Actual Reality

Actual Reality

by

Stephen Charles Stringer ?

Actual Reality Travel opened for business that April amid a fanfare of
circus and hyperbole.

Advertising assailed the public from all sides and via every medium. So
stirring and revolutionary were their promotions that a great interest
was kindled and, like many others that summer dreaming of annual
holidays, Timothy Meek made his way to the nearest branch and loitered
inside the foyer browsing the brochures, marvelling at the scenes of
destruction frozen on the posters:

"Welcome to Actual Reality. Our Vacations are a Real Disaster."

Around the office, a dozen workstations bristled where cherry-faced
assistants dealt with couples and families. Customers nodded their
heads and grinned at their partners at the salesperson's spin. All
around the room, heads nodded and teeth grinned.

At a table in a far corner, a shaven-headed youth with a face like a
ferret lounged hand-in-hand with a girl whose ears and nose and raised
left-eyebrow were perforated with studs and metal rings. They were
lapping up a saleswoman's patter and squeezing each other's fingers in
time to each fresh revelation. The youth kept poking his snout at the
speaker, butting in with what Timothy assumed would be stupid questions
and inane comments. The girl remained silent, only showing agreement by
nodding her head and grinning in the accepted office style.

Eventually, the pair stood and shook hands with the saleswoman who gave
a tart smile as she watched them leave twittering and nudging their
elbows and shoulders.

After dragging a tissue from her pocket and dabbing her lips, the
saleswoman gathered up the papers strewn about the table. Smiling, she
beckoned to Timothy, then settled a pair of glasses onto the end of her
nose as he strode across the floor.

The woman, dressed like an air steward, spoke with a light and educated
voice:

'Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. It's all rather hectic in here today.
The whole city seems to be going on vacation. Coffee, perhaps? Would
you like one?'

She waved towards a filter coffee maker.

Timothy detected the slur of a New York drawl and this supported his
suspicion that the set-up was American.

'That's very kind, thank you. Milk and two sugars, please,' he
said.

She poured the coffee:

'Anything specific in mind, sir, or just here for enquiries?'

He took a sip of the coffee. It was soothing and hot but too sweet. He
had expected a mug not a cup.

'I'm due my holidays in three months or so and having read your
brochures-which I find most fascinating-I'm still confused as to what
you're offering.'

He picked up a brochure from the pile on the table and waved it like a
question mark:

'If it's all you describe in here, Actual Reality must be the most
exciting experience a person could hope for-with the possible exception
of being born.'

'Well, Mr &;#8230; Er?'

'Meek-that's spelt, M &;#8230; E &;#8230; E &;#8230; K, by the
way.'

She jotted his name on her notepad.

'Right. Well, Mr Meek, the problem with birth-as far as being an
experience goes-is that, thankfully, no one remembers their own. But I
assure you no one forgets an Actual Reality experience.

'What we offer is revolutionary, not available elsewhere, so it's
hardly surprising you're not acquainted with the concept.'

'But surely, these are simply lavish variations on the theme park or
adventure break,' said Timothy.

'No. Definitely not.

'Theme vacations are pretend adventures in pretend surroundings with
contrived results. Adventure breaks are simply a way of charging you a
fortune for a no-frills camping holiday.

'No. We offer a genuine experience with all the thrill and trauma
associated with it.

'If I may give you an example or two. Imagine, if you will, a tour of
an earthquake devastated city, experiencing all the tremors and
destruction, a major flood perhaps, or a pitched gun battle among the
ruins of a battered township during an African civil war.'

Timothy stretched back in his seat and looked up at the ceiling:

'Look. Call me Mr Cautious, but being marooned in the middle of a
life-threatening crisis, possibly in the grip of a third world
country's mad dictator is hardly what I'd call a holiday and certainly
not one I'd be expecting to pay for.'

'It's called the Actual Reality Experience,' she explained, 'and yes,
depending on your choice of venue and the availability of the scenario
on your preferred dates of departure, the volcanoes, if applicable,
will spit real fire and the rifles will shoot real bullets.'

'At the risk of sounding offensive,' said Timothy, 'do you have a
crystal ball at your disposal? If we're talking real situations, I'd
have to believe you can foretell the future.'

It was the saleswoman's turn to rock back in her chair as she cast an
arm towards her computer terminal, one of many nestling on every
workstation in the office.

'That's exactly what we do,' she said. 'Because of our licensed access
to the databases of certain scientific and government agencies, and
through our development of specialist software, we're able to collate
information that enables us to predict and pinpoint global catastrophes
caused by physical and political factors such as the weather,
geothermal activity, coups d'?tat, etc.

'Our software engineers have just designed a package that allows us to
predict man-made disasters such as shipwrecks or air crashes. We are
particularly proud of this. You wouldn't believe the number of
coincidences that have to fall into place for an accident to
happen.

'The vacations come in two groups: home and away. Away is always
international whereas home is restricted to a UK location. Simple
really.'

'Very well,' said Timothy, 'I don't doubt that you can deliver your
promises-and I'm sorry to keep harping on-but it is a risky
proposition.

'Look; say, for example, you abandon me in the Australian outback
facing a Dante's Inferno of a forest fire? Well, that would be
risky-wouldn't it?'

The saleswoman dabbed her lips with her tissue and pushed her glasses
further onto the end of her nose.

'We don't abandon our clients, sir. And you will always be a safe
distance from the point of passion whilst still allowing the moment to
ravish your senses. We have arrangements with all governmental and
emergency organisations. You will be shepherded by trained guides,
provided with safety clothing, equipment and all the necessary passes
and documentation.

'Once risk has diminished to an acceptable level, our couriers will
conduct you through the aftermath. Imagine it, Mr Meek, the boiling
thrill of participating in one of the headline shattering events of the
year: earthquake; civil war; a typhoon perhaps, in the South China Sea.
You could join in with the fun, help the rescue teams to drag out the
maimed and the dead. You might even be awarded a medal; become a
hero.'

'And it's all perfectly safe?'

The saleswoman peered at him over the rim of her glasses:

'Safer than travelling home on the bus, Mr Meek.'

*

Thirteen weeks later, he boarded the coach to the airport, clutching
his hand-luggage in the arm that had not been shot full of the drugs
mandatory before an expedition to the famine-stricken homelands of
Ethiopia.

Nearing Waterford, at Junction 6 of the M1, the coach driver entered
the slip road and made his approach towards the intersection with the
M25. He lit a cigarette and the smoke stung his eyes, making them
water.

A road train sailed along the inner lane of the main M25 carriageway.
The road train driver saw the coach approaching the intersection along
the slip road. He knew it would reduce speed, let him pass, take its
rightful place behind him. He screwed his foot onto the
accelerator.

Timothy was watching the landscape rush by when it collapsed in on him
in a whirlpool of gravity and splintering glass.

At first, all was plain, then the fields and hedges blurred and his
senses wheeled and spiralled, grasping for a measure of order from the
maelstrom. Shrieking metal, piercing screams, the throbbing pressure of
panic in his ears: the terrible merry-go-round continued for what
seemed a thousand days.

Bright lights flashed inside his head, brighter than any light he had
known before. He shut his eyes but still they flashed from behind
screwed eyelids. And then, as if a switch had been thrown, the lights
failed, the noise ceased, and all fell still and calm.

*

How long he had lain unconscious, trapped among the mangled wreckage,
Timothy could not calculate; nor, strangely, did he care. He felt no
pain but was aware of a bitter syrup oozing between his lips and a
clammy dampness inside the crotch of his trousers. A foul smell came
from this dampness and he felt ashamed. He recalled not cancelling the
newspapers before leaving home and that, too, worried him
greatly.

The sound of sirens screeching and loudhailers barking out orders
brought him to his senses. An army of shadows rushed in and out of the
blue and amber flashing lights that lit up his cage. He tried to move
and started in surprise as a woman in a bright yellow anorak appeared,
placed a brace around his neck and caressed his forehead with a
bloodstained flannel.

'Stay still,' she told him, 'we'll have you out of here soon.'

Two stretcher-bearers carried him to a waiting ambulance and he pleaded
to be reunited with his luggage.

'I'm off on a holiday of a lifetime, you know.'

'Not just now you're not, mate.' said a >12auto_biographyvisible0 "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">