Safe

SAFE
By Lee Robson


Where am I? The question is thought, not
spoken.



You are safe. The response is not heard, it just arrives in my head.
It is placed there. Thought into my head.



I am scared.



There is no need to be afraid. You are safe.



Where am I?



You do not need to know that yet. You do not need to be
afraid.



How did I get here?



You will know in time. You will not need to be told. It will be
remembered. You will know then where you are. It will make sense. You
do not need to be afraid.


*

'?you're listening to Radio Mendip, it's
7 o'clock and time for the latest news from Phil
MaGlass?'



I turned over and groped for the off switch on the radio alarm. I
would normally have pressed the snooze button five more times, but I
had to get up on time that morning. Did the DJ say Phil MaGlass? I
switched the radio back on briefly to hear about an air crash and the
what is laughably pluralised 'sports'. That is, football, as if no
other sport occurs in the UK. The newsreader signed off: 'This is Phil
Maclaiss on Radio Mendip news.' Phil Maclaiss. Fill Ma Glass. I should
have gone to bed before 4am.



I had a quick shower, not long enough to steam up the mirror, threw on
some clothes and trainers, grabbed my camera gear, jacket and keys, and
left the house. I returned ten seconds later, grabbed my wallet and
left again. This ritual is an Inevitable Thing. If it's not my wallet
that I leave behind, it's something else. Two miles and three minutes
later I was driving along the sun-dappled, tree-lined Old Top Road, an
ancient way that was once the only route from town to town in the area.
Rush were coming at me out of the car stereo and I suppose I felt awake
at last.



My thoughts turned towards the photo shoot. A group of conceited
managers had secured a British Standards registration for their
photo-processing firm. No doubt by being impossibly anal and
implementing shed-loads of forms for the staff to fill in, thus
preventing them from getting on with their real work.
Marvellous.



One of these managers I knew of old. He'd been my manager once, when I
was young and foolish enough to believe that you should stay in your
place and not tell those in so-called authority that you think they're
being completely ridiculous and should go and learn some management
skills. There are ways of doing this, of course, which result in you
remaining employed but youth generally prevents you from knowing these
arcane methods. Eventually, I enjoyed a revelatory moment of clarity,
realised I could get another job easily and left, telling him what I
thought of him in the process. He'd been a complete wanker then and,
according to those who'd met him recently, still was.



I swapped from printing photos to taking them. I wouldn't trust one of
his 'British Standards' labs with a disposable camera I'd found in a
pub bin.



Today should be interesting.



The magazine I was working for didn't normally cover Trade stories,
but there was something about possible lucrative advertising deals and
so they were pandering to the processors a little. This left an
unsavoury taste in my mouth and it was tempting to be not too polite
and scupper the deal as innocently as I could manage. Being freelance,
I didn't really give a fuck. It would be more than worth it, vengeful
and unforgiving bastard that I am.



I passed the Poacher's Pocket (where I hoped return at lunch time to
savour their fine ales), rounded a bend and very nearly embedded the
car in the backside of a humungous Shire horse being trotted sedately
down the road. The tyres squealed a little and I grinned a sheepish
apology to the stern young lady walking the horse. I drove gently
around the beast, and the horse, giving them a wide berth in case Miss
Austere had whispered to it to kick my car as I drove by. Looking at
the size of its hooves, it could have written the car off with one,
casual kick.



A wondrously long and clear piece of the Old Top Road, known locally
as The Straight, was approaching and I maintained a more serene speed
until I got to it.



If it wasn't for the fact that I was trying to beat my previous best
time for driving The Straight, and was consequently noting the exact
time I hit it, I would never have known what happened until I was late
for my appointment.



I should say notice what happened, because I still don't know what
happened.



At least not during the time that was lost.



All I know for sure is that at around 105mph it took me one hour and
twenty-seven minutes to travel 2? miles.



I don't normally take very much notice of time, not the minutes
anyway. The hours I recognise and notice because I try and arrange
meetings, shoots and hot dinner-dates on the hour, but I regularly lose
minutes and take little notice of the fact. This is usually down to
drinking too much whisky. I couldn't blame the whisky that
morning.



When the car rounded the bend onto The Straight, its clock read
7:34.



When I checked again as I juddered to a halt at the T-junction (the
chequered flag), the clock read 9:01.



At a parking place a little further on I pulled in and stopped. I
checked the orange light on the dash. It glowed a defiant 9:02. The CD
was still playing but it repeats automatically and the track was the
next one on from what I'd been listening to as I left the house. I
flicked over to the radio and heard the newsreader (not Phil) sign off
with: 'and that's the news at just after three minutes past nine.' Must
be a slow news day, I thought.



I was suddenly aware that my heart was pounding violently and I leaned
forward and rested my head on my arms over the steering wheel,
breathing deeply.



My phone rang shrilly and my pounding heart nearly bloody stopped
altogether. I took another couple of deep breaths and
answered.



'I might have known you wouldn't bloody well make it in time!' Bill
O'Brien, my editor. 'I've had that short-arsed little tosspot Dave
Bolter on the phone asking where you are. Where have you been? I've
been trying to get you for about half an hour.'



'I'm sorry, Bill. I can't explain it right now. Something very weird
has happened.'



'You haven't woken up in a luminous safety jacket with a crate of milk
bottles again, have you?' (Long story).



'No. I'm not sure I'll get to the bottom of this one, Bill. But, um,
look, is Pete available? You could send him. I don't feel too good.' At
which point, I flung open the car door, stuck my head out and threw up.
When I finished retching, I went back to Bill on the hands-free.
'Sorry, Bill, I've just been sick.'



'Yeah. I heard. I was about to say before your vile interruption that
you're too late; Pete's on his way. Serves you right. I know you were
looking forward to patronising Bolter. Now get off home. I'll ring you
later. Oh, and by the way, you'd best get your phone looked at. When I
tried to ring you earlier all I got was some sort of screeching noise
and highly amplified static. No dial tone, no message, just that bloody
loud noise. Speak to you later. Try not to throw up over the
windscreen.'



'Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Bill. Catch you later.' He hung
up.



Everything went white.


*

Where am I? The question is thought, not
spoken.



You are safe. The response is not heard, but is placed in my
head.



I am scared.



There is no need to be afraid. You are safe.



Where am I?



You will know soon. You do not need to be afraid.



How did I get here?



You do not need to be told. It will be remembered. You will know then
where you are. It will make sense. You do not need to be
afraid.



Wait. I remember the radio alarm. I remember (how stupid) forgetting
my wallet. That's all.



You do not need to be afraid. More will come.


*

'?you're listening to Radio Mendip, it's
7 o'clock and time for the latest news from Phil
MaGlass?'



i turn over and grope for the off switch on the radio alarm and i'm
wide awake and thinking this has already happened today what? what a
strange thought it happens often alarm goes off as news is announced i
press snooze six times i get up it happened yesterday what did i do
yesterday? i was in the studio shooting the new Canon for a review
today i am going to the processors to photograph shortarse Bolter and
no i've done that when? today already but i didn't
itallgoeswhite


*

I know where I am. I am aboard a craft.
In space. I feel sick. I feel lighter than normal, but not totally
weightless.



'Good. It is coming back.' The statement is heard this time. Proper
words. Spoken words. 'You were told it would. You do not need to be
afraid. You will be returned. But you must help us
first.'



'Don't hurt me!'



'You will not be hurt. You will not be aware. We will access your
subconscious.'



'Don't change my thoughts! Don't brainwash me!'



'Your thoughts will not be changed. Some might be disguised. Some
might be taken. Do not be afraid. You will not know. You do not need
them.'



'Will you let me go then?'



'Yes. Soon.'


*

'?you're listening to Radio Mendip, it's
7 o'clock and time for the latest news from Phil
MaGlass?'



I had a quick shower?I grabbed my wallet and left again?Shire horse's
arse?The Straight?105mph?it took me one hour and twenty-seven minutes
to travel 2? miles?'and that's the news at just after three minutes
past nine'?my phone rang?threw up?'try not to throw up over the
windscreen'?everything went white.


*

'Good. Go back to the beginning of The
Straight. Slow down. We know the parts before and after. There are
eighty-seven minutes missing. Remember what happened. It will help.
When you are more orientated, we can begin. Please tell us what you
remember about getting here.'



Where is here, I wonder.



'I can't quite?wait. Yes. I know now. I rounded the bend at the top of
The Straight, looked at the clock on the dashboard and was suddenly
blinded by? No, that's how it happens in movies and on the X-Files. I
am not blinded; I am blind; blind in absolute darkness, which slowly
recedes into a dim ochre glow. A marble-like black wall surrounds me.
Th ceiling is made of the same substance. I don't know where the
illumination is coming from. Then an aperture appears in the wall as
something slides back. A brighter glow appears there.



'A, um, person, no?a being enters. I know it. It is the same as
me.'



'Thank you, Mr Marshall. That will be all for this
session.'



My god. Yes it was. The same as me. How can that be?



Itallgoeswhitewhitewhite


*

You are safe. We have you now. We will;
not lose you this time. The inter-surface modulation is fully
operable.



Oh good, I thought. I've woken up properly now. I'm in hospital. In a
private room. That's nice. I can't see a door. The room is sealed.
That's not so nice. Maybe it isn't a hospital, then. An asylum perhaps?
What the bloody hell is an inter-surface modulation?



A piece of wall slides back. Something enters. I can't see it, but it
smiles. Definitely an asylum, then.



Its smile is warm and good. The thing is the same as
me.



Welcome home. We are glad you are well again. Your memories have
returned fully.



Yes. Yes they have.



I remember when I was chosen. I remember assimilating the character of
Mike Marshall. The first Mike Marshall (the real one, I suppose, if you
think like that) was inconspicuous. That's why his persona had been the
host. He'd be put back now. His memory erased. He'd be very
disoriented.



I remember that their government had found out about me. I'd made some
silly errors; non-human activities; all legal, of course, just bizarre
in the extreme; drew attention to myself. They took me, gave me false
memories and tried to access my real ones. The whiteness was here.
Home. They kept trying bring me back but experienced problems with the
transportation.



The ship got me back, though.


I am safe.