She looks confused and suspicious of me for a second, folds her arms on top of her bump and nods at me to continue.

"There's been other things apart from the dreams. I keep comin' across things from 1980, the Vienna single on my turntable's one of them. Last night the TV changed to something else entirely, 2 plainclothes officers talkin'- "

"Hold on, police officers?" She interrupts. "Could they be officers you'd passed by in the corridor before?"

I shake my head. "No, they can't be. I'd never seen them before in my life before my dreams started."

She raises an eyebrow but says nothin'.

"I'd seen those men before, in my first dream, but I learnt their names. One had also appeared in Saturday's one." I tell her.

"What were their names?" She asks curiously.

"One of them was called Ray – 'e was large, 'ad a moustache and was readin' a porno mag. That was the second time I'd seen 'im." I tell her. "The other was Chris, 'e's the one who's appeared 3 times now."

"What does he look like?"

"Umm… about 5' 6'', floppy brown hair, tank top. Looked mid-to-late 20s." I explain.

"And why don't you think they're manifestations of your subconscious and I'm connected to them?" She asks pointedly.

"Because it feels too real. Dreams are fleeting, you lose most memories of 'em as soon as you wake up. These I can remember in crystal clear detail, the emotions I felt, the images. It felt like real life, and a 'orrific version at that." I sigh. "And that first night, on that beach, there was someone who looked exactly like you."

Alex shakes her 'ead furiously, spreading locks of chestnut 'air over her face before she brushes them away again.

"That's not possible. We didn't even meet each other until yesterday." She protests.

"She was older, wearin' different clothes – very 80s looking - but she looked exactly like you. Just about a decade older." I tell her.

Her mouth hangs open like a fish for a couple of moments.

"You could have seen my photo somewhere- "

"No, you admitted yourself that we only met each other yesterday." I reply.

She looks like she doesn't know what to say, for the first time since she came here.

"You 'ave access to the collators' den at the station, don't you?" I say.

"Yes, I do. When CID need records I'm the one who gets them." She replies quietly.

"Do you think you might be able to look for Ray and Chris in the records when you've got time? I 'aven't got much but I can give you descriptions and the approximate time period where they may 'ave lived, and I want to see if my theory about 'em bein' real is correct or not."

She thinks it over for a couple of seconds, the cogs in 'er 'ead plain to see as they turn. She nods, folding her arms again.

"Alright."

I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding. She looks a little embarrassed to be going along with this but a slight smile touches her lips.

"Thanks." I reply simply.

"But if your "theory" isn't right, I don't want to be involved in this afterwards." She says. "I've got an unborn daughter and my husband to think about and running after imaginary dream people is not what I want to be doing when I'm in this state."

I nod. "I understand."

She holds out 'er 'and to me, glowing in the harsh light of the lamps.

"Shake on it."

I reach out my hand, meeting hers for the second time in our lives and shaking it. She flashes me a quick smile as she opens the front door and steps out into the cool night, closing it behind her as I slide down the kitchen cupboards, breathing heavily.

Tuesday Morning. 8:00, 23rd April 1996.

For the first time since Friday, last night I think I 'ad "normal" dreams. Images were already fading from my mind when I opened my eyes this morning and, from what I can remember, it involved reading in a huge wood-panelled library with quiet music. No Ray or Chris or whoever. Just me, reading books for eternity with the sounds of David Bowie accompanying me.

The walk to work passes as normal, mixtape on the go as the early morning sunshine pokes between the buildings. Summer is on its way, that's for certain. No more dark mornings, wrapping myself up in jumpers full of holes as the rain pours from the sky and trickles into the gutters. At least for a while. You never know with British weather. My birthday too, in a few months- hopefully it won't be too warm.

I pause by the darkened window of a long-abandoned shop, looking at my reflection in the glass. Passing behind me are teenagers in jumpers on their way to school, older men in long coats and women in heels smoking as they storm past. And then there's me, in a dark beret with my headphones encircling it to reach my ears, hands in my raincoat as I walk towards the station. The scene is almost picturesque, a beacon of a woman amidst blurred people in grey.

I enter the station and begin to get changed into my uniform, folding up my civvy clothes and shoving them in my locker. Tabby nods hello to me as I walk out with my hat under my arm, striding down the corridors. I consider popping in on Alex before I head to my desk, but I decide against it. She's got enough on her plate already, she said so herself. The morning sun peeks through blinded windows as the station and the world wakes up to a new day. I love this time, brimming with potential and promise.

It's a normal morning, I've been put on desk duty for today as my arrest reports have built up over the past few months and I've barely had any time to fill them in. The room bustles around me as I'm in my bubble of paper, hummin' along a long-known tune as I scribble names of criminals on paper after paper. My signature covers box after box, paper after paper as a stack of reports builds next to me.

Shazza! Can you pass it back ter me?

I look up from the piece of paper for the sound of the voice, searching for someone who looks like Chris but coming up with nothing. Spooked, I gingerly turn back to my paper, feeling the all too familiar creep of dread up my spine. But the arrest form I 'ad on my desk is no longer there, in its place is a book with yellowing pages. I recognise the text, it's Charlotte Sometimes by Penelope Farmer. I loved that book as a girl but I haven't read it in years.

"Shazza!"

I look up and this time I'm somewhere completely different. Late afternoon sun glinting on my face, bright greenery surrounding me. I'm sitting on a red-checked picnic blanket, a wicker hamper next to me filled with the remains of what must 'ave been a perfect picnic. Next to me there is a glass of champagne in a flute, my sky-blue dress lying on the blanket beside me and my legs folded next to me. In front, the tendrils of a willow surround me apart from a large gap where I can see Chris running around a large green space, waving to me. Terraced houses and cars are in the distance, all over a decade out of date.

I spot a ball at my side, after a moment of hesitation I pick it up and throw it to the man running around like a child on the grass. His feet pick up the ball and with the least amount of skill I've ever seen 'e begins dribbling it very slowly towards two trees. I wouldn't be surprised if he fell into the net at some point.

"And 'e shoots, 'e scores!" Chris yells, pumping his arms and grinning at me.

He picks up the ball, tucking it under 'is arm and walking towards me. I must wear an expression of confusion and shock because 'is grin fades. He sits down next to me, grabbing my 'and and warming it with his soft touch.

"Is everything alright?" 'e asks tenderly, concern plain to see on 'is face.

I'm not sure what to say, do I tell 'im about myself? I grab 'is other 'and, feeling warmth and comfort trickle down my spine.

"Chris, there's somethin' I need to tell you." I tell 'im seriously.

"What is it, lover?" He asks, innocently.

"Chris, I- "

WPC Granger…

White noise crashes through my brain, vaporising it as I barely register the only voice I don't want to hear. I feel my eyes go wide, white noise filling my insides. I attempt to pull away from Chris, desperate to not let 'im see me like this.

"No, no…" I manage to blurt out, gritting my teeth.

"Shazza, I'm taking yer 'ome." Chris begins to help me to my feet, but I clamp my 'ands over my ears and curl into a ball, desperate to stop the white noise in my brain and the voice calling me.

I take one more look at Chris' face through my tears, the nose, the multi-coloured eyes that radiate concern, before it translates into the one face I don't want to see. The smart-arsed smile, eyes that radiate the fact that 'e went to Cambridge and 'as a lot of money.

"Welcome back to the real world, Granger."

"Huh?" I lift my face off the desk where it's been pressed against ink and paper. The white noise still lingers in my brain, I raise a hand to my head.

Henry sticks 'is head in front of me, smarmy grin on 'is face. He looks pleased with 'imself. I feel like throwing up.

"Sleeping on the job, I see." He says. "I wonder what our sergeant would say about that. Wouldn't offer you that promotion for sure."

"Piss off, Harry." I tell him sharply, attempting to stop my head from dropping back onto my desk.

"Maybe I should go and talk to 'im- " 'e shuts up when I give 'im my fiercest glare. They normally do.

He backs off and walks back to do whatever creeps like 'im do. I look back at my arrest form, tears dripping onto it and smudging the ink. The world seems greyer, muted, the sun not as bright as it was this morning, and certainly not as bright as it was in 1980. I 'aven't noticed it before, but it 'as been. Red's the only colour that hasn't 'ad it's colour sucked out a touch, it glows brighter than any others.

"Alex, please come up with somethin'." I mutter under my breath, picking up my pen and scribbling my signature.

c.2:00am, 6th January 1980. Somewhere in Manchester.

Crash.

I sit up in my bed, running my 'ands through my 'air as my heart pounds deep inside me. The moon is huge and luminous outside my window, the other side of the large bed cold and empty like it has been for the past 4 days. It seems like such a long time ago I woke just as the sun was rising, not a cloud in the sky yet and watched Sam sleeping, tracing the worn lines and crow's feet in 'is face with my finger. The moment felt like one from a fairytale, a perfect snippet of time in a world that gave us both so much hardship and sorrow. Just last week we'd lost our ginger tom to a car that gave the Guv's driving a run for its money. Maybe that should have foretold of things to come.

I turn my bedside light on, just as I 'ear a muffled voice cursing from downstairs. Immediately I tense up, precursory fear breaking its banks to flood my body. I push back the duvet and slide out of bed, feeling the deep brown carpet slide in between my toes. I creep over to the door and open it slowly, stepping out onto the landing and feeling my way towards the stairs, keeping my ears on full alert.

"Hello? Is there anyone 'ere?" I hear someone- a woman, I think, not from around 'ere – call.

I freeze just as I reach the stairs, 'er voice lingering in the cool night air and echoing around the house like a fragile whisper. I descend the stairs, unable to see anything in the rich darkness. Feeling for the light to the kitchen, I feel my foot catch something and I almost trip over onto the hard wooden floor. After steadying myself I switch it on, bracing myself to find a 'ardened criminal like the ones I arrest practically every other day.

Instead, standing in the middle of my kitchen is a young woman. She looks to be in her early-20s, pretty, with wavy waist-length shiny brown-black 'air, pale skin and greeny-hazel eyes. She wears a bright white shirt buttoned up to her and deep burgundy corduroy pinafore, brown leather shoes on her feet. It's something I would have worn, in another lifetime, and it suits her well. The 1970s only finished last week after all. Fashion can't 'ave changed too much yet.

"You're not Ray or Chris." Is her only remark at the sight of me.

I tip my head to the side, suspicious, and fold my arms. "No, I'm not. I'm Annie. Annie Tyler."

Her eyes flutter to the darkened window, like she's looking to escape from 'ere.

"Why are you- "

"Do you know someone called Ray? Blondish – brown hair, Moustache, sexist magazine? Police officer?"

"I know the one." I tell her. "Why are you in my house?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." She says matter of factly, shrugging me off.

In the light of the kitchen, there is something strange about 'e. Mostly she's as firm as I am, but sometimes it's like she's fading in and out of reality with beams of light able to pass through her translucent body. It reminds me of Sam in that train tunnel 7 years ago, the faint shadows before 'e disappeared.

"What year is this?" She asks, softly.

"It's 1980. Only just." I reply. "What's your name?"

The deer-in-headlights looks she's givin' me reminds me of Sam when I'd first met 'im. She's calmer than 'e was though, like she's a little familiar with where she is.

"Sharon. Sharon Granger." She whispers. "Are you a police officer?"

"WDS, actually." The expression on 'er face is priceless. "Are you? Or are yer just a criminal?"

She gives a small smile at the comment. She looks to the floor for a moment, to the empty letters strewn across the floor that I haven't been able to bring myself to open because I know what each and every one will say.

"Just a WPC." She tells me after a moment has passed.

"Where are you from?" I ask. "Do you spend many evenin's breakin' into superior officer's 'ouses, because if you do I may 'ave to report you."

"I'm from London, actually." A small smile touches her lips. "And no, I don't."

"Why are you in my 'ouse?" I repeat. "Or do I 'ave ter pull rank on yer?"

"You'll think I'm mad and put me in the loony bin if I tell you the truth." She mutters.

"My 'usband thought 'e was from 2006." Her eyes widen to huge, shocked orbs. "Believe me, I've heard everything. You can tell me."

"What if I told you I was from the future too?" She whispers after a couple of silent moments. "And I'm not actually 'ere in body. That this is all a dream to me."

Even in 'er voice you can tell that she's frightened, though I'm not sure what of. I don't think I want to ask.

"'xpected as much. You've got Sam written all over you." I tell her after a few seconds have passed She looks confused at the name. "Sam is-was my husband. He died 5 days ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry." She immediately says. "Are you okay?"

I stay quiet for a moment, forcing the tears down again. I 'aven't seen Ray or Chris or even the Guv since they took me 'ome 5 days ago. I don't think they know 'ow ter deal with a grieving widow, especially when the Guv's wife left 'im 6 months ago. I don't want ter see Ray or the Guv anyway, they were with Sam when the car skidded into the river. Wouldn't mind seein' Chris though, but 'e's even more clueless than Ray and the Guv.

"I'll be fine." I give 'er a forced smile. "Where are you from, then?"

"1996." She tells me softly, like she's scared people may overhear us.

"Do you know why you're 'ere? Sam said 'e got 'it by a car and woke up 'ere."

I don't mention my suspicions about myself, the floating dreams hitched in the air just outside my consciousness in the daytime, the feeling that there is more to Sam's fantasies than just 'im bein' a little strange.

"I only come 'ere in my dreams. I don't know why." She answers. "This is the first time I've been able to talk to anyone, though."

Once, a long time ago in The Railway Arms when all of us had got more smashed than normal, Sam told me that he could hear us all the time in 2006 or wherever. That he could hear us calling to 'im from that tunnel, my cries for 'im, the shots fired by Leslie Johns striking down Chris, Ray and the Guv over and over again. 'e said it was like 'e was connected to us somehow, the demons from that day that 'e should 'ave forgotten still haunting 'im. For us, it was a millisecond, but for 'im 'e said it was a few months. Maybe she's like 'im, connected but not entirely with us.

But I've never seen 'er before in my life and I don't think Chris or any of the others 'ave either. She's not from around 'ere so I don't know 'ow she's mixed up in our lives.

"Do you know Chris as well?" Her voice pierces through my thoughts, like she's reading my brain.

"Do you mean Chris Skelton?" I ask, figuring that that's the most likely one if she knows Ray too.

"Is that 'is surname?" She replies. "He's got floppy 'air and different coloured eyes. Stands a couple of inches taller than me."

"That's Chris. He's a DC." I tell her, "How do you know 'im and Ray?"

"Saw them both on my telly."

So did Sam, I remember 'im talking about it all those years ago. He didn't talk much about where he apparently came from after the tunnel, it was like 'e'd stopped fighting to get back there. We settled down, married a couple of years ago. He was happy, I was happy. We started watching the world through rosy tinted glasses, ones that were cruelly ripped away from us 5 days ago.

Oh Sam, I don't know 'ow to deal with this. I wish you were 'ere, I've wished it every second of every day since you left. You didn't tell me enough, I never asked and I wish I 'ad. But she's 'ere, she needs my 'elp and advice. I just wish you were 'ere too.

The phone rings loudly, causing her huge eyes to dart towards the thing in fear for a second. It's a rotary phone, one my father gave to us as a wedding present. I glance at 'er, the expression on her face of curiosity. I don't know who would be ringing at this time in the morning.

I pick up the handset slowly and raise it into my ear. 'er eyes are on me the entire time.

"Hello?" I answer. My voice feels rough, speaking to her is the most I've talked for days.

"Annie?" It's the Guv. For a moment I'm defensive, before I realise 'e wouldn't 'ave rung me at this time unless it was an emergency.

"It's me." I say softly. "What's up, Guv?"

I can 'ear 'im running 'is hand across 'is face. I suspect 'e's still in the dank office and 'asn't left for days.

"I should 'ave taken you before today but things got in the bloody way. Things that are too impossible to explain." He begins to ramble in a way I've never 'eard 'im before. "I'm sorry."

That wasn't some'ing I was expecting. The Guv never apologises for anythin', 'e believes 'e's right even when 'e obviously isn't. "I'm sorry" is not in 'is vocabulary.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, fear for my superior sparking in my stomach and spreading throughout my grief-wreaked body.

"Nothin's wrong." 'e tells me, though I don't believe a bloody word 'e says. "Just get to the office as soon as possible. I'll meet yer there."

He hangs up as soon as 'e rang. I drop the receiver back on the telephone and turn around to be faced with an abandoned kitchen. Not a sign of Sharon, not a sign that there was ever anyone there apart from me. I walk around the 'ouse for a couple of minutes to see if she's wandered off, but she's disappeared into thin air. The image of the empty tunnel that appeared in a millisecond back in '73 floats in front of my eyes, a parallel to what I'm facing now. She'll be back, I know she will. You can't escape the Guv and us for long. Sam proved that time and time again.

Halfway up the stairs I see the wedding portrait, the smiling colour faces of myself and Sam blown up to fit into a beautiful dark frame. I reach out a hand and stroke 'is face, feeling the material on my fingers and thinking back to that beautiful day and all the other beautiful, joyous days that followed it with tears dripping on the patterned carpet below my bare feet.

We were 'appy, weren't we, Sam?