Chapter 3

There was darkness again. The darkness was there every night with the feeling of suffocation, the voice crying out for help. Night after night he woke in a cold sweat, desperately trying to work out what it meant and how he was supposed to make it go away. Tonight was different. Tonight the voice was weaker, like it was giving up hope.

There was a light, a very dim, green glow in the distance. Simon couldn't tell what it was and waded through the thick air towards it. Faster and faster he began to move until he was right upon it.

"Spell 'HELP'," it said electronically.

Simon collapsed to the floor with his head in his hands.

"Nooooooooo!" he screamed.

"Incorrect!" the voice told him, "Now spell 'Jim Keats'."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Simon screamed again, this time jolting himself awake and sitting bolt upright in bed like he was on a spring. His breathing was fast and frantic, his heart beating at what felt like a thousand times a minute.

"Simon!" Robin gasped, shocked out of sleep by the scream, "Simon, what's wrong?"

Simon turned to Robin, his eyes open as wide as the moon.

"It was a Speak and Spell!" he cried.

"What?"

"A speak and spell!" he cried again. He took hold of Robin by the shoulders and began to shake him, "it was a bloody Speak and Spell, don't you see?"

"No,." cried Robin, "I don't 'see'. There's nothing there to see! It was a nightmare Simon, another nightmare." He watched as Simon slowly calmed down, just a little, and sighed deeply. "Si, I can't take this any more. It's been two weeks now. You're getting worse, not better. You have nightmares every night, you won't talk to me, you won't touch me, you… freak out every time I try to put anything on sky plus." he shook his head slowly. "You need to get some help."

Simon flinched.

"Apparently I can't even spell help," he whispered.

Robin put his hand on Simon's shoulder.

"You have to get help," he insisted, "take up the hospital's offer of some therapy. Talk to someone about what you've been through."

"I'm not crazy," Simon said quickly.

"No, you're not," Robin agreed, "you're upset and you're exhausted and you've been through something I can't even begin to comprehend. I can make you tea and biscuits and I can cook a mean stir fry at night, I can even mop your brow when you wake up screaming about a Game and Watch…"

"It was a Speak and Spell," Simon said quietly.

"…but I can't help you if you won't talk to me." Robin paused and looked Simon right in the eye. "Please, Simon. Make that call. Get some help. If you won't do it for me, do it for yourself."

Simon hesitated. He hated being backed into a corner and wanted to scream at Robin, tell him he didn't know what he was talking about and the only problem he had was being smothered and force-fed too many grapes, but the look on Robin's face stopped him.

"Robin, I'm sorry," he said quietly, "I'm doing my best. It's just hard."

"So make it easier," Robin urged him, "talk to someone. Please, talk to someone."

Simon couldn't fight the tears. He closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

"OK, he whispered.

"OK?" repeated Robin.

Simon nodded

"I'll call tomorrow."

Robin closed his own eyes and breathed an immense sigh of relief.

"Oh Simon," he breathed, "you have no idea what a relief it is to hear you say that. I am so proud of you."

Simon shook his head slowly and couldn't even respond as Robin hugged him. He didn't want help. He didn't want anything except to go to sleep and wake up on the morning of his accident, take a sicky and never get a file server square in the head. Since he didn't have a time machine or a genie in a magic lamp this was the only suitable alternative he had.

"Just relax, Simon."

Easier said than done, Simon thought to himself. The hospital had been keen to give him an initial consultation to see how he was doing before a regular session was established and he barely had time to get himself used to the idea of seeing a psychologist before he found himself sitting in front of one.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to say," he admitted.

"Just start with why you're here," the psychologist told him, "and work up from that." she adjusted her clipboard and started making notes. "Why did you make this appointment?"

Simon sighed.

"My boyfriend thinks I need help," he began, "I… I had an accident. I was in a coma for a month. I'm having some trouble readjusting."

"Feelings of… isolation are not unusual following a period of prolonged illness or time in hospital," the woman told him.

"It's not… isolation," Simon shook his head, "it's… I don't know what it is." he sighed. "I've been having nightmares. Just snippets of feeling suffocated and someone calling for help…" he paused, "and ancient technology."

"Nightmares can often be a manifestation of our innermost fears," the psychologist began, "in your case it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume you are being haunted from your near-death experience."

Simon glanced down.

"I had nightmares while I was dying, too," he said quietly.

"Can you tell me about them?"

Simon shrugged.

"There's not much to tell," he lied.

"If you're worried about repeating your near-death experience to me you need not be," she said, "I've heard it many times before. Did you have the tunnel of light? Did you meet your loved ones? St Peter?"

Simon gave a bitter laugh.

"You have no idea," he said.

"Then the only way I can help is if you talk to me," the psychologist said patiently.

Simon shook his head slowly. He didn't know what to do. His time in 1985 was an extremely personal experience and he hadn't even opened up to Robin, but the burden of the secret was getting so heavy. Eventually he began to talk, not meeting her eye for a moment.

"I went to… a place," he began, "well, a time. I was… in my own office but it all looked different. All the people there were different too. People were smoking… indoors!" he scratched his head. "Everything was different. Attitudes were prehistoric, technology was in the dark ages, it was some kind of nightmare alright." He paused, forgetting for a moment that he was talking to someone out loud, "but then there were kind people, good people who looked after me. I made friends. They gave me hope. I knew I was still alive, I just had to fight to get home."

"And now you are… 'home'…" the psychologist pissed Simon off instantly by using air quotes, "how does it make you feel to remember your dreams?"

Simon didn't really know what to say.

"It doesn't make me feel much like anything," he said, "I had dreams, then I woke up."

"But they're affecting your daily life?"

"I never said that."

" You spoke about having trouble adjusting," the psychologist reminded him, "is it because you have spent a long time away from the outside world in hospital or because you feel the 'world'…" the air quotes came out again "…that you were in during your coma is somehow real?" She didn't even allow Simon to begin his reply before she continued, "because it wasn't real in any way. Your mind projected images and scenarios just the same as when you are dreaming at night. Just think of it as a long dream you woke up from and remembered in detail."

Simon took a deep breath and silently counted to ten. He was losing his patience with this woman. Her attitude was exactly the reason he hadn't spoken to anyone about his time working under Gene Hunt. He wasn't interested in scientific explanations. He'd been deeply affected emotionally by the experience and classifying it as 'a dream' only served to frustrate him and make him feel as though his feelings were invalid.

"It doesn't help to think of it as a dream because dreams are the problem!" he cried, "It's the nightmares that are causing a problem between me and Robin. Just tell me how to get rid of them and everything will be fine and dandy!"

The psychologist scribbled something down on her pad and then looked at him seriously.

"Mr. Shoebury, in order to find out what is causing you to suffer from nightmares we need to examine your past, your personality and then the traumatic events that triggered them. This includes the time you spent in hospital and unconscious. Now, I am certain I can help you but I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

Simon stared at the woman for some time. His stare bordered on a glare. Eventually he decided to lie through his teeth. He could filter his responses, he decided, and it would get Robin off his back.

"Yes," he said with only slightly disguised venom, "I can."

"In that case I will refer you for a course of therapy, suggest weekly appointments for the first month and fortnightly after that."

Simon scowled.

"Great," he muttered.

"You should receive your first appointment in the post within the next few days," the told him, "I hope you will find our sessions useful."

Simon got to his feet.

"I'm sure I will," he lied half-heartedly. Barely uttering a goodbye he left the room and closed the door behind him. He had no intention of attending a follow-up and knew that the appointment would go to waste but Robin would be happy and he would buy himself some time. He knew there was a reason for his nightmares but it was something he would have to work out for himself. He just hoped he could find the answer before it drove him crazy.

-x-

The psychologist sighed and tutted as she finished filling out her patient evaluation form.

"Deeply traumatised, signs of denial and possibly delusional," she wrote, "time-travel scenario, resistant to suggestions for progress."

She signed the bottom of the sheet and slipped it into an envelope which she sealed and addressed with a prepared sticker.

"For the attention of DCI J. Keats," it said.

She sent it away in the outgoing post and never gave it a second thought.