Dream Warrior

Dream Warrior by Ken May

Chapter 1

Anobee – Six months ago

There was a heavy and urgent pounding on the door of the Travellers Rest. Jar, the Landlord jumped slightly, almost dropping the glass he was cleaning at the sudden interruption to the peace and quiet. He cursed then eyed the yellowed face of the old pendulum clock that hung above the fireplace. There was still an hour to go before opening time, why did people have to be so impatient, he grumbled to himself? His eyes dropped to the gentle glow of the hot coals in the grate and he questioned his decision to be a publican for the hundredth time this week, which was probably the millionth time this year. The job had done nothing for him except thin his hair, wrinkle his face and harden his smile. It had kept him thin through late nights and early mornings and single for most of his life. Why he continued to do the job he didn't know, but something kept him from packing it all in, and what ever that something was, it certainly wasn't the impatient pounding of a needy customer. To jar’s annoyance the pounding continued, only now it was accompanied by the urgent calls of the perpetrator. Jar looked towards the heavy oak door that separated him from whoever was disturbing the peace and shook his head in dismissal, but then he realised that these weren’t the calls of someone in need of a drink, or the inconsiderate hammerings of one of his regulars, but the demands of someone with a purpose, and in Jar’s experience, that usually meant trouble. Jar took a deep breath, put down the glass and made his way across the bar towards the door, adjusting a stool along the way. Then the pounding stopped as if the person on the other side of the door was aware of his movement. The room settled to the crackle of the fire and the gentle tick of the old clock. He paused, hopeful that this was the end of it and that he could go back to polishing glasses and dreaming of better things. But as he began to turn, the pounding resumed. ‘Who is it?’ shouted Jar unsure of the consequences to such a question. ‘Mr Jar,’ came the muffled response, ‘Your services are required.’ Jar slid back the peephole cover and peered through into the evening gloom. There before the door stood a tall figure in a flat brimmed black hat and dark sunglasses. ‘Who are you?’ demanded Jar. The figure leaned in towards the peephole and spoke in a gravelled whisper.

‘Mr Jar, you have a reputation for discretion. Would you really force me to announce myself out here in the street, when there are more people watching, than there are people to be watched?’ Jar straightened a little, and then slid back the iron bolts, tapped in a release code on the keypad beneath the latch, then lifted the latch and opened the door. The man in the hat was taller than the doorway and had to duck as he walked through. He then made his way to the fireplace and stood with his back to the flames and waited for Jar to close and lock the door. ‘You have a fine establishment here Mr Jar. Warm and friendly, clean, traditional style, polished wooden tables, beams across the ceiling, all very cosy, and the carpet still has life in it,’ and as he spoke, he slid the toe of his highly polished black shoe against the pile of the red carpet creating a dark patch. Jar eyed the man with some suspicion. He was at least a foot taller than Jar’s five foot ten, although his hat may have made him appear taller than he really was. He was wearing a black suit that matched the hat and sunglasses, and what hair was showing also seemed to be black, in contrast to his pale face and large cleanly shaven square jaw and chin. His shoulders were broad giving him a solid immovable look, rather like a brick wall. ‘Your not an estate agent are you?’ said Jar with a small amount of annoyance. ‘Cos if you…’ ‘No Mr Jar I am not an estate agent, although I think I do have a flare for that sort of thing.’ ‘Who are you then?’ ‘I am Theodore Virtue of Virtue Personal Security Services.' He handed Jar his business card. 'And I have two clients that need somewhere discrete to conduct a little business. And before you ask, their identities will not be revealed. All I will tell you is that the two parties, who will be referred to, as client one and client two, will be arriving at some point this evening. All you have to do Mr Jar is provide a room and your own reputed discretion; my men will do the rest. ‘Mr. Virtue,’ began Jar, ‘this is all very flattering but…’ ‘You will be well rewarded,’ interrupted Mr Virtue. ‘How well rewarded, this is an expensive Inn to run you know.’ ‘Very well rewarded Mr Jar.’ 'Hmm I was thinking more along the lines of extremely well rewarded, especially as it says on this card that you provide security for political and corporate clients.' 'Well, I can see you are a shrewd man Mr Jar and not someone to be shortchanged. Extremely well rewarded it is. ‘In that case I am at your disposal Mr Virtue or should I call you Theodore?’

By closing time Jar had had it with black suited lumps of muscle that were undercover, conducting a sweep, covering all exits or establishing points of vulnerability. He had come across some ignorant people over the years, but never so many in one place at the same time. Mr Virtue had promised Jar that there would be the minimal of disruption and that his personal security representatives would be virtually invisible, and that he would hardly know they were there. But it seemed that only Mr Virtue had the talent for being invisible, as Jar hadn’t been able to find him all evening.

Jar eased his last remaining customer out of the door and began his nightly routine of sliding bolts and locking windows, when a large hand grabbed him from behind and swung him around. It was Virtue’s Head of Personal Security Draper, an exceptionally large man whose shoulders appeared to have fused with his head leaving no room for a neck, and like all the other Personal Security Representatives he wore a black suit and hat, he was also taller than the others dwarfing Jar’s modestly framed body. Jar, startled by Drapers sudden intrusion into his personal space, tried to step away but Draper stepped forward bringing his squashed features within an inch of Jar’s. ‘Mr Jar, client one will be arriving shortly. You need to go to your ready point now. That is now as in immediately,’ said Draper in a slow and condescending tone. Jar became annoyed and irritated. He had no idea where or what his ready point was, and he didn’t take orders from anybody in his own pub, especially not from someone who had muscle for brains. ‘Listen this is my Inn and I …’ Draper’s powers of reasoning, like most Personal Security Representatives and members of similar professions, boiled down to this: if they do as I say, all is well. If they don’t, shout at them several times. If they then do as I say, all is well. If they don’t, hit them. Draper repeated his order to go to the ready point only louder and more aggressively. Jar tried to explain, but Draper’s apparent lack of ability to listen to a single word he was saying, caused Jar's irritation to evolve rapidly through extreme annoyance to bloody angry, and they both became louder and louder until… Several Personal Security Representatives came running to the terrifyingly haunting screams of someone in extreme pain. They then waited patiently for Jar to leave before retrieving their Boss.

It was around midnight when hooded and cloaked client one and client two arrived at the Travellers Rest. The two figures were no more than Jar in height, but there was a presence about one of them that extended beyond the cloak. Jar felt the power from the mysterious figures, one upright and graceful, the other emanating unpleasantness as they were led through the bar and down into the chill of the cellar. A large barrel was then rolled to one side revealing a dimly lit arched corridor. The two figures

followed the Personal Security Representatives along the descending corridor until it came to an end at the doorway of a small dingy looking room. In the centre of the room was an old wooden table, with a chair either side. On the table sat the room’s only light source, a single candle that flickered erratically as if struggling to hold back the surrounding darkness. ‘This is truly a great moment,’ said client one with a hint of mockery, as he pulled the chair away from the table and sat down. He then pushed back his hood revealing thin sunken features that seemed to deepen with the flicker of the candlelight. ‘How people will look upon this night is yet to be seen,’ grunted client two from beneath his hood. ‘The point of all this, is that they won’t look upon it or even be aware it happened – you're not changing your mind are you?’ said client one angrily. ‘My mind has never been completely made up; I am still not sure this is the right thing to do.’ Client one sighed heavily. ‘Do I have to remind you of the consequences? How long do you think you could survive if the war actually continued, how many more people would die? How long before the economy collapsed if the war was officially declared over? As long as the people on both sides believe we are still at war, we have time to bring our economies into check. Time is needed before peace can be made official. We will still need the odd skirmish to help with the pretence, but you and I will know that the war is over.’ Client two sat silent watching the candle flame flick back and forth just like his own troubled thoughts, unable to decide which way to go, Client one sighed loudly announcing his impatience. Client two then held out his hand, it trembled slightly in the candlelight. Client one produced a leather document case from under his cloak and took two pieces of paper from it. He took a moment to inspect them and then slid them across the uneven surface of the table towards client two. ‘I have already signed,’ said client one hiding his grin in the darkness. Client two signed both documents, and as he did so the doom he felt deep within grew with every stroke of the pen. ‘Remember,' said client one as he picked up his copy of the document, 'you can tell no one. Not your advisers, friends or family. Peoples lives are at stake.’ Client one left the room slamming the door behind him. The draught blew out the struggling candle leaving client two alone in the darkness, more alone than he had ever felt in his life. He hoped beyond hope that he had done the right thing and that he hadn’t just condemned the people he was trying to protect, and he hoped beyond hope that he would be able to find the door in the dark.

Chapter 2

Sweat began to trickle down the side of his face but he couldn't move. His target was about to appear and he would only have a three second window to make the hit. Everything rested on him not missing. His pulse began to race. Breathing he thought, keep it steady that's the key. Through the rifle’s sight he could see the battered wooden door his target was about to open. There was a small group of guards talking and smoking to the left. Breathing, got to keep it under control he reminded himself. The trickles of sweat were beginning to irritate him adding to his already high levels of anxiety. The door moved and his finger twitched, almost he thought, almost. The door swung open revealing nothing but shadow. Did they know he was there, had he given himself away somehow? Eric kept his breathing steady and tried to ignore the ache from his fatigued fingers. The day had been hard and bloody, with no rest from the endless killing, yet only now, as he was about to take this one last life, that would bring an end to this day of carnage, a doubt crossed his mind. He tried to push it to one side with the thought that it would all be over soon and then it would no longer matter, but it hung in the background intimidating his conscience. The target immerged from the shadows into the daylight and Eric then brought the sniper rifle’s cross hairs into focus, centring on the left temple of his target. There was movement in the camp, which erupted into a flurry of activity. His target suddenly turned, eyes staring back at him as if he new Eric was there. Eric couldn't wait he had to take the shot. His finger trembled as he began to apply pressure to the trigger, he was no longer breathing, and his whole body was still and focused when he felt a rhythmic vibration against the side of his leg. It was his mobile phone. Eric swore then pressed the pause button on his play station. It was a text from his girl friend Sally –“ ur dpd lve wth it.” Eric wasn’t very good at text speak and Sally was an expert. She could even talk text and did when they were out with her friends, which was somewhat disconcerting. But he had never managed to get the hang of it and always seemed to misunderstand what was being asked. You wouldn’t believe the number of times he had gone to the wrong pub or the wrong club because he hadn’t understood the text message, Sally only laughed. Dave, Eric’s best friend since school said she was doing it on purpose, and when Eric challenged this, Dave reminded Eric that she never rings him to find out where he is. Eric would then change the subject and Dave would use phrases like - in denial. Eric turned his mobile off, as he didn’t want any more distractions. He was on the verge of completing the last mission and the game. He sat himself down in front of the TV and resumed his gaming position, which was a hunched version of the lotus that didn’t involve any kind of leg stretching, he then picked up the game pad and hit continue. His target was staring back at him, unshaven and defiant. He had only seconds to re-aim and take him out. Sweat stained guards were running about shouting and firing into the surrounding jungle. His target pressed himself close to the wooden slats of the hut and then

Eric finally got the man in his sights, the cross hairs focused on the man’s temple, Eric hesitated then pressed the fire button, the screen went red and flashed up the message “You’re Dead Soldier”. Eric threw the game pad down in disgust, as the final message appeared, “Quit or restart Mission”.

Eric met Dave at the Sparrow’s Nest pub. It wasn’t so much their local as their starting out point. What ever they were doing or wherever they were going they would always meet at the Sparrows Nest first. It was a typical new town pub, lino floor in the public bar and carpet in the lounge. The walls throughout were still yellow from the days before the smoking ban as if in defiance of and in tribute to days gone by. There was a pool table and a dartboard in the public bar and hammered copper tables in the lounge. It was a friendly pub weekday evenings and lunchtimes, but at the weekends, from about eight o’clock on Friday and Saturday evenings it was always full and there was always trouble, so much in fact that Peter the landlord had employed a couple of bouncers to try and keep things under control. When Eric arrived Dave was already there playing himself at pool. Dave believed he was pretty good and was forever claiming the lucky shots as planned and skilful. Eric ordered his pint and then joined Dave at the pool table. ‘All right Dave, losing again,’ said Eric. Dave didn’t answer straight away, just looked at Eric sympathetically, as if he had some really bad news and didn’t know where to begin to tell it. ‘Has somebody died?’ asked Eric. Dave was a good four inches taller than Eric’s five foot ten. Dave had a more toned look about him although he had never seen the inside of a gym. Eric was slightly rounder and despite only being in his late twenties had already started to recede in the hairline department. Dave on the other hand had a full head of thick brown hair and brown eyes to match. He wasn’t exactly good looking but whatever he lacked in looks he made up for in confidence and bullshit. Eric on the other hand was the male equivalent of a plane Jane. He had blue green eyes and what was left of his hair was fair. There was a roundness to his face but also youthful, and a cheekiness to his smile. Only he wasn’t smiling at the moment. ‘Dave what’s wrong?’ ‘Have you spoken to Sally today?’ asked Dave. ‘No…’ Eric became concerned. ‘She sent me a text earlier but I didn’t understand it as usual. Why, has something happened?’ Dave and Eric had been friends since school and this wasn’t the first time that Dave had been the bearer of bad news, which was unfortunate for Eric as Dave wasn’t the most sympathetic or understanding person in the world. ‘You’ve got that look Dave, what is going on?’ demanded Eric. ‘Can I see the text Sally sent you?’ Eric handed Dave his mobile. Dave read the message. “ur dpd lve wth it”. ‘You would have thought she could have at least told you to your face,’ said Dave shaking his head. ‘About what?’ Eric was getting a little frustrated.

She’s dumped you mate. I saw her in town this afternoon, I didn’t realise she had done it by text. I thought you looked a little to cheerful when you walked in.’ Eric had look of total confusion and disbelief on his face. ‘Dumped, but how…I’ It’s what the text says, “you’re dumped live with it”. ‘But…’ Eric was gob smacked to say the least, he just couldn’t believe it. ‘I’ve got to talk to her, did she say why.’ ‘What she said was, I’ve dumped Eric, so he probably won’t be that happy and I don’t want him hanging around moping so keep him away from me, ok.’ ‘She said that?’ ‘Yea, sorry mate.’ ‘You’re winding me up, this is a joke.’ ‘It's not a wind up.’ Dave gave Eric a whole heart felt five seconds of pretend sympathy and then said. ‘You’re better off without her anyway, she led you around on a bit of string. What you need is a night on the piss; you never know you might even get lucky.’ It was the last thing Eric wanted but he was so numb he couldn’t answer either way. The only thought he had in his mind, was why?

By the time they reached the fourth pub Eric was pretty drunk. He still had most of his coordination and his speech wasn’t too bad, but Dave had been buying him doubles all night and Eric was now in a fragile temporary state of mind that gave him all the appearances of being “up for it”. He was King of the world, impervious to physical and emotional pain, and that’s what he told every one he met. As well as telling them that he had been dumped, but he was ok. He didn’t need her anyway. There were plenty more fish in the sea. Dave had pulled and was now on a mission of his own. ‘Eric, I think I’m in here. You alright if I disappear.’ ‘No problem mate, you go for it. See you tomorrow yea.’ ‘Yea will do.’ Eric watched Dave leave with a short blond and all his bravado melted away in one sigh. He stared down into his drink and saw Sally’s face smiling back up at him and once again the thought why popped into his head. If only he could talk to her, he just wanted to know why that’s all, he wouldn’t make a scene, he just wanted five minutes to ask why and then he would say fair enough, good luck and be happy, that’s all. He looked down into his drink again and thought well why not. He looked at his watch. She would probably be at the Sparrows Nest anyway. She always went there on a Friday before going on to a club afterwards. Yea, he could do that. He felt himself grow taller, the earlier bravado and alcohol fuelled confidence returned and he was now on a mission, a mission to find out why. He finished his drink in one swallow and headed for the Sparrow’s Nest and an explanation.

The entrance to the Sparrows Nest had the double doors wedged open but the bouncer standing between them filled the gap with little effort. As Eric approached the bouncer, who was not one of the regular doormen, a large hand appeared before him followed by a growl that sounded like No. If Eric had been sober this would have been interpreted as, No go away, you can’t come in. And if Eric had been sober, he would have gone away. But Eric wasn’t sober and the during the thirty minute walk to the Sparrow’s Nest, his last drink had penetrated the blood brain barrier and he was now fighting fit. ‘Why?’ enquired Eric. The very wide bouncer just repeated his command only louder and with more menace. ‘NO.’ ‘Why? I am entitled to a reason; you can’t just say no and not tell me why.’ There was a glint in the bouncer’s eye at Eric refusal to obey. ‘NO.’ Eric was about to get really argumentative and start pointing, which probably wouldn’t have ended well for Eric when a second bouncer appeared. ‘Hello Eric,’ ‘Oh hello Gary.’ Gary turned to the other bouncer. ‘He’s alright, a regular.’ The other bouncer stepped aside giving Eric a look that said this isn’t over. Eric, who was protected by a shield of invincibility, which was powered by Southern Comfort, returned the look with one that said - yea, whatever. The room was packed and Eric had a struggle getting to the bar. Fortunately, the staff new him so he got served without having to wait to long, much to the displeasure of those around him. He looked around in search of Sally but couldn’t see her. He saw one or two other people he knew and chatted briefly, before deciding to call it a night. He managed to persuade Peter the landlord to sell a half bottle of southern Comfort to take away, and planned to go home and drink himself into oblivion. Then he spotted Sally coming out of the ladies toilet. He headed straight for her. ‘Sally.’ ‘Oh god, what do you want?’ ‘An explanation.’ ‘Were finished, explanation enough.’ Despite how upset he was he couldn’t help but want to run his fingers through her soft black hair and his fingertips across her soft pale skin. ‘But you can’t, I, we…’ he wanted to tell her loved her and that he was sure there was something they could do. But the very same fluid that gave him his cloak of invincibility was playing havoc with the connection between his brain and tongue and all he managed was a string of incoherent babble. It seemed also that he was shouting, which drew the attention of the bouncer.

Eric didn’t see the fist or even feel it. Everything just went dark and small sparkly things floated by and everything was nice and peaceful. Then his ears were filled with a rush of sound; the sparkly things disappeared and were replaced with the sight of Sally and the satisfied grin of the bouncer staring down at him. ‘By the way’, said Sally. ‘This is Brian, my new boyfriend.’

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Eric wasn’t really aware of the rain, but one of those few primitive instincts that were still functioning, had urged him to find a cave and get out of the rain. A windowless bus shelter probably wasn’t what his primitive instinct had in mind, as it offered no real protection and Eric didn’t need to get a bus as he was only a few meters from his own front door, but his instinct felt satisfied that it had done all it could do, and that whatever the outcome, could not be held responsible for the consequences.

He looked down at the bottle of Southern Comfort that was attached to his cold wet fingers. There was no point he thought, no point in going on. Eric lifted his arm in an attempt to bring the bottle to his mouth, but the action caused him to fall back into the litter filled corner of the bus shelter and the bottle fell from his drunken grasp. It didn’t have far to fall, but there was sufficient distance for the impact to cause the bottle to crack. Thick liquor oozed out with all the dignity of a nineteen fifties B movie special effect, and slid effortlessly down the side of the bottle. Like an awaiting army, small pools of rainwater waited patiently for the viscous fluid to merge and lead them in an assault on the absorbent material of Eric’s trousers. But Eric didn’t notice, he didn’t even notice the Jack Russell cock its leg and relieve itself on his foot. He was lost in a dream, a dream where Sally was cowering before an enraged Brian. Eric, cool, calm, and clichéd was politely asking Brian to desist. Brian turned, his eyes on fire, muscles flexed, teeth gritted, and growled at Eric ‘Keep out of this wimp, or I’ll rip your head off.’ Eric kept his composure. ‘Look Brian, there really is no need for violence; we can talk this through. Let Sally up.’ At this point Brian threw a punch that could have cracked the jaw of a world heavy weight. Eric sidestepped the speeding fist with gymnastic agility. ‘I don’t want to hurt you Brian,’ he said. Brian launched a second fist of fury; Eric blocked the punch and then launched himself into the air catching Brian with a flying kick to the jaw, followed by a spin and second flying kick to the head, finally landing that special secret punch only known by those who had studied the Ancient Texts, which rendered Brian instantly unconscious. Sally fell into his arms. Her warm body trembled at his touch. Deep blue eyes peered into his, their lips met and a lorry drove past sending a tidal wave of dirty rainwater all over Eric. He jumped up from his corner in shock. The sudden wrench

from drunken fantasy to the wet misery of reality caused Eric’s stomach to unceremoniously launch a mixture of Southern Comfort, peanuts, Cornish pasty and chocolate biscuits at near light speed. The inevitable splash down formed a mosaic of colour on the grey paving. Eric left the scene heading hopefully in the right direction for home, the Jack Russell, who had now been joined by a second Jack Russell, stood for a moment contemplating the scene before them. ’What do you think Toby, a Jackson Pollock?’ Toby the slightly smaller of the two dogs skirted the edges of Eric’s creation. ‘No Jug, the form is all wrong for a Pollock. We would expect more colour, built up in layers, this is just random lumps strewn about the pavement, with no sense or structure.’ ‘Oh an early Emin,’ said Jug. ‘Not quite, it lacks cigarette butts and condoms.’ ‘But is it art Toby, is it art?’ ‘Well, if art is self expression, a manifestation from within, this is the closest you’re going to get to an expression of inner turmoil, so by definition this must be art.’ ‘What is the world coming to Toby?’ ‘I can’t say that I know Jug. Shall we eat?’ ‘Most definitely.’

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Eric did not wake; it was more of a return to consciousness. His first few brain functions told him he was alive, and that his name was Eric. Fine he thought. All perfectly acceptable but he did have the feeling he wasn’t being told everything. Eric’s memory was next to come on line. A face appeared; it was Sally’s. She was smiling; no, she was laughing. How he liked to hear her laugh. A second image began to form, it was a man, but it wasn’t Eric. Then the floodgates opened, and in one big painful rush the whole of the previous evening’s events slammed into existence. Eric groaned mentally. This brought about stage two of Eric’s journey back to full awareness. The groan prompted a physical reaction, which in turn forced his body to engage his nervous system. There was a distant throbbing and a feeling of nausea. He tried to swallow only to find his tongue welded to the roof of his mouth. The distant throbbing now carried a physical sensation on the edge of every dull beat. The nausea, with a swirling motion expanded outwards and upwards from a central point in his stomach and at the same time increasing in its depth of feeling. The throbbing now so intense he thought his head would explode. Eric found himself lying on his side, mouth open. He knew what was coming; there was no stopping it now. His back arched the muscles in his neck tightened and with a sound akin to that of some prehistoric wild beast, delivered his internal tormentor to the absorbent powers of his bedroom carpet.

Eric’s journey from drunken oblivion to reality’s hangover was now, painfully complete.

It took Eric two showers, four cups of coffee and a couple of Alka Seltzer before he felt even remotely human. He sat at his kitchen table staring at its blurred check pattern, failing miserably to re-evaluate his role in life, when the doorbell rang. Eric knew who it was the instant the doorbell chimed. It rang again, and again, and then a brief silence followed by a small squeak as the letterbox flap lifted and a familiar voice shouted through the opening. ‘Eric,’ this was followed by a short pause before what could only be described as a bellow erupted from the letterbox. ‘Eric it’s me, Dave. Come on you lazy bastard, we’ve got a job on for today.’ There was now the sound of a heavy fist banging against the UPVC door. Carefully Eric got up and went to open it. Dave took milliseconds to register Eric’s condition and comment on it. ‘Bloody hell mate, look at the state of you and judging by the state of your eye you must have done some real damage to someone’s fist.’ ‘Ha bloody ha,’ retorted Eric. It was about all he could muster. His wit and sarcasm were still lost in the depths of his hangover. ‘You can tell me all about it on the way,’ he said, dragging Eric out into the street and into his van. As Vans go this was the worst. The bodywork was a combination of grey prima, red prima, and some small but mostly large rust holes. Dave swore blind that it had passed its MOT but would not reveal where. There was a heavy atmosphere made up of body odour, petrol fumes and paint thinners which seemed to rush at Eric like an over excited dog the moment he opened the van door. A large chunk of dash was missing due to Dave’s do-it-yourself alarm installation, which he had started several months ago, and as a consequence there was very little protection from the loud knocking and groaning emanating from the engine. Eric complained. Dave grinned. ‘It’s a working man’s Van. What you can smell is the blood and toil of the working man struggling to make his way in the world.’ ‘Bollocks,’ replied Eric. ‘It’s true, sweat and toil. Years of sweat and toil.’ ‘More like your mum locked you out again and you slept in the van and knocked the thinners tin over.’ ‘True, but at least I didn’t walk into anyone’s fist.’ Eric folded his arms and huffed. ‘Come on misery, tell me all about it.’

The vans engine droned on and so did Eric. He told his tale of woe not once, not twice but several times. Dave did his best to offer sympathy and a few kind words. But after an hour of listening to the same story, Dave felt enough was enough. ‘Eric, you have got to pull yourself together. Life goes on. And besides you get like this with every girl you meet. You have one date and fall head over heels in love and by the second date you’re asking them to marry you. You are your own worst enemy.’ ‘Oh, so it’s all my own fault, well thanks for the support.’ Eric stared down into his lap. He was upset by what Dave had said but a part of him knew it to be true. He wanted to be a hero, to save somebody from a life of drudgery and liberate them into a world of love and kindness. It was his dream; it was also his nature. He had a fairy tale vision of how life should be and tried to make every situation fit the dream. The slightest inkling of a damsel in distress, Eric put on his shining armour and rushed to her aid regardless of whether she wanted it or not, expecting her to fall for his kindness and sensitivity. Eric stared out through the grubby window and watched the road pass by. The fatigue of heartache and hangover combined with the hypnotic effect of endless rolling tarmac opened the doorway to the land of nod, through which Eric drifted to be transformed into the savour of all broken hearts.