Chapter 13: What Rein can Hold Licentious Wickedness Such as Mine?

Pro-tip. Don’t ask your partner if they like your latest artwork or poem.  Leave them space to gently indicate by an absence of enthusiasm that they are not enamoured by it. If they are genuinely moved about your work, they will find a way of saying so. A direct question might lead to a direct answer you don’t want to hear.

Walking along Dorset Street on our way home from a protest in solidarity with Palestine, Daniel looked up from his phone, eyes full of light.

‘A hundred likes already. Twenty reposts.’

At his request, I’d used Daniel’s phone to record him on stage, reading a new poem he’d written for the event, a recording which he’d promptly posted to Instagram.

‘I think it might be my best ever. What did you think?’

‘It fell on the wrong side of the divide between virtue signalling and genuine sentiment. More Do They Know it’s Christmas than Give Peace a Chance.’

If I’d have punched him the stomach, I couldn’t have shocked my lover more. And of course I immediately felt terrible for having hurt him. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know what you mean though.’ His eyes lost their lustre and would not meet mine, except momentarily, accompanied by a tentative and incomplete effort to smile.

‘I’m sorry. I answered too hastily. It was perfect for the rally.’

Head still tipped down, Daniel did not respond. And when I pushed my hand into his jacket pocket to find and hold his, there was resistance. A lot of resistance, like I was going to be shoved away. I persisted and he relented. It wasn’t the most comfortable way to walk hand-in-hand, not our usual relaxed saunter. The good vibrations were missing. But it was a connection.

‘Oh God, Cyn, you’re right.’

‘I’m not. I know nothing about poetry.’

From his other pocket, Daniel took his phone out and I watched him find and delete his new post. Damn it.

At our flat, Daniel couldn’t settle. No book could please him. No music. Only after a smoke did he start to meet my eyes again. ‘There’s an Arts Council funded creative writing residency at UCG.’

‘I saw that.’

‘I’d be perfect for it, don’t you think?’

‘Is it for poetry?’

‘Every kind of literature, well, poetry, short stories, and fiction. Not memoir or non-fiction.’

‘You should definitely apply.’ I was trying to be encouraging.

‘But you don’t think I’ll get it?’

I’d picked up my phone and noticed that Signal had an alert. That could only mean a message from Amanda. She was my only contact.

‘You’ve as good a chance as anyone. It’s just that there will be so many applicants, it’s bound to be something of a lottery.’

‘Would you move to Galway if I got it?’ Daniel had grown up in Galway and when he talked about the city, you could hear his accent shift.

‘It’s only for a year? We’d be mad to give up the flat. And my studio is in Dublin. You could just crash at places there. A squat. Or better, find a lover in Galway who looks forward to your visits.’

Amanda

I can get the firewall down from 11pm – 8am tonight. Okay? You’ll wear the hood?

Sure.

Daniel had his laptop out. ‘Oh no, it’s one of those online forms.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t just copy-paste from my other applications. They want answers to specific questions typed into boxes.’

‘That’s a pain,’ I hesitated. ‘Amanda was in touch.’

‘Amanda?’

‘The DreamAds whistleblower.’

‘Oh, right. What did she say?’

‘She can get me into Neo’s dreams tonight.’

‘Wow.’ Daniel shut the laptop and came over to the couch to sit beside me. He put his large hand on my shoulder. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Excited. Let’s find out how Neo likes having strangers in his dreams.’

‘Game on!’ And then his hand was at my neck and we were kissing.

***

Early dinner. Sex. Shower. And I was in bed by nine-thirty. I wanted to be fast asleep by eleven and it worked; not long after putting the mask over my head a languor spread through me that overwhelmed my nervousness.

Soon, I will cudgel about some disjunction between rods and cones on the colour chart, whereas she, being alien and Sigourney Weaver, with her pettypout thin lips will march up to me, poison in hand. Here she is now.

‘Good. You’re in early.’

‘Speak to me in the dative and I will date you.’

Ignoring my grammatick she holds up a book. The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. ‘Get him to hold this and as soon as he thinks of himself, it will trigger.’

The intention is clear. Murder. I will not administer such poison, did I not say so? I don’t want to have to wake up to properly remember. She is not a good person. Waving the book around like that. It is presented to me with repeated fervour and each time I refuse. I stand with my hands behind my back.

‘Never mind then. Let’s go.’ In her military green overalls, Ripley leads the way. Before now, I had never noticed her white sneakers. How odd. Shouldn’t she be wearing thick, practical black boots? They are going to get very dirty.

‘Hold up there my friends, wait for me,’ my twin, as a female Oscar Wilde again, waves but will not be hurried to join us. ‘Success doesn’t rush.’

‘What’s this?’ says Ripley with a touch of panic, turning her large gun towards Oscar. ‘What did you do Cyn? Have you betrayed me?’

‘Betrayal is the only unforgiveable sin,’ says Oscar, ‘and Cyn is incapable of it.’

‘Who are you? A DreamAds operative?’ the gun is still raised.

‘Ripley, meet Oscar, my better half. My id.’

‘Life rewards me with a new hello,’ Oscar holds out her hand, only for Ripley to take a step back.

‘This is also you?’

‘Sort of. I think she was my unconscious and DreamAds woke her up.’

Smiling now, hat pushed back, Oscar extends her fingers: ‘Sexy, check; creative, check; imaginative, check; joyful, check.’ She has counted off four fingers and is looking at her thumb. ‘Did I say sexy? It’s worth two. I’m her libido after all.’

Dumbfound, thy face is Ripley’s. I want to laugh but it won’t help her. Nor do Oscar’s air kisses. At last, Ripley gathers herself and off we go, Oscar taking my arm like the companion of old that she truly was. From before birth even?

‘Now be ainsy, good Cyn, dear and like the chariots of Apollo, illuminate my darkness. Why aren’t we Murder and Death? Why don’t we stop our foe while we have the opportunity?’

‘Morals, dear Oscar, morals. I believe, despite your protestations, you are familiar with them.’

‘Morality is simply the attitude we adopt towards people we don’t like.’

‘Exactly. And my attitude is to teach them a lesson but not kill them.’

At this, Oscar shows her fangs and a terrible cascade of molten rock appears in her eyes. ‘Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught. Nothing we do tonight short of murder will have the slightest effect on the enemy.’

‘Wait here,’ says Ripley.

There is a wall of fire in front of us, stretching to infinite heights.

‘Fashion requires greater effort from its devotees, Cyn.’ Oscar is looking at me with disapproval.

When I was ten or so, I had a t-shirt across which was written: Prisoner No. 18383. I am wearing it now. It’s true, I should change into something more appropriate.

‘Do you know Una Thurman in Kill Bill? How about I dress like her.’

‘Oh, I love that film. You should watch it again when you wake up. Here let me help you.’ Fairygodmother Oscar waves a wand and there it is! I’m in a yellow tracksuit with thick black stripes, and on my feet are the classic Mexico 66s. Faultless fashion and even Oscar approves. In my right hand I carry a sheathed katana.

There is a frown on Ripley’s face deeper than any Sigourney Weaver managed. She is about to speak. But no, just a shake of the head. The expression is one of disbelief.

The wall is gone. Beyond is Cormac McCarthy’s road.

‘Are you sure you don’t want the virus?’ says Amanda, no longer Ripley.

‘I’ll take it,’ replies Oscar at once.

‘You will not. You’ve no idea where it’s been or what it can do if it gets into us. Amanda here is perfectly willing to sacrifice us to save her own life, aren’t you?’ The insight is a revelation of the kind you only discover in your dreams.

‘I did my best to lock it to Neo. All coding has errors though.’

‘Eew,’ Oscar withdraws her hand.

‘Let’s go,’ I say, eager to revenge myself for Neo’s invasion of my dreams.

‘One last adjustment,’ Oscar holds up a finger. ‘There!’

Four wailing notes from a mouthorgan play out of the grey sky. Something by Ennio Morricone, I reckon. And to this dramatic soundtrack, we march arm-in-arm down the road as though Dorothy and the Tin Man are in hell.

A long time on the road, none at all, and Oscar says, ‘I anticipate that our enemy dreams of orgies. Penetrators permitted in the mousey. Big Sir Neo grand and irresistible in golden spurs. Magnate’s garters and best goloshes. Sexcalibre horsepower, naught to sixty in five seconds.’

‘Do go on. I had no idea my libido was so...’

‘Poetic?’

‘Silly.’

At last, instantly, we are somewhere. Not an orgy. An American high school. Two young men are behind a desk, they wear suits and thin ties.

‘The hall is being used for chess today,’ says one, looking at me, ‘not gym.’

Oscar is disappointed. ‘Chess. How bathetic.’

‘It’s open to the public?’ I asked.

‘Of course.’

Down the steps we go to a hall that is filled with smoke. So many smokers! Nearly everyone here is male and gathered around the board at the top of the room. Pushing our way through to the front, I see Neo. He is playing against a beautiful red-haired woman: Beth Harmon from the Netflix series The Queen’s Gambit. I have watched the series and can tell that she is losing from her scowls and abrupt changes of posture.

By contrast, Neo is enjoying himself a great deal. Hardly bothering to glance at the board, he exchanges grins with the men around him; he stares for a long time at his opponent.

I can tell how much Beth dislikes this behaviour; she is desperate to pay him back on the board, yet her inescapable defeat bears down upon her. She blinks rapidly, puts her head in her hands, and leans forward to hide her face behind her fringe. A clock ticks, reminding us all that she is running out of time.

Still staring at Beth, Neo puts both hands behind his head and leans back with an expression of utter complacency.

Oscar steps forward and stops the clock with her delicate hand. ‘As tournament director, I award the game to Beth Harmon. Neo, you are banned from the Dream Chess Federation for cheating.’

‘Cheating? Who are you? What are you doing here? Is this Darren? I know it’s you Darren. You’re fired.’

To quell the growing murmurs of outrage, Oscar raises her arms and shouts. ‘Anal beads! Anal beads linked to a computer are giving Neo the best moves.’

Chaos. Shouting. Jostling. The large demonstration chessboard topples, scattering magnetic pieces that run around of their own accord, the bishops zig-zag and the knights leap, the pawns march with linked arms. Loud clapping comes from Neo’s heavy hands and all is quiet.

‘This isn’t funny. You’ll regret this.’

‘We’re here to let you know what it feels like to have your dreams invaded,’ I say.

‘Who are you?’

‘Bonnie and Clyde,’ says Oscar.

‘I’ll find you; you’ve made a big mistake.’

‘I know what you fear, Neo,’ I say, ‘other than clever women. You fear that you are not so smart and we’ll find out.’

‘Don’t forget losing his wealth. He fears that too.’

‘That’s enough.’ Neo conjures an assault rifle into his hands. ‘Off you go.’

Everyone scatters in a panic, turning tables over and crouching low.

‘You,’ Neo points to a man, who rises and looks surprised to find a semi-automatic pistol in his hand. ‘You, you, and you.’ The last is Beth Harmon.

‘Not Beth!’ I cry.

‘I’m going to kill you both in this dream. And then I’m going to find you and have you killed when awake. I want you to remember this moment and think about it again just before you die. You really screwed up coming here.’

‘I’ll slow the bullets, you deflect them. It will be fun,’ says Oscar cheerfully. I am encouraged by how untroubled she is in face of Neo’s rather sinister threats. I unsheathe my katana and, with a wink, Oscar plays the Ennio Morricone mouthorgan notes again.

‘Fire!’

‘A burned child loves the fire,’ Oscar says in a stage whisper towards me.

Loud staccato sounds assail us from every side as streams of bullets fill the air. I find that I have plenty of time to strike out with my sword, knocking the bullets off course. Wheeling through the space around both of us with gymnastic, slow-motion leaps, I ensure that we are perfectly safe, though it takes me several seconds to obtain sufficient accuracy that I can tap the bullets with the blade and cause all the men shoot each other. I can’t bring myself to harm Beth. She, on the other hand, doesn’t stop firing until she’s out of ammunition.

‘Is that it?’ Oscar asks Neo, her voice clear and bright after the deafening gunfire dies away.

Neo’s fleshy face is bright red. The world turns and we are in a giant amphitheatre, several lions are held in cages. The crowd are roaring for our deaths, they want us to be savaged by the claws and teeth of the wild animals.

‘How adorable.’

Neo, walking on the sand in armour like that of a stormtrooper, gestures and the cages open to a great cheer from all around.

With a click of Oscar’s fingers, a loudspeaker system appears, blasting out Disney’s Everybody Wants to be a Cat. The ferocious lions have become sweet kittens that bounce over to us for a cuddle. I’m soon stroking the incredibly soft fur of two of them.

‘We’re stronger than you Neo,’ observe I, ‘there’s nothing you can do to get rid of us. So why don’t we have a conversation about DreamAds and what the future holds for it?’

Anger has dropped from his face with the arrival of fear and Neo starts to run.

I close my eyes and I can feel him. Neo’s first hiding place is in the cockpit of an X-Wing fighter from Star Wars. His second is under a blue towel. His third is on a barge with a toy cannon. After that, he gives up.

‘What do you want? Is this blackmail? Do you want money?’

‘You’re lucky,’ I drag my sword tip through the sandy grit we are standing on. ‘Some people want to kill you to stop you. I’m hoping you will learn from tonight that invasive dream technology is dangerous. That you’ll stop interfering with our minds of your own accord. Do something else.’

‘Boring,’ says Oscar. ‘Let’s melt him in an acid bath.’

‘Or we could read bad poetry to him,’ I offer.

‘Oh, and I thought I was being cruel.’

‘Who are you?’ Neo asks.

‘I’m not sure I have a name,’ I look at my yellow outfit. ‘I’m an archetype for vengeance. That’s it, call me Vengeance.’

‘And you know me, of course. Oscar Wilde. Wait, perhaps not. You are the sort of person who can’t read works that actually are genius, for fear that you won’t measure up to even “not completely stupid”.’

 Neo sneers. ‘Are we finished? Have you made your point? Can I go back to my dream?’

‘I’ve been playing nice,’ says Oscar, ‘for her benefit. Yet understand this. Come into my world again, or force anything of yours there, and I will return and I will not leave your mind intact. The gates of mercy shall be all shut up. My bloody hand shall make your existence both night and day a hell. What rein can hold licentious wickedness such as mine? None.’

Whatever response Neo is about to make is lost as Oscar appears in front of him and stabs his face with her long, blue fingernails. These soon are visible out of the back of his skull, which fragments with an unpleasant cracking sound. Then I wake.