‘You’re a dark horse,’ said Jonesy as the lift took us slowly upwards, the pipes gurgling ominously. ‘You’ve just ethically thinned twenty-four winsomniacs. Happy with yourself?’

‘No, not really – but I thought everyone hated them?’

‘We do,’ she said, ‘or we say we do. But a life’s a life, and all this bunch want to do is dream away their years in relative happiness. It’s not criminal, it’s a mental sleep issue. How did you get them to move?’

‘I told Shamanic Bob about the Active Control blue Buick dream washing around the Siddons.’

She turned and stared at me, brows knitted.

‘Who said the Buick dream was Active Control?’

‘Dunno,’ I said, suddenly realising I’d said too much, ‘I just heard.’

She stared at me some more, and her manner seemed to change.

‘I don’t know whether you’re lying or not, Wonky. But if there’s any Active Control dreaming going on in the Siddons, that changes everything.’

‘It does?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it does. Active Control can only be initiated by HiberTech using a Somnagraph, and the only reason they’d want to undertake dream control experiments in the Siddons is  . . . well, nothing good.’

We stepped off the paternoster at the ninth and walked along the corridor, the only illumination the glimmer that seeped down the light wells, while outside the storm heaved and sighed around the building.

Jonesy unlocked the door to Birgitta’s apartment and stepped inside, sweeping her flashlight around the room. I remained outside, heavy with nausea. I’d reconciled myself to Birgitta’s discovery by now, and my thumping heart had been replaced by a hot sense of utter dejection.

Jonesy popped her head back outside the door.

‘Come and help me search,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing unusual in here that I can see.’

‘There isn’t?’ I asked, quickly adding, in a less surprised voice: ‘I mean, there isn’t?’

‘No. Why, what were you expecting me to find?’

‘Nothing,’ I replied, wondering if Birgitta had escaped, been taken by Lloyd or – outside chance – had simply been a hallucination, part of the narcosis. Intrigued, I followed her into Birgitta’s apartment.

‘Oh, hang on a mo,’ said Jonesy, ‘I lied when I said there was nothing unusual in here. There’s Birgitta. And she’s alive, missing a thumb. Care to explain?’

There was a sudden, nasty, hollow silence. Birgitta was sitting on the bed, staring blankly around, her food finished, several sketches lying on the bed. I couldn’t see what they were at this distance. Perhaps more of my – our – dream. Don’t know. Didn’t matter. Not any more.

‘Good Lord,’ I said with inexpertly wrought mock-surprise. ‘That’s  . . . incredible. She must have – I don’t know – escaped from the pit behind the Siddons.’

‘Oh, please,’ said Jonesy. ‘Can’t you see the game’s up? You’re making things worse, if that’s possible – which it isn’t.’