Graham Joyce - Dreamside

Another snigger went around the room, but it was arrested at the boy sitting on Lee’s immediate left, a dark-haired youth with deep-set eyes and a chinful of stubble. “How much will we be getting paid?” he demanded.

“A good question. Let’s clear that up without further delay. And you are…?”

“Brad,” said the boy, rather taken aback at the professor’s smiling response, “or rather Brad Cousins.”

“Well now Brad, or rather Brad Cousins, we must get that matter straightened out before there is any confusion. I hope not to disillusion you by saying that there is no payment. No, on the contrary, the principle involved is similar to that of the donor system at the medical centre; only it’s not your blood or your semen we are after, it’s your dreams.”

This time a laugh did a couple of circuits. Brad shrugged.

“For incentive,” the old academic continued, “the departmental budget might be seen to extend to the provision of a glass of wine and a dice-shaped piece of cheese or two at our weekly gathering, and possibly even to an end of term dinner party; beyond that we offer but the thrill of the intellectual hunt, in the hopefully not vain speculation that Mr. Cousins and the rest of you will be stimulated and satisfied by this more metaphysical payoff.”

“Glad I don’t have to go to his fucking lectures,” Cousins whispered at Lee.

Lee broke his gaze, which had hitherto been fixed on the tiny Himalaya of Ella Innes’s kneecap. Ella’s own attention was concentrated upon the professor, and her face had already assumed the irritating expression of the disciple at the feet of the avatar.

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” said the professor clasping his hands together and indicating the person on his right. “Let’s go wither-shins—why do you think you are a lucid dreamer?”

Each person was invited to summarize their experiences. Lee was relieved that he was not obliged to go first. Most simply declared that they were often vaguely or partially aware while dreaming that they were in a dream state. One or two sometimes felt able to influence the direction their dreams were taking. Ella spectacularly declared that she had, on occasion, been clearly able to control the course of her dreams, but she was outdone by Brad’s contribution, for it was Brad who asserted, almost with disdain, that he was sometimes able to reactivate a dream from a previous night.

“Like putting a tape into a cassette,” said Burns.

“Almost,” said Cousins.

“I think I’m probably a possible lucid dreamer, or perhaps a half-lucid dreamer,” said the Irish girl.

“I think it probable that that’s possibly enough for you to be of great interest to this company,” Burns replied, with exaggerated gallantry.

When it was Lee’s turn to speak, with all eyes sharply focused on him, he became acutely self-conscious. Ella leaned forward, her lips parted and her eyes expectant—a solicitous fascination she had offered to all contributions short and long but which touched him like acid on litmus. He parroted a few words stolen from one of the earlier speakers, unexciting remarks about occasional awareness. Ella fell back in her seat. Lee felt as though he’d had his testicles calibrated and was found lacking.

“But I do sometimes have premonitions,” he almost shouted as an afterthought, hoping the lie would rekindle some interest. Lee glanced over at Ella. It had done the trick. She smiled at him briefly.

“A different matter,” said the professor, “but one which I predict will be interesting to test.”

“Would you mind if I talked to the chaplain before agreeing to go ahead with these experiments?” asked one girl. “Only I would like his reassurance that I’m not, you know, dabbling.”

“Dabbling? Hmmm. Talk to the chaplain by all means; I’m sure he will let you dream with his blessing.” The professor suppressed a smile. “Any further questions? None? Good. Start keeping a diary of your dreaming. I don’t want you to do anything unusual, just make a daily record of the scenario and figures of your dreams. Concentrate on detail. I want no interpretation, thank you very much: Messrs Freud, Adler, Jung and all those other old bores are not invited to the party and will be regarded as gatecrashers. For this week I simply want you to find your way into the habit of recording. That’s all. Nothing arduous in that. You may or may not find that this in itself begins to have an effect. If you don’t dream, write clearly in your diary that you were unable to recall your dream but that it is your intention to recall subsequent dreams. A small tip: set your alarm clocks half an hour earlier than you normally wake. We will, if at all serious about this, make a few sacrifices. We shall meet at the same time every week, for a slightly longer period, having more to talk about. All clear?”

Everything was clear.

“So.” The professor got up and walked to the door. Before closing the door behind him he turned and looked back. “Sweet dreams,” he said darkly.

The students pushed back their chairs and made movements towards the door.

“Anyone going for a drink?” Brad shouted.

“I could go for that,” said Lee, looking encouragingly towards Ella and her friend.

Ella, along with the rest of the students, shuffled out without replying. Bollocks, thought Lee.

Brad Cousins was exercising his favourite habit of speakingto one person as if they were a gathering often. Lee was his audience. Against the backdrop of the student bar, pinball tables chattering, crack of pool balls striking and muted Stones’ classics piped through a stuttering PA system, Lee was regaled with an accumulating list of Brad’s personal antipathies. He was half-way down a pint of flat amber beer by the time he had been instructed on Brad’s aversion to basketball, brazil nuts and beehive hairdos, his detestation of Liverpudlians, lavender perfume and loose-leaf ring-binders, his hatred of trade unions, tapioca and television journalists. Lee groaned inwardly at the thought of another dismal half-pint’s worth of cataloguing before he could make his excuses and leave.

“She’s dirty,” cackled Brad, breaking off from his inventory of rancour, “I like her; dirty.”

Lee followed Brad’s gaze and locked on to a figure in black beret and black tights standing at the bar. Having shaken off her shadowy friend, Ella Innes had arrived and was ordering herself a drink. As she turned from the bar Lee semaphored wildly to attract her attention. But she looked through him without recognition, and settled at a nearby table where she expertly proceeded to roll a cigarette in brown liquorice paper.

“Frosty,” Brad scoffed, swirling his beer to make it froth. “Anyway I can’t stand women who drink out of pint glasses to try and prove something.”

Lee ignored him. Ella’s table was two strides away. “I waved at you to ask if you wanted to join us,” he said, sitting down next to her.

Ella moved an eighth of an inch away from him. “Yes, I saw you.” She concentrated on crafting the cigarette in her long white fingers, only looking up at him as she slid her tongue along the gummed edge of the paper.

“Oh?”

“Pardon?” She blinked at him.

Lee hovered, looking for a way out. She’s pulling my strings, he thought. “Why don’t you join us?”

Ella looked over her shoulder as if for signs of imminent rescue. She was an international celebrity being pestered for three minutes of her time by a provincial journalist. With a practised, long-suffering if there’s to be no help shrug she gathered her papers, matches, tobacco and beer and relocated to their table.