Now I’m in therapist mode. I’m not even scared any more, even though there’s a strange smell coming from the corpse. It’s not a dead-body smell, not even an organic smell. It’s a sharp, chemical tang. The smell makes my little hairs stand up in my dream. I can see them on my dream forearm.

‘Because it’s the only thing I can contribute. Other people have working brains and mine is a ruin. Can’t remember things. Head full of nightmares.’

‘Nightmares are horrible,’ I say, just to keep it talking. ‘But you clearly have a working brain. We’re standing here talking to each other.’

‘No we’re not.’

And now we’re in the Dream City. We are in a rundown park near one of the canal bywaters, where neon-bright canoes are moored for repair. It is all very familiar in the way that you ‘remember’ things in dreams even though you’ve never really experienced them. There is deep backstory in the Dream City, as if I’ve been coming here all my life even though I haven’t. Someone obviously has, because everything about it is vivid. I can smell the trees and even the fruit on the trees. Greyscale people are sleeping in their branches, draped like leopards.

‘Why did you assault me?’ I ask the corpse. Its body and face still look the same, although now it has trainers on in addition to its velvet dressing gown.

‘Just trying to get your attention. Parts of my brain are dying. When can I expect results? I’m a results-oriented individual, you know. Get it done.’ The corpse turns and starts to shuffle off into the parkland.

‘Wait!’ I say. ‘Who are you? What do you mean, I’m supposed to rebuild your networks? What’s the matter? Why are you a corpse? Can’t we just talk about this?’

The corpse ignores me. I run after it, grab it by the shoulder, give it a shake.

It falls apart. Messily. Like Stilton cheese when you try to put it on a posh water biscuit. As its head hits the turf, the mouth says, ‘Remind me to give you the last of those tapes to convert. I keep forgetting.’

Then the face crumbles bloodlessly into many wet chunks.

Our friend can go again

Our friend can go again

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ Melodie’s mother says. Her Canadian accent is so cute. It’s the day after my corpse dream and the late-night session with Emile the hairdresser, and we are sitting in the sun outside a cafe near the Southbank Centre, close to where Mel’s orchestra are rehearsing. Some other harpist will be playing her part. I can’t begin to describe how it makes me feel to look at Mel’s mum. Her daughter is gone for ever. I should have been able to save her.