A Dream of Wessex by Christopher Priest Page A

and comb, and tidied herself up.
    She looked calmly into the circular mirror, and saw the steady gaze of her own eyes. She stuck out her tongue; it was white and dry. Her pores were dirty; she would have a bath as soon as she got out of bed.
    It felt good to be real again!
    After she had eaten her breakfast, Dr Trowbridge came to see her. He examined her briefly, then got her to stand up and walk about the room.
    ‘Any stiffness?’
    ‘A little bit. Nothing unusual.’
    ‘Is there any discomfort in the spine?’
    ‘Some. I shouldn’t care to carry anything heavy.’
    He nodded. ‘You can have a massage if you want it, but don’t over-exert yourself for a day or two. Plenty of light exercise and fresh air would be good for you.’
    Julia still felt that medical aftercare was over-solicitous on the project, but from the participants’ point of view things had improved since the early days. On her first return, Julia had had to endure several days of tests and X-rays.
    There was a bathroom attached to her room, and after Dr Trowbridge had left Julia took a leisurely bath. The sore patch on the back of her neck was sensitive to hot water, but she had a long, pleasurable wallow, and afterwards she dried her hair and put on a favourite dress. She looked through the window at the weather; it was not raining today, but a strong wind blew. She wondered idly about the date. The nurse said she had been gone for three weeks, so it must now be near the middle of August.
    ‘Do you need me any more, Miss Stretton?’ It was the nurse, looking round the door from outside.
    ‘I don’t think so. Dr Trowbridge has seen me.’
    ‘Would you like me to arrange a massage for you?’
    ‘Not at the moment. Perhaps this evening. By the way, what’s the time?’
    ‘About ten-fifteen.’
    After the nurse had left, Julia found her wristwatch, set it to the time and shook it to make it work. It was always disorienting after a return. When she came to the house yesterday it must have been during the afternoon. How long had she slept? Sixteen hours? She felt refreshed for it, however long it had been.
    A little while later, as Julia was sitting at the dressing-table making up her face, Marilyn came to the room.
    ‘Are you feeling better, Julia?’
    ‘Yes, fine.’
    ‘You looked really ill yesterday. It was the first time I’d seen you come out of the mortuary.’
    ‘I was just very tired. And drugged.’
    Julia had seen participants immediately after they returned, and she was sufficiently vain to hope that no one she knew well would ever see her in that state. Looking into the dressing-table mirror, she judged that the damage had been repaired.
    Marilyn said: ‘There’s a meeting this morning. At eleven. They want you to go.’
    ‘Yes, of course. Listen, Marilyn, do you know why I was retrieved so soon? The nurse said it was only three weeks.’
    ‘Didn’t Dr Eliot tell you?’
    ‘I haven’t seen him. Dr Trowbridge came.’
    Marilyn said: ‘It was because of Tom Benedict.’
    Julia frowned, not understanding. Then she remembered: she hadn’t thought of Tom since -
    ‘What’s happened to Tom?’
    ‘He died, Julia. In the projector. He had a stroke, and it wasn’t discovered until too late.’
    Julia stared at her in genuine shock. The double memories created by the projector always confused and alarmed her after a return, because of the way realities seemed to overlap ... but this time it was as if she had to suffer the experience twice. She remembered Tom lying in the Castle infirmary and holding her hand, and she remembered that afterwards she had forgotten about him, his identity slipping from the grasp of her memory as surely as his hand had slipped from hers.
    Then this: the return to her real life, with the forgetfulness remaining until now.
    ‘But Marilyn ... I didn’t know!’
    ‘There’s to be an inquiry. You might have to go.’
    ‘I didn’t realize. You see, Marilyn, I was there! I was with him when he died!