chapter one

The man had always found waking‑up a slow and difficult process. On this occasion he was actively fighting against it. His dream had not reached a satisfactory conclusion, and he was determined that it should end in victory for him. He wanted to convince the toad that his claim for twenty‑three dependents was nothing more than a typing error; he wanted to find the girl and collect whatever rewards that might entail, and he wanted to tell the two disembodied voices to stop talking about him as if he wasn't there.

But there was no stopping his gradual return to consciousness, already various parts of his body were reporting in. The reports arrived in rapid succession, in the style of a pilot's pre‑flight check‑list. Bladder and Bowels: comfortably empty. Eyes: shut - some light diffusing through eyelids. Nose: nothing to report. Mouth: shut - normal pre‑toothpaste bad‑flavour. Ears: crash, hiss, crash, hiss. Skin: uncovered - sticky sensation associated with the shoulder blades, buttocks and back of legs. Orientation: horizontal. Penis: erect.

The memories regarding his current situation were rather slow in making themselves known, so his mind occupied itself in analysis of the available facts. The sounds were those of the ocean; the crash of waves breaking gently on the shore and the hiss of sand as the retreating water dragged it back down the beach. He was lying on a padded surface which had a plastic feel to it. His mind put two and two together and came up with the wildly inaccurate deduction that he had fallen asleep on an air‑bed somewhere by the sea.

What his mind had failed to take into account was the absence of the usual beach sensations: there was no breeze, there was no sickly‑sweet coconut smell; there were no children screaming in his ear, and, within the last five minutes, no one had flicked, kicked or thrown sand over him.

Now that he was fully awake important questions began to demand attention. Where was he? Who was the attractive woman? Why was he naked? Why was the taxation department employing toads?

He was, to say the least, slightly bewildered. In the normal course of events the dream would have been flushed away by a tidal‑wave of biographical memories. But the wave had not arrived, and so the dream continued to splash happily about in the backwater of his mind, sending out ripples of confusion and making him feel vaguely sea‑sick.

Opening his eyes would certainly solve the problem; given the catalyst of a known location the memories were sure to come flooding back, but there was the woman to consider. If, as he fervently hoped, she was lying beside him then common courtesy required that he remember her name before he gave up the pretence of still being asleep.

It was a time to collect his thoughts, to piece together the events leading up to his present predicament.

Obviously he had been drinking; obviously he had been drinking too much. He knew, from previous experiences, that it was imperative to find and drink a pint of water before the hangover could get its foot in the door. But before that, he had to remember last night.

Normally, after a night of over‑indulgence, the first memories to filter back were those involving embarrassing incidents, pitiful attempts at seduction, or too personal comments made to the wrong people. But this time the only things which returned to haunt him were the woman and the toad.

Thinking back, he became horribly aware that not only couldn't he remember last night, he couldn't remember the details of any specific night. It was as if all the solid facts in his life had been lost, leaving only generalities. All his experiences were there, but the names, places and dates had been removed.

His mind scrabbled desperately for some tangible fact to cling to, but it found none; even his name was missing.

Sheer panic jerked his eyes open and almost immediately it slammed them shut again.

The sight of a familiar scene is often enough to bring back a host of forgotten memories. Unfortunately his experiences did not include a visit to a large orange‑coloured, padded cell.

His subconscious rescued him, moments before his panic had driven him totally catatonic, by suggesting that he hadn't actually woken up at all. Reassured by this, and encouraged by the thought that the woman might still be around, he re‑opened his eyes and uncurled himself from the foetal position he had, unaccountably, adopted.

He was sitting in the middle of a small, and almost featureless room. The walls, ceiling and floor were all covered in a lightly‑padded, plastic material, which stuck to his clammy feet as he walked across it. It was coloured a pastel shade of orange. The room had no doors or windows, it was brightly lit but there was no evident source of the illumination. At one end of the room, set into the wall, was a full length mirror. At the other, was a television screen, also mounted flush into the wall. Beside the spot where he had been lying was a pile of neatly folded clothes, a pair of shoes lay on the top.

Reminded of his nakedness by the mirror, he went back to the clothes: they seemed to be the right size, so he tried them on - they fitted perfectly.

He examined himself in the mirror and was disappointed that the dream had done nothing to improved his looks. He was still fairly tall with short straight brown hair and brown eyes. He was also, still, 'a bit over‑weight' and not particularly handsome. It was nothing that could be pinned down to a specific facial feature; taken separately his eyes, ears, nose and chin were all reasonable examples - but when they were all put together the net result was, at best, ordinary. He looked to be in his early thirties, though his memory could do nothing to either confirm or deny it. The plain dark blue suit he wore made him look like a very dreary bank manager.

He stood, gazing about the room, waiting for his dream to take a more lively turn. He was beginning to think that even the toad was more entertaining than this situation, when the glass screen flickered in to life; large white letters formed on a pastel‑orange background.

FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR SANITY

AND GENERAL WELL‑BEING

YOU MUST READ THIS.

Just as he had read the last word the text was replaced by more letters, smaller this time.

Everything you are about to read is true,

any ambiguities will eventually resolve themselves. Unless you base your actions and decisions on the following facts,

you are unlikely to survive.

No proof or explanation will be provided,

YOU MUST BELIEVE.

Again, as he read the last word the screen displayed more and still smaller narrative.

You are about to enter a New World.

Your memory retains the concepts of your previous environment merely for purposes of comparison. In some ways this new world will be wholly different from your former existence, which is why this briefing is of such vital importance.

Six screen‑fulls of instructions flashed by, un‑read, as he investigated the theory that reading the last word caused the screen to change. He skipped through another seven trying, unsuccessfully, to reverse the process.

This escape method should not be attempted without sticking rigorously to the  previously described steps.

He was a little concerned about missing something of such apparent importance, but still, he mused, it was only a dream.

He was finding it increasingly difficult to avoid prematurely reading the last word, the more he tried to resist the temptation the more inexorably his eyes were drawn to the bottom of the screen.

This machine will be surgically

attached to your left shoulder.

It cannot be removed.

The man was unsettled by the thought that the dream, having started off dull but harmless, was heading towards a full‑blown nightmare. The idea of going through surgery, even in a dream, was not at all appealing.

He wandered around the room again, this time making a thorough search for hidden doors, secret panels, or disguised buttons. But his dream had failed to provide any escape routes or any magic buttons marked; 'Press this to move directly to the attractive woman's cabin.'

He returned to the screen and casually read the last word, ignoring the rest. He was bored. "This is no way for a dream to behave - keeping me locked up in this dismal room," he thought.

In the top left‑hand pocket of

your jacket is a badge.

It is very important that you wear it in clear view at all times.

He pushed his forefinger and thumb into the pocket and rapidly jerked them back out again. The badge sailed through the air and smashed into the television‑screen, shattering into small coloured pieces. The man cursed and sucked his leaking finger.

Having stemmed the bloody trickle, he recovered the fragments of the badge, and was pleased to note that they could be reassembled.

The badge consisted of a flat black plastic rectangle, with, on one side the pin, and on the other a row of ten small holes. The other parts were all of a similar shape, but each had a different colour. They were small squares of plastic - flat on one side with a peg on the other. The pegs snapped easily back into the holes. He spent a few moments re‑arranging the colours into a pretty pattern. Once reconstructed the badge resembled a tawdry military ribbon.

The new screen caught his attention; it was in large letters again.

THERE IS NO GOD.

 THERE IS NO LIFE AFTER DEATH.

Like most people, the man had spent many an adolescent hour pondering this very concept. His conclusion, that God did exist, was based not on faith, or hope, nor even on a divine revelation, but simply on common sense. If he had maintained his initial belief, that when you die you really do die, and, by some happy chance he was proved wrong, he would have had to suffer an eternity of smart‑assed angels saying, "I told you so". It was far wiser, and less disturbing, to believe that death was just the transition from this plane of existence to another - even if it did sound like absolute bullshit. At least, if you were wrong, there wouldn't be anyone around to rub your nose in it.

More words appeared on the screen.

YOUR NAME IS

ANDREW SMITH

Evidently the machine had finished its task, since even continual staring at the last word failed to produce any more details.

He decided, as a protest against this extremely tedious dream, that he would sleep through it. The idea amused him and he was chuckling to himself as he lay back down on the floor.

Before he could think, 'I wonder if it's possible to go to sleep in the middle of a dream, and if so, does that mean I have to wake up twice?' he fell asleep.

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