come back home and maybe get dressed up and go out for the night. Normally I would have looked at them with scorn, but today, heading off to who knew where, I felt nothing but envy.
We drove through the morning traffic until we reached a road that looked like any other. Lines of shops, pedestrian crossings, three red buses belching dark smoke. Darren brought the car to a halt. Mr Twelvetrees leaned across me and opened the door.
“And this is where we part company. Good luck, Ms Sinfield. Take care of her, Francis.”
“I will, Mr Twelvetrees.”
And that was it. We stepped out of the car into the misty wet day. Darren brought our packs out from the boot, nodded to us, and got back in the car. We watched as it pulled away into the traffic. I looked at Francis, dressed just the same as me. Breathable walking trousers, dark blue jumper. Both of us had on dark anoraks, unfastened despite the rain. I looked at Francis’s backpack and saw that it was much larger than mine. Much, much larger. I wondered what was inside it, but didn’t ask. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“Ready?” he asked.
“One moment.”
The postbox was a Schindler flash of red in the grey. I dashed off down the road, posted the letters to Ben and Mr Hiatt. My only insurance.
I walked slowly back to where Francis waited and we hoisted on our backpacks – Francis with some difficulty – and we set off walking down the road. The endless drizzle formed a pattern of silver beads on my jumper. Pedestrians pushed past us, no doubt assuming from our backpacks that we were just another pair of sightseers, come to London to visit the ruins of the Dream World, come for the visceral thrill of seeing where our world had once been touched by another. I despised them, those tourists who blocked the pavements, using the heat and electricity that could have been directed to the broken parts of London whilst they searched for the vicarious thrill of the Incursion. I’d heard that some dickheads even came hoping to find a path out of our world. Which, when you thought about it, was what we were doing now.
“They shouldn’t be sending you,” blurted Francis. I saw by the look in his face it had been playing on his mind since he’d woken me up this morning.
“And why not? Because I’m just a girl?” I couldn’t keep the contempt from my voice. I wasn’t a girl. I was old enough to bleed, after all. His words. I became sarcastic. “Surely I have you to look after me? A big strong man to keep me safe? Doesn’t that make things okay?”
We walked a few paces, Francis watching his feet.
“I don’t doubt you can look after yourself, Anna. I don’t think you should come because you have PTSD.”
I don’t know what I’d been expecting. An apology maybe, a blustering justification more like. Certainly not this.
“Let’s be clear,” I said. “You think I’ve got Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?”
“Yes. You marched into the parks, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“That would be enough to put a strain on anyone.”
So I was the problem…?
“Especially if they were just a poor weak female. Tell me, Francis, were you in Dream London?”
“At the end. I came in on the troop trains on the last day. I was there for the final push.”
“So you missed it all.”
“Not all of it. But I can imagine the strain you were under. I lost a friend in Afghanistan. I know what it’s like. You should be seeing a doctor, you shouldn’t be going back in.”
I’d have laughed if it wasn’t so pathetic. I overheard him being a sexist pig but I was the one with a problem. I felt like stopping right there in the street, dropping my backpack, jumping on a bus and heading home. And I would have done, if it wasn’t for one thing.
“My mother is in Dream Paris. You understand that, don’t you? Haven’t you got a family?”
Francis stopped, fumbled in his pocket. Pulled out his phone. He brought up a picture of a pretty young woman
We drove through the morning traffic until we reached a road that looked like any other. Lines of shops, pedestrian crossings, three red buses belching dark smoke. Darren brought the car to a halt. Mr Twelvetrees leaned across me and opened the door.
“And this is where we part company. Good luck, Ms Sinfield. Take care of her, Francis.”
“I will, Mr Twelvetrees.”
And that was it. We stepped out of the car into the misty wet day. Darren brought our packs out from the boot, nodded to us, and got back in the car. We watched as it pulled away into the traffic. I looked at Francis, dressed just the same as me. Breathable walking trousers, dark blue jumper. Both of us had on dark anoraks, unfastened despite the rain. I looked at Francis’s backpack and saw that it was much larger than mine. Much, much larger. I wondered what was inside it, but didn’t ask. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“Ready?” he asked.
“One moment.”
The postbox was a Schindler flash of red in the grey. I dashed off down the road, posted the letters to Ben and Mr Hiatt. My only insurance.
I walked slowly back to where Francis waited and we hoisted on our backpacks – Francis with some difficulty – and we set off walking down the road. The endless drizzle formed a pattern of silver beads on my jumper. Pedestrians pushed past us, no doubt assuming from our backpacks that we were just another pair of sightseers, come to London to visit the ruins of the Dream World, come for the visceral thrill of seeing where our world had once been touched by another. I despised them, those tourists who blocked the pavements, using the heat and electricity that could have been directed to the broken parts of London whilst they searched for the vicarious thrill of the Incursion. I’d heard that some dickheads even came hoping to find a path out of our world. Which, when you thought about it, was what we were doing now.
“They shouldn’t be sending you,” blurted Francis. I saw by the look in his face it had been playing on his mind since he’d woken me up this morning.
“And why not? Because I’m just a girl?” I couldn’t keep the contempt from my voice. I wasn’t a girl. I was old enough to bleed, after all. His words. I became sarcastic. “Surely I have you to look after me? A big strong man to keep me safe? Doesn’t that make things okay?”
We walked a few paces, Francis watching his feet.
“I don’t doubt you can look after yourself, Anna. I don’t think you should come because you have PTSD.”
I don’t know what I’d been expecting. An apology maybe, a blustering justification more like. Certainly not this.
“Let’s be clear,” I said. “You think I’ve got Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?”
“Yes. You marched into the parks, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“That would be enough to put a strain on anyone.”
So I was the problem…?
“Especially if they were just a poor weak female. Tell me, Francis, were you in Dream London?”
“At the end. I came in on the troop trains on the last day. I was there for the final push.”
“So you missed it all.”
“Not all of it. But I can imagine the strain you were under. I lost a friend in Afghanistan. I know what it’s like. You should be seeing a doctor, you shouldn’t be going back in.”
I’d have laughed if it wasn’t so pathetic. I overheard him being a sexist pig but I was the one with a problem. I felt like stopping right there in the street, dropping my backpack, jumping on a bus and heading home. And I would have done, if it wasn’t for one thing.
“My mother is in Dream Paris. You understand that, don’t you? Haven’t you got a family?”
Francis stopped, fumbled in his pocket. Pulled out his phone. He brought up a picture of a pretty young woman
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