The Word Cloud

 

I opened my eyes to find a blurry Ralph kneeling next to me. It took some time, but I gradually realised that it was me that was blurry and not him. I was lying on the sofa again. Ralph was clutching my hand.

 

“What happened?” I mumbled.

 

“Your security bracelet-thing on your ankle went off…”

 

“It did?”

 

“Yeah – we were supposed to discuss that – but you managed to leg it before we had the chance,” he kind of smiled.

 

“I take it it’s not terribly keen on me going places on my own?”

 

“No,” he laughed gently, “It’s either me or the apartment I’m afraid…”

 

“What?”

 

“If you aren’t within a hundred metres of either me or the flat – your security thing goes off…and I think we both know what that means?”

 

“Bloody Hell, yes,” I rubbed the side of my face where it hit the ground, “Does it look bad?”

 

“No, you’ll be fine – bit of a graze – you’ll never play the ukulele again though,”

 

I slanted my eyes quizzically at him, “Did I…”

 

He wrinkled his nose and shook his head, “Nah…”

 

“Thought not,” he might have been one of ‘them’, but I was quite warming to Ralph.

 

“You really need to get some sleep,” he stroked my head.

 

It felt lovely, “Ralph, are you sure we’re not…?”

 

“Absolutely. We’re friends – good friends,” he grinned down at me.

 

I went through to bed and fell asleep surprisingly quickly. When I woke up the following morning it felt like I’d experienced a night full of exciting dreams that were now slipping through my fingers like so much sand. My old life and new life were inextricably linked – it was hard to tell the difference between the two. So much so, that when I woke up I was sure I was at home with mum again. As my eyes gradually focused on the light of the day and the audacious cacophony that was the colour scheme of my room I realised that that was not the case.

 

I wandered through to the living room. Ralph wasn’t around yet. I walked up to the kitchen, “Coffee, er, coffee please…”

 

And there it was – a coffee, milky and frothy just they way I liked it. While I was confusing myself with the inner debate as to whether or not my coffee preference was down to nature or nurture, Ralph came through.

 

“Sleep well?” he smiled.

 

“Very – I’m just getting the hang of…” what? There was nothing there. I waved my arms about a bit, “…of this…er thing…”

 

“Could you get me a coffee while you’re there?”

 

“Sure, how do you have it?”

 

“Same as you, just ask for a coffee…”

 

So I did. Excited with my integration with modern living so far I said, “Banana,”

 

Nothing happened.

 

“Banana, er please…”

 

Still nothing. I was aware of Ralph watching me.

 

“Please could you make me a banana, er please…”

 

Nothing.

 

“It doesn’t do organic things…”

 

“Surely the coffee’s got beans and milk in it?”

 

“It’s all synthetic, I’m afraid – you’ve got to admit it’s a pretty good likeness though?”

 

I held my mug level with my eyes just in case I could see some obvious flaw, there was none, “That’s amazing…”

 

“Yeah,” Ralph smiled, “Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

 

We sat down at the table in the kitchen area, me in my striped P.J.’s and him in a white bathrobe.

 

“So, what’s the plan?” I had this image that I’d be sat in the apartment all day waiting for Ralph to come home from work – it’d be easy to have his dinner on the table waiting for him when he came in.

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“Well – don’t you go to work, leaving me to get up to all kinds of mischief here? Hey, I could even hatch an evil escape plan…”

 

“Knowing you, that’s exactly what you’d do…”

 

Gradually I was becoming accustomed to the notion that this new me wasn’t terribly different from the old me…which, obviously was the new me…

 

“…no, I don’t really have a job as such…I do go in from time to time and twat about with some technology…”

 

“Where do you go?”

 

“I…er, work for the government…I kind of keep things ticking over…”

 

“Is that how you could get me all those different identities?”

 

“Pretty much, yeah. I’m in a spot of trouble for that – I’m sure you can imagine…”

 

“Yeah. So what’s the plan? What are doing today?” I allowed myself to feel vaguely excited at the prospect of exploring this new world.

 

“Well, Dr Pope told me she thought it would be a good idea for me to take you to do the stuff that you like doing…to sort of re-orientate to this world… ”

 

“And what sort of thing is that?”

 

“Well there’s a couple of things – one you tend to go off and do by yourself – the other, you and I quite enjoy doing together…”

 

“Well, since you and I are er…linked, let’s go and do the thing we enjoy together…”

 

“Sure – it’s a bit early for that kind of stuff though – we usually go to watch something in the bar together,” it sounded like he was being deliberately obtuse.

 

“Are you hiding something?”

 

“Well no – I guess I just wanted it to be…you know…a surprise. You’ll find out when we go to watch at lunch…”

 

“Hmmm,” I raised an eyebrow, “So it’s something I go to watch…?” I felt like Sherlock Holmes discovering an evil plot.

 

“Yeah, that’s what I just said, you arse,” image destroyed.

 

“On that subject…”

 

“What subject?”

 

“Of discovery?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“How much are you able to tell me about my, er, death?” that felt strange.

 

“What do you want to know?” serious now.

 

“Whodunnit?”

 

“I’m not entirely sure – I think I could find out though…”

 

“Could you? I mean, was it someone close to me? Or some hidden assassin?”

 

“I think it’s my turn to say ‘whoa’,” Ralph put his hands up.

 

“Why?”

 

“You’ve got to remember, I don’t know anything really about your, er, past life…”

 

“Of course you don’t…no, of course you don’t…What do you want to know?”

 

“What do you want to tell me?”

 

“I think I’d like to tell you everything…”

 

So I told him about my life living with mum, about my life as a social worker and the events leading up to my early demise. He appeared very interested when I told him about Mr Stuart and the Evil Eye.

 

“Fascinating,”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“I’m not sure – I’m sure there’s more for us to find out there though,”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah – not just now though – carry on with your story,”

 

I told him all about Jen, and stripy haired woman and Claus and the Ball-Boys and how my behaviour changed radically when I found out I was dying.

 

“That’s really interesting…”

 

“In what way?”

 

“Well, that you started really living when you knew you were dying,”

 

“D’you know, I think I might have said that?”

 

“It wouldn’t surprise me if you had,” he grinned back at me, “Bloody Hell, is that the time – c’mon we need to get dressed and outta here – we’re going to miss it,”

 

Ralph leapt to his feet and scurried off to his bedroom – I followed his cue and vanished into my room in search of an item of clothing that might not melt the eyes of onlookers.

 

****

 

As we were driving to venue x I was struck by the thought that Ralph wouldn’t be drinking at this social event, because he was driving. How would a law cover that? If we were going to the bar – was it to have a drink? Or was it to meet up with some old friends and acquaintances who might be able to get me back to now?

 

The bar – the pub, looked like it should. There was a bar with folk serving, there were a number of folk milling about the place – some chatting, some looking wistfully into their drinks, some looking at the big fuck-off screens on the wall. Of course – a bar – big screens – a bunch of men together – it could only mean one thing  - some manner of sport for them all to comment on, look at the form and babble about how, if their lives had been different, they could have been a contender…

 

Ralph came over carrying two glasses of amberish liquid.

 

“Synthetic chemicals?” I smiled as I took a sip.

 

“Only the best for you sir,” Ralph winked as we clinked glasses.

 

“What’s all this then? Soccer? Football? Basketball? Formula 1?”

 

Ralph’s eyes widened as he put his drink down, “H-Surfing – you love it…”

 

“I do? Do I? What is it?”

 

“It’s hydrogen surfing, to give it it’s full name…”

 

“Isn’t that just normal surfing, on hydrogen with a bit of oxygen – you know, on water?”

 

“No, no, no…this is much more interesting…”

 

As usual in a pub the volume was down, but there on the screen was a Lycra clad Adonis with film-star good looks.

 

“Who’s he?” I whispered.

 

“Cannon-fodder – you don’t need to know,”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah – watch, here’s the main man,”

 

There appeared on screen an ageless, gnarled almost treelike man with piercing blue eyes. His Lycra was more sombre than that of the earlier young blade. On his head he wore a patterned scarf that looked not unlike a knotted hankie.

 

“Who’s that?”

 

“Who’s that? Who’s that?” Ralph hissed at me, “He’s your favourite H-Surfer of all time…”

 

“Yes, but while I’m in the frame of mind where I can’t remember where I live…do you mind just filling me in with a few of the facts?”

 

“That’s Graham Martin…”

 

“Graham…” I instantly felt a mistrust for anyone with two first names.

 

“He’s known as ‘H’ – he is Mr Hydrogen…”

 

“Quick – tell me about H-Surfing…”

 

“Ok – briefly these guys ride on boards with sails…”

 

I felt a terrible cloud of anticlimax rain down on me.

 

“What? It’s windsurfing?”

 

Ralph sounded distracted, “What? Well, kind of – take a look…”

 

There on the screen was about a hundred guys lined up on surfboards with huge sails. They all had full-face helmets on. Wherever they were it looked very dark – it was difficult to tell the difference between the water and the sky.

 

“Is it a race?”

 

“Yes…watch,”

 

The camera was looking down on them from a height of about 20 metres or so – they were all bobbing about waiting for something to happen. Then, as one, all the surfers tensed, poised ready to go. I wasn’t quite ready for what happened next. The race started – but fuck – it was a lot faster than I expected. To my casual spectators eyes it almost looked like they just vanished from the screen – there was a blur of colours as they flew off…

 

“What the fuck?”

 

Ralph laughed at my response.

 

“How fast…?”

 

“Fairly…”

 

“No…really…how fast?”

 

“Well they get to around two hundred miles per hour pretty quickly…”

 

As I looked at the screen, the view turned to what appeared to be an onboard camera. The board seemed to have powerful light at the front – huge rocks would suddenly leap out of the twilight and then whoosh by as the surfer took evasive action.

 

I turned to Ralph and calmly put all the questions to him that I felt would give me clarity, “What the…? Who the…? How the…? Where the…?”

 

“They’re in space – they’re actually going through the asteroid belt – that’s where most of the races take place – kind of makes it more exciting if someone might get horribly maimed, don’t you think?”

 

With my mouth gaping open, I nodded my agreement, “Fu-u-uck!”

 

“The sails gather hydrogen atoms and the board transforms that into energy…pretty cool, eh?”

 

“Bloody cool…are there teams or what? How does this all work?”

 

“There’s two guys in each team. Sometimes they work together, sometimes it’s every man for themselves…”

 

“But…but…this looks dangerous – don’t people get killed all the time?”

 

“Watch…”

 

The racing was fast and furious – seemingly with no holds barred as boards bounced off each other at astonishing speeds. Two H-Surfers were vying for position at the front, skilfully avoiding a variety of space flotsam and jetsam as they sped round the course that, I could now see, was marked out by bright marker buoys. Just watching was exhilarating – I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I gripped the table in front of me.

 

Suddenly, one of the racers forced the other into a huge rock. Surely at that speed he was a goner…?

 

We watched from a variety of angles as a red aura appeared around the surfer and he bounced into the rock in slow motion. By his body language we could see he was angry and frustrated but amazingly, unhurt.

 

I turned to Ralph with a quizzical expression.

 

“It’s a time buffer – absolutely brilliant bit of technology…”

 

“And that does…what exactly?” I was floundering again.

 

“Ok, normally, travelling at that speed, it would have taken that guy – what? A hundredth of a second to hit the rock?”

 

Not being a scientific sort, I nodded vacantly.

 

“The time buffer turns that one hundredth of a second into anything up to thirty seconds – what you saw on the screen just now wasn’t slow motion – it was actual time…”

 

“But why doesn’t everyone else slow down then?”

 

“The time buffer’s localised to the board – it’s brilliant. A shield would be no good because decelerating from two hundred to zero would kill you anyway. The TB allows the surfer to slow down safely without injury…”

 

“I’m going to put that in a little box marked, ‘Black Magic’ – it’s like broadband, I don’t understand it and I don’t need to…”

 

Ralph laughed, put his arm around me and hugged me close to him, “Isn’t it great though?”

 

“Fabulous,” I grinned.

 

We watched as the race unfolded in front of us with most surfers skilfully negotiating rocks and each other, whilst others were coerced into almost balletic crashes. It lasted for about half an hour which, to be honest, was more than enough for me – I was exhausted.

 

We watched as the gnarly wooden man, H to his friends, received his trophy. In second place was a guy who looked a bit like Adonis-man and in third was a sculpted and athletic woman.

 

“Do they let women race…?” I realised how ridiculously sexist that sounded as soon as it left my mouth.

 

“Yeah, they let women race…sometimes they even let the women win…” Ralph rolled his eyes at me.

 

I felt myself shrink like a beaten dog, “Sorry…”

 

“No worries – see her? Michelle Sykes, she’s currently second in the series – sometimes they call her Mrs H,”

 

“I’m sure she’s delighted,” I thought of her relative beauty standing next to H.

 

“Hmmm – is anything coming back to you? You used to love this almost as much as vanishing off to Pilots…”

 

The atmosphere felt familiar – but I wasn’t sure it that was due to my experience of pubs in my last life.

 

“I’m not sure…I just don’t know…”

 

****

 

“You look anxious,”

 

“I’m waiting for this bloody thing to go off on my leg again,”

 

“It won’t go off in the clinic – if you go more than a hundred metres away from here, or your apartment or Ralph, then it’ll go off…”

 

“Oh, I hadn’t realised it was attached to here as well,”

 

“It is,” non-committal and bland as ever, Dr Pope looked through my notes, “How are you finding it back in the community?”

 

“Ok, I think. Ralph’s been great…I still don’t remember anything though…”

 

“Give it time…”

 

God, that almost felt like warmth.

 

“Dr Pope?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“How much do you know about my life as John?”

 

“We’ve been fully briefed…””

 

“By whom?”

 

“By the person who retrieved you.”

 

“Who are they? Can I see them?”

 

“I’m not at liberty to say and no – you can’t see them, it would compromise their position,”

 

“Can you tell me which character they…er…played in my life?”

 

“Again, I’m unable to tell you…”

 

“So what do we do? Do we just wait until my memory comes back to me?”

 

“Hmmm…yes, yes, that’s what we do,”

 

“Are there others like me?”

 

“A few,”

 

“Does the memory always come back?”

 

“Usually,”

 

“What you’re saying is, I could be stuck like this?”

 

“Don’t be angry with me, Barney. This is a situation of your own making,”

 

How could I argue against that? The me, that I don’t remember being, has put me in the shit by sending me on a jolly holiday too far and now I’m stuck in this half-world.

 

I held my head in my hands, “Sorry, you’re right…it’s my own fault. So what do I do now?”

 

“Carry on doing things that you normally did. The familiarity should help in time,”

 

We sat in silence for a few more minutes. I’m not sure why, but Dr Pope was really beginning to piss me off.

 

“Ok, it’s time. Thank you for coming in. I’ll see you again in two days, at the same time.”

 

“Sure, thanks,” I stood for a second wondering if I should reach out to shake her hand. I decided against it. The result was that I looked like an indecisive twat as she tried to escort me to the door.

 

“How was that?”

 

Thank God for a friendly face and a smile. I slumped in the seat in the car next to Barney.

 

“Humiliating. Embarrassing. Fuck, she’s horrible,” the tension I had felt in my back lifted.

 

Pilots - end of chapter 6

 

 

“Go on…”

 

“Go on about what? Insects? Pilots? What?”

 

“Tell me how I fit into this – what’s going on? What did Dr Pope mean?”

 

Ralph blushed, “To be honest, I’m implicated here too…”

 

“In what way?”

 

“You were…you are bored with all of this…you see no value in it…you see no future…you have no hopes and no aspirations…”

 

“That sounds strangely familiar…”

 

“Ok…I er helped you to overcome some of your tedium by giving you a variety of identities,”

 

“What – with Pilots – I went and lived lots of lives?”

 

“No…well, er yes, but that’s not what I meant…Pilots is still relatively early on its technological life – they’re reluctant for folk to experience too many different lives until they can fully understand the impact that it has on folk,”

 

“Like amnesia?”

 

“Yeah – like amnesia,”

 

“So you gave me a whole bunch of new identities so I could live lots of lives without them shitting themselves?”

 

“Yes. You seemed to get so much out of it. The first time you came back you were high for weeks.”

 

“Was I? What kind of life was it?”

 

“I can’t really remember too many of the details – I remember it sounded pretty mundane to me though… You had a family, a job… nothing exciting,”

 

“You know how I go off and live these lives?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“How long am I gone for – I mean, is it a lifetime? You keep the flat going for three score years and ten, waiting for my return and then…”

 

“No,” he laughed, “No…it’s not like that – each life lasts about a day in our time. It’s funny, looking back, each time you came back slightly different – like you’d taken on the attributes of the folk you’d been…”

 

“But I was them? I didn’t take on their attributes – they took on mine, surely?”

 

“Hmm…I’m not sure which way that particular riddle goes – I guess we’re all products of our biology and our environment – it’s all a bit of both isn’t it?

 

“I guess…have you ever tried it?”

 

“What, Pilots?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I did a couple – I tried being an ordinary twenty-third century Joe – that was all a bit dull…I’ve been a dragon-fly! Now fuck, that’s living…”

 

I smiled at his enthusiasm as I tried to imagine what that must have been like.

 

“It’s not like being a human driving a dragonfly – it’s about being that dragonfly from egg to larvae to dragonfly  - the works – it was fabulous…”

 

“So I’ve had lots of these lives?”

 

“Yeah, about fifty or so this year…”

 

“This year?”

 

“Yeah – ordinarily folk are allowed one or maybe two at a push each year – sort of like holidays,”

 

“So how did I get fifty?”

 

“I er, got you a whole bunch of different identities…I’d never seen you so happy…”

 

“So I just kept on going back for more?”

 

“Yeah,”

 

“And this is what happens? This amnesia?”

 

“Well, we didn’t know…”

 

“So John, he wasn’t real?”

 

“Yes…yes…John lived. You lived his life…well…er…”

 

“John’s life is still er, in me. All this – everything around me – you – God, even me – feels completely alien. I feel like I’ve lost me.”

 

“This is all my fault – I shouldn’t have got you those other names,” he looked so tired, his eyes were wet and red.

 

“I imagine you were doing what you thought was right… you know how you said John lived and that I lived his life?”

 

“Yeah?” he looked pained.

 

“You sounded a bit uncertain – I did live his life, didn’t I?”

 

Silence.

 

“Didn’t I?”

 

“Well, yes…just about…”

 

“Ralph, is there something you need to tell me?”

 

“Yes,” he put his hand to his mouth to stop the words escaping.

 

“And that is…?”

 

“It was like you were addicted. Every day you’d come home and ask me for another identity. Every day you wanted to be someone else. I was panicked. I’d heard some stuff about this amnesia in other folk – I’d heard about some pretty strange behaviours…Shit Barney, you’re my best friend…”

 

This all felt ok. No matter what he’d done – it felt like he’d done it to some other bloke, “It’s ok Ralph. I’m sure it’s fine…”

 

“I told them. I got in touch with them. You’d gone in the morning – by lunchtime I was outta my head with worry – I told them about all of your different identities and how often you’d been back. You’ve got to understand, I was worried about you – I had no idea what was happening…”

 

“I’m sure whatever happened – it was fine, don’t beat yourself up,” Still, I felt that anything he’d done, he’d done to Barney – this person who I wasn’t.

 

“They sent someone back,” he couldn’t look at me, his hands nearly covered the whole of his face, “They sent someone back to er, retrieve you…”

 

Silence. What the fuck did that mean? How do you retrieve someone from a life unless…unless what? I couldn’t even begin to think what that meant. Surely not…? I felt cold and not a little light-headed.

 

“Retrieve me? What exactly does that mean?”

 

“I’m not completely sure – it means one of two things…” his mouth was quivering with stress, “They either sent someone back to live a full life – to meet up with you and…Or, they sent someone back to take over an existing life to…”

 

“Shit! Is that possible? Isn’t there some kind of…punch-up?”

 

“Yeah…yeah…it’s actually what they did at first – initially they dabbled with folk in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries – you know the time of which-hunting and possessions?”

 

“Jesus!” so much to take in, let’s try and keep it simple, “So what do you think they did to me?”

 

“I think they sent someone back to take on someone’s life. It’s too complicated to live a full life and then try to remember what you’re supposed to do…”

 

“And what were they supposed to do? What did they have to remember?”

 

“They had to remember to bring you back…”

 

“What does that mean, Ralph? What does bringing me back actually mean?” I knew the answer – I just didn’t want to hear it or believe it.

 

“Someone was sent back to… kill you…”

 

No longer was he talking about some abstract Barney-person who I couldn’t believe in. Suddenly he was talking about me and my life. This had been my life and some bastard had taken it from me. I thought about me and mum – her distress – my distress…Jesus what a fucking mess.

 

“Surely if someone killed me in the past it would have a massive impact on the future…?”

 

“It had already happened…”

 

“What? What the fuck is that meant to mean? Does that mean that nothing is determined by the individual? Do we all throw ourselves down that inevitable slide that is fate? What are you talking about?”

 

“They sent someone back to kill you – and they killed you – it doesn’t have an effect on the future because it’s already happened…don’t you see?”

 

“No…no…I don’t fucking see! Some bastard killed me. What about my feelings? What about my mum? I was living a life and some bastard took that from me. What was wrong with letting me live it and then apprehending me after the fact?”

 

“They thought if you were there any longer then you’d lose your identity completely,”

 

“What the fuck’s this?” I held my arms out to display this body more fully, “I’ve no idea what or who Barney is. He’s gone. I’ve lost him – don’t you see? I was John and some cunt killed me…”

 

With that, I stormed into the lift. It colluded with me and took me down into the car park. Where I was going I had no idea. Purposefully I strode away from the lift and towards the beautiful car.

 

Suddenly, I was hit with a massive shock and I fell, unconscious, to the floor.

 

We get bombarded with requests from literary outfits - lone authors, new mags and e-zines, festivals, prizes, and the like - all wanting a free promo.

Mostly we just say no, because we don't think that the quality's up to much. And every now and then, we say yes ... mostly because once I've spent 40 minutes lost in a site, it occurs to me that others might enjoy the same experience. So welcome to Litdrift - a site that I genuinely enjoyed and that has a real writerly feel to it. I hope it does crackingly well ...

Before my Dad left He promised to one day return.

He gave me a book of letters and stories, from which He told me I could learn.

 

Just before He went away,

Dad told me that if I ever needed to talk,

He would listen whenever I pray,

and that He would hope for a prayer every day…

 

I started to cry and asked Him why?

He wiped my tears and said that I mustn’t cry,

for one day we’ll live together in a golden castle in the sky.

 

He told me that there was a big war still to come,

 but I need not be afraid,

for He will protect me

 as long as my love fòr Him and Faith ìn Him doesn’t fade.

 

I realized then He was about to die to set me free,

It was the hardest thing to accept,

even as I knew this was how He wanted it to be.

 

I know now that I am never alone,

Sometimes I feel His enticing presence, and my

enduring love for Him has tremendously grown.

 

I remember His last words as He held me tight:

“My daughter I love you,

deeper than any depth and higher than any height.”

I said: “Dad I love you too,

and to keep Your name high I will fight.

I know with You inside my heart I will have more than all evil’s might.”

 

With excitement and anticipation my heart and soul now only burns,

As I wait for the best day of my life,

the day my Dad returns…

 

I'm open to what's funny this  world has to off from dumb to witty, from surreal to everyday, an Eddie Izzard to Stewart Francis, but Stewart Lee, Stewart Lee, he's this comedian I can laugh at, but I feel he's lacking a certain feel, like a good piece of brie that isn't french. Stewart Lee, to me, he doesn't come across as truly funny, even when I'm laughing, he isn't making me have a memorable experience beyond the thought "Jerry Springer: The Opera was simply epic win *thumbs up*" but after that I'm like ".........................................." that's how empty my experience of laughter is of Stewart Lee, I can't think of anything else beyond that opera.

He doesn't strike me as great. Yes, he's 41st best stand up ever, but that doesn't make him memorable, just a fantastically forgetful comedian.

“Is this how it’s going to be?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, you ask me questions that I clearly don’t know the answer to – then I ask you questions that you clearly do know the answer to – but all you do is answer my questions with more questions,” I was exhausted, “When can I see my mum?”

 

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

 

“She isn’t here.”

 

“Fu… God, I’m glad I stopped myself there, I nearly said, ‘Fuck!’ Where is she then?”

 

“We need to be sure.”

 

“Sure of what? What are you talking about?” I was shouting now.

 

“We need to be sure that what you’re saying is true.”

 

“All I’ve said is that I haven’t got a clue what’s going on and I don’t know where I am… What isn’t true about that?”

 

Dr Pope sighed a heavy sigh, “You’ve just been a little…er, tricky in the past. We just have to make sure.”

 

My mind was spinning, “Who’s Ralph?”

 

“He’s your friend.”

 

“He’s one of you guys, isn’t he?”

 

“What do you mean by that?” bland, monotone as ever.

 

“You’re all just fucking with my head, aren’t you? Why can’t I leave here?”

 

“Because you’re ill.”

 

“Look at me! I’m better. I’ve put on weight. I’m healthy. I need to go on the diversion scheme…”

 

“No, this is different. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

 

“How long is this going to go on for? It’s been days. What’s going on? I want to speak with the mental welfare commission.”

 

“You can’t.”

 

“Why?”

 

“They don’t exist. Let’s speak tomorrow,” Dr Pope got up and quietly left the room.

 

This was a fucking nightmare.

 

 

****

 

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” I felt I had nothing to lose.

 

“What are you talking about?”  Ralph appeared genuinely wounded.

 

“Come on Ralph. I’ve seen this on TV a million times. Dr Pope is the bad cop – you’re the good cop…”

 

“Barney?”

 

“You’re wasting your time though, I can’t tell you anything,” then a crazy thought came to me, “Am I dead?”

 

“Er…”

 

“I mean, being so ill, lying in the garden with mum – going to the light – waking up like this,” I spread my arms and looked down at my new me, “I’m a different person. Why are there no mirrors? Or reflective surfaces?”

 

“Barney, I dunno…”

 

“And why the fuck do you keep calling me Barney?” So angry.

 

“Ralph, it’s time to leave,” the disembodied voice of Dr Pope came to his rescue.

 

Stressed though he was, he still hugged me. What the Hell was I supposed to do?

 

Apart from my visits from Dr Pope and Ralph, my days were deathly boring. The most exciting thing I could do was make myself coffee, occasionally a snack, my meals were delivered at all the right times. Typical hospital fare –nothing terribly dynamic – bland hotpot, flavourless curry and tasteless lasagne stood out as my favourites so far.

 

Time and again I thought about how I’d got here. Time and again the answers came back the same – Lying on the grass with mum, going towards the light, the warehouse, being shot with God knows what and then waking up here. It was hard to tell what was dream and what was reality.

 

“How long have I been in here?” It was impossible to tell – there was no natural light. The tedium was doing my head in.

 

“Just over a month,” Dr Pope was as insipid as the food.

 

“Can I…” Go home?

 

“Do you know what home is?”

 

I closed my eyes and all I could see was mum in different guises of mumliness – smiling at me, ruffling my hair, having tea with her, watching TV with her…

 

“Yes, it’s 27 Craigview Gardens, Edinburgh. I live with my mum. I’m a social worker. Sure, I’m suspended just now, but I work with adults. I’ve got a place on a diversion scheme, because this was my first…” I let that trail away, “What about Claus? Has he been to visit? Is this part of the hospital? Has Jen been along…”

 

The words just cascaded. I had no idea where I was, who I was or who I was talking to.

 

“Ralph is keen to have you home. I’m not so sure.”

 

The words ‘Ralph’ and ‘home’ felt completely incompatible. Then I thought of the absolute crushing tedium that was this place. Surely home with Ralph couldn’t be any worse than this?

 

“I’d like that,” poker faced – not too excited.

 

“Do you know what you’re asking for?”

 

I sighed and rubbed my head, “No, no Dr Pope I have no idea what I’m asking for. I have no idea. But surely it must be better than this…” and then as an afterthought, “I’m not dangerous,” I smiled a feeble smile.

 

She stared at me for an age, “You’ll have to be tagged,”

 

“Sure,” I didn’t know what that meant, but I was willing to accept anything.

 

“And Ralph will have to be completely responsible for you. He’ll be your Guardian for a while.”

 

“Anything you say,” my heart was hammering in my chest.

 

“Hmm,” she murmured getting up to go.

 

“What about my clothes? I can’t go home in these?” My blue and white striped pyjamas.

 

“I’ll talk to Ralph.”

 

****

 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ralph was sitting on the sofa next to me, holding my hands.

 

“What have I got to lose?”

 

He snorted quietly, looked down and shook his head, “Oh God,”

“What? What’s wrong?”

 

“Barney, this is huge. I don’t know where to start…”

 

“Hey, that’s my line…” I smiled, “Listen Ralph?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Can you call me John?”

 

“Sure I can. Whatever you need.”

 

“So when can I go…home, do you know?”

 

“You’ll need to talk to Dr Pope about that,”

 

“Sure.”

 

****

 

“Is that everything?” Dr Pope was there to see me off. I still hadn’t taken a step outside the bedsit.

 

“To be fair I only had my pyjamas – and I’m not even sure if they were mine.” I looked down at the jeans and flowery shirt that Ralph had brought in for me and smiled, “I’m not sure if these are mine either.”

 

I felt the tightness of the electronic tag on my right ankle – that definitely wasn’t mine.

 

“They are,” Ralph butted in, “Trust me er, John, they are,”

 

Dr Pope shot him a steely glare.

 

“He wants me to call him John – I’ll do that until he remembers,”

 

“If he remembers,” she came back coldly.

 

“I’m still here, guys…”

 

“Ok, you’ve agreed to come back twice a week – we’ve got a lot of work to do,” very matter of fact.

 

“Yes – anything – I’ll do anything…”

 

“Don’t promise what you can’t deliver,” Ralph hissed in my ear.

 

“You brought this on yourself,” Dr Pope stared angrily at me.

 

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

 

“Yeah, sure he did – c’mon John…”

 

It appeared that these two might have some unresolved issues…Perhaps Ralph did have my best interests at heart? Perhaps this was all a bit of an act for my benefit? Who knows? Anything was possible.

 

For the first time I walked out of the bedsit through the concealed door and into a bright corridor. The floor was tiled – the lights were intense in true hospital style. There were windows along one side. At last I was able to see the outside. Well, I could see the car park. None of this looked familiar though. It was all so…different.

 

We walked out into the fresh air. There was even something strange about that. It was like the air from the air-conditioning in mum’s car. It was very welcome, it was cool, it was refreshing, but it left an aftertaste.

 

“In you go,” Ralph had opened the door of a nearby car – it looked beautiful – completely retro, light blue with tail fins and chrome all around.

 

“Is this yours?”

 

“You didn’t think I’d have anything quite so… magnificent, did you,” Ralph laughed as he guided me in.

 

Inside the seats were leather, the dashboard was mahogany – it was a stunning example of a…

 

There was no steering wheel.

 

I watched as Ralph climbed in, “Ralph?”

 

“There’s no steering wheel? Yeah, I know… Car home…”

 

The car started up of it’s own accord and started to make it’s way out of the hospital. The engine roared manfully in front of us. Before I could comment Ralph said, “It’s not real – it’s hydrogen – the engine’s actually completely silent – all that throbbing and grunting is synthesised – pretty cool though, eh?”

 

Yes, it was cool. Very cool. I couldn’t really appreciate it though – I felt like I did when I first thought I was dying. I felt like I was floating outside my body – it was as if nothing was real. 

 

The car drove round to the front of the building. It was a huge white block – bigger than any hospital I’d ever seen in my life. Above the main entrance, in twenty, no, thirty-foot black letters was the word ‘Pilots’.

 

“Pilots? That’s a strange name for a hospital, isn’t it?”

 

Ralph turned to me, “That’s…that’s…fuck, I’m not going to even try. Look, can we get you home and I’ll try and break you in gently?”

I felt like a wildebeest that had been pulled down by two lionesses – absolutely resigned to my fate. I felt like a passive observer in my life.

 

I watched as this new world cruised past the window. There were tall blocks of flats everywhere interspersed with contrived trees and assorted greenery. It was all so clean and – unpopulated. I had so many questions, too many questions. I chose silence. I looked at Ralph. He was looking absently out the window. Even though the inside of the car was cool, there was a sheen of sweat on his face. He looked stressed beyond belief.

 

The car turned into a drive, at the end of which was a small white tower block set in sculpted gardens. We drove into a car park underneath. The car reverse parked itself beautifully and the throaty roar of the engine stopped.

 

“C’mon John – there’s a lift up to the apartment just over here.”

 

I followed him – for an underground car park it was as bright as day. We walked into the lift. There were no buttons – nothing to tell it where we wanted to go and yet it sprang into action.

 

“How...?”

 

“It knows us,” Ralph pre-empted my question, “And here we are…”

 

The doors opened straight into a flat that looked not unlike the bedsit, bright, with clean surfaces and the odd bit of retro furniture dotted around.

 

He had the biggest sofa in the world! It was just like the one I’d had in the bedsit but twice the size.

 

“I love you’re sofa,”

 

“That, John, is our sofa…”

 

“It is?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are we..?”

 

“No John, we’re not,” Ralph grinned wryly, “This is your room through here,”

 

I walked into an astonishingly garish room – it was all reds and oranges and flowers and joss ticks and…

 

“Ralph…am I…?”

 

This time he laughed a real belly laugh, “No John, you’re not – you’re just a bit, er, flaky,”

 

“Flaky?” This was surreal.  I sat on the big flouncy bed in the middle of my room and held my head in my hands. Where do I start?

 

“Come through – do you want a coffee?”

 

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

 

He walked over to the kitchen area adjoining the living area in an open plan kind of a way, “Two coffees,” he said to no-one in particular.

 

And there they were – two coffees!

 

“There you go,” he said handing me a lovely steaming mug of frothiness. 

 

“I know I’m going to say this a lot, but how...?”

 

Ralph let go a massive sigh and rubbed the back of his head, “I have no idea where to start – but coffee aint gonna be it,”

 

“Nice place we’ve got here…”

 

“Does any of it feel familiar?”

 

Exaggeratedly, I looked around. The rest of the living area appeared to be less ostentatious than my room – still a bit colourful and fruity – but vastly more tasteful, “Nope, I don’t remember any of this…”

 

“John…I…” he started then put his hand over his mouth.

 

I still had that other-worldly feeling, “This isn’t Kansas, is it?”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about – but no, I don’t think it’s Kansas…”

 

“It’s from The Wizard of Oz – Judy Garland…”

 

He held his hand up to stop me, “John, please…I’ve rehearsed this again and again…I keep putting myself in your shoes…I have no idea how to deliver this to you…”

 

“What?”

 

“The story of where you are…come through here,”

 

I followed him through to what looked like the bathroom. There was a mirror.

 

“Look in there and tell me what you think…” he closed his eyes tightly.

 

 Where I’d had blue eyes, brown eyes where now staring back at me, my normally light brown hair was dark, almost black, my face that had, up until my illness, been roundish had sharper features. A slightly pointier nose, higher cheekbones, a more pronounced chin…

 

I fainted.

 

“Barney…Barney…c’mon mate, wake up,”

 

I slowly opened my eyes to reveal Ralph gently flicking water on my face. I was lying on the lovely sofa.

 

“You were lucky to miss the sink – you could have smashed your head. Are you ok?”

 

“You can call me Barney now…”

 

“Are you taking the…what, really?”

 

“I guess I’m going to have to get used to it – especially now I don’t look like John…” Now that was weird, talking about myself as if I was someone else…shit…

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Well let’s try it and I’ll tell you if I begin to freak out,”

 

“Ok – do you want to have a sleep? You look knackered,”

 

“No, I guess I want to know some stuff. You know how Dr Pope said I’d brought this on myself?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Well, can we start there?”

 

“That’s a biggy,”

 

“Am I some kind of arch-criminal?”

 

He sniggered, “Er…no…not exactly – you are a pain in the arse though,”

 

“To who?”

 

“Pilots,”

 

“Pilots? It’s not a hospital, is it?”

 

“Well, a bit of it is – the clinic that you were in…”

 

“What was I being treated for?”

 

“Well…there’s a thing…it’s kind of like amnesia…amnesia that’s been brought on by events…”

 

“What kind of events? What are you talking about?”

“Barney!”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Shut the fuck up just now, and I’ll tell you…”

 

“Sure…”

 

“Pilots isn’t a hospital…”

 

“You said,”

 

He raised his eyes threateningly at me.

 

“Sure, sorry Ralph,”

 

“It’s more like … I’ll make this as simple for you as I can. It’s more like a Travel Agents with millions of destinations…”

 

I was bursting to speak. What does he mean? Is it about space travel? No, that can’t be it – all these people were lying in caskets, they weren’t going anywhere..

 

“No…no, that’s not it. God this is hard. Ok…Do you remember after you’d er, died?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You know how you felt that there was, like, no you?”

 

So that wasn’t just something I’d dreamt, “Yeah…it was like I was just thought. That’s all I was.”

 

“Good…good…hang on to that,” again he sighed heavily, “I’m a bit of a nerd on this subject - I’m going to give you a history lesson. Back in the twentieth century…”

 

“You make it sound like it’s a long time ago…?”

 

“Trust me, it is. Can I continue?”

 

“Sure, sure…go on,”

 

“Back in the twentieth century some scientists were trying to help patients who suffered from epilepsy by applying electromagnetic stimulation to what they believed to be the effected part of the brain – in this case it was their left temporoparietal junction,” 

 

Seeing my bemused look, he pointed vaguely at the top left of his forehead, “Round about here somewhere. But – and this is a huge – instead of curing the epilepsy, it caused what is now called The Doppelganger effect…”

 

“What does that mean? Did it make them feel they had a double? What…”

 

“Shush! In this case the effect gave the person the feeling of being outside their body. In some cases it made people think that there was someone exactly like them sitting or standing directly next to them. At the time, they believed they’d found the part of the brain responsible for a condition they called schizophrenia…”

 

“Eh? The condition they called schizophrenia. What is it called now?”

 

“Nothing – it doesn’t exist – well, not as it did then…anyway, shall I go on?”

 

“Sure, sure…”

 

“What they had actually found – but what they hadn’t yet realised – was that the mind could exist outside the body…”

 

“Whoa there…the mind existing outside the body...You started off by telling me about someone jiggling a bit of the brain and now you’re saying…you’re saying…What are you saying?”

 

“If you’d shut up, I’ll tell you. Ok, so we’ve got the mind outside the body…”

 

“Is it bit like broadband?”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“It’s how computers link up wirelessly on the internet…it’s er…actually, I’ve got no idea, I’ll shut up now,”

 

“Ah, computers – there’s a blast from the past – I imagine it’s a bit like that…but not really…”

 

“Are you patronizing me?”

 

“Yes. It’s more like what you might imagine your soul to be. Now – the next jump – time travel…”

 

“Time travel, you really are taking the piss now, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

 

“Bear with me – really from the twentieth century onwards, scientists have been fascinated with travelling at the speed of light – or faster…”

 

“That’s impossible though, isn’t it?”

 

“Well, you know, you’re right. It’s impossible for great big lumpy things like space-ships and the like – but not for sub-atomic particles – like photons and radio waves – stuff that lacks substance…”

 

“Like souls?”

 

“Brilliant! You’re a genius. At the speed of light – or even faster – something really strange happens…”

 

“What like? Don’t lose me now,”

 

“Time folds in on itself,”

 

“Ok, I understand the words, I just haven’t got the faintest idea what they mean when you put them in that particular order…”

 

“Well, the interesting thing is that by travelling faster than light we mastered the forth dimension. Essentially, when you travel at that speed, any time is now,”

 

“You’ve done it again,”

 

“You don’t need to know too much of this – but basically what it means is that the soul – this doppelganger – this essence of you – can be zipped back to any time to experience the trials and tribulations of the populace during that era,”

 

“Surely if you’re just floating about like some nebulous collection of subatomic particles you’re not really going to experience the full quality of that…”

 

“Well no – obviously you’re gonna need some kind of medium,”

 

“Like what? Water? What?”

 

“Any living thing, really,”

 

“Any living thing? What about a virus?”

 

“As far as I know, a virus isn’t really living thing, it doesn’t do its thing until it finds some kind of host…Anyway – almost any living thing…”

 

This was all too big for my small mind to comprehend, “You talked about Pilots being a travel agency…” I knew I was going to regret asking.

 

“That’s exactly it – you go to Pilots so that you can live some other life – wherever, whenever you choose…”

 

“What about the er… Souls that are already there? Isn’t there some kind of punch up?”

 

“Ah, well, that’s another story…I’ll fill you in about that later – basically though, if they insert you early enough into the living creature then there’s no soul there to er, have a punch up with…”

 

“So, say with humans, when’s that point?”

 

“Pretty early on – you’re still looking like a bunch of cells…”

 

“No, no, no…this is bollocks. If I was some kind of subatomic creature, soul, whatever you want to call it from a future time, then surely I’d remember where I’d come from…and then…and then…well, there’d be chaos…wouldn’t there?”

 

“But that’s the beauty of the thing. Learning to Pilot a human takes a huge amount of mental power. In most cases, all your mental power,”

 

“So what you’re saying is that it takes so much mental energy just to be that thing, you can’t remember what you really are?”

 

“Pretty much…”

 

“What about insects? Surely they can’t take up too much cognitive processing?”

 

“Absolutely right – but they lack the equipment to think too deeply – now that’s an experience – it’s all about feelings with them…”

 

This all felt completely academic. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that this was all bollocks. I knew at some point I’d wake up dead – or something. Oh shit, I dunno.

I've gone and done it! After twenty years on a PC, I am defecting to the Other Side. For a week, I've been part of the Apple lot, too.

I can already see that my technical defection is going to be one of those journeys (bleurgh!) that resemble my real defection to Germany.

There is the euphoria, the high when you make the decision and do it, followed by a period of intense frustration where nothing, but nothing goes right. Then you come to your senses and there follows a long period of learning and mastery before you finally come out at The Other Side, which becomes the new norm.

I am up to my eyebrows in frustration as I type this - on my trusty old PC, naturally, and expect I'll be playing the Double Agent for some time yet.

I have read some of the blogs and all in all qiute entertaining, especially from the guy who is on an enforced diet: ezbloke? obviously being somewhat heavier than I should be 6' and 17 stone or perhaps I should be taller? I have identified with him and his issues.
But, my overiding thing about them is...we blog about our lives and hope other people whose lives are just as important to them as ours are to us, are expected to read them and find them interesting, is it an egotistical thing or a reassurance thing, where we want others to find us interesting?
Rather like twitter I cannot for the life of me get the deal there, apparently Philip Schofield did a twitter malarkey about dropping some olives on  his carpet, did he rush off to his PC, i-phone, palm top and twitter while brine and olineyness soaked into his carpet, why did he feel compelled to tell the world about his olive garnished carpet?
Is there within us all this desire to be recognised and found interesting? I write becaues I like writing it sorts out my head and my characters to me, are actually real living people. (Yes I know!) My Poetry I write makes me smile or sad and it would be nice if others found it so as well but not essential.
Can we surmise writers crave attention or are we driven by our media saturated lives to feel we have failed if we are not Jedward or Brangelina?

Last night I watched an excellent documentary on BBC4, about the German bombing of Coventry, sixty-nine years ago.   It featured survivors from that night, ordinary people (or extraordinary, in many ways) describing their experiences, interspersed with old film footage showing the resulting desolation, and convincing dramatic reconstructions.  All in all, the programme was extremely well done, free of hype, and epitomised what good television should be able to achieve.

It goes without saying that parts were very moving and there were times when I felt myself close to tears.  But I was also aware of another side of myself.  If  I'd had a notebook  to hand, I would have been scribbling away (and probably driving my husband mad), because the eye witness accounts and descriptions were pure gold dust for a writer.

One woman described how, as a girl of eight, she and her family cowered in their living room as the bombing went on.  One landed close by and blew in their front  window, shattering it in the process.  Some Irish workers staying in the house next door got them out and went with them to the public shelter.  She can still remember the feeling of broken glass under her shoes as she ran, and noticing  that all the sky was red.

Another woman's family lived on the outskirts.  In the earlier part of the evening, the local warden popped his head round the door to see if they were all right.  When the warden called round again, she was shocked at how he seemed to have aged and his face become grey because of the terrible things he'd seen in the space of a few hours.  At one stage she broke down, saying that talking about it brought back the fear, that for a moment she felt she  was back there again.  She recovered, though.  'We were among the lucky ones,' she said.  'We all survived.'   On a brighter note, she remembered how a couple of days later, her father went into town, coming back a lot later than expected, and causing her mother to worry.  When he did get home, he told them he'd seen the king, who was visiting Coventry to boost morale.  'It gave him such a lift.  He said he could have touched him, he was that close.'

Then there was a woman who recalled doing her homework by candlelight in the public shelter as her mother tried to get her two younger brothers to settle to sleep.  The atmosphere wasn't too bad at first, but as the night wore on, people started bickering 'over such trivial things'.  A lot of people smoked, so that the air became thick, mixed with the stench from the bucket latrines, especially - as she put it - bearing in mind how bodies react when frightened.

That was something that struck me - the moderate, understated language.  I can't help thinking that someone from a younger generation would describe similar events in a very different way.

There were so many other stories, far too many to put here.  If you do get a chance to see it, I'd urge you to do so.  But the point  I want to cover here is that it was the little details the survivors dsecribed, that really brought it to life.  And they were all just the sort of telling detail we should be including in our writing, especially if it's something outside our own experience. 

When Midlands novelist Rosie Goodwin wrote 'Moonlight and Ashes', about the experience of a Midlands family during the Second World War, including the night Coventry was bombed, she talked to local people who'd lived through the event to get the sort of detail she needed.  I've read the book and confirm it did the trick.

It's easy to get bogged down concentrating on plot construction, dialogue, characterisation and so on, but it's also vitally important to keep our eyes and ears open amd if possible get people to talk.  Such snippets of information can lift a good piece of writing to a great piece of writing.   

Right.  Where's my notebook?

Pilots The next bit - let's call this chapter 6

The image of mum holding my head as I lay in the garden was at the forefront of my mind as I fell into the dark. I imagined me zipping into space like some accelerated Google Earth. It was as I’d expected. I could feel and see nothing. There were no smells, no tastes – just nothing.

 

There was something, though, that I hadn’t quite expected. Consciousness. I had expected that with death there would be that nothing kind of a feeling. The same one that was there before I was born. Since I couldn’t remember the time before I was born, I felt a little lost. What if it had always been like this? Falling through space with nothing but thought – my inner dialogue – going on and on.

 

Fuck, maybe this was Hell. Surely after a while, even my inner dialogue would run out of things to say? So, that was it – I was destined to fall through infinity for eternity. A very long way for a very long time.

 

Is this what it’s like for everyone? Maybe there’s some kind of congestion? Maybe a lot of folk have just died. Maybe somewhere there’s a message sounding out, “We’re sorry, we’re experiencing a large number of deaths just now, please continue plummeting through space and time, your death is very important to us…”

 

Was that a light? It was – there was a tiny prick of light so small as to be almost imperceptible. So what was I supposed to do? Do I go towards the light or away from the light? What had they said in all the horror movies I’d seen? I’m sure that current thinking leant in the favour of approaching the light. Wasn’t there a film though that warned of the danger of going towards the light? It was some evil trick by the devil to pull in lost souls.

 

I thought of mum again. Cradling me. She’d still be crying. What the Hell had happened there? Why did I have to die of some unknown bloody something coursing around my veins? God I loved her. If there was something in life that I was certain of, it was that I loved my mum. What would she do without me?

 

She’d live. That’s what she’d do. Shit – I’d convinced myself for years that I had been there for her – helping her pay for the house – for bills – stopping her from feeling lonely. Lonely? Mum? She was the friendliest person alive. It was me who was lonely. In the end all I had was her – and Jen, if you can count her – she never picked up the fucking phone.

 

Am I allowed to swear here? Do I go away from the light or towards the light? Looks like I’ve got no choice – it’s getting bigger whether I like it or not. Maybe I could swim away? Shit, this was weird – I had no sense of me – well, no sense of my body – all I had was the voice in my head – which, I guess, had to be me.

 

The light was getting bigger and bigger. I kind of felt scared – but there was no horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach – there was no pit in my stomach – there was no heart to pound – there were no lungs to breathe rapidly.

 

Faster and faster the light came towards me. Or was I going towards the light? The light became bigger and bigger – it filled all I could see.

 

I could see! Suddenly I was there. Suddenly I could hear and smell and feel…

 

It was all white. I was aware of me. I was lying down. I was dressed in white. I tried to lift my arms, my legs, my head, but there seemed to be something holding me down.

 

There was a terrible hissing from all around me – and then the lid came off. I was lying in what looked like a casket. The lid swung back on its hinges to reveal what looked like the roof of a warehouse. There was a guy standing over me. He looked like he was in his mid forties, unkempt black hair and beard, a bit overweight and he was talking to me, “Sorry we had to bring you back, man,”

 

I was just getting the hang of focusing when he said, “You’re not going to do anything crazy if I take these off?”

 

I looked at the restraints on my arms, I could feel them on my legs and ankles and across my chest.

 

“I…er…,” say something! “It depends on what you mean by crazy,”

 

He laughed a little contrived laugh, “Hey guys, over here,” he called to some unseen colleagues, “I might need a hand with this one.”

 

Three other faces appeared above me. Three average men, of average build, of average age all dressed in white jumpsuits.

 

“What’s going on?” that was definitely my voice but it seemed to be coming from somewhere else.

 

“Yeah, yeah, nice one Barney, let’s get you up and out – you’ve pissed off a lot of folk,” beardy man leant over and undid my straps.

 

I have? I’ve just arrived in…heaven and I’ve already caused the disgruntlement of those around me. Without even trying. Fucking marvellous.

 

“No, really,” he helped me to my feet, “I don’t know what’s happening.”

 

He turned to the other three, “Waddya think guys?”

They shrugged simultaneously.

 

It was weird, even though I felt shaky on my feet, I felt decidedly stronger than I had moments ago in the garden with my mum. I looked down, the curve of my stomach suggested that I was better nourished than I’d been moments ago. I looked at my hands.

 

Those weren’t my hands.

 

I looked around. I was in a huge warehouse filled with hundreds, no, thousands of white caskets. There were twenty or thirty of these guys standing around. Doing what? Monitoring? Monitoring what?

 

My heart was thumping. Was it my heart? Whose heart was it then? I felt light headed – this was all a bit too much to take in.

 

“He’s tried this before,” beardy man explained to the others, “Take him to see the doc before he does a runner.”

 

Right on cue I fled. I had no idea where I was going or even why I was running. Before me, a sea of caskets came and went. There was no sign of a way out anywhere. It felt great to be able to run though. It felt great to be able to do anything.

 

Suddenly there was a thump in my back. My whole body sizzled in what felt like a seizure. I fell to the ground, face down, paralysed.

 

“Nice shot, Tom,” voices behind me.

 

“Cheers Steve,” casual.

 

I felt myself being pulled to my feet. I couldn’t stand – my new legs had stopped working.

 

“We’re gonna need a trolley,”

 

I was lifted onto what felt like a hospital bed, the bearded guy pushing from behind, “C’mon Barney, let’s get you to the doc,” he sounded kind, perhaps resigned, “I haven’t seen you like this before…”

 

I closed my eyes and awaited my fate. I felt so tired. My last thought before I lost consciousness was, “Who the fuck is Barney?”

 

 

****

 

I woke up in a comfortable bed with soft pillows and a duvet that smelled like flowers. It had been a dream. That weird warehouse place, with the men in white jumpsuits, was just a construct of my ailing brain.

 

I was facing a wall that I didn’t recognise. It was painted a serene magnolia. I must be in a hospice. They do serene and ‘close to God’ kind of colours. I turned around to see the rest of the ward. I was amazed at how easily I managed it. Before, the very thought of turning caused breathlessness, but now, now I could do it with consummate ease.

 

I was surprised to see a distinct lack of ward when I turned round. It looked more like a very clean bedsit. Everything was either white or magnolia. Directly opposite my bed, past the living area, was a well-appointed kitchen with all the bits and pieces you could ever want. The living area had a wonderful retro-sofa in simulation white leather and a cream, short-piled carpet.

 

This was obviously a new regime they had at the hospice. What a great idea. Promote independence at the same time as providing the care that I’d need. I looked around – there were no red emergency pull cords. No –obviously they’d look too institutionalised – there must be pressure pads on the floor to alert staff when I’m up and about. Fantastic.

 

I pulled the duvet back, again with ease, to reveal blue and white stripy pyjamas. I sat up and swung my legs round so my feet were just resting on the ground.

 

Jesus my back hurt!

 

It’s amazing how, sometimes, things in real life get incorporated into your dreams. I must have banged my back or something while I was asleep.

 

I felt strong. Should I try standing up? There was no wheelchair or walking aids. Maybe they didn’t expect me to try to stand up. Well then, they would have put bars around the bed to stop me.

 

I put more and more pressure on my feet as, very tentatively, I stood up. I moved my weight around as I became accustomed to this new-found skill. I looked over at the kitchen – I decided that I was going to make myself a coffee.

 

I strode over to the coffee machine with ease. I’d put on a lot of weight. I felt normal, I felt slightly overweight. I felt great. Apart from the sore back, I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this good.

 

I opened a well-stocked cupboard and found the coffee. I opened the well-stocked fridge and found a choice of milks for my beverage drinking pleasure. God, they really had thought of everything.

 

I steamed up the milk in a generous mug and poured in my shot of coffee. Satisfied with my work this far, I retired to the ever so comfy sofa.

 

There was no TV.

 

Well, there’s an omission. Who’d have thought? I’ve got all this wonderful comfort and no TV. Not even a radio. Maybe it’s hidden somewhere? I looked around. There was a door next to the kitchen. There must be somebody out there who I can speak to – to let them know I’m up and about. I mean, if I fell and hurt myself someone might get into trouble…

 

I tried the door handle – it was locked. Maybe I’m just doing it wrong. I pushed it and pulled it. I tried wiggling it. No, it was definitely locked. How were they supposed to know if I was up and about?

 

Of course, the alarms on the floor. Someone would be along in a minute. I sat down again and drank my coffee.

 

I finished my coffee. I made another one. I drank that and I waited. Maybe my movement hadn’t activated the alarm? Maybe they only had the pressure pads next to the bed? I stood next to the bed. I walked up and down the side of the bed. Maybe there’s a faulty connection? Maybe I haven’t stood in the right place in the bedsit?

 

Methodically I walked up and down to ensure my feet had pressed down on every part of the floor. Nothing. Still nobody came.

 

I banged on the door and bellowed, “Hello, is anybody there?”

 

Still nothing.

 

Maybe the connection was loose somewhere in a pressure mat under the carpet? It just needed stamping down a bit? I started to jump around. I was amazed that I could. Before I knew it I was leaping around the room – jumping on the bed, on the sofa, everywhere – these pressure pads had to be somewhere.

 

“What are you doing?” A woman in her late thirties, blondish, kind of pretty in a pointy-faced kind of a way, wearing a white coat had come in without me noticing her.

 

“I…er…I was looking for the pressure mats…” I started lamely.

 

“There aren’t any,” she said humourlessly, her voice seemed to lack any dialect, “We were watching you through the video link.”

 

“Ah, that explains it…” it didn’t really, “I feel great,”

 

I did, I was a little flushed from my maniacal bouncing but I felt fantastic.  

 

“Do you know where you are?” again bland, without emotion.

 

“I’m in the hospice?”

 

No response.

 

“I’m in the hospital? I’m in a special observation room where you monitor my progress?”

 

No response.

I was suddenly aware that I no longer had my leg-bag on.

 

“Where’s the loo? I couldn’t find it earlier.”

 

“It’s just over here,” she walked over to the door that I’d been wrestling with and opened it with ease.

 

“I’ll just pop in for a…”

 

It felt like I hadn’t pissed for a fortnight. As I stood I wrestled with all the possibilities.

 

As I washed my hands I decided that I’d developed some kind of mental problem brought on by the stuff zipping round my veins and I’d been sectioned.

 

“Am I mad?” I asked as I walked out of the toilet.

 

“What makes you ask that?”

 

A question answered with a question – that really pissed me off.

 

“Well, to be honest, I’ve no idea where I am. Is there any chance I can see my mum?”

 

“No.”

 

No explanation.

 

“Why not? Oh shit… I didn’t hurt her did I? What did I do?”

 

“Sit down, let’s see what you can remember,” she guided me to the sofa.

 

She sat at one end with me at the other.

 

“I, er… where should I start?”

 

“Wherever you want to,”

 

I told her everything from when I was in the garden with mum – I even told her about my weird dream in the warehouse.

 

“Ok, thanks for your time,” she got up to leave.

 

“Is that it? What’s going on? Who are you?”

 

“I’m Dr Pope,” and with that she opened a door that I hadn’t seen in the wall of the living area.

 

****

 

“Barney, how are you doing?” a man who I’d never seen before was hugging me like a long lost friend.

 

I didn’t want to appear rude, but instinctively I pulled away from him, “I er…”

 

Seeing the obvious lack of recognition in my eyes he said, “Barney? It’s me, Ralph. Don’t you remember me?”

 

The twang of Yorkshire in his accent did sound familiar, but, “Who’s Barney? I’m John,”

 

“No…no you’re not…shit, this is worse than I thought. Look at me – it’s Ralph. C’mon Barney – look at this face – you couldn’t forget that could ya?”

 

Instinctively my hand came to my face. He did look like someone.

 

“You live with me!” he sounded desperate.

 

“No,” I whispered, “No, I don’t,”

 

“Listen mate, where do you think you are?”

 

“Dr Pope said, well, er actually Dr Pope didn’t say anything.”

 

“C’mon, try…”

 

“I’m in a hospice or a hospital being treated for an unknown disease? Are you one of the Ball-Boys?”

 

“What? Am I what?” he sounded almost angry now.

 

A disembodied voice spoke over the sound system that I didn’t know I had, “Ralph, come out now please,” it sounded like Dr Pope.

 

He pulled me to him again, hugging me hard, “Listen man, come on try to remember – I’ll be back soon…”

 

I patted him on the back. It felt like the right thing to do.