"Pardon?"

I was shocked at the abrupt change of mood. A second ago we were laughing and now laughter had fled screaming into the night. The forest had darkened and the trees had closed in making me feel suddenly claustrophobic. I almost waited for feral eyes to open like slashes in the darkness. None did, so thankfully my dream hadn't travelled that far on the express train into Nightmare Station.

Joy seemed unaware of the sudden suffocation. She wasn't looking at me, instead picking some invisible piece of cotton or dirt from her trouser leg. Whatever was there was stuck fast and she stayed intent on it as she spoke.

"The boy. He crashed and there's a better than good chance that he wouldn't have if you hadn't been there, but you couldn't help him. He was lost anyway."

My heart was suddenly squeezed by an invisible hand that had reached inside my chest and taken a hold, long, cracked and yellowing nails digging in. I couldn't speak.

"He killed that poor girl. He would have done it again. He would. More than once. It wouldn't have stopped him and it wouldn't have slowed him down. He would have begun to look for it. The rush. The danger. The badness of it. He would have become addicted. He was rotting from the inside out and you did him a favour. You did those little girls he isn't going to mow down a favour. Hey, you did the world a favour."

Joy's voice wavered, a ripple in the velvet. I could only stare at her, the hand around my heart squeezing rhythmically. What was she doing? Justifying murder? That's what it was! Manslaughter at the very least because I couldn't help it. But what if I could? What if there was some sick core inside me, rotting like she said the boy was? What if I meant for him to die?

What if I wanted it to happen? I knew. I knew what he had done. Eight years old. That's all she was. But I didn't feel anger or pity for him. I felt nothing. So what if that nothing was concealing my pleasure, or my desire? If I'd reached out to his car with whatever twisted thought or idea crawled beneath the nothing and made it swerve, and made it crash...?

What then?

Maybe this was hell and I had ended up in that furnace and I had been char-broiled and I was dead. And Joy. Maybe she believed in Heaven and Hell. And maybe, because of that, we were part of each other's damnation. She was doomed to try and make me feel better - something that, on a grander scale had bled her to a husk - and I was doomed to listen. Her Purgatory was a much more focused and personal version of the life that had led her, or pushed her, here. Mine was to relive my own, the tales retold in my sister's vain attempts to justify and reconcile and appease.

And I hadn't even brought a picnic.

I mentally gripped the metaphorical hand around my heart, wresting its grip and flinging it away. What if, what if, what if. What if Willy Wonka had made flour instead of every kind of chocolate? Charlie Bucket would never have been the hero he was and Violet Sludgemonkey, or whatever her name was, would probably be a redcoat at Butlins by now. What if Man really had landed on the moon, or men in black really did protect us from illegal Aliens and the scum of the universe? What if, in space, someone can hear you scream? What if curry night at the Trawl pub, Toothill, was on a Wednesday instead of a Thursday? Would the world come crashing down around our ears like a Paris Hilton CD?

No. I doubted it. So why worry about it. Or, at least, why dwell on it. Blank it out. Smother it in Nothing. No pain, no brain. Or something like that.

Of course that wasn't how it worked. It didn't work much at all, really, but...

Hey ho, daddyo, away we go.

It didn't matter if Joy was right or not. If I'd saved half a dozen or more children from being hit-and-run victims at the cost of one stupid, stupid boy's life, it didn't matter. It did matter, but it didn't. Not really. It was what it was. Life and death. Heaven and Hell. Black and white.

Heads and tails.

Flip and catch.

"So?" I said.

Joy frowned, puzzled. I could see why. My reaction, or lack of one, would puzzle me too, if I wasn't me. In fact, it did to a certain extent. Why wasn't I breaking apart, little bits of me drifting off into the Nothing that waited in the shadows to engulf me? Why was I just hey-diddly-dee-a-normal-life-for-me?

"So?" she asked. "What does 'so' mean? Is that all you can say? 'So'?"

"Yes," I answered. "So. So what if I am responsible. So what if I'm not. It's done."

I realised, suddenly, what was wrong. I knew why I was numb. The same sweet self-preservation that stopped me knock, knock, knocking on a furnace door. It was too much. All of it, and if I let myself feel that, I'd be dragged down Life's little plug hole into the sewers below.

"I can't take it," I said. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say. I just... I just can't do it."

Joy put her arms around me. She smelled of Jasmine. Her cheek was warm and soft against my own. Were my dreams torturing me now? All these memories of my dead sister pummelling me, taunting me. It wasn't FAIR! I felt like a yo-yo, spinning between laughter and sorrow, smiles and frowns, mental clarity and mind-numbing despair, my string wrapped around the finger of some demonic child who was having simply marvellous fun at my expense.

I pushed Joy away and stood up. This was a lovely dream, what with the ghost, maggots and rotting flesh, but it was only serving to make me feel worse about myself than I already did. Joy's reassurances did more to wind me up than calm me down. I knew she wasn't being patronising, she wasn't like that. Well, my sister wasn't like that when she was alive. This deceased version was an invention of my own psyche, so I supposed it could be as patronising as my mind felt it wanted to be.

I was going round in circles. I should have stayed, happy as a hamster with my very own wheel, in the mental home. Dr. Connors would look after my bank account and me, and everything would have been hunky-dory, Jackanory. Yes. Of course it would.

I feebly tried to push Joy away again as she moved towards me, arms wide. She batted my attempts away and wrapped me in her Jasmine blanket. I let my breathing settle and slumped against her. She held my weight easily, obviously empowered by my subconscious - she could never have carried me in reality.

Her voice smothered me in velvet calm, easing my anguish. "Sshhhh," she whispered, though I hadn't said anything.

I took a deep breath, my face buried in her shoulder. A second one succeeded in steadying me enough to support myself. She let her arms drop and looked at me, her face full of concern.

I smiled weakly, then took a third deep breath and smiled again, stronger this time.

"Fartypants," I said.

"That's better," she said, the concern fading. A hint of it lingered still, but she looked more her usual perky self. I hoped I appeared the same. I hoped that, if I looked happier then I would be. If I seemed more confident, that confidence might worm its wicked way inside. "Plonk it, rancid pits," she ordered, indicating the base of the tree I'd been sitting at.

"Yes, Miss."

I eased myself back down onto the grass and leant against the trunk. My back protested as the lumps and bumps of the bark found more places to dig into but I ignored it. I wasn't into self-mutilation or any of those whipping rituals religious types indulged in, but I did feel that a taste of pain myself was somewhat deserved.

"So," I said, hoping again to bring the conversation back on track. I left the word hanging, not really knowing where to take it. This was my dream, but I figured Joy could lead the way for a wee bit. She left the word where it was for a long time, head low, face expressionless, except for the eyes a-sparkling. Then she picked it up and had a play.

"So indeed," she said, lifting her eyes to me. The corners of her full lips raised slightly: "What are we going to do with you, brother of mine?"

I didn't answer. I wanted the question to be rhetorical so she'd provide her own response. Perhaps then I might have some idea myself. If not, this would be a short chat and, as good as it was to be reunited with Joy, I may as well wake up. If my mind, in the form of my sister, wasn't going to give me any answers whatsoever, then I'd have to fumble my own way - and that thought scared me way down the road to Shitless and half way into Witless.

"If only I could tell you the things you need to know," she said. "It would be so much easier. You'd be so much happier." She paused and chewed her bottom lip, a habit I'd grown tired of trying to slap out of her. "Maybe you wouldn't be happier actually, but at least you'd know."

"Know what?" I asked. Things I needed to know? I wasn't appearing on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. I didn't need to phone a friend or ask the audience. Good job really because the only audience I currently had was maybe the odd owl or squirrel. Anyway, what did I need to know that I didn't already? This dream was going the way of a Twin Peaks episode. It was following some twisted path I couldn't see, swinging back on itself and then taking a completely different route. I felt like Kyle MacLachlan was conspiring with David Lynch to hijack my brain and turn it on its end. All we needed was some cherry pie, a damn fine cup of coffee, and we could all sit down, have a picnic and figure out which outcome would be the weirdest and as such the one we'd use. At least Kyle was investigating a murder whereas I was committing them.

I wondered if, in a court of law, murder in absentia was a punishable crime. If I had an alibi tighter than Jacob Marley's business partner, even though I admitted to having done the crime - and thanks to Mental Homes R Us, done the time - would I still be sent down, joining the chain gang on a one way trip along the Green Mile? Maybe I could get Tom Hanks or Michael Clarke Duncan to sign autographs.

I doubted a defence of "I wasn't there m'lud" would be sufficient to get me off. But death by proxy. What would be the maximum sentence for that? Six months? Life? Would there be a frying tonight, with old Sparky, the electric chair?

Ask me another.

Death by proxy. That's a phrase and a half, ain't it? Murder by proxy, perhaps - get some other schmucky-duck to do the deed. But death by proxy? How did that work? If it's my time that's up, is DBP (as we affectionately don't call it) giving my extinction ticket to the next customer, like at the deli counter in Asda?

"I'll have half a pound of bullet to the brain and three slices of cardiac arrest please. Oh, hold on, you go first, pal."

"Cheers mate! Make mine a quarter of honey roasted dismemberment please. No, wait. Make it six ounces."

"Certainly sir. We've got a special three-for-two offer on aneurisms this week. Can I tempt you?"

"No thanks, I'm good with the dismemberment."

Death by proxy - giving your place in the queue for Snuffit & Keelover to the next bloke, nice guy that you are.

My sense of dread and guilt, which had been rebounding around the forest like a squash ball shot from a cannon, slammed back into me once more. What if that was exactly the case? What if I was missing my appointment with the Other Side by passing it on to other people?

If I was meant to die the day the number 5 bus drove into the Post Office instead of into me?

If I was meant to die today, the next victim of a teenage idiot more intent on his mobile phone than on the road?

I jumped when I felt Joy's hand on my shoulder.

"Sin?"

"Sorry," I said, shuddering. I suddenly felt cold even though the temperature hadn't dropped noticeably. The closeness of the trees, the canopy of leaves and the blanket of clouds all did their bit to keep the afternoon's warmth from escaping.

And me.

"What is it?" she asked.

I shook my head. What was the point? She'd only tell me I was being stupid. Maybe she was right. Maybe my head was running after David Lynch, hoping to be sucked down the convoluted drain of his imagination.

But still. As ever. What IF?

I so needed to get a grip! What if the world really was flat, with only the 150 foot wall of the Southern Ice between us and an eternal drop into Oblivion? What if the Bermuda Triangle was an extra-terrestrial King's Cross, with trains (or ships and planes) leaving every fifteen minutes or so, stopping at Peterborough, Newark, Doncaster and Alpha Centauri?

What if anyone actually gave a toss?

I took another one of those deep breaths people recommend to steady your nerves. Was there some magic medicine in air? I suppose there was. Oxygen. Daft question really.

"Nothing," I said, managing a half hearted smile. The other half had a go, but couldn't quite manage it. Oh well, a smile is always half full rather than half empty.

I needed to get this dream going, if, indeed, it was going anywhere. For all I knew it could be tomorrow or next week by now. It had been so long since I'd had a sleep that wasn't drug induced, I figured my body could be making up for lost time. Perhaps Joy was here to keep me occupied while my body recuperated. Dreams being what they were though, I could have just dozed off for five minutes. Either way, if there was a point, I wished Joy would get us to it.

"Are you sure?" she asked. How could anything be wrong with that voice caressing me? How could any problem be a problem while those eyes sparkled?

"I'm sure," I said. "I'm fine." I sat a little straighter, my slump becoming more of a slouch. It wasn't much, but it was an improvement. "You were saying?"

"Was I?"

"Yes. You said you wished you could tell me something. Something I should know."

"Oh, that." She shook her head. "Don't worry about it."

What? She couldn't do that!

"You can't do that! You can't lay something like that down, and then take it away again."

Joy looked nervous, as if she'd let a secret out and had only just realised.

"No, really. Forget it. It's nothing."

I wasn't about to let it go. Joy could be in this dream to carry me through to next year for all I cared. Or she could be here for a reason, the voice of my subconscious working its way up to granting me an epiphany of some kind. Or, of course, she could be a zombie deciding whether to start on my nose or a nice bit of rump.

"Joy," I said, gripping her hand. It was warm. I would have thought zombies would be cold to the touch, so that was comforting. Maybe she wasn't wondering if she should have mustard or plain old ketchup. "Just tell me."

She snatched her hand away as if she thought I was trying to steal it. "I can't!"

"I don't understand," I said. "You can't tell me? What? What's so big a secret you'll implode if you share it? It can't be that bad, can it?"

"It's not that. Nothing like that. I just can't tell you."

"Why?" I insisted. There had been times in our lives when, although we normally hid nothing from each other, we'd had to keep certain things to ourselves. I don't believe anyone is totally open about every tiny little thing with anyone else - siblings, partners, no one. Whether it's down to guilt, embarrassment or sheer spite, some things are simply meant to kept to one's self, hidden away, held close to your chest lest they get snatched away and held up to scorn, ridicule or horror. Usually it's something small and petty and not worth worrying about, but not always.

Joy and I didn't share our biggest secret with each other. The fact that we could manipulate others' lives, destroying them in my case and making them so much better in hers, was something we'd not told anyone until it was too late. Joy let me know by posthumous letter. I'd told Dr. Connors in the comfort of an asylum; padded cells, padded seats, padded wallets.

This wasn't the time for my sister to be reticent. And anyway, it was my dream. If I wanted her to talk, shouldn't she concede? Was I, in effect, arguing with myself? Did I have not-so-hidden schizophrenic tendencies? At least I wouldn't be lonely.

Joy looked at me, her eyes doleful. She seemed to be struggling with something and I wished she would just let it go and tell me.

"You don't understand," she said sadly. "I want to tell you, but at the same time, I don't." She was right. I didn't understand. "Part of me wants to, but when I open my mouth to, the urge goes. It's like the words are stolen away."

"Who by?"

"I can't say."

"Come on," I said. "Is it the Big Man Upstairs? Is that it?"

"I can't say, Sin. I really can't."

"So, God, in all His infinite wisdom, chucked you back down here, to invade my dream and to tell me a whole lot of nothing. That was nice of Him."

"I'm not saying that, I'm..."

"You're not saying a thing," I interrupted. "You 'can't say' anything!"

"Stop it," she said fiercely.

I stopped. Joy was many things, but very rarely was she fierce. Pissed, peeved and, currently, paranormal, but not fierce. I let her continue, running my fingers across my mouth as if I was closing a trouser zip.

She smirked a sarcastic quiver of the mouth. "I'm not saying there's a Big Man Upstairs. I'm not saying there isn't. And don't ask me about lights, tunnels or bloody escalators! I just can't say! I won't tell you there's a Heaven or a Hell or a great bloody evangelical shopping centre with shops selling halos and Hail Mary's. You're not going to find out if the Jews were right, the Christians, the Muslims or the Jehovah's bloody Witnesses! I cannot say! Nothing and nobody has a hand clamped over my mouth, the words just don't want to come out, OK?"

"OK," I whispered.

"There's things I want to tell you, to help you, but I can't. I'm sorry."

"Help me with what?" I dared to ask. Silly me.

"I CAN'T SAY!" she shouted. I winced. Her velvet voice had developed some sharp edges. I wanted to file them away as soon as possible in case they cut me.

"You can't say," I repeated quietly. "Sorry."

"No," she said, reaching out to hold my hand. "I'm sorry. More than I can say."

"Or can't say."

Her smile was real this time.

"Yeah, or can't. Just... Just be careful." She squeezed my hand. "Be careful."

I wanted to ask why, but there didn't seem to be much point. She wouldn't have been able to tell me, it seemed. But I trusted her, so I supposed I'd be careful.

"I will," I said.

Joy looked out towards the edge of the forest. It was dark beyond the trees. The rain could be heard but not seen, like children supposedly should be. Or was that the other way around? Occasionally a flash of lightning was chased quickly by a throaty rumble of thunder. I followed her line of sight and was startled to see, as the lightning burst across the landscape, the after image of a figure on the edge of the tree line, silhouetted in my eyes. Another flash showed there was no one there, but I was suddenly uneasy.