance to give them to him. I thought it might cheer him up. I nearly got to the cupboard earlier today while everyone else was pre-occupied, but one of the teachers came along and shooed me away.”

“Oh – and we'll need this,” Bethany said, reaching into her locker and bringing out a torch. She put it under her chin and switched it on, illuminating her features from below and pulling as hideous a face as she could. “Not scared, are you?”

Ellie's heart began to pound wildly. It wasn't ghosts that worried her – it was real, live human teachers. “You mean we're going to sneak downstairs to the cupboard – tonight!” she gulped.

Bethany nodded. “Yes, Ella – that's precisely what I aim to do. Now, are you coming with me, or are you going to stay here?”

Ellie thought for a moment. “Okay,” she said at last, plucking up the courage. Bethany was already sneaking off down the aisle. “Hang on, I'm coming with you.”

Bethany beamed. “I was hoping you would.”

“Have you thought of an excuse if we get caught?” asked Ellie.

“Oh ye of little faith,” she called back, mimicking Mrs Finchley-Smythe.

“No, really. What are we going to say if we get caught?”

“Don't worry, I'll think of something.” Bethany replied.

The first few metres were the worst, since they had to pass right by Mrs Fothergill's bedroom and she'd left the door ajar. But Bethany seemed to know every inch of the way – exactly where to tread on the squeaky floorboards and where not to. Then they were past the major danger area and off down the stairs. Their progress was faster here since the steps, being made of stone, were silent. Fortunately, the moon was full in the sky that night and they could easily find their way around once their eyes had become accustomed to the dark.

Bethany looked furtively around as they came to the bottom of the stairs, looking this way and that along the long, wide main corridor. “All clear,” she whispered, and tugged Ellie along after her as she flit down the corridor towards the main hall.

Then they were there, at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the library. They bowed their heads under the stair well and stopped outside the cupboard under the stairs. It was dark under there and Bethany had to switch the torch on to see where she was going.

“So far, so good,” Bethany enthused, and very, very slowly and as quietly as she could she drew the long black bolt. Then she crept inside.

“What the hell?!” someone screamed out. It was Gareth, suddenly awakening to find himself in the glare of a torchlight. Fortunately, Bethany had better sense than to pull any more hideous faces. “What's going on? Mum! Mum!”

“Shh!” Bethany demanded and clapped her hand over the boy's mouth. “It's only us. Shift up – we're coming in.”

“My word!” he grinned, seeing who it was by the light of the torch. Then: “For Heaven's sake, mind the chamber pot!”

And with that, Bethany and Ellie crawled into the cupboard and pulled the door behind them.

“We brought you some things to cheer you up,” Bethany explained, showing him the bag full of goodies. There are a couple of ham sandwiches – don't worry, they were freshly made this afternoon – and some Christmas cake. Oh – and a couple of chocolates from the box that Ella gave me.” She turned to Ellie: “You don't mind, do you?”

“Course not, silly. Anyway, as you said – that's what friends are for – remember?”

“… And there's another thing.” Bethany pointed to Gareth's wristband.”

“Oh, that. Yes, Ms Arkwright was here earlier. I gather everyone's got one. I wasn't happy about it at first – Ms Arkwright was very insistent that I put it on – but it's really quite cool. I had a wicked dream earlier.”

“I had an absolutely amazing dream,” Ellie piped-up. “I've found a secret place where we can all meet up. And there's not a thing that Ms Arkwright can do to stop us!” That was the best part. And she explained how to set the parameters up on Gareth's wristpad. He struggled with the buttons for a few moments, trying to follow her instructions.

“Here – I'll show you. Bethany, shine the light over here.” And with that she inputted the parameters and pressed the “SAVE” button. “It's quite simple: just before you go to bed, all you have to do is select “Elvenglade” and press “GO” and when you fall asleep, that's where you end up in your dreams.”

“I've set the duration for six hours DreamTime – you don't want to end up getting stuck there …” As she said this, she had the distinct feeling of deja-vu. But the feeling went away after a few moments and she thought nothing more of it. The kind Professor Pendleberry was no fool: the DreamScape wristpads that he'd been dishing out for free were only the economy version and six hours was the longest you could stay in DreamTime with them. Just long enough to whet your appetite for more, for the far more expensive standard and deluxe models.

There were noises outside the cupboard now. Someone had switched on a light in the corridor and footsteps were coming their way.

“Someone coming!” she warned the others.

“That'll be Mr Dorkins!” Bethany whispered. Mr Dorkins was the school caretaker and you wouldn't want to meet him in the daylight, let alone a dark night like this.

“Damn it, I knew we'd be caught,” Ellie said with a deep sigh of resignation.

“Don't be silly, Ella. We'll be okay, as long as we just sit here quietly. He'll go away sooner or later.”

Then they heard the distinct pitter-patter of paws on the cork floor and something was sniffing under the cupboard door. It was Mr Dorkins' dog, Snapper.

“Must have smelt the food,” Gareth ventured. “Or us.”

Bethany clapped her hand across the boy's mouth to shut him up and switched the torch off, leaving them in pitch darkness.

The dog was pawing at the cupboard door now and it was all Ellie could do to hold the door closed from the inside. Oh, go away you stupid dog! Go away!

“Snapper!” the voice called – a lot closer now – almost at the foot of the stairs. “Snapper? Where are you, boy?”

“There you are, you mutt. Now there's nothing in there for you. Well, maybe the odd child on punishment. I'm sorry, but you can't go eating any of the children,” the man laughed.

The dog was quite insistent, but so was its master. “Snapper! Come away now. Come on, let's get you back home to bed.”

Gradually the footsteps and the pitter-patter of paws disappeared into the distance and Bethany turned the torch back on, almost blinding them. They all breathed a collective sigh of immense relief.

Bethany looked at her watch. “Nearly two o'clock,” she told them. “Time we were going. Let's synchronise DreamTime now … Good, yes that's right Gareth … Now press “GO” … Excellent. See you soon!”

With that, careful to bolt the cupboard door behind them, they scooted off back down the corridor and up to bed. And again, when she'd finally got her breath back, Ellie slipped into a long, deep, satisfied sleep.

~~~O~~~

Ellie awoke to find herself back in Elvenglade. It was like coming back home. The big golden orb of the sun was riding high in a virtually cloudless sky, with only a faint breeze to just take the hot edge off the balmy weather.

She was standing up to her knees in the long grass and wild flowers of a meadow which was flanked by the most lavish, unspoiled woodland. And a few metres away, grassy banks led down to a babbling brook.

There was a path leading through the meadow and into the woods and another running along the banks of the stream. There were so many, many places here still to explore.

Ellie waded through the meadow and went down to the edge of the brook, then taking her shoes and socks off she simply sat there, dangling her bare feet in the cool water and drinking in the wonderful, scent-laden atmosphere.

Just then she caught sight of two figures, at the crest of a rise at the far side of the meadow. She squinted in the sun and was able to make them out. It was Bethany and Gareth and she stepped out of the water, ran up the bank and waved to them. Finally they caught sight of her and they came running through the long grass to meet her.

“Wow!” Gareth enthused. “This is so cool.”

“Didn't I tell you?!” beamed Ellie. “Welcome to Elvenglade.”

She went back to the side of the stream and bent down to scoop a mouthful of cool water and sat down again to dangle her feet. The others came across and joined her. The weather was so glorious, she could quite merrily have stayed there all day.

“Well,” Bethany said to Gareth. “Isn't this so much better than being cooped up in that dark cupboard under the stairs?” She was right – little did Ms Arkwright know that such punishment would never be quite the same again, now that they could escape to this wonderful realm.

“You bet!” he said, paddling up and down the stream, quite obviously having the time of his life.

“I'm curious,” said Bethany all of a sudden, and you could almost hear the whirring of cogs and the clanking of pistons inside her head. “I wonder where these paths lead?”

Of course. It suddenly dawned on Ellie. These weren't paths cut by animals: they'd been trampled underfoot.

“If there are paths, then that meant there must be people around these parts,” Bethany told them.

“Snap!” Ellie exclaimed. “That's just what I was thinking!”

“Great minds think alike,” Gareth laughed.

“Well,” said Ellie, clambering out onto the bank. “Why don't we go and find out. “But where first?”

“Well, we have three choices,” Bethany pointed out: “Upstream, downstream or across the meadow and into the woods.”

“We could split up and take one path each,” Gareth volunteered.

“No,” said Bethany. “As yet, we don't know what we might encounter along the way. I vote we stick together. Besides, it'll be a lot more fun that way.”

“Seconded,” said Ellie, shooting her hand in the air.

“Motion carried,” concluded Bethany.

“So, which way shall we go?” asked Gareth.

Bethany thought for a moment. “Tell you what – hold out your fists and we'll play 'One potato, two potato' until only one fist is left. Let's say you're 'upstream', Ellie; I'll be 'downstream' and you, Gareth, you can be the 'woods'.”

“But which of us do we start with?” Gareth complained.

“Who's the eldest here?”

They swapped birthdays and it turned out that it was Gareth by a month. “Then we'll start with you, Gareth.”

The only problem then was that none of them could remember exactly how to play “One potato, two potato” and so they had to improvise.

“… And – you – are – not – It!”

“So,” said Bethany, when only she was left in the game. “Downstream it is, then.”

For a moment or two, Ellie did wonder whether it was possible to know beforehand who was going to be the eventual winner, but she thought no more about it. It didn't really matter where they started. All that mattered was that they were going to have some wonderful adventures her in Elvenglade whichever way they turned. She just knew it.

~~~O~~~

They hadn't gone very far downstream when Ellie, hearing her tummy rumble, said: “I wonder if we should have brought some food with us? Or don't we need food here? Do you think it's possible to bring things along?”

“Well,” thought Bethany for a moment (as she often did). “We brought our clothes along with us, didn't we? And we weren't wearing them when we left.”

“I was,” complained Gareth. “I've had to sit and sleep in these same clothes all week.”

Bethany had a point there: they were all wearing their school clothes.

“I wonder how it works?” pondered Ellie aloud, and they hadn't got much further along the path when they began to find out.

“Hey! Will you look at that?!”

A little further along the way, the path divided. One branch led on down by the side of the brook whilst the other went off at a tangent and led up to a little cottage, with a beautiful rose garden that overlooked the glade.

They went through a little twisted wooden gate and into the garden.

“Do you think we should?” Gareth wanted to know. “Maybe someone lives here?”

“Well, let's find out,” said Bethany and she followed the crazy-paved path up to the front door of the little cottage and knocked. There was no reply.

She tried the door. It was unlocked. “Hello?” she called loudly through the house, but it appeared deserted. “No, nobody at home,” she told them, coming back down the garden path, skirting around an ornate, octagon lily-pond. There was a figure of some winged God at the centre and a fountain sprang from its mouth and played on the waters below. There was a picnic table on a small patio at the end of the garden nearest the brook and Bethany went over to it and sat down to enjoy the view.

Ellie and Gareth were hanging back, aware that it wasn't usual to go waltzing onto someone's private property and plonking yourself down on their garden furniture.

“Hey, come on fellahs!” Bethany called to them. “This is our dream, remember! We're making it happen, so I can only imagine that this is the way it's supposed to be. We have a right to be here.”

Ellie wasn't entirely convinced, but she went along with Bethany anyhow and the three of them sat down on the benches at the picnic table. Her tummy was rumbling again and she was about to say something about food. And, to her amazement, when her attention was drawn back to the table, there was a large plate of sandwiches standing in the centre.

“Well, would you believe that!” she squeaked.

The others were equally bemused. “Where did those come from?” they asked. The food seemed to have simply appeared out of thin air.

I don't know,” said Ellie. “My stomach was gurgling again and it reminded me of food. And next minute, it had just appeared, right before my very eyes!”

Bethany sat there scratching her chin for a minute, then said: “Like I said – this is our dream. Maybe that's how it works? Maybe if there's something you need or you really want and you think about it, it just appears?”

All this sounded a little strange to Ellie, but she had to admit that it made a certain sense.

For his part, he just took it as it came and dived into the sandwiches. “Wow! Ham and sweetcorn relish!” he enthused. “My favourite!”

Ellie took a couple of sandwiches and bit into one of them. “No, it's not!” she said. “It's prawns and mayonnaise. And that's my favourite!”

Bethany was the last to dig in. And it came as no great surprise to find that her sandwiches were cheese and chutney, which was her favourite, too.

Ellie didn't need any more convincing.

Next time they looked, there was a glass in Gareth's hand. “Hey!” He said. “I just thought of banana milkshake and there it was!”

How come there was only one drink, though? What about her and Bethany. The answer was there even before the words had formed on her lips: she had a cola and Bethany had fresh orange juice.

“Now we're getting the hang of this place!” she said. “Elvenglade is magic!”

~~~O~~~

“So, do you think anyone lives here?” asked Ellie when they'd finally polished off the food. “Or is this place ours?”

“I don't know,” said Bethany. “But just in case, I've been quietly wishing it were ours.”

“Wow! This is better than a tree house or a den any day!” whooped Gareth as they went inside to explore the cottage. There was a little porch with plants in it and another door, and to the right off a short passageway there was a sunny, south-facing lounge. At the end of the passage there was a bijou kitchen and another door leading into a back garden with a swing and a slide in it. And off to the left there were two small bedrooms. There weren't any stairs as the cottage was a bungalow, but there was a retractable metal ladder leading up into the roof space which had a dormer window built into the side of the roof. That would make an excellent play room, they thought. And, of course, as soon as one of them thought it, that's exactly what it became. Bethany hadn't seen so many wonderful toys in all her life (having spent most of her short life at SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children).

All, too soon, however, as they re-emerged from the cottage, their bubble of euphoria was to be burst.

“Ella Grubbs! Bethany Sparkes!” the voice called them and – startled by the newcomer – they turned their heads. There, leaning over the garden gate was Mrs Ermintrude Fothergill, their Housemistress. She exchanged anxious glances with Bethany and Gareth. He'd just conjured up another banana milkshake and it suddenly vanished before his very eyes. What on Earth was that woman doing here?

“Come on!” she called. “Rouse yourselves!”

The scene was dissolving now.

“Out of bed now and into the bathroom! Come on – I haven't got all bleedin' day! Let's have you!”

And suddenly – with a thwack of elastic – Ellie suddenly shot back into her body and sat bolt upright in bed. Oh, Lord … She was back in the girls' dorm at the SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children.

~~~O~~~

“Was it just an ordinary dream, do you think?” she whispered to Bethany later, as they sat there eating their bland porridge.

Bethany pondered and then said, quite matter-of-factly, though tongue-in-cheek. “Oh, you mean the cottage?”

She remembered. Bethany actually remembered!

“And the prawn and mayonnaise sandwiches, too?”

Gareth was there, too. He'd been let out of the cupboard under the stairs early as a concession, since it was the festive season. But he had been warned to be on his very best behaviour. “Ham and sweetcorn,” he whispered across the table. And he remembered, too!

“Cheese and chutney,” Bethany countered.

Now that was incredible. They really had all met up in their dreams last night.

“Anyone fancy going back there again tonight?” she asked.

The others nodded eagerly. “It's a date – I just can't wait,” said Bethany.

“Hah! The girl's a poet and she don't know it!” Gareth quipped, which was rather quick for him.

Then something occurred to Ellie. “Whatever you do, don't give anyone else the parameters to Elvenglade,” she warned them. “We don't want any gate-crashers.”

Bethany nodded: “Smart thinking, Boo-Boo.”

46. A phone call

Samira was out in the front garden when the phone went. She dashed inside and picked up the receiver. “Hello? Samira Khan here.”

It was the Radfield Welfare Hospital. “I'm sorry to have to inform you that your sister Safia has been admitted for observation following a car crash.”

“A car crash? My God – is she badly injured?”

“Not badly. She gashed her head after ejecting, that's all. There appear to be no lasting injuries. We're just keeping her in for routine observation.”

“Thank God for that,” Samira said with relief. “Is it alright to visit? I can come straight over.”

“Certainly, Miss Khan. You can call in any time, though you may find her a little unresponsive – we gave her a sedative.”

Samira put the phone down and dashed through to the study where Huw was beavering away at the computer.

Ten minutes later they were in reception at the hospital.

“Mrs Safia Lawrence, you say?” The receptionist checked the records. “Yes, she's been admitted to a side room off Chestnut ward. Just take the lift to the first floor, then follow the green lines to room CH5.”

Safia was asleep when they entered the room. Huw drew up a seat and Samira sat on the edge of the bed. “You poor love,” she said, taking hold of her hand and stroking Safia's long dark hair.

Then she noticed the wristpad that she was wearing.

“What the hell's this?” she asked, turning to Huw.

Huw didn't seem surprised. “They've found DreamScape quite a ubiquitous device,” he explained. “It's said to assist in promoting a more speedy recovery in cases where there's concussion, shock or other such trauma. It's best she sleeps right now. Let's come back later, when she's awake.”

“Hmm.” Samira wasn't entirely convinced. If Safia were conscious, she doubted very much that she'd see things that way at all.

47. Making enquiries

Jo Pestachi had checked at Prince Rupert's but their A&E department hadn't had anyone in the previous night matching the girl's description. He checked the Holdsworth General, too, to no avail, and had given up hope when he remembered the Welfare Hospital on the junction of 5th Avenue and Bloomsbury Road.

“Yes!” he chuckled, putting the phone down and rubbing his hands with glee. We're back in business.

Jo skipped across the road to the flower stall and bought the biggest and brightest bouquet he could afford, then caught a cab to the hospital entrance.

“That'll be ten credits, pal.”

Jo wasn't listening. He was on another planet. “Keep the change,” he said, waving his smart card over the reader.

“Keep the change, he says,” growled the florist as Jo ran off toward A&E. “What ruddy change?”

“Hi,” he said, catching one of the nurses. “I understand you have my friend in here? She came in last night with a gash to her head and amnesia?”

“Oh, yeah, the one who couldn't remember who she was, right? She's on the first floor and down the corridor in Chestnut ward under observation. Just follow the green lines.”

Jo was already off toward the lift.

“And thanks to you, too,” the nurse shrugged and went about his business.

He came to the double doors and scanned the beds in the ward. No luck so far. Maybe they'd released her already?

What the hell. He pushed the door open and walked the length of the ward, checking out each face as he went. She wasn't there.

“Hi,” one of the staff called. “Can I help you? Are you looking for someone.”

There he was, in a hospital ward with a bouquet of flowers in his hand and she asks him whether he was looking for anyone in particular. Hey, come on, lady! Still, he put it down to the hospital food or to the pressure of work and let it pass.

“Well, yeah. Actually I'm looking for, um, a young lady who was brought in last night. She'd hit her head and I understand she's been kept in for obs?”

“Sure. Mrs Lawrence: she's at the end of the ward in a side room,” the nurse answered. “Last time I looked, though, she was having a sleep …”

Mrs Lawrence. Now that was a bummer, he sighed. He suddenly felt very foolish. Oh, what the hell?

“It's okay, I won't disturb her. Scouts' honour.” Then: “Say, do you have a vase I could borrow?”

“Hmm?”

“A vase – for the flowers.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” She went away and came back with a glass receptacle that looked more like something in which to produce a urine sample rather than put a bunch of flowers in.

When Jo arrived at the door he peered in through the observation window. “Yes!” he said to himself. He'd remember that raven black hair and the high cheekbones anywhere. She was asleep, though, so he couldn't see her eyes. He seemed to remember they were big and green, like cat's eyes, but it had been quite dark last night.

Jo put a hand on the door handle and was about to turn it when he simply froze. Weird or what? He was obviously having some kind of attack of anxiety, and appeared to have simply frozen. Hell, he hadn't had an attack like that since he as a little kid. He'd gone to bed but forgotten to leave his socks out with the rest of the dirty laundry, so he's gone downstairs. The trouble was, it was also way past his bedtime when he'd remembered. So if he didn't go in the kitchen where his dad was, he'd be in trouble from him for the laundry – and if he did go in, he'd be in trouble for not being asleep in bed. Catch 22, huh?

The nurse was coming down the ward now, so with fresh resolve he opened the door, went in and closed the door quietly behind him, so as not to disturb Mrs Lawrence.

He gently placed the flowers at the bottom of the bed while he went to the sink to fill the vase with water. Then he arranged the flowers and set them down on the bedside table.

The woman was still fast asleep, so Jo took a seat by her bedside and waited patiently. The fact was, Jo simply couldn't get enough of looking at her. It was such a shame the woman was already married. He wanted to make sure that her beautiful features were well and truly etched in his mind's eye for future reference.

Jo didn't want to disturb the woman. Yeah, maybe he was a bit nervous of meeting her again, after all. Bumping into her in the street was one thing, but meeting like this?

The woman was tossing and turning in her sleep now. She was mumbling in her sleep, too: something about “DreamScape” was it? He glanced at her wrist and noticed the device attached. Damn! They'd got to her already.

Jo carefully took the girl's hand, unclipped the wristpad, dropped it on the floor and ground it under the heel of his boot, then he picked the device up and tossed it into the waste bin. If people had any sense, then they'd consign all the devices to the bin. Unfortunately, however, the things already had an insidious hold over half the population. And the suckers didn't even know it.

Whatever: the woman was free of DreamScape again, so back to the real world. Jo pulled out a piece of paper and a pen and wrote “Hope you get well real soon. Jo.” on it, then he stuffed it under the vase of flowers.

Jo looked up sharply and noticed a cop way down the other end of the ward, talking to one of the nurses. Oops! Maybe this was not such a cool place to be right now?

It was worse than that: the nurse was pointing toward the side ward and heading this way.

48. A quick getaway

Jo darted to the window, opened it and looked out. They were on the first floor and it was a long way down. If he jumped from there, he'd be sure to break an ankle.

All the same, he clambered out onto the ledge and lowered himself down feet first.

It was still too far down, but he was committed now.

Then he noticed the drainpipe to his left. With a bit of luck, he could catch hold of it.

No, confound it, it was just out of reach. His heart was beating fast now and he was swamped by a rush of adrenalin.

Jo held onto the window sill with one hand and edged over to the left. He stretched out and grasped the drainpipe tightly, then – with a whispered prayer – he swung his legs over to grasp the drainpipe lower down and let go of the window sill.

With an effort, he managed to grasp hold of the drainpipe with both hands now and abseiled down. Then he hoofed it across the hospital car park and he was away.

Phew! That was close.

49. In hospital

When Safia woke up the first thing she noticed were the flowers in the vase by the bedside and the note scribbled on the piece of paper. “Hope you get well real soon. Jo.” But who on Earth was Jo. She thought long and hard.

Then she suddenly remembered. He was the youth she'd met in the Outer Reaches of Sector Five-Six. To think that he'd traced her to the hospital and left her a gift. But why hadn't he stayed around, she wondered? Why go to all that trouble and then leave without saying “hello”?

The answer was not far to seek. Outside, in the corridor, she caught sight of a policeman, sitting in a chair by the door.

There were voices now and the policeman got to his feet. Then a man entered. His face seemed strangely familiar. And when he introduced himself to the policeman as Doctor Belcher she remembered him as the man who'd first volunteered to try out DreamScape on the night they'd met Professor Pendleberry.

Hell fire – that was it. Maybe he'd been part of the set-up all along? But then as he entered the room and came over to examine her and peer in her eyes, she saw the wristpad. Whatever power it held over people, it was held over him, too.

“Well, Mrs Lawrence. How are you feeling now? None the worse for your little escapade, I trust?”

She said nothing.

“I hear you gave our friends the run around, eh? Well, let's get you safely back to St Thomas' shall we? I can see we'll have to review your medication and keep you under closer observation if you're going to go gallivanting around like this.

“Would you mind, officer?”

The doctor took firm hold of her by one arm while the officer took the other, and they led her down the corridor to the car waiting outside.

As they crossed the car park, a red car came careering toward them.

The officer dived one way, the doctor the other, pulling Safia to the ground with him.

Suddenly two masked men jumped from the car and bowled the cop over as he rose to his feet and reached for his gun. They turned him over and took his gun, then pulled out his handcuffs and chained him to a lamp-post.

“Get in!” called one of the assailants, grabbing Safia by the arm and motioning toward the car.

Then they were away, turning sharply onto the main street with a screech of tyres.

Once they were clear, the man sitting next to her pulled off his Balaclava. It was Jo, the youth who'd left her the flowers. “Here, better fasten yourself in,” he advised, reaching across and helping her with her body harness. “It could be a bumpy ride.”

As it happened, they were away across town and back into Sector Five-Six before the doctor had managed to call the police for assistance.

~~~O~~~

“Why did you come back for me?” she asked the youth.

He flushed a little with embarrassment. “I guess I liked the look of you,” he replied. “And I saw that the police had their eye on you. Who was the other guy, though? A detective?”

“No,” she shook her head. “He was a doctor. Doctor Belcher's his name. I think he's in league with Professor Pendleberry.”

“The guy who invented DreamScape, you mean?”

“That's the guy, yes. You know those wristpads that everyone's wearing …”

“Yeah,” Jo nodded.

“Well, I don't know what they do to people, but after they've been wearing them a while it seems to change people – I mean they exert some kind of power over people.”

“I heard rumour of that. One of our band was having a nosey around town when someone came up to him and forced one of those things on his wrist and he turned on a friend who was with him. And I've seen loads of folks wearing them and walking around like zombies.”

“You reckon this Pendleberry guy's behind all this, then?” the driver asked.

“Him and his company – Virtuoso.”

“Hmm. Maybe it's time we paid Virtuoso a little visit. If we can knock out their hardware and their cell network transponders, maybe we can knock out these DreamScape things.”

50. Ellie's escape

Meanwhile, at the SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children, they had gone to bed early that night and were just settling down for the night and Ellie checked that she'd set her wristband.

They met down by the edge of the brook again and walked the short distance along the bankside track to the cottage.

What Ellie didn't know was that she'd inadvertently left her book The Dreamwalkers lying around on a table in the pupils' common room.

“Well, well, well,” said Fletcher, picking the book up and flicking through the pages, reading odd bits of the book at random. Ella Grubbs had had her head buried in this book for days now. What was so special and engrossing about the book, however, was anybody's guess. He simply couldn't fathom the book.

After a few moments he tossed the book back down on the table in disgust, being none the wiser for his brief encounter with it. And, quite by chance, the book fell open on the last page. And it was on this page that a long sequence of letters and digits had been written in pencil.

“Hello, hello, hello!” he beamed, realizing as soon as he saw the sequence what the thing was – these could only be DreamScape Parameters. And if she'd written them down in a book, then the Dream must be worth looking at …

“Lads, I think tonight we'll pay a little call on our dear friend Ella Grubbs …,” and he showed them what he'd found.

~~~O~~~

Meanwhile, Ellie, Bethany and Gareth had been through in the back garden of the cottage and discovered a shed. “I wonder what's in here,” Gareth had asked, thinking perhaps it would most likely have been full of gardening equipment.

But he hadn't counted on his friends' wishful thinking, for when they'd opened it he was surprised to find three mountain bikes in there. And now they were off and away on the bikes, heading down the riverside track toward the path that lead over the meadow and into the woods beyond.

As they approached the woods, they were blissfully unaware of the three pairs of eyes eagerly watching them from the undergrowth.

“What shall we do?” asked Rees. “Should we jump out and scare them?”

Fletcher watched as Gareth Jones came up the path, peddling like fury, with Grubbs and Sparkes in hot pursuit. Then an idea struck him. He'd spotted the trunk of an uprooted tree a few metres distant.

“Here, help me with this, lads,” he said and he turned to go over to the tree trunk. But no sooner were the thoughts formed and the words half out of his mouth than the tree trunk was gone.

He swung round in a circle, thinking perhaps it wasn't quite where he'd remembered it to be, then he saw it, stretched out across the path, exactly where he'd intended to lay it. So that's how things worked in DreamScape! He could see that this was going to be fun.

Jones was coming up over a rise now. He took off into the air and landed within feet of the upturned tree-trunk and – before he had time to wish the tree away – his front wheel had struck the obstacle and he was up over the handlebars and flying through the air toward a boulder beside the dirt path.

In that instant, Gareth Jones woke with a start, screaming. He was back in the boys' dormitory and he expected all eyes to be upon him, but they were all fast asleep, no doubt dreaming their own dreams.

It wasn't right, though. That shouldn't have happened to him. he'd been looking far ahead on the path and he was sure that that tree trunk hadn't been there when he'd last looked. And then he heard Fletcher in the bed next to his own, sniggering away to himself in his sleep. Rees and Mogg were at it, too. He didn't know how, but he'd bet a pound to a penny that they had some hand in this.

And then it occurred to him what he could do. Quietly, he tip-toed across to Fletcher's bed and very slowly and carefully he pulled the lad's hand out from beside his head and had a look at the display on his wristpad. Then he checked the parameters on his own. It was the same sequence of letters and digits. Somehow or other, that creep had managed to get hold of the parameters to DreamScape.

Well, two could play at that trick. Very carefully, he deleted the last three digits of the sequence and instead keyed in another sequence: A.S.S. and he hit the “GO” button.

Then he stole over to Rees' bed. His was easy – the lad was sleeping on his back with his hands stretched out over the covers. As he thought, they were the same parameters. Again, he deleted the last three digits and typed in the sequence: A.S.S. and pressed “GO”.

And finally, he went to Mogg's bed. Now here was a difficult case. The lad had the covers right up over his head and he had to wait a few moments because for some reason the lad had become very restless. Perhaps he'd just realized that his two confederates had beamed elsewhere and deserted him?

He pulled the covers gently down and tentatively pulled the youth's arm free. Heaven only knows what people would think if they found him in this compromising position – but the job had to be done. With a bit of luck, the creeps wouldn't realise that the parameters had been changed – I mean why should they? They'd probably simply decide that maybe Elvenglade wasn't such a cool place to visit?

At last, he had hold of the wristband and twisted it round so he could get to the keypad. He had to break off a couple of times when Mogg threatened to wake, but at last the job was done and he returned to his own bed, feeling really quite chuffed with himself.

He sneaked out of the boys' dorm and headed up the corridor past Mrs Fothergill's room toward the girls' quarters. Time to wake them up and let them know what Fletcher and his cronies had been up to, before anything bad happened to the girls, too.

~~~O~~~

While Gareth had been away, however, all manner of things had been happening in DreamTime. Bethany and Ellie had seen Gareth riding ahead, but by the time they arrived at the edge of the woods, he'd been up over the handlebars and vanished from the scene. They saw the tree trunk there across the path, and a few meters distant they saw the buckled remains of the bike. There was no sign of Gareth.

“Maybe he snapped out of DreamScape when he crashed the bike?” Bethany offered. That sounded plausible. He wasn't the sort to be deliberately hiding from them. Like Gareth, their hackles rose as soon as they saw what had happened. There was something not quite right here. And when they saw the three figures crashing through the long grass of the meadow, heading back toward the bank of the stream, their suspicions were proven correct.

“That looks like Fletcher to me!” Bethany said and you could hear her cursing under her breath. “But how could they have got hold of the parameters?”

Ellie flushed. There was only one place … “The book!” she groaned. “I wrote the sequence down in the back of my book.” And then it dawned on her. “Oh, hell – I left the book on a table in the common room …”

“Maybe we'd better get out of here?” Bethany suggested. But the truth of the matter was – they didn't know how. It looked like they'd just have to bide their time until their spell in DreamTime ran out.

Bethany was watching the figures disappearing into the distance. It looked like they were heading for the cottage. “Come on,” she said and she got back on her bike and peddled feverishly after them with Ellie doing her best to catch up.

By the time they got to the cottage, however, they knew they were too late. Instead of the neatly-pruned rose bushes, the garden had become overgrown with enormous weeds. And the fountain was spraying out in all directions – someone had snapped the head off the winged God.

But that wasn't all. Where the picturesque cottage had been stood a derelict shell, its roof caved in and its walls crumbling.

“The little devils!” Bethany cried as she surveyed the carnage.

Ellie just stood there, the tears rolling down her cheeks.

Fletcher and his pathetic friends had got there already. But now they were gone.

Just then, Gareth re-appeared on the scene. “Ellie!” he hissed. “Wake up!”

When she awoke, Ellie found Gareth over by Bethany's bedside, shaking her to wake her up. “Bethany!” he whispered. “Wake up, will you?”

“I had the most awful dream,” Ellie told him, once she'd come round sufficiently to make intelligible conversation.

“I know,” he said, and he told her about what had happened, how he'd awoken and that he'd reset the parameters on the others' wristpads.

“Well, I hope you sent them to an absolutely awful place!” Ellie said.

It was getting light now and some of the other girls were beginning to stir in their sleep. “Better go,” Gareth decided. “I'll leave you to explain to Bethany when she finally wakes up.”

“OK, Gareth – and thanks for all your help.”

“It's my pleasure,” he grinned.

When he'd gone, Ellie put her slippers and dressing gown on. Time to go and retrieve her book before the others woke up. And – just to be on the safe side, she'd better erase the parameters from the back page.

But what if she ever lost the sequence? Say she had to change the battery in her wristpad. Then she'd never be able to get back to Elvenglade. No – she had it – call her paranoid if you like – She'd add one to each of the letters in the sequence. So if it should be an “A” she'd write “B” and so forth. Yes, that should do the trick. Well, sufficiently well to fool Fletcher. That way, if anyone came across them, the sequence would be gobbledegook and they'd be sent to the wrong place. And if that turned out to be a horrid place to have a dream in, well – serve them right for stealing the parameters.

She felt a little better when she'd managed to retrieve the book and change the sequence, but as she lay there waiting for a new day to dawn, she couldn't help but think about the mess the cottage had been in when they last saw it. Perhaps they'd be able to wish it back to its former state? Or perhaps the place would never quite be the same again?

They had no right bursting into her Dream like that. What Fletcher and his idiot friends had done was just a stupid laugh to them. But to Ellie – it sounds strange, but it almost felt as if she had been raped.

~~~O~~~

A few minutes later, she heard a scream come from the boys' dormitory – and then another – loud enough to wake the whole school, let alone the dormitories. And moments later, Mr Goodman, the boys' housemaster, could be heard bellowing in the corridor. “What's all that racket!” he demanded.

Over breakfast, she asked Gareth what had happened.

“Seems Fletcher and his gang had a bit of a nightmare last night,” he grinned between mouthfuls of Wheatflakes. He looked over in their direction, but they merely scowled back at him.

“Oh dear, that is such a pity,” said Bethany, commiserating with them. “I do hope it wasn't too dreadful.”

As for Ellie, she could take some little consolation from the fright Fletcher had had, thanks to Gareth. But she was still seething inside and she was very far from forgiving them for what they'd done.

“Same time, same place?” asked Gareth. He hadn't yet surveyed the damage to the cottage.

“Yep!” agreed Bethany without a moment's thought.

“Ellie?”

She looked at the other two who were as eager as ever. “Yes, I s'pose so.”

Bethany clutched Ellie's hand. “Don't worry, precious – we'll soon have the place looking as good as new. That's what friends are for – remember?”

Ellie's face cracked into a broad smile. “Sure, Beth – that's what friends are for!”

51. Night raid

Jo Pestachi ducked into the shadows and pressed himself tight up against the brickwork of a derelict building on the edge of Sector Five-Seven. He waited until the harsh beam of the searchlight raked past along the path beside the perimeter fence. Safia was eager to be off, but he kept her back. Still he held back, counting out the seconds before the searchlight swung past again, bathing the wall in its harsh glare.

“Thirty seconds,” he calculated. Kneeling there, pressed up against the brickwork, it seemed like an eternity, but he knew all too well how little time that would give them to cut the wire, squeeze through and get clear over the other side.

“Stay here, Safia.”

Jo waited for the powerful beam to pass by once more; then, makeshift wire-cutters in his hand and crouching low, he hoofed it to the wire.

Five, six, seven …

Damn!

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen …

The strands were tougher than he'd expected.

Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three …

He clipped the last of the lower strands and hoofed it back into the shadows to where Safia waited in silent trepidation.

“Ready, Angel? You go first. As soon as you're through the other side, make a beeline for those bushes.” Jo squeezed her hand tightly. “Get ready.”

The great arc light swung past again and he pushed Safia out from behind cover. One, two, three … She sped across the darkened path and slithered through under the wire with Jo close on her heels.

His heart skipped a beat as Safia's woollen sweater snagged itself on one of the protruding strands of wire.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen …

Shift it, lady!

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen …

Tearing her jumper free, he pushed Safia through and she scurried off across the grass and into the bushes.

Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three …

As the searchlight swung back round, Jo dived head first into the undergrowth beside Safia and lay still for a few heart-thumping moments with her body pressed against him.

“Okay,” he whispered at length. He looked furtively around him and, seeing that the area was clear, slithered off away from the border fence, motioning her to follow close behind. Her own system pumped high with the adrenalin rush, Safia needed no coaxing.

Jo crept up to the main gates at the mines and fished in his carpet bag. He produced a rusty pair of bolt cutters. He clamped the jaws round the padlock and squeezed with all his might. The padlock gave way and he tossed it aside. They were in.

“Keep close beside me,” he advised Safia. “And stay in the shadows.”

They crossed the yard without any problem, but when they came close to the mine entrance, they spotted the night watchman patrolling the area.

As Jo was sneaking closer he crunched a piece of glass underfoot and froze on the spot as the night watchman turned and swung his torch in their direction.

Jo pushed Safia right up against the side of the shed and put a finger to her mouth to signal absolute quiet.

The guard was coming their way now. Jo went for his belt and pulled out a knife, ready to tackle the man.

When the man was nearly on top of them, Jo signalled to Safia to walk out into the open.

“What the hell you doing in here?” the guard asked, running his torch up and down her.

“The boys thought you could do with a little intimate company,” she fibbed.

“Huh? No, you're pulling my leg, surely?”

In that instant, Jo stood up and kicked the guard in the groin, hard. He doubled up in pain. Then Jo gave him a viscous upper-cut to the chin and laid him out cold.

“Grab the keys,” Jo whispered, dragging the man into the shadows behind the huts.

He took the man's torch, turned it off and dropped it in his bag. He took the man's handcuffs and fastened his hands behind his back, and taped over his mouth with gaffer tape. Then they were off across the yard toward the mine shaft..

There was a barred gateway across the mouth of the shaft and Huw wasted valuable time finding the key to the deadlock. At last he had it and he swung the big double gates open wide.

“Stay here and keep a look out,” he told Safia. Then, taking out the torch, he dashed full pelt down the shaft. Not only did the chain gang work in the mine itself, they had to eat and sleep there, too, in a cavern just off the main shaft that had been converted into living quarters. Jo had never come across such barbaric practices. The authorities must have known about the conditions the men had to live in – and yet still they turned a blind eye. And they were supposed to be the good guys, huh? It sucked.

Toward the end of the shaft there was another rusty old gate. Again, he fumbled for some time, trying to find the right key. Then he was through, and a few yards further on he was in the bunk house.

“What the hell's going on?” someone yelled, shielding his eyes from the glare of the lamp. It was Seth.

Jo took the light and shone on it his own face. “Whatcha think now, old timer?” Jo asked. “Still think there's only one way out of this place?”

“Jesus Christ! Jo Pestachi! What the hell are you doing here? We heard you'd escaped. First time ever anyone's gotten out of here.”

“Okay now people, listen up. Form an orderly queue, then make your way up to the surface.”

“You first, Seth. Hold out your hands.”

Seth did as he was told and Jo went through the smaller keys until he found the one that fitted the manacles.

It took some time, but at length they were all unchained.

The others were at the mine entrance by the time Jo arrived, helping old Seth along.

“Where now, Jo?” asked Pat.

“I want you and Mole to come along with me. Ozzi? Take the rest of the guys to safety in Sector Five-Six. You know the score with the searchlights? I cut the wire almost directly opposite the old fire station. You know the place?”

“Sure do, Jo. Hey – and thanks. Looks like we owe you a big one.”

“Just get everyone to safety, okay. No heroics. And good luck to you all.”

“Now, Moley baby – they tell me you're damn hot at defeating alarm circuits. Is that right?”

“So they tell me. Except I haven't got any gear with me.”

“What you need?”

“A brace and bit; wire strippers; a reel of copper wire; glass cutter; some gaffer tape …”

“Here.” Jo rummaged in his magic holdall and produced a small kit bag.

“Hell, there's enough gear in here to rewire the district. Where is it we're busting into?”

“Virtuoso.”

“Hell.” Mole scratched his chin. “Well, that puts a whole new complexion on the matter. That place must be bristling with security – including a direct line to the nearest nick for the alarm system. I'll need more gear for a place like that. I thought you meant a house or something.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning we'll have to make a slight detour. I have my gear stashed away at home. I just hope Sharon hasn't turfed it all out. She can't stand clutter, you see, and she wouldn't be expecting to see me back for a good few years.”

“Okay. Your place then.”

~~~O~~~

Jo had liberated a van and they had to wait in trepidation until dawn when the curfew was lifted, huddled in the back of the van before they dare enter the city.

They hadn't gone far before they hit their first trouble. Halfway down the street, Pat noticed a checkpoint looming up ahead and they saw a group of heavily armed police and what appeared to be the military manning it.

“Looks like they've stepped up security since the blast on the power plant,” Jo observed. He swung the vehicle off down a side street to the left. Time to make a hasty detour.

They came across similar checkpoints at every major intersection and had to stick to the side roads all the way to Mole's place, and once or twice they saw armoured vehicles in the distance.

“You sure you need that gear?” asked Jo. He was all for turning around.

“Sure I'm sure,” Mole replied. “Without it, we don't stand an earthly chance of getting through their security.”

“You know,” Jo observed. “If I didn't know better, I'd have said that Sher Point was under martial law.”

“I can't see why it should be,” Safia pondered. She'd received no inkling of this at Grand Central – and they should know. “Sure, there's been trouble recently, but nothing that would warrant this level of security … Nevertheless … I do believe you're right.” What she wouldn't give to be back at her desk right now, or in the possession of a scanner to listen in on the police frequencies.

“Say, turn on the car radio, will you?” requested Mole. “See if there's anything on News 24.”

Safia reached down to the dashboard, hit the “ON” button and flicked through the channels. There was news on virtually all of them, including the music channels.

“… Our special correspondent Brian Humphries is on the scene at the House of Representatives even as I speak. Over to you, Brian. Tell us a little about what you've been able to ascertain …”

“Well, John, I've been on the streets since the early hours of the morning when tanks first rumbled up the main street here in the city centre. And since then, police have set up road blocks right across the city at every key intersection with the support of heavily-armed military personnel. I've tried to find out from them what's happening, but thus far they've refused to comment …”

“Any word from the authorities yet on exactly what this clearly massive operation is all about, Brian?”

“Only the one written statement, John, issued by a General Booth at the Defence Ministry. Apparently – though this has yet to be confirmed independently – the Secret Service uncovered a major terrorist plot to target the city centre. A State of Emergency has been declared under the terms of the Emergency Powers Bill, which if you remember went through the House of Representatives earlier this year …”

“So what you're saying, Brian, is that martial law has been declared in the city? This action is quite unprecedented. How's this going to affect the lives of the millions who daily commute to and from and across the city to work?”

“Well, that's a very good question, John. As far as …”

“Damn!” Jo reached across to the radio and switched it off.

“Hey! Whatcha do that for, Jo?” Mole wanted to know.

“Later,” Jo retorted. “We have a job to complete first. Now, whereabouts exactly is this place of yours?”

“Next right, then take a sharp left down a back lane.”

When they got there, Mole clambered out of the back of the van. “Won't be long,” he said and he trotted off down the alley and up a fire escape to the back of his girlfriend's flat.

They waited anxiously for him to return. An armoured car had already passed them by whilst Mole was away and it surely wasn't going to be long before someone spotted the van – perhaps it had already been reported stolen? – and came to investigate.

But then Mole was back with his bag of tricks, ready for the break-in at Virtuoso. “Okay, I'm in. Get us out of here, Jo,” he called as he clambered back in and pulled the door-to behind him with a slam that made Safia's ears pop.

Then they were on their way again, sticking to the back roads to avoid being confronted by the military patrols.

~~~O~~~

Ellie and Bethany had gone to bed early again. They set their wristpads and settled down for the night.

“See you soon,” Ellie whispered.

“Can't wait!” replied Bethany, pulling the covers up over her face.

Gareth had decided to run a length of masking tape around his wristpad to obscure the display and cover the keypad, just to be on the safe side. If anyone attempted to tamper with the device, he was sure to wake. Fletcher, Rees and Mogg weren't the most intelligent pupils in the Home, but he wouldn't put anything past them these days, especially after their recent fright.

When Ellie emerged in DreamScape, she was standing near the cottage in the front garden, and the sun was beating down, as ever. Her heart sank once more as she gazed around at the derelict building and the weed-infested garden.

Gareth arrived a little time later. He'd materialised a little further away, down by the side of the brook, and came ambling over when he saw Ellie waving.

By the time Bethany arrived on the scene, Ellie and Gareth had been out back to the garden shed and, suitably equipped, Gareth was hacking away at the taller weeds while Ellie was following him around with an old mechanical lawn mower.

Bethany came down with a bit of a bump beside the fountain, staggered about giddily for a moment and fell over backwards into the water, drenching her. It was all Ellie could do to prevent herself from bursting out laughing, but Gareth had no such moral inhibitions and when he saw what had happened he was rolling about in the grass with his legs in the air.

“Oh, Bethany!” he laughed, clutching his heaving stomach. “That was an absolute pearler! I bet you couldn't do that again if you tried!”

“You okay, Bethany? You didn't hurt yourself did you?” Ellie went dashing over. “Oh, you're absolutely drenched!”

Bethany took it all in her stride. “It's alright, I'll dry out.”

“We thought we'd make a start on the garden,” Gareth said as Bethany stood there surveying the scene.

Bethany didn't appear entirely convinced. “This is our dream, right? We shouldn't have to slave away like adults would in the everyday world. It just seems plain barmy to me. There has to be another way.”

“I tried wishing the place back the way it was when we first found it,” Ellie explained. “And so did Gareth, but absolutely nothing happened.”

“Let's have a drink and sit down and think about this logically,” said Bethany. “Maybe you've been trying too hard to make things happen? Maybe it doesn't work that way.”

“See what I mean?” she pointed out as a tray of ice-cool drinks appeared on the grass near where they were sitting.

“Oh, I really wish Fletcher and his stupid friends had never been here!” Gareth huffed and puffed, throwing his garden shears down on the ground in disgust. “God, they make me so angry!”

And no sooner were the words out of the boy's mouth than the scene was suddenly transformed. The cottage was as good as new and the garden was as well-cultivated as ever it had been.

“Wow!” gasped Gareth.

“That's the way to do it!” Ellie whooped, and the three of them did a little jig around the garden. Words could not convey the elation they felt at that moment.

“Hall-elujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hall-e-luj-ah!” they all sang as they danced around and held their arms in the air. “Oh, thank you! God I love you!”

It was some time before they settled down again, seating themselves at the picnic table to have a nice relaxing drink.

“So?” Where shall we go next?” Bethany asked.

“Well,” said Gareth. “We never did get to see what the woods were like …”

“That sounds like an excellent adventure!” agreed Ellie.

Bethany finished the last of her drink and stood up. “The woods it is, then.”

Ellie was about to say that perhaps they should tidy the drinks and gardening equipment away first, and turned to pick up the discarded shears, only to find that someone must have beaten her to it.

“Hmm. The fairies must have done it!” she muttered to herself.

Bethany frowned. “Come again?”

“I was just about to clear the things away, but it looks like the fairies must have done it,” she explained. That seemed to ring a distant bell in her head. “You know, that's a saying I seem to remember my mum using. And if Dad dropped off to sleep on an evening, Mum would say that he was 'away with the fairies'. Funny how little things like that come back to you when you're least expecting it.”

“I can't remember a thing about my parents,” Bethany volunteered. “All I know was they were killed in a car crash when I was a baby.”

“You know, that's really sad,” Ellie commiserated, giving Bethany a hug.

“Oh, it's okay: like I said, I was too young to remember them. In a way, that's maybe not such a bad thing.”

“In what way, Beth?”

“Well, some of the others who lost their parents when they were a bit older still miss them and cry a lot, especially on a night and on a weekend. I've never had much of a family life, so I guess I don't really know what I'm missing. But what about you, Ellie?”

Ellie shrugged. “My previous life is mostly a blank. But every now and again I remember odd snippets; maybe things they used to say to me.”

“And Gareth?”

“I never knew my Dad. My mother brought me up until I was about six, then for some reason – maybe I was getting on her nerves or cramping her style? I don't know why and I probably never will – but she just gave me away.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, Gareth,” Ellie said. “Jeez, life is so sad …”

“Hey, come on people!” Bethany encouraged them, getting to her feet. “Life can be so beautiful, too! Life is for living! Stir your stumps and let's get a move on!”

“How we getting there?” asked Gareth. Last time he was there he'd buckled the wheel on his bike and it had been left where he'd taken a tumble.

Ellie could only remember seeing the two bikes in the shed – the ones she and Bethany had been riding. And besides, Gareth might not feel too comfortable riding after the crash. “We could walk, if you like.”

Bethany wasn't having any of it, eternally optimistic, she led the way through the back garden to the bike shed. And, just as Bethany had imagined, there were the three bikes, as good as new. “Positive thinking, folks,” she beamed as they wheeled the bikes out. “Positive thinking!”

“That reminds me of an old song,” said Ellie. “It's all about being optimistic and looking on the bright side, rather than dwelling on the negative.”

They didn't know all the words, only the chorus, but that's the song they all sang as they rode merrily off down the track towards the woods.

There were limits to the effects that positive thinking could have on your life, though, thought Ellie as they followed the meandering path into the tall canopy of evergreen trees.

Wishful thinking couldn't get you out of the SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children, for example – well, not in real, everyday life that was. If it could, then the combined protestations, wishes and heartfelt prayers of generations of abused school children would surely by now have brought an end to such institutions. And that certainly hadn't happened!

They'd gone quite a way into the woods now and they emerged in a clearing. At first all she could see was a jumble of boulders up ahead, but as they got closer she discovered that it was an ancient stone circle.

“Hey! Will you look at that!” gasped Gareth. “I wonder who built it. Maybe it's magic?”

Bethany got off her bike and walked over to the huge megaliths and they followed. “I'd say that like anything in Elvenglade, this place is as magical as you imagine it to be,” she told him.

Ellie seemed to remember having visited a site like this long, long ago – most likely with her parents. Oh, if only it were truly magical and could transport her back home or bring her parents here …

Even before Ellie realized what she'd just said, she felt an upheaval, like an earth tremor and she lurched forward.

“Ellie? You okay?”

The whole circle of stones seemed to be spinning around her now – or were they standing still with her spinning in the centre of them? Faster and faster the scene spun until finally it was nothing but a blur.

And then quite suddenly she seemed to fall over on her face and, little by little her giddiness dissipated. When she finally staggered to her feet, Ellie was surprised to find that she was no longer in the stone circle but in a room that was strangely familiar to her. She was in bed, but it wasn't the same as the bed in the dormitory, it was a bunk bed and she was in the top. She sat up and clambered down the ladder. There was a child in the bottom bunk and when he turned his head her way she recognized him. It took her some time to remember his name, and then it suddenly dawned on her – it was Rohan, her very own little brother.

She went over to the boy's bed and began to shake him, calling out: “Rohan, Rohan! It's me! Rohan – wake up!” The boy was fast asleep and try as she might, she could not rouse him. And he seemed to be shimmering around the edges, almost as if he wasn't quite fully present in the room.

“I wish you were awake!” she called out – to no avail.

Leaving the bedside now, Ellie wandered out into the hallway. It seemed rather familiar to her, but her memories of the place seemed so hazy and distant and she was a little disorientated. Should she try the rooms upstairs or down? There was a wide, sweeping staircase at the end of the passage and lights on in the hallway below, so she decided to explore down there.

As she crept along the bottom passage, she saw a door standing slightly ajar and heard noises and talking coming from within. Her hand went to the door and, after a moment of trepidation and great inner struggle, she pushed the door wide open. Then she plucked up as much courage as she could muster and she walked in.

Ellie looked around her. Long shelves of books filled three of the four walls, whilst at the far end there was some kind of control console bristling with flashing lights. When she saw that, her heart skipped a beat and it took her a moment to catch her breath. Ellie knew then what the electronic equipment was – it was her Father's DreamScape Machine. It was he who had invented the thing in the first place.

It was all coming back to her now. Ellie could see herself now on that fateful evening – the evening of the family conference. The trouble they were experiencing because of the way things were down in Sher Point. She could see herself walking across the room; sitting at the console; trying to remember which buttons to press. Then she was falling into some bottomless black pit. And finally, when she awoke she found herself flat out on the pavement, shivering with the cold, near Mrs Lawrence's house …

She walked further into the room, and she could see a figure at the control desk, speaking to someone on the phone. Well, not speaking so much as bellowing down the phone at someone on the other end.

There was only one person whom she knew in the world who bellowed like that, other than Ms Arkwright – and that was Uncle Az*Oth.

“Hello …” Ellie croaked when she'd again plucked up the courage.

The figure made no response.

Ellie cleared her throat. “Hello!” she called again, a little louder this time.

Still there was no response, so she crept a little closer. She moved round to the side of Uncle Az*Oth now, so that he simply couldn't miss seeing her. And she noticed that he, too, seemed to be shimmering; in fact he looked slightly transparent, like a ghost.

Uncle Az*Oth suddenly looked up. “Ellie?”

A shiver went through her as their eyes met.

“Ellie? Ellie!” he called out, taking a deep breath, as if to calm his own nerves.

“What are you doing here? Oh, Lord! We've been searching high and low for you.”

Then he looked her up and down and ran his hands over her arms and her face, looking a little perplexed, as if he'd noticed that she, too, wasn't quite fully present in that world.

And as she stood there, smiling at Uncle Az*Oth, she noticed that he was becoming even more transparent now – indeed the whole room was slowly dissolving before her eyes.

“Ellie?” The man had got to his feet now, but as he reached forward to take her in his arms, his hands went right through her.

“Don't worry, angel – we'll get you back soon, I promise. Ellie? You hear me. We won't let you down! We'll never give up on you! We'll keep trying …”

And then he was gone. Next time Ellie looked she was flat out on the grass inside the megalithic stone circle and Bethany was kneeling over her.

“It's okay, Ellie,” said Bethany soothingly: “I think you just fainted, that's all.”

“I'll tell you what happened, Beth – I wished that I was back home. And all of a sudden I was there. I even spoke to my Uncle Az*Oth, but everything began to fade away and I found myself back here.”

“Your Uncle Az*Oth?” Bethany asked. “That's a rather strange name, isn't it?”

So she told Bethany and Gareth the story of her life, as best she could remember – for already the memory was beginning to fade in her mind.

“Wow!” said Gareth. “And we thought DreamScape was magic!”

Bethany Sparkes was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. And flummoxing her was no mean feat.

“You don't think I'm crazy, do you?” Ellie wanted to know. “I mean, you don't think I should be locked away in some insane asylum?” There were tears in her eyes now.

“No, silly!” laughed Bethany. “I believe you. I really do.”

“Oh, thank God somebody in this world does!” Ellie blurted. “I think I would go insane if you didn't believe me. You and Gareth are my best friends ever!”

And to think that The Powers That Be were even now toying with the idea of obliterating the human race from the face of the planet. Decent human beings like Bethany and Gareth; Mrs Hardcastle the cleaning lady; Mr and Mrs Lawrence and little Maureen. They should all try spending a few years down here – living at the sharp end – before they came up with such monstrous plans.

If she ever did get home, Ellie pondered, she was going to miss Bethany and Gareth like crazy. And they'd still be stuck at SunnyDene with Ms Arkwright breathing down their necks. Life was so unfair.

Just then, they saw a figure stomping across the grass toward them.

“Ms Arkwright!” hissed Bethany. You could recognize that mean gait anywhere. “What's she doing here?”

“Right, you have had your fun, my three fine friends – but now it's down to business.”

“Who gave you the right to come bursting into our dream, eh?” demanded Gareth, going forward and poking the woman in the ribs.

“Yeah, why don't you buzz off, you old cow!” Ellie joined in.

Ms Arkwright stood her ground and fixed them squarely in the eye. “Carry on, carry on!” she lilted. “Give me good reason to put you in the dark hole of Calcutta for another week!” (She was referring to the cupboard under the stairs).

Gareth was not going to back down. “Get out of it Arkwright. Go back to sodding SunnyDene where you belong!”

Bethany wasn't so sure that was such a good idea. “Leave it, will you, Gareth. I don't like the look of this. There's something wrong.”

“I'll see you in my office first thing tomorrow morning, Gareth Jones!” the old battleaxe spat at him. And by the look on her face, she clearly meant it.

“Having trouble there, Ms Arkwright?” someone called out from behind them. The man strode up behind Gareth and grasped him by the side of his neck in his thumb and index finger. In an instant he had Gareth on his knees and crying out in excruciating pain.

“I can see that these charges of yours need to be taught exactly who's in command here,” said the man.

“Yes, Professor Pendleberry.”

Professor Pendleberry let go of Gareth. He slumped onto the ground, still writhing in pain.

“Ah.” The man turned to Ellie now. “Well, if it isn't little Miss Lauriel El*Eth. Poor girl from Zone Five seems to have got herself lost down here, doesn't she?”

“If this girl plays you up, Ms Arkwright, you might remind her that I have her beloved father, Mitch, in custody. If she misbehaves then rest assured, her father will feel my wrath. And if Mitch fails to deliver, then she is to be punished.”

“Yes, Professor.”

What was this? Ms Arkwright taking orders from someone else? Was this why they'd been given the DreamScape wristbands?

The professor appeared to have read her thoughts. In fact he said so: “Yes, little one – I did read your thoughts. That's one of the perks of being the Head of Virtuoso. Now, you're probably wondering why Ms Arkwright should be taking orders from me, am I right?”

“Am I right?” he demanded. He grabbed her by the shoulder and gently squeezed and now she, too, was down on her knees. “Wonderful things, pressure points, Ms Arkwright,” he leered.

“Y-y-yes,” she agreed.

“Yes – what?” he demanded.

“Yes, sir, Professor Pendleberry.”

“That's better.” The man released his grip and Ellie got shakily to her feet.

“Well, I'll let you in on a little secret, Ellie dear. In just a few more minutes, I will be activating phase three of the operation. Oh, you haven't heard? There's to be a coup. When Sher Point's citizens wake tomorrow morning they will find that these little DreamScape playthings have yet another covert function.”

“What's that, you say? Mind control, my dear – mind control.

And when the good people awake they will be met by a new ruler: Lord Develin, whom I faithfully represent. You won't have heard of Develin of course, but your father most certainly has. He is greatly renowned and feared – especially in Zone Five.

“And, with Sher Point firmly in our grip, we will turn our attention to the question of those demigods, the Caretaker Council. And Lord Develin will once again reign supreme with me at his right hand!

“Anyhow, Ms Arkwright,” said the professor, taking the woman's arm in his own. “Let's leave our young friends to enjoy their last few precious minutes of freedom and to reflect upon what lies ahead. Perhaps I might accompany you on a pleasant stroll along by the stream? There's a delightful little cottage along the way – I thought perhaps you might care to join me and my dear wife Bridget there for a bite to eat. It's got a super rose garden overlooking the brook …”

~~~O~~~

“Excellent!” exclaimed the professor, rubbing his hands with glee and doing a little jig across the floor as the news started coming in. Everything was going to plan and right on schedule. Lord Develin would be pleased.

Mitch looked up from the plans laid out before him.

“Martial law,” the professor explained. “Martial law, my dear friend.”

Mitch looked furtively around the control room. There had to be something around here that he could use as a weapon. He had to put a stop to the professor's little game. Things had gone far enough.

The professor wandered over to the main control console and swung himself into his seat. “And now to execute phase three of the operation. You might like to observe, Mitch.”

Mitch had spotted a heavy fire extinguisher on a wall; the professor had turned his back on him, and he'd seen his chance. He tiptoed over to the extinguisher, lifted it gently from its cradle and was stalking across the room with it raised above his head.

In that split second, as Mitch loomed over him and momentarily hesitated, the professor caught sight of Mitch's reflection in the observation window. He ducked and sent the swivel chair scooting across the room.

Mitch lunged forward and missed. He dropped the extinguisher and went after the professor. If necessary, he'd strangle the life from the man bare-handed.

The professor spun around. “Rogers?” He spoke into the microphone attached to his hands-free headset.

Mitch knew exactly what the professor was going to do – he was about to issue the order to have El*Eth executed. But, much as it grieved Mitch – and he'd tortured himself for days over the matter – as a member of the Council he had an overriding duty and obligation to the security of Sher Point and Zone Five as a whole.

He walked towards the professor and, now sensing that Mitch still intended to carry out his murderous assault, he spoke again into the microphone and scooted across to the far side of the room, out of Mitch's immediate reach. “Phase three! Activate!”

Somewhere in the labyrinthine laboratory complex, one of the professor's minions reached forward over a control panel and pressed a button, activating the remaining DreamScape transponders. They were all on-line now. All one hundred million of them. There wasn't a household in the land which didn't have at least one DreamScape wristband between them.

But Mitch was still coming.

He picked up the extinguisher again and hurled it across the room. The professor ducked and it smashed through the glass of the observation window, missing his head by a mere whisker.

Mitch leapt forward and had the professor by the throat and was squeezing as hard as he could. The professor gasped, unable to catch his breath.

And then, just before the professor blacked out, Mitch suddenly straightened up, staring blankly ahead as if into outer space.

“Excellent,” the professor croaked, getting to his feet and feeling his aching throat. He poked Mitch in the ribs. There was no response. “Excellent! You are to be commended on the fine work you've carried out on DreamScape, Mitch. It works an absolute treat! It's a positive joy to behold!”

~~~O~~~

Jo, Safia and the crew hadn't gone very far in the van when they came face to face with a sea of people marching down the street towards them. Every few paces their ranks were being swelled by newcomers.

“What the hell is going on?” asked Safia. Jo had his hand on the gear lever, ready to back away at a moment's notice. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw others behind them, hanging around at the crossroads.

Mole had the door open in the rear of the van. Surely he wasn't going to make a run for it?

“Stay here,” he ordered. “I'm going to find out what's going on.” And with that he clambered from the vehicle and walked over, waving his arms in the air, to speak to a group who were leading the crowd. Someone put their hand up and the mass came to a halt close-by. Safia could not fail but notice that some of the crowd were armed.

One of the leaders had his sub machine gun levelled on Mole as he stood there and there was a lot of talking and gesticulating going on. This looked rather ominous. Then finally, Mole came running back towards them.

“It's okay,” he said, once back inside. The crowd moved on, parting as it did so and passing either side of them as Jo drove slowly and tentatively up the road.

“So what's going on?” asked Safia.

Mole drew a deep breath. “It would appear, my dear, that there's been a military coup and that our good friend Professor Pendleberry is playing a pivotal role in the insurrection ...”

52. Break-in

Together, Safia and Jo cut across the lawn round the side of the Virtuoso complex and ducked into the entrance porch, out of the line of sight of the CCTV cameras. Chances were there was nobody watching the monitors, but they might have motion sensors, and so they couldn't be too careful.

Meanwhile, Pat had shinned up a nearby telegraph pole to cut the telephone lines. One of them was a direct line between the complex's alarm system and the local cop shop. “One clear,” he reported.

“Two clear,” Mole checked in. That meant that he'd bridged the alarm circuit on the window and gained access to the building.

“Three clear.” That meant that Mole had defeated the alarm system.

“Well, here goes.” Jo reached in his magic holdall and pulled out a glass cutter with a sucker attached to it. He stuck the sucker on the glass of the front door, ran the cutter round, tapped the pane and retrieved the glass. Then, reaching his hand inside, he pulled the floor catch. He repeated the process for the catch at the top of the door, then pushed both doors inwards, and they were in.

“Yes!”

“Right. Spread out. Check every room. When you find anything that looks like computer gear or a transmitter for DreamScape, I want it smashing into little pieces.”

“I think not.”

Suddenly the main lights came on in the corridor. Safia spun round to see a figure standing there behind them, holding a pistol. It was Mole. He reached down and pulled his trouser leg up to reveal a DreamScape device attached to his ankle.

Safia was shocked. Mole by name and mole by nature.

“Fink!” Jo spat.

For a moment, it looked like Jo was about to rush the man, but then Professor Pendleberry stepped out of the darkness with Huw and Charles at his heels, and they were all armed, so he abruptly changed his mind.

And at the other end of the corridor, ahead of them, Safia could see two more of them blocking the way, dressed as security guards and carrying pump action shotguns.

“What shall we do with this lot, Prof?” Charles asked.

“Lock 'em downstairs in the pens for now,” he said. “I've got my work cut out as it is, if we're to switch on the whole grid at full power tomorrow.”

Safia looked searchingly into Huw's eyes. “Huw. It's me – your wife. Safia. Don't you remember? For the love of God, don't let them do this to us. Can't you see this DreamScape thing's got out-of-hand? That the professor is simply using you? Controlling you?”

If Huw heard her, he showed no sign. He just waved them off down the corridor with his gun.

“What now?” Safia asked, after they'd been locked down in the pens like laboratory rats.

“That's a very good question,” Jo replied. “I am so glad that you asked me that.”

All of which meant, he hadn't the foggiest idea.

~~~O~~~

Meanwhile, back at the SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children, everybody was crowding around the television set in the pupils' common room. For some unknown reason, all lessons had been cancelled that day and they were making the most of it.

It didn't take them long to work out why, though. Bethany had tried every channel going with the hand-held zapper, in search of a decent children's programme or a film, but on every channel it was the same: the news. Live coverage of something very sinister going on in Sher Point metropolis.

“… There have been startling new developments in the city,” the newsreader was saying. “Let's go live to the scene with Laurie Jenkinson outside the Mayor's Office …”

“Hello. Yes, I have just witnessed the most horrific incident, Raymond. A short while ago, the Lady Mayor came out to greet the media on the front steps of the Mayor's Office. Crowds of bystanders were already milling around the building – as indeed they have been around the House of Representatives and other prominent public establishments.”

“Then, quite without warning, someone walked calmly out of the crowd and pulled a gun – a shotgun as far as I can tell. They walked up to the Lady Mayor, raised the weapon and shot her at point blank range – you can imagine the result – pictures too gruesome and graphic for us to show on television. And then they quite simply walked away and melted into the crowd …”

“Surely, someone must have tried to stop them, Laurie?”

“No, Raymond. That's the most startling thing. There were police and military personnel close-by, doing their best to manage the swelling crowd, but nobody – I repeat nobody – stepped-in to do anything about it. It's hard to believe, but I have to say that the police and the military did absolutely nothing to prevent the incident. Nor to catch the perpetrator of this horrific crime. Absolutely unbelievable …”

“And what's the scene like now, Laurie?”

“Well, Raymond, you can see for yourself. You'd expect there to be sheer pandemonium. But no, the crowd is still here; it's getting more and more numerous by the minute, and there is an eerie calm. I just can't understand it. But here, this is live footage from the square outside the Mayor's Office – you can see the scene before your own eyes and judge for yourself …”

The camera slowly panned across the square to show the thousand upon thousand of people gathered there, all bearing the same, impassive expressions.

“Do you have any idea why crowds should be congregating in this way around public buildings? Are they protesting about the imposition of martial law? They certainly don't look like protesters. And in any case, if martial law has been imposed, then why on Earth aren't the authorities doing anything to disperse them – hopefully in a peaceful manner?”

“Laurie, I wish I knew. I tried to talk to some of the people gathered here to find that out and to gauge their reactions to the shooting, but I must say I've drawn a complete blank. It's almost as if they're mounting a vigil, waiting for instructions – though from whom, your guess is as good as mine ... I've been reporting on incidents for over twenty years now, Raymond, and I have never, ever come across anything like this before. As I said, the atmosphere here is not as you might have imagined – tense and electric or even disobedient – but simply surreal and eerie …”

“Thanks, Laurie. We'll have to leave it there. Over now to our studio guest, Peter Farmer who's a defence analyst. Peter, thank you for coming in at such short notice. First of all, let me ask you …”

Bethany clicked the zapper a few more times, checking each channel again and again. But the story was the same: that something very big was going down in Sher Point. None of the reporters seemed to know what, but she did and that's what they were all avidly watching the screen for – they were all waiting for Lord Develin to come out onto the balcony of the Mayor's office to address them and to give them their instructions. And that was the reason that lessons had been cancelled that day.

“Long live Lord Develin!” one of the older boys called out. Then others joined in. And finally the whole common room was filled with their chanting and the stamping of feet.

“Dev-e-lin! Dev-e-lin! Dev-e-lin!”

53. In the cells

The guard came in the morning to deliver a meal to them in the holding pens. He opened a slot in the barred doorway and slid the tray through, along the stone floor.

Safia sauntered casually over to the door to take the tray. “Good morning,” she said, bending down to show her ample cleavage. “You don't by any chance have a spare cigarette, do you? I'm useless on a morning until I've had my fix of nicotine.”

“Sure.” The guard rummaged in his top pocket, pulled out a pack and offered her one.

She took it, put it in her mouth and asked: “And have you got a light, please?”

Again, he went in his pockets, found his lighter, lit it and leant forward to light Safia's cigarette.

That was a big mistake.

Quick as a flash, Safia grabbed hold of him by the collar and heaved, so that his head was up against the bars.

Now Jo ran forward and grabbed he man, banging his head repeatedly against the bars until he lost consciousness and slumped to the ground.

Safia spat the cigarette out on the floor.

“Hey, lady. Don't go wasting good nicotine!” Pat protested, rescuing the cigarette before Safia had a chance to stamp it out.

They heaved the guard's body close to the door of the pen now and reached through the bars to retrieve his keys. And seconds later they had the door open and the guard bundled inside the spartan cell and safely locked in.

“Hey! Don't forget us,” someone called from the next pen. They were just a bunch of petty criminals and they'd been using them as human guinea-pigs to test out the DreamScape device.

Jo tossed them the key. “You with us?”

“For an escape you mean? Sure thing.”

Jo shook his head. “No – I mean we find their base station – the computer gear controlling the DreamScape cell network – and we smash it up, so they can't control us any more.”

“The guards are armed, you know ...”

Jo bent down and unfastened the guard's holster, then waved his pistol in the air. “And so are we. Grab anything you can find.”

“Okay. I reckon it's still early. Chances are that there won't be many on duty yet, and we have the element of surprise – as long as we're quiet.”

“I think the room you're looking for is W22. That's the west wing. The goons had me doing a few chores for them.”

“Mate, that's exactly the kind of info we need to know. Thanks!”

They ran through the building now and passed a kitchen on the way, raiding it for anything they could use as a weapon – mop handles, knives, rolling pins, extinguishers.

“Hey, you!” Someone caught sight of them down the corridor and ran toward one of the red panic buttons on the wall.

“Damn! We've been rumbled!”

Once Jo let off a round from the gun, the place would be crawling with goons.

Pat snatched a meat cleaver from one of the others, took hold of it by the handle and hurled it at the man. It struck him in the neck and he went down, clutching at the gaping wound. Someone kicked him in the head on the way past and he lay still.

They frisked the man, but didn't find any weapons.

Jo counted off the rooms. “W3, W4, W5 … Must be down the end of this corridor.”

Without warning, shots began to ring out. Pat went down clutching his leg and one of the guinea-pigs took a shot to the head.

Jo spun round and dived to the ground. Taking aim, he took out the guard just as he was going to pump another round into them. Safia raced back and relieved the man of his pistol.

Hell, if that had been a pump action shotgun, the guy would have probably taken them all out. “Spread out!” he urged them.

A figure ducked out of one of the doorways ahead. “Down!” Jo shouted, diving to the floor and rolling over into a doorway. A shot rang out and he could almost feel the hail of pellets sizzle past his head.

He pushed his way into the side room to get off the corridor.

There were two of them now, covering each other and working their way up the corridor.

As soon as the shots rang out he rolled out of the doorway and let go with a series of shots. Then Safia opened up, too, and took one of them out. The other one hared it down the corridor.

Jo levelled his gun and brought the man down with a couple of shots right in the back.

Then they were up again, running down the corridor. “W19, W20, W21 …”

They were here.

“Cops!” Pat yelled, catching sight of the flashing lights coming up the driveway. And no doubt these cops would be loyal to DreamScape.

“Ready?” Jo looked at Safia.

“Whenever you are, Jo,” she returned, lining up her pistol.

Jo burst into the room in a burst of covering fire and rolled to the side behind a control console. Then he stuck his head up and covered Safia as she crept in and took up a position on the other side of the door.

Someone let loose a shotgun and showered the wall above Safia's head.

“Mind the equipment, fool!” the professor cursed.

There were pistol shots and Pat dived through the door and crawled over to her.

Professor Pendleberry stepped away from the equipment now, using Huw as a human shield.

“What is your prime directive?” the professor asked.

“To obey your every command, Professor.”

“And would you even kill yourself, if I were to command you?”

“Yes.”

Oh God.

“Take your pistol and place the muzzle in your mouth.”

Huw did as he was commanded.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” the professor taunted her. “Unless you want your beloved husband to die.”

“You, too, Charles. Place the muzzle of your pistol in your mouth,” he commanded. “Surely, you do not want the death of these loved ones on your eternal conscience? How do you think your sister Samira would feel about you if you let this happen?”

“Charles. Please count down slowly from ten to zero. And when you get to zero, you are to squeeze the trigger. Do you understand?”

“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven …”

There was a bundle of cables trailing across the floor ahead of her. She signalled to Pat and he crept alongside.

“Five …”

“Okay, okay,” she said, standing up with her hands raised high.

“Four …”

“Toss the gun over in my direction,” the professor smirked.

“Three …”

She did so.

“Two …”

“Stop the count!” Safia screamed. The professor merely smiled.

“One …”

At that moment, Pat brought the hatchet down on the bundle of cables and they exploded in a shower of sparks.

The professor leapt to one side and took a shot at Pat. A bullet struck Pat in the shoulder and he went down, writhing in pain.

Smoke was pouring from the back of the equipment now.

Jo leapt forward and tackled Charles around the knees, bowling him over and knocking the gun from his grasp.

Pat pushed himself up and continued to hack at the cables.

Finally, he hit the right one and the power went off.

The professor raised his gun in Safia's direction and began to squeeze the trigger.

Suddenly Huw snapped out of the trance in which he'd been held, took in the scene and turned on the professor, wrestling the gun from his hand.

~~~O~~~

A few minutes later, the police – having apparently come to their senses themselves – were on the scene and taking the professor away in handcuffs.

A man was coming down the corridor now and Safia recognized him as one of the prisoners they'd released earlier from the cells. “Mitch,” he explained. “You don't know me, but I'm Ellie's father. And I believe you're Safia Lawrence, am I right?”

Ellie? Who was that? And then she twigged. He meant Ella. “So that's her name! 'Ellie' …Yes, I've been trying to get to foster her until her parents turned up, with little success.” Then she sighed, realizing that this was the end of the road. Now there would be no fostering, as she'd so hoped.

“I understand she's still at the SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children,” Safia told him, “but I haven't been able to see her for weeks now.”

He nodded. “She's being held there to make sure I behaved myself and helped Professor Pendleberry with some teething problems he was having with DreamScape. I was the original inventor, you see, and he hacked into the system and stole it from me.”

“But now, with Pendleberry out of the way, I think it's about time we paid a visit to SunnyDene to get her back. Can you spare any of the men here to help out?”

Safia turned to Jo and explained the situation. “No problem,” he said, fingering his gun. “Lead the way.”

“Sergeant Tom Irvine,” he introduced himself formally. “I've been working undercover for the Met.”

Just then a burly figure came stomping down the corridor brandishing an automatic rifle. Instantly, Jo stiffened.

“Whoa!” Mitch caught hold of Jo's pistol hand just in time.

“Well, hello there. Anything I can do to help?” the newcomer asked. “Not too late, am I?”

“Better late than not at all.”

“You know this guy,” asked Jo edgily.

“Sure as hell he does – we're family.”

Mitch nodded. “Everybody – meet Az*Oth. Az*Oth – everybody.”

“Looks like you've got things under control down here.”

“You're not getting off that lightly, Az*Oth. If you're looking for something to do, you can help out here. Arrange for the Clean Up team to come in pronto. And personally supervise the trashing of anything even remotely relevant on disk; in the filing cabinets; the waste-paper baskets … you know the drill.”

“Meanwhile,” he turned to Jo. “We've got some unfinished business to take care of at the SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children.”

54. Wrapping it up

“Metropolitan Police, lady,” Tom Irvine announced at the gate.

“One moment, please,” the speaker crackled. “I-I'll just get the Director.”

They waited there patiently.

“Yes?” came the voice.

“Sergeant Tom Irvine – Sher Point Metropolitan Police Service.”

“Oh,” was all that Ms Arkwright was able to utter. “Ah … well …”

“You gonna let us in, or do I have to break the gates down, lady?”

There was a whirring sound and the gates began to swing open.

Ms Arkwright was waiting for them as they came up the driveway in the police skud.

As soon as the woman saw Mitch and Safia there with Tom Irvine and Huw she went to pieces.

“We're here to take Ella back with us,” Mitch spoke up.

“Er …”

“I'm her father.”

“I see. You have the necessary authority, I presume.”

Tom Irvine stared her full in the eyes and fingered the pistol in his belt, as if to say “This is the only authority I need.” He pushed past the woman and headed into the hallway with Mitch and Safia in-tow.

“P-P-Paterson?” Ms Arkwright called to a child who was walking down the corridor. “You are to go to Mrs Finchley-Smythe's class and bring Ella Grubbs to me, th-th-this instant!”

The child spun round and darted down the corridor.

“And walk, boy, d-d-don't run!”

For all the fright caused by their sudden appearance, the woman didn't seem to have lost her intimidating manner with her charges.

“You know,” observed Mitch. “I think it's about time the Powers That Be had a real close look into the set-up you've got here, lady.”

The colour drained from Ms Arkwright's face.

Mitch headed off after the girl and Ms Arkwright was too nonplussed to object.

“Safia!” a child's voice called from down the corridor and she turned to see Ella running towards her with Mitch in tow. Ellie dashed up and swung round in Safia's hands.

“Thank God you're safe,” Safia smiled.

Mitch was beaming from ear to ear. “Thanks to you and your friends, Safia,” he said. “I am so grateful for all your help.”

Safia turned back to the girl who was still holding her hand tightly in her own. “Well,” she said and there was no hiding the personal disappointment amidst her excitement: “I guess this is goodbye, then. Oh, I do so hope you have a wonderful life, Ella.”

“It's Ellie,” the girl corrected. That's short for Miss Lauriel El*Eth.”

Then: “Dad. Your DreamScape thingamabob is still working, isn't it?”

“Sure is.”

“Then maybe … maybe every so often we could, um … visit Mr and Mrs Lawrence? And my best friends Bethany and Gareth. Do you think we could?”

He scratched his chin. “Hmm. Yes, I'm sure that could be arranged. But only under my strict supervision, do you hear?”

“Yes, Dad. Anything Dad. Oh, thank you. And she gave her father and Safia a big hug each.

Then Ellie had an awful thought. “But what about Sher Point?” she wanted to know. “They're not going to ...”

Her father anticipated her question and gently stroked her arm. “Don't worry about that, Ellie. Thankfully, Area Command are having a rethink, so you no longer need to worry about that.”

Ellie breathed a deep sigh. “Oh, that is such a relief.”

Mitch looked at his watch. “Well, we're gonna have to get going,” he said.

Then it dawned on Ellie. “But Dad, if you've destroyed the professor's DreamScape machine, how am I going to get back?”

He patted Ellie on her shoulder. “Don't worry: the old ones in the MultiBooths are still working and they don't need the equipment here to operate, unlike the newer wristbands.”

“What should we do with them, then – the mainframes?” Jo wanted to know.

“That hasn't been decided yet,” he said, making a mental note to bring the issue up at the next Council meeting. “That's not for me alone to decide.”

Again, Ellie's father looked at his watch, perhaps more out of habit than necessity.

“One last thing, Dad,” Ellie piped up. “There's no rush is there? I really must go and say goodbye to my friends Bethany and Gareth before we leave, and reassure them that I'll be back to see them again.”

“Of course you must,” her father smiled, playfully shooing her away. “And you're quite right, there is no rush, so take your time. Having come all this way, I shan't leave without you.”

And so they said their fond goodbyes and Huw and Safia were walking away from the scene arm-in-arm, to make a new life for themselves while Jo got the police skud fired up to take Mitch and Ellie back through town in search of a MultiBooth.

“Well, there's one thing,” Huw said: “It looks like we've got ourselves an exclusive even more explosive and newsworthy than the original invention.”

~~~O~~~

The End

Other e-books by the same author

for the Amazon Kindle

As H.M. Forester (soft science fiction):

1. The Dissidents: A novella

2. Game of Aeons

As Etienne de L'Amour (mystical faction):

For teenagers:

1. DreamScape: In the Beginning.

2. Ellie and the Elvenstone.

The Shadowlands series:

1. The Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor.

2. Life on the Flipside (or In Two Minds).

3. Escape from the Shadowlands.

4. In Search of Destiny.

5. The Lucian Uprising.

6. Time and Time again.

7. The Gift.

8. The Host and the Guests.

9. Whisperings of Love.

10. The Insiders: Exploring the higher realms of possibility.

Other as Etienne de L'Amour (social realism):

1. Thank You, I Understand.

DreamScape: In the Beginning

First edition

By Etienne de L'Amour

Horrified at the impending plan to terminate the failed Experiment down at Sher Point, which would result in a huge loss of innocent life, young Ellie steals into her father's den and uses his latest gizmo, DreamScape, to descend from Zone Five to Sher Point and try to save the people there.

Unfortunately, once immersed in the lower world, Ellie suffers amnesia and, as her parents cannot be traced, she is sent to the SunnyDene Home for Wayward Children. Upstairs in Zone Five, the race is on to trace and rescue Ellie.

But there is another grave problem facing them. The plans for DreamScape have been stolen by the Dark Forces. At first the people of Sher Point are delighted to be able to act out their most cherished or wildest dreams, but what they don't know is that the system has been modified to enslave their minds. Can the people be saved before the Dread Lord Develin makes his triumphal return?

DreamScape: In the Beginning is a spiritually-inspired fantasy adventure, suitable for teenagers and adults alike. It is a prequel to the treasure hunt Ellie and the Elvenstone.

This story was originally written as a prototype and later evolved into the novel Escape From the Shadowlands, part of the Shadowlands series of books by the same author.

Sher Point Publications, UK

http://mystical-faction.blogspot.co.uk/

1The story of the precious jewel is to be found in Thinkers of the East by Idries Shah.

2The story of the caged bird is to be found in Tales of the Dervishes by Idries Shah.

Table of Contents

Dedication

1. Caretaker Council, Zone Five

2. Lending a helping hand

3. Panic stations

4. Moving house

5. A wayward child

6. A bumpy landing

7. DreamScape unveiled

8. SunnyDene

9. Off the beaten track

10. A drop in the ocean

11. The search begins

12. Settling in

13. A visitor

14. A day out

15. Phase 2

16. Breakthrough

17. The mission

18. Progress report

19. Welcome back

20. The professor calls

21. Bad dreams

22. Finished unpacking

23. Undercover assignment

24. Santa calls

25. Time to wake up

26. Grand Central

27. Sector Five-Six

28. Virtuoso

29. The name rings a bell

30. The chain gang

31. All hell breaks loose

32. Close to curfew

33. Panic over

34. Why so happy?

35. The security meeting

36. One last draw

37. Emergency treatment

38. A new arrival

39. A model prisoner

40. Reassignment

41. Back home

42. Awakening

43. Alone again

44. Accident & Emergency

45. Ellie's dream

46. A phone call

47. Making enquiries

48. A quick getaway

49. In hospital

50. Ellie's escape

51. Night raid

52. Break-in

53. In the cells

54. Wrapping it up