A) somewhere in Birmingham

He opens his front door, and I am knocked backwards. "What's THAT?"
He knows what "what" I mean without me saying. "It's my vegetable stew.
I think maybe there was too much garlic in it..." I'm not sure it is
the garlic. There is something foetid, deathlike about it, but I have
been nagging him to cook, stop living off pringles, for weeks, and
vegetable stew is healthy at least. "What else is in it?" I ask as we
climb over the bike and avalanche of free newspapers. "Er, cabbage?"
Ah.

Doobie, tail wagging, eyes bright comes to welcome his master, gets a
quick rub on the head on Jim's way to the loo. I forget the smell, in
the familiar, longed for sensation of unfolding I get in Jim's place.
Here I am not a spindly weed growing in Mum's shadow, thanks to Jim: he
makes me feel special, and I would do anything for him. Realising his
master has brought company, Doobie checks me for snacks; I give him a
cuddle, which he accepts as a gentleman. You would never guess, looking
at Doobie, that he had been mistreated by his last owner. I think
Doobie and I have a lot in common. While we wait, I look at the
brilliant green dragon, bursting with life Jim drew on the wall; it has
a strong resemblance to Doobie, which always makes me smile. The rest
of Jim's living room, as indeed the whole of his flat, is piled high
with gifts of unused tables and chairs and, to me, just any old wood
that he couldn't bear to see junked, though he knows which is mahogony,
which teak, strokes his now uncalloused hands lovingly accross the
foreign grain, but his carpentry tools and lathe are covered in dust
behind the sofa. Everything in the flat is falling to pieces. I think
there is a constant dichotomy (is that the right word?) between him
wanting to mend things, make everything right in the world, and at the
same time, being at heart a nomad, a free spirit, and broken things
maybe are less oppressive, being less solid. He wants more simplicity
than chairs and taps : he wants rocks and the sea. I remember listening
to him having a bath, it was as if there were a dolphin trapped in that
little rectangle of still water.

The loo splooshes and my heart lifts. Now we will hug. I love this bit.
It is my favourite time when I come to visit Jim. There is something
about the way he holds me, with nothing held back, it is a feeling like
walking on a sunny beach, so much space and light and warmth enclosed
in his arms, the sound of his heart under my cheek.

Soon we go to bed, as we always do, and surfacing every now and then, I
see the sky darken in the gaps between the rich blue cloth he hitches
across the window before we undress. A winking light catches my eye
from the tumble of indistinguishable furniture stacked around the room,
and I remember him saying he'd brought his computer in here so it would
be less far to lie down when he gets tired playing a game.

I think if we ever split, it will be because I am a Luddite about
computers, although, to be fair, I'd never have met Jim but for the
internet, yet there is something vampirish to me about the way their
grey screens suck one's attention from real life.

We get up when Doobie starts whining to go out. While I'm in the loo I
hear a woman's scream from the computer game, Jim's groan, a fake,
shallow laugh, then Jim's cries of anguish. I come out, and there seems
a different atmosphere in the flat, as if the unease of the game has
seeped out. I go into the living room, sit with Doobie on the sofa,
hugging him for comfort till Jim manages to drag himself away.

It is cold outside, but his hand is warm as always when I slip mine
into its firmness, curl my tingling fingers round his calm. I find it
exciting walking his streets under the drawn curtains and turned off
lights, knowing everyone is asleep and dreaming : maybe we are dreams
too. Bats flicker overhead oblivious to the orange street lights.
Sometimes he whistles, owl like for Doobie to catch up, but otherwise
we go, my pace fitting exactly into his, silent till we reach the
field, when he starts eagerly to tell me about his new computer game
"It's really scary!" I laugh : I don't want to know, but he is so
excited about it and I want to share what is important to him, so long
as I don't have to play the bloody thing. Just going to work is scary
enough for me. Just being with other people. But it's not like that,
being with Jim.

I look up at the sky, an indigo blanket of light, stars pale tiny moth
holes, and the moths fluttering round us, his hand in mine, an anchor,
a life line, Birmingham like a kicked fire's embers sparkling, hissing
below.

Doobie bounds enthusiastically from smell to smell, always checking his
hero's in view, though his dark fur makes his large shape almost
invisible to my human eyes. Jim goes on "I don't really understand it
yet, but it's about this town, parallel to a real town, and the people
in the unreal town are taking over the people in the real town who have
played this game. They steal their lives, and make their bodies
disappear into the unreal town. And you think you are in the real town,
then it twists and you realise you are in the unreal town and everyone
is zombies or unreal and you have to get away." I am trying not to
listen, but sense his disappointment at my lack of interest, so "What
is the end of the game? What are you aiming for?" "I don't know, there
are lots of clues to pick up. It's really good though. It's taking over
my life a bit, sorry" "That's ok!" I squeeze his hand, and he goes on "
And in the unreal town, there is this... thing..." "What thing?" "Big,
a shadow, with a knife, it has special powers I think, and if it sees
you are real it -" There is a draught at my neck, and a something
handlike swoops over my shoulder. I spin round, letting go of Jim's
hand, simultaneously mocking my daftness : it must have been a bat. For
a split second I see a blur of darkness, but when I blink it has merged
into the streaky blue negatives of distant streetlights wavering across
my eyes as I almost fall over Doobie, who is suddenly under my feet
snarling, hackles up. I am shocked, have never seen him like that
before, but when I stroke him cautiously, he turns to nudge me with his
wet nose, gentle and friendly as always. My fear must have spooked him,
dogs are so sensitive, aren't they? "Ok, that's enough!" I tell Jim,
trying to joke, even as I imagine I hear that knowing empty laugh
through Jim's apologises. It comes between us, and though he doesn't
mention it again, I can tell his mind is in the game, not here with
Doobie and me.

We go on in awkward silence, and I long to take his hand again, but
don't. I try to recognise where we are going, it seems a maze of cycle
and footpaths even in day time, and I am feeling pleased with myself
that I guessed rightly which turning is the one to Jim's house, when
another shadow flickers into the hedge by Jim's gate. I steel myself to
look, and again there is, of course, nothing but a tub of sad looking
petunias; I decide to make an appointment to get my eyes tested when I
got home.

You know that sort of chizzelly music they used to have in films to
heighten suspence? I thought that should have been playing as Jim
unlocks the door, but then WHAM the vegetable soup smell hits me and I
forget about being scared as I battle into the pungent warmth.

We have until lunchtime tomorrow together, so there is no need to go to
sleep yet and I am so full of unease, I'm not ready to turn the lights
out, so we cuddle on the sofa, but Doobie is worrying Jim "He's been
like that, the last few days, whining, not leaving me alone, do you
think he's ok?" Doobie does seem anxious about something, but his nose
is wet, and his eyes bright, and he wolfed down his supper. I reckon
he's ok, am about to say it's probably the smell of the vegetable soup,
when I remember how he was in the field. He must be picking up the
scared vibe that game seems to be giving Jim, and now me at second
hand. For Doobie's sake I have to snap out of this. Reluctantly, I
leave the warmth of Jim's arms to go clean my teeth. Within seconds
comes the sound of the computer game, scared panting, running
footsteps, a silence between which somehow seems even more horrible. I
restrain myself from calling out to ask if he's ok, and when I've
finished in the bathroom go sit on the sofa again. But Jim switches it
off quickly, and soon we're in bed together.

Jim is so warm that he warms even my cold hands and feet in seconds. I
can't describe the feeling of being with him. I want to gather him up
and be gathered at the same time. Maybe the best way is like when you
make bread and mix the flour into yeasty water and it rises

I never sleep much with him, just doze between. I think he is more
tired than me: while he lies still I try to shut out the blinking eye
of the computer with strands of my hair, but I can feel its presence
filling the room. I must have managed to drop off because I see the
shadow figure again, groping out from the darkness by the computer.
This time, it has eyes, even darker than the rest of it, but they're
not looking at me, they're looking at Jim. I cry out in fear and Doobie
leaps onto the bed and stands between it and me, waking Jim, who
murmers sleepily to Doobie to settle down, and as Jim's arms curl round
me, his shoulder warm and smooth, and Doobie's elbows jab my legs, I
settle down too, go back to sleep

To be woken in the dim dawn by Jim, suddenly sitting bolt upright. I
sit up too. Outside people clatter going to work. "What is it?" I reach
out, touch his shoulder, and his face stark with horror, he shakes his
head then looks at me as normal "I had a dream..." "Tell me?" "I was
waking down that alley to the laundrette..." I smile, he hates going to
the laundrette, I am about to make a joke but realised he is too caught
up in the memory of fear, and I wish I could help, think it might be
better to get it all out "Go on?" "And suddenly, it was on me, the ..."
he stops "thing from the game" God, I wish he'd not play this bloody
game! I wonder if I could steal it when he was in the loo or something,
break it. But he'd know it was me, and I couldn't risk our friendship.
"It's just a dream..." "I know, it's not that, I got away, and I
thought I was safe, and then I saw you, but you were one of them..." I
don't know what to say. I value his trust more than anything, because I
trust him. I feel I have to give him a way of telling that I am real.
How? "Only trust me if I touch you and it feels like this?" I reach
out, and with all the love I felt for him, touch the back of his neck.
He turns to face me, and smiles his angel smile. Feeling daft, I get up
to get him some water, and when he's drunk it he goes back to sleep, me
nuzzled in his warmth

Eventually we get up, and as I pack he has breakfast, then, after a
hug, it is time to go. He picks up my bag, Doobie run eagerly to the
door. I hate leaving him shut in, specially now when he seems so
nervous.

Jim is very quiet on the way to the station. I beg him to promise not
to play that game anymore, but he won't. The train doors slam behind
me. I settle on the seat, look for Jim, then, see him and oh God, he is
surrounded by darkness, swirling. He doesn't see it, nor do the others
on the platform. I struggle up to get off the train but it is already
moving