But on the edge of his mind, he could see her, that other, older her, now, standing with him on those silver rocks in the light of the moon. She put her lips to his ear and whispered something, but still he couldn’t quite hear it.

On the branches of the trees around the glade, a circle of owls had landed, standing guard at all points of the compass.

Or perhaps that was in the dream, too.

She was beautiful. ‘Verity…’ His lips formed the word.

‘I say, are you all right?’ A voice interrupted him.

He sat bolt upright. ‘No!’ he yelled at the newcomer. He scrambled to his feet and stared manically at a young man with a centre-parting, who backed away from the madman that he’d woken up. ‘She would have told me! She would have told me what I need to know. If I’m a bully or a victim or a coward or a hero. She would have said.’

The man raised his hands in pacification. ‘All right, old chap. All right. I’ll leave you to sleep.’

Smith rubbed a hand through his hair, realising how wild it had become. ‘No. Stay. Bad dreams. What are you doing here?’

‘I’m looking for a chum of mine. I met a young lad and⁠ —’

‘You did? Where?’

‘Down by this barrier thing. He let me through. Sent me this way, but it doesn’t seem⁠ —’

‘He can do that?’ The question was almost to himself.

‘Apparently, yes. What’s happened to the school? Do you know what’s going on?’

‘Less than you do. Can you take me there? To the barrier?’

‘Why, yes, of course. Look, who are you?’

‘Doctor.’

‘Doctor who?’

‘We’ll see. Who are you?’

‘Richard. Richard Hadleman. Soon to be this constituency’s MP, hopefully.’

Hadleman extended his hand to the ragged figure, who shook it distractedly and grabbed his umbrella from the ground. ‘Well,’ Smith muttered, ‘you won’t need much of a majority. This constituency’s getting smaller all the time.’

They walked through the forest, Hadleman staring at the silver dust around them.

‘It’s like A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ he whispered.

‘More like Hamlet. Tell me, do you believe in God?’

Hadleman, looking around him, was caught off guard by the question. ‘Eh? Oh, no, not at all, actually. I believe in dialectical materialism, the force of history and the revolution. Two ideas collide, form a new idea, a synthesis, and that new idea is naturally revolutionary. History’s like a big hill, and we’re all rolling down it towards the inevitable. Towards the revolution.’ He stopped. ‘Of course, that needn’t necessarily be a violent revolution. What, ah, are your politics, Doctor?’

Smith considered. ‘I don’t know if I have any. Not yet. I’ll let you know when my own synthesis happens.’