Is it a dream
I know I got on the plane to England. I remember having my passport looked at and taking my shoes off to go through the security check. I remember! There were the announcements over the tannoy and looking around the shops for presents for Anne and Kevin and Jez. And then walking down that tunnel thing on to the plane and sitting in my seat next to a very fat bloke and thinking I’d never get out to go to the bathroom.
Next thing I know, I’m in a cave with “K3” painted in red paint above my head. I was soaking wet and finding it difficult to breathe. It felt as if my life force was being drained from me by the vampire tide pounding against the entrance to the cave.
I waited until the waves were a long way distant and then I set off up the beach, shivering in the half light. The smell of the air and the feel of the wind against my skin told me I was in Picar. Home again, I thought, and then realised that it’s not my home. My home is in a place where they fly red and white flags for football matches and where Jez is probably sailing down the canal in his narrowboat.
I walked and I walked for what felt like hours. Up off the beach and onto a path that led uphill. In the distance I saw a group of people and, when I was closer, I realised it was a film crew. One of them turned the camera towards me and filmed me walking towards him. “Help,” I said, “Help, I’m lost and I don’t know what to do.” The cameraman slid a gorilla mask back down over his face back and moved the camera back towards a shoeless man. His eyes turned towards me, although he didn’t move his head. He reminded me of Horace somehow. “Can you help me?” I asked. He moved his head slightly from side to side in an infinitesimal negative shake. “Keep still,” shouted the gorilla director. These people were no use to me, they were too caught up in their own fantasy.
I carried on walking. I saw a lake in the distance with what looked like a tiny figure nearby but I knew, instinctively, that this was a person who could not help me, a person who needed help himself. So I walked some more and eventually found a telephone box. I called Jemima. Reverse charges for all I had in my pockets was the card that strange man gave to me in Reykjavik.
“I knew you’d be back,” she said, with more than a gloat in her voice. She came and picked me up, fed me and settled me back in Lucy’s room again. And that’s where I am, wearing a t shirt that Jez left behind, one that smells of him. I wish he was here. It’s weird, I know he’s in England because he told me so but he feels to be nearer somehow. I almost believe that I could stretch out my hand and touch him.
So is it real or is it a dream? And how did Morgan know to send the details of my next case to Picar when I’d insisted I was going back to Manchester? There they are, lying in an envelope on my/Lucy’s bed waiting for me to read. Maybe the whole trip to New York was a dream and now I’m back in reality.
I can’t think about it anymore. I need to get some sleep.
Next thing I know, I’m in a cave with “K3” painted in red paint above my head. I was soaking wet and finding it difficult to breathe. It felt as if my life force was being drained from me by the vampire tide pounding against the entrance to the cave.
I waited until the waves were a long way distant and then I set off up the beach, shivering in the half light. The smell of the air and the feel of the wind against my skin told me I was in Picar. Home again, I thought, and then realised that it’s not my home. My home is in a place where they fly red and white flags for football matches and where Jez is probably sailing down the canal in his narrowboat.
I walked and I walked for what felt like hours. Up off the beach and onto a path that led uphill. In the distance I saw a group of people and, when I was closer, I realised it was a film crew. One of them turned the camera towards me and filmed me walking towards him. “Help,” I said, “Help, I’m lost and I don’t know what to do.” The cameraman slid a gorilla mask back down over his face back and moved the camera back towards a shoeless man. His eyes turned towards me, although he didn’t move his head. He reminded me of Horace somehow. “Can you help me?” I asked. He moved his head slightly from side to side in an infinitesimal negative shake. “Keep still,” shouted the gorilla director. These people were no use to me, they were too caught up in their own fantasy.
I carried on walking. I saw a lake in the distance with what looked like a tiny figure nearby but I knew, instinctively, that this was a person who could not help me, a person who needed help himself. So I walked some more and eventually found a telephone box. I called Jemima. Reverse charges for all I had in my pockets was the card that strange man gave to me in Reykjavik.
“I knew you’d be back,” she said, with more than a gloat in her voice. She came and picked me up, fed me and settled me back in Lucy’s room again. And that’s where I am, wearing a t shirt that Jez left behind, one that smells of him. I wish he was here. It’s weird, I know he’s in England because he told me so but he feels to be nearer somehow. I almost believe that I could stretch out my hand and touch him.
So is it real or is it a dream? And how did Morgan know to send the details of my next case to Picar when I’d insisted I was going back to Manchester? There they are, lying in an envelope on my/Lucy’s bed waiting for me to read. Maybe the whole trip to New York was a dream and now I’m back in reality.
I can’t think about it anymore. I need to get some sleep.
posted by Smooth Blue at 4:21 PM
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