John's Page

Exposition

The front door was open so he let himself in and made his way up to Gregory’s flat. He knocked on the door and found that it was open.

Inside, lying on Gregory’s bed, was a giant beetle.

Chapter 5

Oxford – city of perspiring dreams

Mark’s Blog
September 22st

2.30 Just got back from Oxford by the skin of my teeth. My mind has been well and truly blown – as has just about everybody’s in Oxford’s as far as I can tell. The place has become a nightmare and yours truly may have to help to sort it out.

If you are reading this anywhere in England you are probably quite isolated. You should stay that way – take it from me – if you want to get through the present crisis.

I will try to update and upload this blog and keep you informed of my progress – if I make any.
______________________________________________

At first Mark was unable to take in what had happened. The room was meaner and less well furnished than he remembered. Gregory was quite old fashioned and he usually had real paper books on a handsome built-in bookshelf; but now the shelves sagged as if made of chipboard and  most of the books had been replaced by small sample packets. The illustrations on the packets were vaguely medical and, at a glance, the writing on them was in either Gothic German or Cyrillic.  In the corner of the room a brand new quantum computer terminal glowed in its characteristic soft green manner and made the transformation of the room all the more shocking. The beetle, lying on its back in Gregory’s bed, turned towards Mark and waved all six of its legs at him. 

Mark’s first impulse was to grab a wooden chair to drive the creature off but something about its gaze and the markings on its face made him hesitate. The compound eyes were exactly the same shade of blue as Gregory’s and the yellow markings around the jaw and lower mandibles almost exactly reproduced his always scruffy beard. The beetle – he had no idea what kind it was – made no move to attack him; indeed the eyes looked pathetic rather than dangerous. An impossible idea struck Mark.

- Gregory? Is that you?

The beetle nodded its head and stridulated urgently
- What’s happened? Can you talk?
The beetle cheeped and chirruped again and pointed with its two front legs at a tablet computer lying on the bedside table.
- You want this? said Mark as he held the tablet so that the beetle could touch it. 
The beetle selected a notepad icon and began laboriously typing with one of its front feet.
thank you. its me. gregory.
- But how? said Mark after the message had appeared on the screen
i dont know how. i think it might be the qweb.
- Why would the Q-Web turn you into a beetle?
i think i did that. its my worst nightmare. ever since i read kafkas short story metamorphosis i have dreaded exactly this. 
- I think I remember the cartoon version from school – but that was a story. Unless this is some sort of animatronic practical joke, you’ve actually changed. Can I touch you?
be my guest.

Mark reached out his hand and touched the outer shell, the carapace, of the giant beetle. It was smooth and hard and there was a faint smell of decay – although this might have been coming from Gregory’s laundry basket. The shell was at room temperature and Gregory did not flinch or move in any way in response to Mark’s prodding.
- Whoa, said Mark, this is just the weirdest weirdness I have ever been weirded out by.
you can say that again, typed Gregory, but id prefer it if you didnt
- So you’re really real? And the Q-Web caused it?
i believe it did – the qweb is amplifying our abilities to change things just by thinking about them.
- Our ability to change reality? Come on... Reality is what it is... You can’t change it by thinking.
at a quantum level weve known that observation changes reality for since the middle of the 20th century.
- Oh like in the double slit experiment
yes  i think the qweb is amplifying that effect into the macro-universe. consciousness and reality are meshing together.
- But if that were true couldn’t you think yourself human again?
possibly, but my thoughts are fleeting. I can’t concentrate for long enough. The interaction seems to work best at a dream level.
- So dreams are becoming reality?
that would be nice wouldn’t it. but im afraid the effect is only evident with the most powerful dreams
- You mean nightmares?
precisely.
Mark looked at Gregory’s computer console.
- What if I turned your machine off? Would that help?
no. i dont think so. its an emergent property of the network. you would have to turn off the entire network at source to do any good.  
                        ________________________________

Cloudland

As Diana reached the top of the stairs she met the building superintendant. He was dressed in a green smock and brown trousers as if his fashion choices had been dictated by a tree. On his chest was a stylised geodesic dome.
 
- Good evening Ms...  There was a short pause as his facial recognition software tried and failed to track down Diana.  I’m very sorry I can’t seem...
 
- Don’t worry, she said, I’m new here. I expect I’m not in your files.
 
- New? said the superintendant – New, how? Nobody comes into Cloudland.
 
- Odd that, don’t you think? When was the last time anyone went outside?
There was another short pause as the man accessed a database and read the information it projected onto his retina.
 
- The last expedition was 27 years ago. Captains Welsh and Barley. They never returned. The green blight...
 
- The forest outside you mean?
 
- The Forest Outside intoned the man. Legends of the deep past tell of the terrible Global War brought about by Ming – the seas boiled and the heavens were rent asunder. Crops failed and billions died. Only the Tinsmith had the vision to protect his people. He built a wall of Corn around the still fertile lands and he covered them with domes of plastic. All who live in Cloudland today owe their lives to the Tinsmith and his companions, from Edenpro in the West to Lunnon in the East life goes on as it did in his time. Our eyes are implanted with his googles and out eardrums are caressed by his buds.
 
- Did you just read all that? asked Diana.
 
- It is the standard reply to inquisitive children – of course I did.
 
- Flattering... Look I’m a bit lost – that’s why I came up here to get a view but this mist isn’t helping – do you think it will clear soon?
 
- The mist last cleared during the great ventilation malfunction of 05. The mist is another blessing of the Tinsmith – he installed it so that we would not be tormented by the desolation outside.
 
- Come on – Reading isn’t that bad ...
 
- Why don’t you use your SATNA?
 
- SATNA?
 
- The spirit that guides all our steps in this world – Oh I see – the Reading wilderness really exists -  and you have come from there?
 
- Well we were trying to avoid it but Rex the dog chased a swan and we ended up under this dome.
 
The superintendent looked Diana briefly in the eyes and then looked away over her left shoulder.
 
- George I was wondering when you’d call – Are we still on for Wednesday? Oh nothing much – virtual reality software’s a bit glitchy today – just ran into an avatar who claims not to be on the database – I know – not very likely is it? Otherwise – quite good – beautifully rendered – good enough to touch – What – Yes? No it’s still here – gone into some sort of holding pattern – you should pop up to level 20 if you get the chance... conversation routines bit limited ... did you get that kitten video I sent you...
 
The superintendant began to stroll off down the corridor.
 
- Are you saying I’m not real? Oi! You!   
 
Diana grabbed the man by the shoulder and he fainted.


Thin partitions
 
Scene 1: A doctor’s office.
 
Dr Mason : Do sit down – the chair is just to your right there...
 
Mr Dixon: Thanks. (moves slowly towards chair)
 
Dr Mason : So, have you filled in all the consent forms?
 
Mr Dixon: Yes. I think so... I wanted to ask...
 
Dr Mason : Good... Good... Now you do  realise that this is an experimental trial. You may not actually receive the drug at all...
 
Mr Dixon: Yes, I understand how double blind trials work, thank you. I’m just not sure about the possible...
 
Dr Mason : But the basic idea is to enhance your sensory performance...
 
Mr Dixon: It sounds very interesting and I...
 
Dr Mason : Currently your eyesight is less than optimum, with this new drug, SensMax we expect you to achieve 20/20 vision. How does that sound?
 
Mr Dixon: It sounds amazing but I’m still not...
 
Dr Mason : Are those the forms? (Takes forms) Excellent! See you next week. I’ll show you out.

Scene 2: A hospital room
 
Dr Mason : Good morning! How are we today?
 
Dixon is wearing dark glasses, a hat and gloves and seems to have his nose blocked.
 
Mr Dixon: Not too bad I suppose. My eyesight has never been better.
 
Dr Mason : Excellent! Excellent!
 
Mr Dixon: Look... could you keep your voice down.
 
Dr Mason : Sure.
 
Mr Dixon: Although, now that I can see every pore, every wrinkle and every flake of make-up I’m not sure that perfect eyesight is such a blessing.
Dr Mason : No doubt you’ll get used to it. But how’s your general health? Noticed any side effects?
 
Mr Dixon: Side effects? Well, yes. It’s a sensory enhancement drug... I tried to ask before the trial.
 
Dr Mason : Yes, all the volunteers had some form of sensory problem...
 
Mr Dixon: But all my senses have been enhanced. I can smell better than a dog, silk feels like sandpaper,  every meal is a trek though a taste jungle and the buttercups outside my room are keeping me awake.

What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide.
Alexander Pope – Essay on Man

Dream Time

Prologue

The sun was setting and the light had gone from most of the street. The roofs of the houses on the left hand side glowed red and gold and the full moon looked as though it had bathed in blood. A mist was coming up from the river. There was no traffic anywhere; the last horse-drawn carriages had disappeared leaving only gently steaming piles of ordure at various points along the road. All of the houses had their curtains firmly closed. 

A man dressed in a long frock coat and wearing a top hat emerged out of the mist. Carrying a long taper and a ladder, he moved from streetlamp to streetlamp in a slow climb up the hill. He lit most of the gas lamps with the taper but occasionally he used the ladder to climb up to the glass housing to replace the fragile glowing gas mantles.

As it grew darker there was a disturbance in the basement area of one of the houses. At first Mark thought it was a fox but when the animal began to move along the street he began to think in terms of an Alsatian or some other large dog. Whatever it was, the animal was quite obviously following the lamplighter. Perhaps it was his pet or maybe he gave it scraps when he passed this way. The man seemed not to have noticed the dog but nevertheless he quickened his pace; lighting the lamps as a defence against the encroaching darkness. Just as he reached a small alley the animal leapt out, knocked him to the ground, and very efficiently, tore out his throat.

Mark shouted and, perhaps foolishly, ran towards the scene. The animal he had thought to be a dog looked more like a wolf and it was making short work of its twitching victim. Fortunately for Mark the wolf seemed satisfied with its single kill and made off as he drew near. The lamplighter was obviously dead but Mark still took out his mobile and tried to ring an ambulance…

Chapter 1

Last Day

Mark’s Blog
September 20th

Tomorrow is the big day and, as those of you who have been following my struggles with English Telecom will probably have guessed, I will not be taking part in the great switch-on of the Q-Web. On the plus side I did make it into the local paper.  You can read all about it here.
 

Link
Oxford Chronicle – Local news - 20th September

Is this the most isolated house in England?

Thornhill Cottage is one of the few places in England that will not be affected by tomorrow’s Q-Web turn-on. The former lock-keeper’s cottage is on an island in the Thames and has never been connected to any fibre optic network whilst a nearby hill blocks almost all satellite reception. When the Q-Web is turned on cottage-owner Mark Porter will be unable to take part in the great leap forward that is promised by widely distributed quantum computing.

Mr Porter has been campaigning for some time for improvements to his internet service but English Telecom insist that a connection to a single house surrounded by complex waterways is not economically viable. Mr Porter said, ‘ET want me to pay for their own infrastructure – what kind of service is that?’

A spokesperson for ET said, ‘The Q-Web network covers almost all of England and will be of great benefit to the entire nation. Unfortunately in such a huge undertaking there are always a few anomalies to be sorted out and Mr Porter’s case is one of them.’

Mr Porter will be working from home as usual tomorrow using the old web. 

Of course the paper got everything wrong apart from the date. I explained to the journalist that it wasn’t the hill’s shadow as such that was blocking the signals but the way it refracts the electromagnetic signal and causes a sort of electromagnetic micro-climate in this vicinity. If anyone is interested I posted a full set of readings in my 17th July post.

Oh, I suppose the other thing they got right is the fact that I will be working tomorrow. The deadline for HAXCOM is looming and I’m way behind on my coding. Suppose I’d better get back to it!

Mark should have been working but he was still inwardly fuming about the whole ET business. He had been complaining for months and had been receiving bogus reassurances for months; he could actually see a house with Q-Web connections from his bedroom window but, like Moses and the Promised Land it seemed he was destined never to enter the new dispensation. He thought about hacking into the old ET network again but there seemed little point as it was about to be abandoned.

Next on his list of not working strategies was walking the dog. Rex joined him happily as he headed out for a slow ramble along the towpath.
- It’ll clear my head, won’t it Rex?
Rex looked doubtful about this but then headed off along the towpath with more than enough enthusiasm for both of them.

It was a fine September afternoon so there were plenty of other dog-walkers (with dogs), birdwatchers (with binoculars) and ramblers (with rucksacks) to meet and greet along the way. Mark usually walked later in the evening when it was quieter but the twin pleasures of sunshine and work avoidance were just too hard to resist. Mark’s cottage was next to Thornhill locks but the duty of lock keeping that used to go with it had been automated away decades ago. Mark occasionally enjoyed watching boating newbies coming to grief running through the simple sequence for operating the locks but on the other hand he was always ready to step in if there were serious difficulties. 

Most of the time, of course, he was too absorbed in his computer to notice anything that was going on outside. He usually worked with a virtual reality helmet and gloves and to an outsider most of his work sessions looked like tai-chi floor exercises. For serious coding he used a virtual keyboard that made him look like a pianist and when he was immersed in war games he looked like a hyper-active toddler in a soft play gym.

Mark was a freelance electronic security consultant and spent most of his time attempting to find ways around commercial and, sometimes, government firewalls. He would have loved to have been involved in some of the new Q-Web system shakedowns but now he faced the prospect of his fellow coders moving ahead on him in the brand new field of quantum security.  At present, only England had invested in a Q-Web and so there was still plenty of work from abroad but eventually the quantum web would replace the old one and his skills would no longer be marketable. To avoid this he had made arrangements with his friend Gregory to use his city based terminal, but the idea of travelling to work was completely alien to Mark and to most of his contemporaries.

Chapter 2

Last night

Mark’s Blog
September 21st

1.00 am. Where is everyone? I’m logged into the game server and there seems to be no local activity at all. Don’t tell me you have all deserted to the Q-Web. So soon? The Russian group are planning a campaign into the Southlands – does anyone besides me want to join them? Let me know when you have finished playing with your new toy. And so to bed... as another famous blogger once wrote.

Mark awoke to the sound of gunfire. This wasn’t too unusual as he lived in the countryside where people still had hunting licences; but it seemed rather early in the morning. He got up to look out of the window and saw a Canadian canoe drifting towards the lock. There appeared to be someone in it but they were neither paddling nor steering the craft.

He quickly threw on some clothes and ran out to the upper lock gate. There was a boat hook there and once the canoe was close enough it was a simple matter to pull it to the side. On closer viewing the canoe seemed rather odd. Rather than a standard carbon-fibre and plastic construction it seemed to me made out of animal hide and wood. The even odder thing was that several arrows protruded from the sides and the lone female passenger seemed to have been knocked out by a Native American tomahawk that was now lying by her side. She was dressed as Pocahontas and below her braided hair he could see a dark bruise where the tomahawk had hit her.

- Someone’s taking their fancy dress party very seriously, said Mark as he eased the front of the canoe out of the water and went to help its passenger.
- Hi! Miss! Are you OK?
The woman seemed to groan in response, so Mark judged it safe to lift her out of the boat and onto the paved area of the lock.
- Are you OK?
- I... I think so... something hit me... they were shooting... who are you?
- My name’s Mark. Do you think you can make it inside?

The woman rose unsteadily to her feet and Mark guided her by the arm to the cottage. Once inside he covered her with a blanket, fired up the heating and made them both a cup of tea.
- That’s better. I can’t believe what just happened. Thank you so much for helping me.
- No problem, said Mark. How’s your head. Were you at a party?
- What? A party? No I was attacked. By... cowboys and Indians.
- Cowboy’s and Indians?
- Yeah ... the cowboys were on the north bank and the Indians were on the south. I was in the middle.  They were shooting at my barge. The windows smashed... I thought I was going to be killed.
-  That’s mad... what did you do?
- Got in my barge’s tender and started rowing away. When they spotted me both lots started attacking.
- So how did you end up dressed like Pocahontas?
- I don’t know... Something hit me and the next thing I knew you were helping me out of my boat.
- Your canoe you mean?
- No, the tender is a standard rowing boat.

Mark simply didn’t know what to make of all this. The woman, who had introduced herself as Diana, clearly thought she was telling the truth but several parts of her story did not add up. Nevertheless there was a convincingly beaten up boat outside and on closer inspection it even had bullet holes as well as arrow piercings.

- If even half or what you saying is true, we need to call the police.
- I did. I used your phone when you were making the tea. There’s no network coverage.
- No. I know. That hill over there creates an electromagnetic micro-climate. I have a landline for emergencies.

Mark rummaged for the phone amongst the litter on his desk and then dialled 999.
- That’s funny – it’s dead. I bet its ET getting at me for the newspaper article. I suppose I could send then an urgent e-mail?
- Look, I don’t want to be funny about this, but those people were really shooting at me and presumably they are heading this way.
- No... I’m sure there’s some perfectly sensible explanation – people don’t go round shooting other people in this day and age.
- Yes, well until I get an explanation I would rather not meet up with them. Thanks for all your help – if I could just borrow your phone and head further down the river I’m bound to get reception sooner or later.
- Trouble is there’s no path for the next mile and a half – bankside erosion took it away last winter. You can only go upstream from here.
Diana  looked down at her Native American costume for a moment.
- I don’t suppose you have any slightly more practical clothes I could borrow as well?
- Erm ... I have actually. My sister is about your size. She usually leaves some stuff behind when she stays. If you go upstairs, the spare room is on the right.

Mark tried the phone again and even looked up cowboy and Indian attacks on his computer, but both activities proved fruitless. He was just re-tying his boots when Diana called him upstairs. She had put on some jeans, a shirt and some trainers and was at the landing window that faced upstream; this gave a view of Mark’s nearest neighbours.
- Look Mark! What did I tell you?

The house was clearly under siege. Occasional puffs of smoke came from broken windows followed by the sound of gunshots. A number of people in Native American costume were sneaking towards the house and arrows were being loosed.
- That’s insane. We have got to tell the police, said Mark
- But we can’t go that way and you say we can’t go downstream either.
- We could go downstream in a boat, I suppose...
- Do you have one?
- No but I have the keys to some of the ones moored nearby. People leave spare sets with me.
- Fine, the sooner get going the better.

Max quickly found a set of keys and, with Rex bringing up the rear, he and Diana made their way to a well appointed narrow boat. Diana stood at the tiller as Mark undid the mooring ropes and pushed the bows into the river current. They had agreed that silently drifting down stream for a while would attract less attention. Diana started the boat’s engine once they were safely round a bend in the river and they were soon making good progress towards the next set of locks. Mark stayed at the front of the boat equipped with a pair of binoculars to check for trouble.

When they were within sight of the locks Mark saw that they were being defended by Nazis.

Chapter 3

Dream on

Mark’s Blog
September 21st

11.00 am. This is insane. Has the whole world gone mad? Has hardcore fancy-dress partying become all the rage? I woke up this morning to the sound of a cowboy and Indian shootout and then had to rescue a squaw in distress. She had been shot at with real bullets and real arrows and had been hit on the head with a tomahawk. We decided to get out of Dodge on a boat and now we are hiding from a group of Nazis.

I am not making this up. I can’t get any kind of signal where I am. What is going on? Where is everyone and why have people started behaving so weirdly. I’m writing this on my handheld and so it should update when we run into a signal. Get in touch.
 
Mark found himself running. His hind legs came forward between his front ones and powered him onwards in an effortless lope across the steppe. Rex was in the lead and Diana was away to the right. He loved Rex. He was the leader of the pack and a superb hunter who would make sure that they got their bellies filled. He also loved Diana. She was Rex’s bitch but she didn’t use her exalted social position to put him down. At this moment she was circling downwind of their quarry and would soon be in position for the final run.

Recent snow and a sliver of moon meant the world was almost entirely in black and white; the snow had also suppressed many of the usual smells so Mark found it easy to run without distraction through the crisp, clean landscape.  A low cough from Diana signalled the beginning of her run and Mark could see Rex picking up speed too. His job was to stay wide and cut off any sudden attempts at escape.

Meanwhile, he ran. He ran past the tree with the really annoying squirrels; he ran past the bank where he’d been surprised by a bear once and he ran past the place where they’d killed their last deer – he could still feel the blood in his nose – and better than all of this was the fact that he was running with his two best friends in all the world.

Another low cough told him that Rex had run down the hare they had been chasing and that it was time to eat. By the time Mark reached the kill Diana and Rex had finished most of it, but Rex had generously set aside some offal and part of a leg. Mark took his portion to one side and happily settled down to a little bone crunching and blood licking. He particularly enjoyed the taste and smell of the hare’s liver as it slipped down his throat; he liked the faint tang of urine it left on his tongue.

All three dogs were resting quietly when Mark noticed the collar around Rex’s neck. It was just the thing for a leader of the pack and it even had a small medallion attached to it.
- Probably some award for bravery, thought Mark. If I weren’t a dog I could read what it said.
This idea led on to several rather more disturbing ones.
- Rex, this great and all
- Yes it is great, said Rex
- I think it’s great too! said Diana
- Yes, it’s great. It’s our best hunt since our last one. But haven’t you noticed something odd?
- No, what? said Rex as he got up and began scanning the horizon.
- Well, it’s just that we’re talking to each other.
- What’s wrong with that?
- Dogs can’t talk
- Yes we can – we’re talking now, Diana pointed out.
- Have we ever talked before?
- I have, said Diana. You and I talk all the time.
- What about you Rex, have we ever talked before?
- Now that you mention it ... Rex bared his teeth at Mark. What are you trying to pull? I just fed you and now you want to be top dog by talking nonsense about talking!

- Erm, that’s another thing, said Mark. I don’t think Diana and I are dogs at all.
- I’m a bitch for a start, said Diana as she stood up and loomed over Mark.
- I didn’t mean that. I meant that you and I are, almost certainly, human.
- So how come you look, sound and smell like a dog?
- I admit that that’s a puzzle.
- I would have thought that looking, sounding and smelling like a dog would be a pretty conclusive argument that we are dogs, persisted Diana
- And if you are a human, said Rex, which one are you?
- I think I’m your owner, Mark.
- That’s nonsense. Mark is much taller, less furry and above all not a dog. Would you like me to bite you on the ear?
- What if I could prove I was Mark?
- Go on then.
- What if knew things about you that only Mark would know?
- Such as?
- I know where Renée the cat is buried.
- You do?
- Yes, you watched me dig a hole next to the willow tree.
- I remember Mark doing that, that’s true. But Renée could have told you that.
- But Renée is dead.
- No I’m not, said Renée the cat.
- What? How?
- His smell changed for a while but he always turns up when there is food around.
- Is that you Renée? Didn’t you used to be ginger?
- All cats are grey in the dark, Mark. Surely you know that. Is that a bit of left over hare?
The cat wandered off to investigate food scraps and Diana followed him to make sure he wasn’t up to something.

- Wait a minute, where are we? Rex, you don’t live here. You live in a cottage by a river. This looks like Siberian tundra.
- I come here every night – this is the dark place. The house by a river is the light place.
- So how do you travel between the two?
- I don’t know. How did you get here?
- Well I... It just happened... I was run... Oh.
- So are you saying that you are human in the light place?
- No I’m actually saying that I’m human all the time.
- Apart from now?
- Yes... Apart from now, obviously.
- You’re not being very convincing, said Rex baring his teeth and beginning to snarl.
Mark thought it was a good idea to cower.
- Wait a minute! This light place... is it much more colourful than here?
- Colourful? What does that mean?
- You know, when the light is stronger. The grass is green and the sky is blue.
- You mean like black, white or grey? Are you making up words to fool me?
- No but it does show that I’m not a dog doesn’t it? I’ve got colour vision and you haven’t.
- Really? Convince me. What colour is the snow?
- White.
- And that tree?
- Um... black.
- What about the grass?
- In this light, it’s grey. But in the daylight ... it would be green.
- I’m supposed to take your word for that am? You know what? growled Rex. You asked for this.

Rex leapt forward and Mark found himself awake on a bunk bed in the barge. Rex, beside him, snuffled softly in his sleep.

Chapter 4

Oxford – city of dreaming spires

Mark’s Blog
September 21st

4.14 pm. Still no signal but the Nazis have gone. It was hard to tell from this distance but there seemed to be resistance fighters involved.

Meanwhile, whilst hiding, had a little nap and had the weirdest dream. Although, compared to the current state of reality maybe it wasn’t that weird. What was way out was the fact that the woman I rescued, Diana, and my dog Rex (further background on him in my 21st Feb post from last year) seem to have had the same dream.

- So you met Renée the Cat? said Mark
- Yes, he was quite charming really – though he didn’t seem to have a very high opinion of you. Apparently you kept him on permanently short rations and favoured the dog outrageously, said Diana.
- Oh the liar! But that’s not the point. How can you know the name of an animal that died nearly six months ago? Did you see his name at the cottage?
- No. Not that I can recall.
- And you really ate the hare?
- Yes it was good.
- Rex... Was that your dream?

Rex clearly knew he was being addressed and since there seemed to be no prospect of a walk at present he put on his best ‘I deserve to be fed’ expression.

- I think this is all connected, said Diana.  The Cowboys, the Nazis, Rex. It’s as if some weird crossover has taken place – we appear to be able to enter Rex’s dreams - and elements of dreams are leaking into the real world.
- That makes some sort of sense – but then again how do I know I’m not dreaming now?
- What? You’re having a dream about having someone else’s dream? It’s a possibility I suppose... but let’s run with one level of reality at a time, shall we? We can go into all that ‘am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man’ nonsense when we stop being chased by people with guns.
- That’s a very good point. I think we should head into Oxford as soon as we can – we can get help with the guns thing and also I have a friend there who knows about all that levels of reality stuff.
- Ok. Sounds like a plan. You do the lock gates and I’ll do the steering.

Using a combination of drifting, punting with a boat hook and short bursts with the engine they made their way through the lock as stealthily as possible. There seemed to be no one around near the river and the next stretch was in relatively open country so there was little danger of being taken by surprise.  As the barge approached Oxford from the direction of Port Meadow they felt safe enough to chat.

- So, you work from your cottage normally. What do you do?
- I’m a security consultant – a white hat hacker – I help people keep their data safe... What about you – were you on holiday or do you live on your barge?
- I live on it. I’m also an IRList, so I don’t think we’ll have a lot in common.
- Oh no, I don’t mind IRLists as long as they don’t use electronic media to bang on about it.
- Well you’re safe with me. I only use phones in emergencies and I don’t own a computer.
- So how do keep in touch with people?
- I visit them – you know – In Real Life like it usually says on my T-shirt.
- What about work?
- I mostly up-cycle clothes – this area is great for trendy people who want to be a little different – I’m doing pretty well at present.
- So was I until all of this Q-Web nonsense – ET won’t put my house online – I may have to move if it really takes off.

Something was not quite right with the Oxford skyline. Parts of it shimmered in a vaguely disturbing manner whilst other areas had descended into premature night. A house was on fire somewhere in nearby Wolvercote but the smoke and flames hadn’t attracted the usual flock of fire engines, ambulances and police vehicles. Something was spooking the horses that usually roamed the meadow as well; they were all gathered together in a protective mass. It was clear to Mark and Diana that whatever was wrong started at the houses so they decided to tie up the boat in the middle of the meadow. Mark would make a quick dash to his friend on Walton Street and Diana would guard the boat.

Mark knew something was wrong as soon as he crossed the railway bridge that lead off the open fields. The late evening sun had lost all its strength and the normally well maintained houses looked somehow shabby and neglected. It suddenly occurred to him that he had never passed his final maths exam, and given that his current work was highly dependent on maths, he was something of a sham. Perhaps he could sign up for a re-sit. But that would be so embarrassing – what if the other white-hats found out? What if the black-hats found out? Perhaps Gregory could help. Gregory was a maths genius – he must know people who’d be discrete. Gregory could even tutor him. No that wouldn’t work, he’s on a completely different level – Mark was surprised he even bothered to talk to him.

- Must get to Greg’s house, thought Mark. Gregory’s? Mr Sampson’s. Don’t want to be too informal – I mean he is helping me. With the maths stuff. Should have done some revision. Always winging it, that’s your trouble. Need to settle down to some solid work. God! I can’t remember how to do differential equations in my head any more. I should go home. This is bull...

Mark was so wrapped up in his own troubles that he didn’t notice his surroundings. The houses had gone from run down to almost derelict. Most of the doors seemed crooked in their frames and every other  window was cracked or repaired with cardboard. A man was running down the street wearing a formal academic gown, a jacket, white shirt and a bow tie but nothing below the waist. He seemed to be lost and desperately searching for a particular house number; perhaps where his trousers were located. A woman in her thirties was sitting on the steps of one of the taller houses and slowly pulling out her teeth one by one. 

Mark was having trouble remembering passing any of his exams by the time he reached Gregory’s house. The front door was open so he let himself in and made his way up to Gregory’s flat. He knocked on the door and heard his friend say 'come in'.

Inside Gregory was lying on his bed having turned into a giant beetle.
 




Dialogue exercise.

Mark is trapped inside Rex's dream. 

First night
Mark found himself running. His hind legs came forward between his front ones and powered him onwards in an effortless lope across the steppe. Rex was in the lead and Diana was away to the right. He loved Rex. He was the leader of the pack and a superb hunter who would make sure that they got their bellies filled. He also loved Diana. She was Rex’s bitch but she didn’t use her exalted social position to put him down. At this moment she was circling downwind of their quarry and would soon be in position for the final run.

Recent snow and a sliver of moon meant the world was almost entirely in black and white; the snow had also suppressed many of the usual smells so Mark found it easy to run without distraction through the crisp, clean landscape.  A low cough from Diana signalled the beginning of her run and Mark could see Rex picking up speed too. His job was to stay wide and cut off any sudden attempts at escape.

Meanwhile, he ran. He ran past the tree with the really annoying squirrels; he ran past the bank where he’d been surprised by a bear once and he ran past the place where they’d killed their last deer – he could still feel the blood in his nose – and better than all of this was the fact that he was running with his two best friends in all the world.

Another low cough told him that Rex had run down the hare they had been chasing and that it was time to eat. By the time Mark reached the kill Diana and Rex had finished most of it, but Rex had generously set aside some offal and part of a leg. Mark took his portion to one side and happily settled down to a little bone crunching and blood licking. He particularly enjoyed the taste and smell of the hare’s liver as it slipped down his throat; he liked the faint tang of urine it left on his tongue.

All three dogs were resting quietly when a thought occurred to Mark.

- Rex, this great and all

- Yes it is great, said Rex

- I think it’s great too! said Diana

- Yes, it’s great. It’s our best hunt since our last one. But haven’t you noticed something odd?

- No, what? said Rex as he got up and began scanning the horizon.

- Well, it’s just that we’re talking to each other.

- What’s wrong with that?

- Dogs can’t talk

- Yes we can – we’re talking now, Diana pointed out.

- Have we ever talked before?

- I have, said Diana. You and I talk all the time.

- What about you Rex, have we ever talked before?

- Now that you mention it ... Rex bared his teeth at Mark. What are you trying to pull? I just fed you and now you want to be top dog by talking nonsense about talking!

- Erm, that’s another thing, said Mark. I don’t think Diana and I are dogs at all.

- I’m a bitch for a start, said Diana as she stood up and loomed over Mark.

- I didn’t mean that. I meant that you and I are, almost certainly, human.

- So how come you look, sound and smell like a dog?

- I admit that that’s a puzzle.

- I would have thought that looking, sounding and smelling like a dog would be a pretty conclusive argument that we are dogs, persisted Diana

- And if you are a human, said Rex, which one are you?

- I think I’m your owner, Mark.

- That’s nonsense. Mark is much taller, less furry and above all not a dog. Would you like me to bite you on the ear?

- What if I could prove I was Mark?

- Go on then.

- What if knew things about you that only Mark would know?

- Such as?

- I know where Renée the cat is buried.

- You do?

- Yes, you watched me dig a hole next to the willow tree.

- I remember Mark doing that, that’s true. But Renée could have told you that.

- But Renée is dead.

- No I’m not, said Renée the cat.

- What? How?

- His smell changed for a while but he always turns up when there is food around.

- Is that you Renée? Didn’t you used to be ginger?

- All cats are grey in the dark, Mark. Surely you know that. Is that a bit of left over hare?

The cat wandered off to investigate food scraps and Diana followed him to make sure he wasn’t up to something.

- Wait a minute, where are we? Rex, you don’t live here. You live in a cottage by a river. This looks like Siberian tundra.

- I come here every night – this is the dark place. The house by a river is the light place.

- So how do you travel between the two?

- I don’t know. How did you get here?

- Well I... It just happened... I was run... Oh.

- So are you saying that you are human in the light place?

- No I’m actually saying that I’m human all the time.

- Apart from now?

- Yes... Apart from now, obviously.

- You’re not being very convincing, said Rex baring his teeth and beginning to snarl.

Mark thought it was a good idea to cower.

- Wait a minute! This light place... is it much more colourful than here?

- Colourful? What does that mean?

- You know, when the light is stronger. The grass is green and the sky is blue.

- You mean like black, white or grey? Are you making up words to fool me?

- No but it does show that I’m not a dog doesn’t it? I’ve got colour vision and you haven’t.

- Really? Convince me. What 'colour' is the snow?

- White.

- And that tree?

- Um... black.

- What about the grass?

- In this light, it’s grey. But in the daylight ... it would be green.

- I’m supposed to take your word for that am I? You know what? growled Rex. You asked for this.

Rex leapt forward and Mark found himself awake on his bunk bed. Rex, beside him, snuffled softly in his sleep.

 

Beds


Bed 1

Until I was eighteen I shared a bedroom with my two brothers. They liked football and sleep; I liked reading in bed. I spent hours under the bedclothes with a torch but I didn’t notice much; I was too busy exploring Plato’s cave or standing on a peak in Darien.

Bed 2 

This is where my brain shuts down every night. A near death experience available to all and remembered by no one. Mattresses, pillows and duvets soften, but cannot extenuate, the dream-framed nothingness. Time stops, for everybody every night and we are somehow not astonished by the mere fact of waking.

 



Bed 3

Beds are places of going and coming; of going to sleep and coming awake. Qualities that make them attractive at night, their warmth and cosiness, make them traps in the morning. My ideal bed would cosset, caress and comfort me at night and eject me without ceremony in the morning.

Bed 4

I didn’t notice sleep coming. In fact I was reading that night and was astonished at everybody in Darien going down. I remembered all the mattresses and duvets I somehow shared and every night I spent exploring me

Death is near and my bedroom cannot comfort or cosset me with nothingness coming. My bed shuts; a mere cave, my bedclothes a ceremony of cosiness. This torch standing without going under for hours

Plato’s ideal qualities are available in bed but we make too much of the pillow’s caress and
attractive places in the night. Waking warmth and a busy morning brain extenuate the night but not the traps of time.

Two brothers eject every peak where their football stops until eighteen beds soften; They liked to make them with 'on at' and 'on are'. No one liked them.

I would experience dream-framed sleep and, by and by, awake to morning.