McQueen watches until Celia takes her third loop. It appears she’s pausing her count while she climbs backwards.
Her counting is calm, with a slightly sing-song air, blurring into naive bewilderment each time she reaches the foot. Stella tries to put words to it… confident, a little furtive, with an air of anticipation that is shaken by finding the staircase runs out.
“She will be for some time,” remarks Thorne quietly. “Until the seven-hundredth step. Her stamina is surprisingly good, though she does tire eventually. But you are free to wait, if you wish.”
"And completing seven hundred steps is not one of the calisthenics ‘daily dozen’, as far as I’m aware…
"…Which may mean that whatever she’s ‘descending’ only exists in Celia’s dreamscape, and 700 is simply how many steps there are? Just as the flight that we can see before us has exactly 64 steps for no rhyme or reason apart from being required to travel between floors? Or something. Philosophy is not my strong suit.
“It does imply that it all feels very real and solid to her, somehow. She seems eager to get where she’s going.”
“I agree; it has a fairy-tale quality to it. And I do believe you are right, Stella. My current theory is that she has learned something along the lines of the method of locus - the ‘memory palace’, you know. A means of influencing her own dreams through ritualistic patterns of thought, inadvertently reflected in her somnambulism.” He hesitates. “I shouldn’t say too much about another patient’s circumstances, you know. But if you were to speak with her - she seemed to take a liking to you, and McQueen has a way with people - she might reveal more of her own accord.”
“Well, I would do anything to be able to change my dreams for the better. If Celia has learnt the secret, I am quite jealous.”
Stella resolves to take Thorne’s advice and speak to Celia at some point. For now, she goes quietly back to her room, reads a few more pages of her book and then tries for some shut-eye.
Internet access will be patchy for me over the next few weeks (I’m in beautiful Wales at the mo).
I’m back from Wales. Highlights included being taught the excellent word ‘hiraeth’, stormy sea swims and hanging out with grey seals (at a respectful distance!).
glad you enjoyed your trip! I’ll try to pick things up again.
You return to your rooms, intrigued and troubled by the day’s various revelations. Perhaps worn out by it all, you both manage to sink into sleep quite rapidly, for once.
Stella: As you might expect, you do glimpse the cabin again in your dream. Tonight it swirls amongst various other thoughts: you’re more conscious of the trees about you, and you know Bill is out there somewhere facing death in the line of duty. Newton’s bitter disappointment manifests for a moment before swirling away. The nightmare doesn’t quite take hold, and you get an adequate night’s sleep.
McQueen: Despite your best efforts, you see the old tunnel stretching in front of you. The distant pattering begins, but tonight you suddenly think of the soft tapping of Celia’s shoes on the floor. You step to the tunnel mouth and emerge into the hospital corridor. Thorne is writing something in his notebook. You realise, despite not having seen it, that it’s the sequel to The Second Shadow. Impudent fellow. Around this time, you wake up to the sound of a yowling cat. Must be around 4am. After a while, you manage to nod off again, and this time sleep soundly.
A nurse wakes you at 8am, knocking firmly on the doors and peering in. “Breakfast’s ready in the dining room.”
McQueen isn’t much of a morning person at the best of times, preferring to rise at the crack of noon, but he’ll make an appearance and at least pretend to be sociable.
Stella will pretend she hasn’t noticed that McQueen is pretending and sits down next to him at breakfast, so she can pick his brains about Celia.
“Should we mention what we saw last night to Celia? I’m worried she might just clam up if we do… it felt so private. I’d love to know what was going through her mind at the time though.”
Also, just checking: Shimmin, is it common for Stella’s cabin nightmare to meld with other events/revelations that have occurred during the day? Or is this the first time that has happened?
@Suz: It’s not common, but it isn’t the very first time it’s happened. It’s rare enough to be notable. Perhaps the thematic connections you found caused those ideas to blend into your own dreams.
The others eat with mixed appetite. Lambert is tucking in heartily, while Newton eats with measured bites. Rowe glowers at a coffee and a bowl of porridge as you imagine he might an underperforming junior clerk. Emma Gill looks tired, and picks listlessly at some toast, waving away offers of bacon or eggs. Celia seems downcast, but reasonably well-rested; she sips tea and munches scrambled eggs with the air of one attending a society dinner-party out of obligation. She looks up at you both and gives a wave as you join the table, but doesn’t say anything.
Bill enters last, as usual. “Getting out of bed takes a bit of effort,” he murmurs as he nods to you. There’s a vaguely conspiratorial twinkle in his eyes, and bags under them. However, he sits next to Emma and starts an undemanding conversation with her.
If you want to talk over breakfast, Newton is closest to you both, but nobody’s far away. Assume several tables for about four each, allowing for some privacy.
McQueen assumes nobody is going to be in the mood for a jolly conversation about dreams, and anyway the treatment hasn’t started yet. He eats a reasonably substantial breakfast and looks round the room. “So what’s on the agenda for today?”
“The group session is should start at nine thirty.” Rowe is perhaps more helpful than one might have imagined. “Talk over how badly we all slept. Can’t imagine it’ll take long.”
Celia glances over. “I generally walk in the garden when there’s nothing doing, or read.”
Day 2: patients gather for a group session to describe their experiences of the previous night. The rest of the day is theirs. Night: patients are hypnotised with the aid of mild soporific drugs. Therapeutic techniques of suggestion and association will be used to investigate underlying trauma.
After breakfast she attempts a chat with Newton about this and that, throwing in a smattering of current events. She tries to steer the conversation towards his past career in the force whilst diplomatically skirting around its unfortunate ending. Where was his beat? Any connections with Bill Green? That sort of thing.
How’s the weather? If it’s reasonably dry, McQueen takes a turn about the garden smoking an offensive hand-rolled cigarette. He’s not sure whether or not Celia was suggesting she wanted to talk to someone, but he makes himself available if she does, and leaves her alone if she doesn’t.
It’s a fine morning, crisp but not cloudy. Your breath steams in the air; McQueen’s cigarette even more so. The garden’s large enough for several people to stroll at once, although not everyone fancies the chilly air. Rowe is solemnly doing patent exercises in a corner, though nothing strenuous after a meal - some stretches and gentle movements.
Stella falls in beside Rowe as he tries not to stride laps of the garden, with mixed success. He slows a little and greets her. “I imagine we’ll be inside much of the day, Mrs-, er, Stella. You’re wise to get some fresh air while you can.” He’s not relaxed by any stretch, but you get the feeling he’s not having to exercise quite as much self-discipline as he was last night.
Yes, let’s have a roll to see how much you steer the conversation - probably a Diplomacy although I’d accept it as a natural aspect of Writing Journalism
It’s pretty easy to approach the topic, since he brings up your connection with Bill Green as part of a ‘what do you make of all these people’ sort of chat. There’s clear respect in his voice; you judge it to be a mixture of Bill’s seniority, his reputation, and his injury in the line of duty. He doesn’t seem to have known Bill personally until yesterday, but knew of him.
@RogerBW McQueen feels the life-giving smoke seeping into him, and the nip of the air wakes him up a little more. Celia stands across the garden, gazing up into the sky - you see she’s watching a couple of birds. She glances round at the sound of your footsteps, and flashes a genuine smile. “Good morning, Mr. McQueen. Although I somehow have the impression you don’t favour mornings much. I suppose it’s a stereotype, isn’t it - the author toiling away into the night, seized by inspiration. You’ll tell me next that you like to start each day with a refreshing sunrise swim.”
“Oh, in town morning is just the reminder that it’s time to stop drinking and go to bed, preferably someone else’s. But when in the countryside, you know, one must take up country habits.”
(He offers her a cigarette. This is definitely meant to be a low-pressure chat; he’ll back off if she seems to feel pressed.)