He sighed wistfully, as though this was the greatest disappointment he could imagine. A world of permanent dreaming, navigating your own way through fantastic worlds of your own creation.

‘Dreams are the one true freedom,’ continued Shamanic Bob, ‘the place where you can be yourself; do anything, be anything. The mind set free.’

‘So long as it’s Active Control,’ I said, ‘or you’re just a passenger, right?’

‘Guilty as charged,’ said Shamanic Bob with a sad smile, ‘and that’s the Night Grail we seek: a dream indistinguishable from real life. A dream where you can lose yourself, a dream where you can be anyone you want, and do anything you wish, at your own choosing.’

‘Could you dream yourself a principled and confident leading member of the Campaign for Real Sleep?’ I asked. ‘Deep undercover on a dangerous mission with the girl of your dreams?’

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘if that’s your thing. Me, I want to fly. But not like a pilot – like a bird. High on the wing above the hushed nation, chasing the spirit of freedom. Or maybe a saxophonist,’ he added, ‘playing for Holroyd Wilson, there at his last gig, before the Winter took him. Or maybe I could dream myself popular,’ he said, ‘or even respected. Or normal. That would be nice.’

Shamanic Bob came over all dreamy and his eyelids began to droop. I wasn’t sure if it was hushed reverence because we were talking about dreams, or simply because he had dozed off. Winsomniacs doze off a lot.

‘Ever dream of the blue Buick?’ I asked.

Shamanic Bob was suddenly wide awake, and a second later his bony fingers had grasped my jacket and pulled me close.

‘That’s why so many of us are scabbing in the Twelve, friend. We heard there was this dream that was more real than real, so vivid you were there, shielding your eyes against the sun, smelling the Summer, tasting the dust on your lips. Active Control, the Night Grail we seek. Where is it? Somewhere close? Which Dormitorium?’

I had to think about this for a few moments before speaking again.

‘I’ve one last question,’ I said. ‘Can the memory of dreams ever unfold in your head retrospectively, influenced by later experiences?’

‘I’ve not experienced such a thing myself,’ he said after a moment’s thought, ‘nor heard of anyone who has – but narcosis can throw up an interesting-shaped bone from time to time. Are you sure you don’t want to get all dream-faced with us?’

‘I’m sure.’

I walked to the door, then turned. Our conversation had been followed by every winsomniac in the room. They were all watching me, dark-rimmed, wide eyes, blinking like owls.

‘Understand this,’ I said to the room in general, ‘there is no blue Buick dream, it’s definitely not Active Control, and it’s certainly not at the Sarah Siddons.’