Dream Paris by Tony Ballantyne Page B

out and placed it on his lap.
    I concentrated on my food.
    The stew was delicious. Too delicious. There were too many flavours in there to process: the savoury of the beef, the fullness of the potatoes, the tang of whatever fruit there was in there, the richness of the gravy. It tasted so vibrant, so heady, so dangerous. There was no mistaking the fact I was back in the Dream World. Everything was so much more in this room; the reflections in the polished wood of the walls seemed so much deeper, the brasses glowed gold, the fishing nets were woven in strange patterns, the flames in the lamp danced to 5/4 time. Even the floorboards were over-elaborate, carved in odd patterns of fish-heads and stars. And the wire that stretched from the pack had faded into the background. I was sure that Lizzie had walked through it without noticing as she crossed and recrossed the floor…
    “Here’s your tea, lover!” Two mugs were plonked before us.
    “Ah, the best china, I see,” I said, looking at the chipped pottery.
    Lizzie departed, looking hurt.
    “Why are you being so rude, Anna? She seems like a good laugh.”
    “I’m sure she is. She seems very friendly.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean? Would you prefer it if she didn’t speak?”
    “Perhaps.”
    We ate the rest of our stew in silence. I was just scraping the last of my meal from the bowl when the door to the bar opened and three women in long velvet dresses pushed their way in. I saw the purple blackness beyond them and I realised that the day had ended. Between me and my home lay miles and miles of darkness. What creatures would be coming out this Dream Night?
    The three women looked around the room, deciding where to sit. One of them was looking in our direction, eyes wide with surprise.
    “Francis?”
    “Mandy?”
    And that was it for the rest of the evening. Any chance of the return of gentleman Francis was swept away in whirl of powdered and perfumed flesh, of hugs and kisses and exclamations and coarse laughter as each of the women embraced Francis in turn. With each hug that boyish swagger grew and grew.
    “Aren’t you going to buy us a drink, then?” Mandy elbowed him in the ribs. “Some gentlemen you are!”
    “Give us a chance, girls! Hey, Lizzie! Three rum and cokes! And I’ll have a pint. Anna, what would you like?”
    “I’m okay with tea, thank you.”
    I don’t understand why people need to drink to enjoy themselves. I hoped it would be different in Dream Paris. After all, the French knew how to appreciate alcohol, they don’t just use it as a means of getting pissed, like the English do.
    “We’ve got no coke,” said Lizzie. “Got home-made dandelion and burdock, better than coke!”
    “Rum and dandelion and burdocks all round then,” said Francis.
    “We’ve got no rum, either. There’s brandy.”
    “We’ll have brandy and dandelion and burdocks, then.”
    “With an olive!” called one of the girls.
    “Shove up, pet,” said Mandy in a broad north-eastern accent. She pushed her way onto the bench, forcing Francis to slide up.
    “Tell you what, you stay there, pet. I’ll climb over you.”
    The other girls giggled as she wriggled her purple velvet clad backside onto his lap.
    “Ooh, is that a gun in your pocket?”
    “Careful! It might go off!”
    Another woman pushed in on the other side of Francis. A third joined me on my side of the table, and I felt as if the booth was suddenly filled with hair, teeth and cleavage. Francis saw me glaring at him and he remembered his manners.
    “Hey, Anna! I want you to meet Taylor, Cheryl and Mandy. We used to be very good friends back when I was stationed in Catterick.”
    I found myself on the receiving end of three appraising looks.
    “And what were you doing in Catterick, Mandy?” I asked, drily.
    Francis glared at me. Mandy didn’t seem to notice.
    “We were all part of a dance troupe. Petra’s Pussycats. Did all the clubs in the area. We were doing alright until Petra