chapter two

Andrew was lying in bed; the back of his neck was being gently stroked. The rhythmic caress made him feel drowsy, so he lay still and waited for the details of his odd dream to be replaced by more important things, like where he was, who he was in bed with, and whether he had to go to work today.

He was tempted to roll over and reward the nape‑stroker with a kiss; seconds later, he was thankful that he hadn't.

"Darling?" whispered a voice, tenderly.

It wasn't so much the word that made him leap out of bed, rush to the window and throw open the curtains; it was more the way it sounded. The word itself fitted in nicely with the situation; the baritone voice did not.

Andrew regarded the man with shocked bewilderment. The man smiled amicably back.

"Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my bed?" demanded Andrew aggressively.

"My name is Brian and it's not your bed; it's mine."

"All right then," countered Andrew in an if‑you're‑so‑clever tone of voice, "who am I and what am I doing in your bed?"

"I'm afraid I don't know your name. The Department of Immigration brought you here."

"Why would they bring me here?" growled Andrew suspiciously. "Do I live here? Why was I in bed with you?"

"Take it easy; you were sent here to be my wife," said Brian, and then added apologetically; "To be honest I was rather expecting a woman."

"Yes, I suppose you would," replied Andrew absently, he was leaning with his back against the wall, glad of its firm support. His defensive hostility had crumbled. His aggressive tone now reduced to a pathetic mumble. "Um ... if you don't mind I'll just have a little rest before I leave, I'm not feeling at all well. I don't seem to be able to remember anything." He let his back slide slowly down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.

"It's okay, relax. If you've just come through the briefing you're bound to be disorientated," said Brian getting out of bed and putting on a blue towelling bathrobe.

Brian could be described as either a 'Hunk' or a 'Muscle‑Bound Poser', the choice of labels depending largely on the gender and sexual preference of the observer. Brian was tall with broad shoulders which tapered down to a slim waist, his legs were sturdy and obviously used to plenty of exercise. He seemed to be in his mid to late twenties. He had a strong prominent jaw, short fair hair, and a smattering of freckles - which allowed him to qualify for that genus of men known for their boyish good‑looks.

"What name were you given?"

"Briefing? Name? That was a dream, wasn't it?" said Andrew groggily. He drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around his legs. "I wasn't given a name, just some crap about a dangerous new world. Oh no, I remember now, the screen said my name was Andrew, Andrew Smith. But I don't want to be Andrew, I want my real name back," he whined sullenly.

"How do you know Andrew isn't your real name?"

"Okay, okay, I'm Andrew and you're Brian," snapped Andrew, too distraught to care either way. "Can you call a doctor? I think I'm suffering from amnesia - must have hit my head or something."

"Yes, of course, I wasn't thinking - you haven't had your Adviser fitted yet." Brian left the room. Andrew could hear sounds of a telephone being dialled, followed by one side of a conversation.

"Immigration department please ... Hello, good morning. I've got a new arrival on my hands but he hasn't got an Adviser ... No, not violent, just very distressed ... Oh I see ...  All right then ... Thanks a lot, goodbye." The phone was hung up, and Brian came back into the room.

"There, that's all sorted out. You'll feel a lot better when the doctor has seen you. He'll be here soon, and then everything will be explained," said Brian as if he were talking to his senile grandmother.

Andrew remained hunched up on the floor, his brain racing around in circles trying to make sense of everything. Was he dreaming? Was he still dreaming? Had he ever been dreaming? It was all too much.

Brian had just finished dressing when the door bell rang. He left the room, returning shortly after with two burly men. The men, dressed in white coats, walked purposefully towards Andrew. They were three feet away when one of them pulled a gun from behind his back, aimed it straight at Andrew's chest, and pulled the trigger.

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