Face From the Past
Prologue
As the years passed by, the memories slipped from Georges mind. He hadn't forgotten as such, how could he, rather he had convinced himself that the truth could never be as strange as he remembered it. The images his mind recalled, full of strange creatures and of worlds he knew could not exist, flashed in front of his eyes as he slept. He convinced himself that they were no more than childish fantasies, mere dreams created by an overactive child's mind. Except no, not dreams as such, no dream could seem so strange, yet so believable that whenever he awoke from one he could still see that face, the face that all the other images roiled around in a tempestuous sea of colours and sounds, so clear in his mind that he often awoke dazed and unsure of the difference between memory, dream and reality. He could see the face whenever he shut his eyes and concentrated on the memory, for, out of the jumble of images, that was the one that he knew for certain was real.
It was the face of a man, middle aged, but with a flicker of youthful exuberance about it. Like a child trapped behind the eyes of an older man. Framed by a shock of curly hair it was a face full of expression and knowing. Even in dream and memory the eyes pierced his soul, looking deep inside him, almost appraising him, assessing his worth for some unknown task. He knew that once, almost forty years ago, he had actually met this man, face to face.
George was roused from his memories by a knock at the door, rising, he stretched out the knotted muscles in his back and crossed the room. Reaching out, his hand closed on the door handle and turned……
A young man stood at the door; to George he looked to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He wore a pin striped suit and glasses. A tall man, some six foot, he had a real presence about him. In fact, George realised, he seemed familiar, strange because he was certain he had never met the man before. As he looked into the strangers face he realised why the man seemed familiar; it was the look in his eyes. Somehow this youthful stranger put him in mind of the face from his dreams. What was even stranger however was that while the man in his head looked out at him with eyes imbued with a youth belying his years, this man had eyes that seemed old, old way beyond his years. This man had the look of someone who had seen it all. Yet, in spite of the incongruities between the two, something in his gaze was identical to that of the memory from forty years earlier; it was the same look of appraisal, of weighing George up….