Dream Paris Read Online Free PDF Page B

had laid down a metal sheet over the pipeline at the end of the street to allow car access. People like Mr Twelvetrees were not to be inconvenienced.
    “Any news of your wife, Darren?”
    “Still none since this morning, Mr Twelvetrees.”
    “It must be awful. I suppose the worry increases every day.”
    So why mention it?
    “Darren put his wife up as collateral for a loan, back in Dream London,” explained Mr Twelvetrees. “He was behind on the payments. They took his kidneys, too. Isn’t that right, Darren?”
    Darren grunted.
    “He’s on dialysis every night. But we look after you, don’t we, Darren?”
    I’d gotten into a car with a sadist. What was I doing? I reached into the pocket of my rucksack and pulled out my souvenir of the last days of Dream London.
    “Can you read this, Mr Twelvetrees?”
    I pushed the script into his hands.
    “I can’t read anything, remember,” he said, feeling the edges of the sheet. “What does it say?”
    “Never mind.” I couldn’t keep the disappointment from my voice. I’d hoped it would still work.
    “Is this a truth script, by any chance? Do you think I’m lying to you, Anna? I’ve not said anything that wasn’t on your fortune.”
    I reached to take back my script, and his hands tightened upon it.
    “I don’t think I should let you keep this.”
    “If you don’t give it back to me, I’ll get out of the car right now.”
    “And miss out on the chance of seeing your mother?”
    “Don’t treat me like a fool. If the fortune scroll is correct, I’ll end up seeing her with or without your help.”
    Mr Twelvetrees smiled.
    “Clever girl.” He released his grip. I tucked the script into my coat.
    We drove in silence through the broken streets of London. We passed through freshly restored areas lit up with electricity, shop windows steamy with central heating. We plunged into the gloom of less fortunate districts, where the broken shell of London was lit by nothing more than moonlight. In one such zone I saw a silver tube train, brand new and shiny, zooming on its way, full of passengers relaxing as they headed home from work. The train glided by against a backdrop of ruined Tudor houses, cracked open like eggs.
    “Why me?” I whispered. The words were spoken to myself, but Mr Twelvetrees answered.
    “Quite simply, because we know that you are going to find your way there. Maybe you can find your way back. If you can bring some people back with you, that would be a bonus. But just knowing a route would be a start.”
    “Why?”
    “Because if we’re going to help all the lost people, we need to know where they are. We need to know the route back home. You remember how things were in Dream London.”
    I certainly did. The city changed a little every night. Roads and railways had a habit of drifting off course, of connecting themselves to new destinations. Finding a path anywhere was almost impossible. There in the car I was seized with a pulse pounding fear. I felt myself getting hot, felt the sweat prickling under my clothes. I was going back to that disconnected place. I was returning to the Dream World.
    After half an hour or so in the car we drove up to an endless wire fence. Lines of green lorries and Land Rovers stood behind it. Men and women in green fatigues hurried back and forth. A soldier opened a gate as he saw the black car approach.
    “This is an Army barracks,” I said in surprise.
    “Oh, yes,” said Mr Twelvetrees. “What were you expecting? You must know that Whitehall took some of the most extreme changes in Dream London. Half the buildings are uninhabitable, and we don’t know if we can trust the other half. What could be listening? What’s the matter?”
    I was gripped with another fear, one quite different to my earlier panic. A group of men and women in bright red tunics was walking across the centre of the compound. They were carrying instruments: a bugle, two horns, a clarinet…
    “I’m okay.”
    “No, you’re not. What