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They were walking out of Cloakpoint at an unusually brisk pace, Tabasa’s arm firmly around Russell’s shoulders as he, Mireille and Dogma all shot unreadable looks behind them. They didn’t stop hurrying – or answer Russell’s mild questions as to why they were hurrying – until they were safely out of the Catties’ secret route, only a great opening in the cliff face and the distant yowls of drug addicts to remind them that it had existed.
“That was…unpleasant,” Mireille said, her eyes fixed on the entrance.
“Quite,” Dogma nodded. “One must make sacrifices in order to carry out the Lord’s work, but to step foot in a place like that again would be…” He shuddered.
Russell didn’t understand what was so bad about it, but he didn’t see the point in asking. It was probably just like when they’d gone to Puddle Apartments or that world of ‘kind strangers’. Sights so familiar to him, and unimaginable to the others, apparently.
“Well, anyway,” Tabasa said in a placating kind of voice, “how about we take a short break? Do you know where you want to go next, Russell? It’s getting pretty late, and you already spent the whole afternoon out at the hospital: are you sure you shouldn’t call it a day?”
Russell shrugged. He was tired, but fatigue wasn’t enough to make him move on to day six. There had to be something else to do. He started sifting through his inventory while the others rested; there were some seeds to hand out, a guide he’d forgotten to give Mireille, and new clothes to equip. He stopped when he reached the reward he’d just got in Cloakpoint, before he’d switched out Kantera.
“Is that a poncho?” Tabasa asked, looking at it curiously.
Mireille’s eyes widened when Russell held it up. “I-it’s got cat ears! Oh, how sweet. Russell, um, w-would you try it on?”
He looked at her, his nose wrinkling in disgust, and she laughed. “Well, s-someone should try it on, shouldn’t they? Um…Dogma?”
Dogma refused gracefully and without betraying much of the horror Russell could see lingering just beneath his perpetual pout. “I am, as you can see, already wearing a perfectly adequate coat, and have no need of more protection.”
“And Cody would definitely lose it if she saw you in that thing, wouldn’t she?” Tabasa grinned.
“That is neither here nor there!”
“Of c-course it isn’t,” Mireille nodded sagely. “Well, Tabasa, it’s…it’s up to you!”
He blinked. “It’s what? Why? No!”
“But…someone’s got to wear it, and, well…I don’t want to. All in favour?”
Dogma put his hand up suspiciously quickly, and Russell found himself raising his own hand. It wasn’t like there was any reason not to, apart from Tabasa’s stricken expression of pure betrayal.
“Russell, you too? Why?”
Mireille laughed. “Because you’ll look cute in it, right, Russell?”
He hadn’t counted on this. He hadn’t thought they’d all look at him, asking his opinion like this, so all he could do was nod. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He guessed anyone would look cute in cat ears, except maybe Saxon.
And so Tabasa pulled it on, and Mireille looked delighted, and Dogma did his best to hide a smile, and then Gardenia, Cody and Kantera were brought in to look and laugh and try it on too. And it was so warm. Russell was just standing there, watching the others and occasionally adding in a nod or a word when asked, but it was warm.
Something twisted inside his chest.
*
For all it was called ‘happy’, the dream seemed awfully preoccupied with teaching Russell things he’d rather not have learnt. Each time, it was ‘Anger’, ‘Sadness’, ‘Doubt’, ‘Pity’, and ‘Consolation’ wasn’t much better, when you thought about it.
Russell thought it was missing the point: he’d felt those before. The novelty lay with the people from the nameless village. A big brother who fought the monkeys with him rather than letting their screeching fill his ears with fury. A young girl who shared everything she could with him rather than leaving him wanting, seething. Siblings who stood by his side rather than keeping their happiness and contentment to themselves. A physician and a caretaker, neither of whom ever breathed a word to suggest they wanted anything in return for their endless kindness.
And Yumi. Her, too. Russell almost didn’t want to move on to the next day, just because he didn’t want to know how she’d erase any wrongs the policewoman might have done him.
He didn’t want to know. Why not?
Because it hurt, that was all.
*
Fool that he was, he made the mistake of bringing it up with the Informant, pointing out all the skills he’d learnt from this dream.
“Isn’t that normal, though?” the Informant said, a smug grin on his face since he seemed totally incapable of making any other kind of expression. Russell could relate: he felt like his own expression had hardened into unforgiving neutrality years ago.
“How?”
“The dream wants you to recognise your faults and learn that oh-so-hallowed feeling, guilt. It’s not interested in pointing out the good things to you. But you knew that yourself. You didn’t even need my information, did you, Russell? I’m hurt. Or flattered, maybe, if you just wanted an excuse to talk to me.”
Russell didn’t grace that with a response. He had known. He’d only wanted confirmation.
“But, well,” the Informant sat back on the sofa, idly flipping a page of his abandoned book between his fingers. “You also know that this dream is far from unhappy, don’t you? That’s why you’re asking my advice, not this weak excuse of pointing out how ‘flawed’ Happy Dream is.”
Russell felt his jaw tighten.
The Informant, bold as ever, continued. “You’re uncomfortable, aren’t you? You think it’s so happy that it’s not something you deserve, because you don’t deserve happiness. But you can’t say that, so you just sneer and criticise Happy Dream itself for giving you something this good, when really, you’re scared because you think you’re going to ruin it all just by touching it.”
Russell turned his eyes to his doppelganger without moving his head. His bat was comforting in his hands: cold metal warming under his skin; he could feel the satisfying weight of wielding it like the movement was imprinted into his muscles.
“Now, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the Informant said. “And I’m pretty close to being you, so just trust that I know what I’m saying. And honestly, I don’t know whether I agree with you or not, about you not deserving this happiness. I don’t have to know: it’s all up to you, since it’s your dream. But…well. Why don’t you think about it a bit more? I’m sure you can find the answers yourself, if you can work out what the question is. Maybe then you won’t feel so uncomfortable all the time.”
Russell wasn’t really listening anymore: he was going over his helpers in his mind, forcing himself to focus on how best to strengthen them. A new guide wouldn’t go amiss. He walked over to the rope hanging innocuously from the ceiling.
“You do know that if you’re feeling this way, the experiment’s working, don’t you?”
He didn’t stop, because he didn’t want to hear it.
*
He’d felt that twist, that pain, before, of course. Lots of times.
The kelp he’d called a turnip, the octopus girl he’d warped into a monstrosity, the grave, the rabbit, Chris.
But there had been other times too, and those were more conflicted. Kantera’s constant warnings to look after himself, as if it mattered to him what happened to Russell. Gardenia cheerfully asking him if he’d like to eat a home-cooked meal for once, because she’d just love to make it for him, really Russell, it’s no problem at all. Dogma’s small words of appreciation (‘the Lord smiles upon those who exert themselves for others, Russell: I am sure He smiles upon you too’); Cody’s laughter and the ease with which she brought him into conversations. And Tabasa’s gentleness, and Mireille’s kindness, and…and…
It was everyone, all the time, all at once, like an unstoppable force trying to beat him down, because each time he felt so warm, and then it all twisted into pain.
Was this love? Was this what Happy Dream was really about? More than Anger, more than Sadness, more than Pity or any of the others, it was love, because love speared him from all sides.
But he liked it. He wanted more, and – fatally – he had begun to grow used to it.
And so, when he saw the image of his mother, he ran to her with open arms, because for one short week he’d forgotten what it was to be rejected. She laughed at him, she mocked him, and he stood there in that hellhole, rank with the heavy smell of stale beer.
He understood.
The question – not the one Happy Dream was asking him, but the one he was asking himself – was ‘Do I deserve to be loved?’
And the answer… He swallowed.
He was surrounded by pictures of his childhood, each one a poisoned memory to choke him. The dusty dolls that had been his friends were sprawled out behind him, accusing him – a wretched reminder of everyone he’d killed. And here was the phantom of his mother rearing up to kill him.
‘Your guilt level is ____. You can’t save anyone now.’
What was the answer?