... In your dreams!

Part Four

 

2

Parsons sprung up in panic. He placed both hands firmly on the mattress straight as an arrow and looked straight ahead into the dark. For a few seconds, while still trying to adjust to the darkness of the room, he tried to find his bearings. He mentally pictured everything he thought should be in the room that he hoped he was in. Everything slowly came back to him. Confident all was in order he reached for the lamp on his right side of the bed and switched it on.

He carefully scanned the room. Everything he had pictured in the dark appeared in its rightful place; the bed he was lying on, the sash window in front of the bed. The two-piece chest of drawers to the front left side of his bed as well as Edward Hopper’s Gas 1940 picture on the left side of the windows, on top of the chest of drawers. The straw basket he used for dirty clothes leaning on the right side of the wardrobe. The wardrobe, of course. Nothing seemed out of place. Also just as reassuring, the room stopped moving.

But more importantly, he was in London.

Parsons’ heart was beating hysterically. He could hear his laboured breath compete with the pounding of his heart. His hands were trembling and his vest, damp in sweat stuck to his chest.

Parsons was now sufficiently alert to realise he was almost hyperventilating.

Slow down. Breathe in and out...slowly..., he told himself.

I’m back at home again, safe in my own bed, in my own room. In London, he was saying in a loud whisper desperately reassuring himself.

Parsons pulled the sheet and thin woollen blanket to one side and slowly placed his feet on the floor while vacantly gazing across his room, scanning every object, from furniture to gadget, to pieces of loose paper on top of the chests. Anything to confirm he was actually in his room.

His throat felt dry, more out of anxiety and nerves than thirst. He still felt sleepy but was afraid to fall asleep again. After all, sleeping was the reason for all his anxieties. This was the second night in a row Parsons had woken in a sudden burst of panic. The night before, he could not recall having a dream. Was he simply remembering what happened on his way back from Singapore?

Jack Parsons found it difficult to separate dream from reality. He still needed proof he was at his home in Lee, South East London. Not at Singapore-Changi airport, trying to board a flight to Jakarta he was not supposed to take in the first place; but just as importantly, who the hell was Clive Wong?

Parsons tucked his feet back in the bed and pulled the covers over him again. He noticed the red led glowing from his alarm clock on the side table left of his bed, but dared not check the time. He needed as much sleep as possible and checking the time was not a good idea.

 He had a conference call with clients from Miami scheduled for two pm. All the questions and issues he had to talk over were in his computer at his office. After work, he had dinner scheduled with Brian Rifkin. Parsons had a busy day ahead. He needed as much quality rest as possible.

Parsons rolled to his right and sunk his head into his pillow. It worked. He soon drifted back to sleep again, slowly loosing himself in an uneasy but numbingly comfortable stupor.

There was one last thing he realized before blanking out. He had never set foot in Singapore before.