Blue Sleep

The Blue Sleep belongs to Greywater Cut, the technical margin of south London where chemical works stand hard against poor housing. Three outbreaks are on record. Twice the cause was traced to leakage from the works; the third time nothing was found. The name outlived all three.

It comes on in order. First the glass sweats on the inside, then the tongue tastes of metal, then several households in a single court report the same shallow dream of standing up to the knee in warm water. Doctor Abram Goss, who serves the lower wards, holds the first signs to be chemical until someone proves otherwise, and he is known for seeing such patterns three or four weeks before any ward office will admit them. Weather-Reader Agnes Whitlow of Stormglass Yard looks to current and damp instead. The parish women do not wait for either: they throw the windows open and move the children out. Greywater mothers wipe the inside of the panes every morning.

The district's long memory is kept by Hester Grayshott, who can say which court went blue in which year. Locals drink the beer at Dick Parfitt's Pickled Egg and leave the water alone, and nobody sensible uses the Greywater lower hatch after rain.

If the glass fogs from within and the mouth tastes of coin, leave the court and send for Doctor Goss before anyone grander. A company hired to find a leak should expect the works to deny everything and the street to know already.