Afterwards.
It seems to be perpetually dusk, a greyness fills the sky and clogs the air. Around me is recognisably London in Britain, but one so shabby and run down it seems to have long ago given up on itself. I’m wandering down a street: residential, with tight post-war houses crammed in together. I don’t recognise it, it doesn’t look like anywhere I've been – but then in the dream it looks not so much a street, as a wasteland. My progress is slow as I’m limping. Once, long ago, I broke my ankle and it feels like that. My hand reaches out to touch the nearest wall and the brick (once red, but now dusty grey) is freezing. In the dream I must know, but in my conscious memory now I have no idea where I’m heading. But then I stop. Ahead of me, faintly on the breeze, are sounds. I’ve no idea what these sounds are – whether human or animal – but the place I’m heading to is not worth a confrontation (not yet anyway) and I back into a doorway. I will wait these until the sound drifts away again, I’ll wait until I feel safe – or as safe as I will ever possibly feel again.
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