I shot my dealer in a room at my school. The school was a huge old fortress, built out of rough-hewn sandstone, with a courtyard in the middle where palm trees waved in the breeze. Now that I think about it, it was rather like Fort Denison, but with an arch at the front like the Main Quad at Sydney.
I flew through the arch in a fluid tracking shot. I could see the sea through the window of my classroom. I held up the gun, a small, dark gray pistol with a slender barrel. My drug dealer, a short, solid man with a beard and a fierce expression, rather like a pirate, was coming at me. I fired. It happened in slow motion. He reeled back. He fell. He died.
I was at Bluegum, and desperately unhappy. Alain came and found me curled up in the back garden. It was very early morning, not yet dawn, and the hydrangea flowers were huge blue globes, like the moon. The air was cool on my skin. He asked me what had happened and I told him. He was as horrified as I was.
The gun and my bloody clothes were hidden under the house. We agreed they had to be got rid of. We decided to go to a headland and throw them off, or as Alain put it: "We'll submerge them." He took the yellow car, my mother's, and as we left she came running after us yelling and demanding to know where we were going. It was getting light.
As we drove down Allambie Road the car turned into a pair of dark blue bicycles. We were going much too fast: "Look at them taking that hill!" said some bystanders, "and they're not even on proper bikes!" "How many people will remember having seen us?" I asked Alain desperately. I knew every remarkable thing we did was a clue which could lead the police back to me. I knew a dogged and intelligent detective was on the case.
"I'll go on alone," I said. I took the gun out of the car (car? oh well) and put it in a basket I had over my arm. Then I walked on, through a theme park. I think this came from the Hyatt Coolum. There were pools and seal shows everywhere. The day was full of sunshine and people were cheerfully dressed. The bright blue pools hurt your eyes with light.
I was watching a US-flag-in-lycra-clad spokesmodel performing with the seals when I felt a pressure, and hand in the basket, and I realised the gun had been stolen. I gave chase: it was a little blond boy. He ran down an alleyway between two beautiful tall houses, slipped through an iron gate and stayed there out of reach. "Give it back!" I begged him. He refused. "I don't even know if it's loaded," I hissed, still trying to be inconspicuous. "It's loaded," he said, weighing it in his hand. It was a beautiful thing, old-fashioned, with silver Art Deco designs on its dull dark surface. "You'll kill somebody," I said in despair. Someone was coming. "Please," I said, "please don't tell anyone where you got it," and I ran away. All through the rest of my dream the thought of this child with a pistol tormented me still further.
Catherine Thorpe was having a birthday party, and though I was pretty far from being in the mood, I went. She was living on a huge property nestled above a cove. All the vegetation was low and spiky, like saltbush or the shrubs on Howth Hill. Cath had gone to a great deal of trouble: there were three bouncing castles, each with its own theme. One was mediaeval, another a pirate ship, and so on. I bounced on a castle but some people from school were there, and they taunted me. They knew what I'd done. I walked away into Catherine's garden: it was night time again, and the garden was an eerie blue. There were stone benches everywhere and someone had lit candles. I stood with my back to the party, feeling utterly desperate and forsaken.
"Rachel?" It was Jodie Ellen Ippolito, from Trinity College. "Rachel, the police are here. They want to ask you some questions."
The intelligent detective was part Mary Driscoll from CFO and part Frances McDormand. I didn't know whether to ask for a lawyer or say: "Look, I loved you in Fargo." We got some breakfast -- generic catered breakfast: bad filter coffee and honeydew and rockmelon -- and ate in the classroom overlooking the sea. Frances had a photocopied list of names of suspects, annotated in red pen and flourescent marker. Most of the names were crossed out but I could see mine wasn't. I couldn't bring myself to eat. I knew I couldn't outsmart this woman. I tried, though.
"I just don't understand," said Frances in her patient way. "Where did you say you were?" To me the crux of the issue was this: He was my dealer. He was pond scum, but I'd killed him in a fight over drugs. If it had been self-defence or anything that didn't implicate me morally, I would have confessed by now. My eyes brimmed with tears. I had nowhere else to run. I couldn't bear the thought of gaol...
And then I woke up and said: "Fuck. Is that the time? I'm late for work!" and tripped over you on my way to the bathroom.
This dream was brought to you by Rach! Cut out and keep! Collect the whole set!