Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [64]
‘I try not to dream,’ he said. ‘Sleep does not come easily to me. I share your insomnia, Laska, your nightmares.’
For a moment Laska thought of Liz, of the dreams and nightmares she no longer had – her blank life, full of work and precious little else. Perhaps it was a sort of mercy not to dream, especially in a place like the Retreat.
‘I suppose, in answer to your question,’ continued Smith, ‘in my dreams I have flashes of insight, of self-awareness. But control? I’m not sure. I wonder how in control of my own, waking, destiny I am. Why do you ask?’
‘Normally I’m in control of my dreams,’ said Laska. ‘Or at least, whatever I’m doing seems natural, understandable. But I was walking towards the folly –
do you know it. . . ?’
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Smith nodded.
‘I was walking towards the folly,’ continued Laska, ‘but there was part of me – my subconscious I suppose – that didn’t want to go there. It was wrong, I was resisting, and yet still my legs took me there.’
‘That feeling of powerlessness in dreams – it’s very common,’ agreed Smith.
‘It just seemed odd – different, somehow. Anyway, I felt something warm just below my neck.’ Without thinking her fingers went to the place where her father’s pendant had, so briefly, been. ‘I looked down. The silver pendant was glowing, getting warmer. For a moment it was pleasant, it made me feel in control. But it kept getting hotter and hotter. I thought it was going to burn me.’
‘Do you mind?’ Smith extended his hand, gently resting his fingertips on Laska’s throat.
Laska almost recoiled at Smith’s touch – not sexual, not abusive, but sensual and powerful. For an instant her neck, her chest, flushed with warmth, just as they had when she had worn the necklace.
‘I noticed a small mark on your skin,’ explained Smith, withdrawing his perfect, almost sculpted hand. ‘It looks like a burn.’
‘Acne,’ said Laska bluntly, still disturbed by Smith’s awful, exciting intimacy.
‘Never had it when I was 13 or 14. My body’s really making up for it now.’
‘It could be that, I suppose,’ said Smith. ‘They sometimes say that our bodies reflect inner reality.’
‘And my zits reflect the disgust I feel at the world?’
‘Perhaps. It might explain your piercings, as a way you hope to gain control of the world, your life, your body.’ He smiled – he was observing, not criticising or condemning. ‘What happened next in your dream?’ he said.
‘I had to pull off the necklace – it was just so hot! I hurled it away, towards-the folly. The moment it was gone from me, I woke up.’
‘A most unusual nightmare.’
‘I know it doesn’t sound scary, but when I came to. . . My heart was pounding, my bedclothes were all over the place. And I couldn’t get back to sleep.’
‘And you’re sure you had this dream last night?’
Laska nodded.
Smith rubbed his chin absently, deep in thought. ‘And the pendant?’
‘I put it on the night before.’
‘But now. . . ?’ Smith indicated her unadorned throat. ‘You’ve lost it?’
‘My room’s in such a state. It’s probably there somewhere.’
‘Do you think it possible that you lost it two nights ago, and what you dreamed last night wasn’t a dream at all, but some sort of. . . repressed memory?’
‘No, that’s nonsense!’ said Laska hotly.
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‘Why do you say that?’ asked Smith, in his most reasonable voice.
‘It’s just a necklace! I’ve just mislaid it, and I had this odd dream, and. . .
Why would I want to throw it away, and then forget about it?’
‘Perhaps you weren’t entirely yourself. I’ve asked you before, and I’ll ask you again: are you feeling all right at the moment? Is everything OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Laska, suddenly getting to her feet. The scrape of her chair across the floor made one or two people look across. ‘I’ll see you around.’
And she left Smith playing with his toast.
Laska found a secluded corner and, after several attempts, managed to send a text to James. She continuously glanced up and