‘Is Toccata messing with your head?’ she asked. ‘Because she does that. Divide, cast doubt, dissemble. No, I didn’t tell the stationmaster anything. And strictly off the record, I understand that Toccata and Logan’s association went beyond intimacy – and into illegal activities. Farming, the unlicensed sale of body parts. We think that was the true purpose of his visit; nothing to do with viral dreams. We don’t trust Jonesy either. I’ll tell you why: do you know what happened to nightwalkers Tangiers and Glitzy Tiara? I left them tied to the back of my truck, and now they’ve gone.’

‘Jonesy retired them.’

‘Yes, I heard. But if so, then where did she dump them? There’s nothing in the night pit or the morgue. We checked. We’re not sure where they’ve gone – or why.’

‘Farming?’ I asked, knowing that Foulnap was up here too – and that Toccata knew he was. Glitzy Tiara certainly looked of childbearing age, and Tangiers, well, if they wanted to flog healthy offspring by post, they could farm him too.

‘It’s a strong possibility,’ said Aurora, ‘although we have no proof, as yet. Life in Sector Twelve is never what it seems, Charlie. Keep an eye out for me, would you?’

I told her I would, the kettle boiled and I poured the water onto the coffee granules.

‘So,’ she said in more friendly tone, ‘is the retrospective memory theory helping with the narcosis?’

I explained that it was, bizarrely.

‘I can feel a lot more relaxed knowing there’s a twisted logic behind what’s going on,’ I added, ‘but being narced and not knowing it is strange. The hectoring Mrs Nesbit no longer seems as fearful as she once did.’

‘What did she want?’

‘A wax cylinder – y’know, of the recording sort.’

‘What’s on it?’

‘According to my seriously overdramatic imagination, something that could seriously damage HiberTech – and I think I dreamed where it was . . . That’s what Mrs Nesbit wants. Only Mrs Nesbit doesn’t sound like Mrs Nesbit – she sounds like The Notable Goodnight.’

‘That sounds quite trippy.’

‘The dream is like that. Complex, confusing and as real as real gets – sometimes, more so.’

She took the coffee I’d made for her, and I tasted mine. Musty walnuts.

‘Okay, then,’ said Aurora after she’d taken a sip, grimaced, then tipped the remainder down the sink, ‘just remind yourself that dreams are nonsense, an overactive cortex attempting to connect the random meanderings of the mind. The cylinder seems to be highly central, though. Where did you say it was? In your dream, I mean?’

‘If dreams are nonsense,’ I said, ‘how could it matter that I saw where it was hidden?’

Aurora stared at me for a moment.

‘It doesn’t matter at all. I was just thinking that talking it out might help.’

‘They’re just dreams,’ I said, ‘as you stated – nonsense and random meanderings.’