myself across the
level distanceless ground, running on the spot. Their voices were in the air all around me, resounding in my ears, and as I drew near to the first gigantic cracked wall, and saw the sun shimmering
on glass and metal surfaces, I knew there was no one alive in the city. I spun round in terror, looking for them – by their cries, they were trapped and in pain. When I turned the cries grew
louder, and I realized that all this time I had been running away from them. I started to run back, through the hot still air; in the distance the grass and tin roofs of the huts shimmered in the
heat, and the cries reverberated in the air so that I could feel them pounding my ears in waves. As I neared the village silence fell again. The cries had stopped. I ran into the deserted dusty
place at the centre of the huts. All around me they stood silent, empty, doorways facing me. Some were half-collapsed, their corrugated tin roofs slipping drunkenly to one side. I ran into the
largest hut. At the far end there was a low stool, and on top of it, balancing like an egg, a head. As I approached it I saw the eyes following me. It was Gareth. His eyes were moving. Though he
had no body, he was alive. I must have cried out – I remember falling to my knees before him and staring into his face. There was no blood, no cut – his head was perfectly rounded at
the base. I stared at him and then I put out my hand to touch the side of his face. His head rolled backwards and I jumped up quickly to save it from rolling off the stool. As I caught it, its eyes
still watching me curiously, it came apart in my hands. In two perfect halves, like a chocolate easter egg. It was hollow inside. Perfectly clean and hollow, like an eggshell.
I was running across the grass landscape again, sweating and sobbing, with the renewed clamour of the children’s voices rising up around me. There was nothing – flat grassland, not a
bush or a hillock for a body to hide behind. And each way I turned, on all sides, the cries – ‘Mummy! Mum! Help me, Mum’ – and shrieks of fear and panic from the twins. My
heart was hammering in my chest, my head was bursting. I crouched to examine the ground more carefully, then I started to look for them in the grass.
It was logical, for me to bend and hunt for them amongst blades of grass no more than two inches high. Indeed, as I searched, and the hot sun beat down on my neck, I was reminded of the time,
years ago, that Ruth and I spent an afternoon cricket-hunting. She noticed their whirring noise when I took her and Vi (still a sleeping baby in her pram) along a sun-hot lane in France on summer
holiday, and I parted the grass at the roadside to search. As luck would have it, I uncovered one immediately, and we both stared in fascination as the little green insect rubbed his wings together
in a blur of speed. Then he suddenly leapt out of sight. We parted more grass, and more – no luck. We walked on along the lane to a spot where their noise was particularly loud, and searched
the grass again. But though we searched on and off for the rest of the afternoon, we didn’t see another one – only heard their noise in the air all around us.
And so it was in my dream, only my useless searching in the hot sun was warped by a terrible anxiety, and my children’s voices cried and pleaded and came and went in the air around my
ears, above my head, in front of me and then behind me, imploring me to save them, to help them. Gradually as I searched I felt the dream slipping away, I was filled with anxiety, I couldn’t
remember what I was looking for or why. I couldn’t remember what I had to do.
I managed to claw my way into wakefulness, and when I did, the beginning of the dream came back to me.
I shall leave the light on, as I try to go back to sleep.
Fri. 14, evening
It took me a long time to fall asleep again, and I woke with a jolt at quarter past nine. I felt anxious and confused, as if I had
level distanceless ground, running on the spot. Their voices were in the air all around me, resounding in my ears, and as I drew near to the first gigantic cracked wall, and saw the sun shimmering
on glass and metal surfaces, I knew there was no one alive in the city. I spun round in terror, looking for them – by their cries, they were trapped and in pain. When I turned the cries grew
louder, and I realized that all this time I had been running away from them. I started to run back, through the hot still air; in the distance the grass and tin roofs of the huts shimmered in the
heat, and the cries reverberated in the air so that I could feel them pounding my ears in waves. As I neared the village silence fell again. The cries had stopped. I ran into the deserted dusty
place at the centre of the huts. All around me they stood silent, empty, doorways facing me. Some were half-collapsed, their corrugated tin roofs slipping drunkenly to one side. I ran into the
largest hut. At the far end there was a low stool, and on top of it, balancing like an egg, a head. As I approached it I saw the eyes following me. It was Gareth. His eyes were moving. Though he
had no body, he was alive. I must have cried out – I remember falling to my knees before him and staring into his face. There was no blood, no cut – his head was perfectly rounded at
the base. I stared at him and then I put out my hand to touch the side of his face. His head rolled backwards and I jumped up quickly to save it from rolling off the stool. As I caught it, its eyes
still watching me curiously, it came apart in my hands. In two perfect halves, like a chocolate easter egg. It was hollow inside. Perfectly clean and hollow, like an eggshell.
I was running across the grass landscape again, sweating and sobbing, with the renewed clamour of the children’s voices rising up around me. There was nothing – flat grassland, not a
bush or a hillock for a body to hide behind. And each way I turned, on all sides, the cries – ‘Mummy! Mum! Help me, Mum’ – and shrieks of fear and panic from the twins. My
heart was hammering in my chest, my head was bursting. I crouched to examine the ground more carefully, then I started to look for them in the grass.
It was logical, for me to bend and hunt for them amongst blades of grass no more than two inches high. Indeed, as I searched, and the hot sun beat down on my neck, I was reminded of the time,
years ago, that Ruth and I spent an afternoon cricket-hunting. She noticed their whirring noise when I took her and Vi (still a sleeping baby in her pram) along a sun-hot lane in France on summer
holiday, and I parted the grass at the roadside to search. As luck would have it, I uncovered one immediately, and we both stared in fascination as the little green insect rubbed his wings together
in a blur of speed. Then he suddenly leapt out of sight. We parted more grass, and more – no luck. We walked on along the lane to a spot where their noise was particularly loud, and searched
the grass again. But though we searched on and off for the rest of the afternoon, we didn’t see another one – only heard their noise in the air all around us.
And so it was in my dream, only my useless searching in the hot sun was warped by a terrible anxiety, and my children’s voices cried and pleaded and came and went in the air around my
ears, above my head, in front of me and then behind me, imploring me to save them, to help them. Gradually as I searched I felt the dream slipping away, I was filled with anxiety, I couldn’t
remember what I was looking for or why. I couldn’t remember what I had to do.
I managed to claw my way into wakefulness, and when I did, the beginning of the dream came back to me.
I shall leave the light on, as I try to go back to sleep.
Fri. 14, evening
It took me a long time to fall asleep again, and I woke with a jolt at quarter past nine. I felt anxious and confused, as if I had
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