The sun arrived right on cue. It streamed in through Frank Diggory’s slatted glass window, easily penetrating through his thin curtains and quickly lit up the room. Within seconds, it’s glow fell on Frank’s weary eyes and jolted them awake.
He grinned.
The darkness had fled from his room. The nightmare had gone.
He needed no alarm clock, or cockerel, to tell him it was morning.
He was awake. Wide awake.
And ready for another day in Paraiso.
And today there was something different. Something small, but it changed everything.
Frank Diggory had made a friend.
Or so it felt like to him.
Light on his feet, he danced down the wooden staircase, grabbing his towel on the way. He washed in the bathroom, singing gleefully a few decibels louder than usual.
Emet held her pillow tightly over her head. His voice was so out of tune, the racket was unbearable. Especially at this time in the morning.
Still, it was better than puking.
He exited the shower and then padded quickly up the stairs again to get dressed. He was torn between waving at a camera he imagined was somewhere high up in the corner of his ceiling, or mooning it, but he thought better of either.
Better not give the game away. Not yet. Let’s see how far they'll go. He thought to himself.
Frank Diggory flicked the radio on. ‘It’s got to be perfect’, his daily refrain, sounded out its bugle call once more.
He got dressed in his usual, plain, cotton trousers and shirt combo.
He crossed the road, as usual, to Kainan Paraiso.
As usual, he was greeted warmly by his hosts, and with the same cheery refrain:
He ate his usual bland breakfast of poached eggs on toast, drank his usual coffee, did not pay his usual bill, and walked out of the restaurant, as usual, straight into his usual bus.
All orchestrated by the incredibly gifted (in his eyes) Ethan Peteros who, having abandoned his coffee to the glass table in front of his screen bank, was now waving a stick he’d found in the forest hear his house as if it was a conductor’s baton, pointing at each of the components of his wonderful plan as they came in right on cue.
Not noticing for a second the simmering resentment they harboured, and the fact that money was losing its power to mollify it.
To Frank Diggory, the day was just the same as every other day. Yet somehow it was better. The sun was brighter. The colours more vivid. He even found himself smiling wider.
Life just seemed to be different. But in a good way.
Because Frank Diggory had made a connection.
He had a friend.
And the incredibly gifted Ethan Peteros had not noticed it at all.
Frank Diggory’s day passed like every other: workshopping and proposing in vain in the morning; take-away lunch at noon time; irritating and futile visits in the afternoon.
Nothing at all unusual there.
But Frank did it all with a lighter spirit.
And no-one noticed.
No-one but Frank.
While Frank was floating through a largely fruitless day, Ethan Peteros was playing a battle game on his computer. He had time on his hands while Frank was otherwise occupied.
Besides, there were enough informers on the ground to keep watch on him.
A video call came in.
Ethan jumped and paused his game.
‘Mister Mayor, sir!’ he greeted the caller.
On the other end, a smallish man with greying hair and an intense stare was on camera. Mayor John Alvarez was not universally liked or respected, but he had strong business contacts and had come to power by sending his staff door-to-door with envelopes of cash during the last election. ‘Hello, Mister Peteros. Kumusta?’
‘I am well, sir. And you?’ Ethan asked timorously.
‘I am well.’ the Mayor boomed. ‘My construction company won the contract for a new Barangay Hall.’
Ethan was enthusiastic with his response. At least outwardly. ‘Congratulations, sir! That is good news.’
‘Thank you.’ the Mayor smiled. ‘We had the strongest tender. Of course, ours was the only tender. And it is for our Barangay Hall. But in life you must take the win.’
And Mayor John Alvarez had a talent for taking wins – from his own council.
‘And how is our patient?’ he asked.
‘Fine, sir. I have been keeping a close eye on him. Doctor Bedi too. She has confirmed he is healthy.’ Ethan informed him.
‘Yes, but is he happy?’ the Mayor fired back.
‘I don’t see why not. He has everything he wants.’ Ethan parried.
The Mayor was not thrilled by this response. ‘A man can have everything he wants and his life can still be empty and meaningless. Our patient must be kept happy. As happy as possible. That way, he will forget. And we will continue to be paid well to take care of him.’
‘Yes, sir. I understand.’ Ethan agreed.
‘Keep him happy, Mister Peteros. Make him forget.’ the Mayor told him, before ending the call.
Frank Diggory came home at the usual time. Ate the usual dinner. Appeared at Doctor Zoya Bedi’s surgery as usual.
Did not wait for his appointment, as usual.
Went straight into her consulting room, as usual.
Laid on the couch, as usual.
She asked him, in the same vaguely indifferent Indian accent, as usual, ‘So, Mister Frank, you are here about your dreams. Again.’
‘Yes, I am.’ he confirmed, as usual. ‘This time it was a real doozy. Made me sick, in fact.’
Doctor Bedi’s eyebrows raised a little above her indifference. She took a notepad and pen on which to fake taking notes, casted a sideways glance towards the hidden camera in the corner of the ceiling, and turned her chair to face Frank with a little more intent. ‘Really? That’s unusual. Please continue.’ she instructed him in her world-worn, middle-aged drawl.
Ethan nearly spat iced tea and rice from his mouth in surprise. Something interesting was happening. For a change. He clicked some keys on his keyboard.
This had to be recorded.
Frank began. ‘I was in a nightclub.’
Doctor Bedi immediately wanted more. ‘Where? Here? Scotland? Or somewhere else?’
‘Scotland. Glasgow, I think.’ Frank told her.
‘How did you know?’
‘It was really cold outside. But people were still dressed like it was Barbados.’
Doctor Bedi smiled knowingly. ‘But I’ve been go the UK. That might not be Glasgow. It could have been somewhere else. Like Newcastle.’
‘No, it wasn’t Newcastle. Definitely not Newcastle.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I could understand what people were saying.’ Frank told her. ‘Besides, my friend was there. Jimmy Mac. He was a homeboy. He got homesick if you took him anywhere past Rutherglen. It was Glasgow. Definitely Glasgow.’
Doctor Bedi goaded him gently. ‘Okay. Go on.’
‘I was out with Jimmy in a nightclub. It was a Thursday night.’
‘Out on a school night? You rebel!’ Doctor Bedi joked sarcastically, her jaded tone clear.
Frank continued. ‘We were on the job. Intelligence work. But I took him to the bar. We had a few drinks. Maybe too many.’
Doctor Bedi’s face contorted in mild disgust. ‘Drinking alcohol on the job? I cannot approve. What were you: politicians?’
Frank's face was the epitome of regret. ‘Trust me, Doctor Bedi, that’s not the worst of it. I felt really light-headed. Woozy. Out of control.’
‘Welcome to “Alcohol 101”.’ Doctor Bedi told him dryly.
‘No, it was worse.’ Frank retorted. ‘In my dreams I have a really high alcohol tolerance. Liver of steel. That many drinks should not have been a problem for me.’
Doctor Bedi brushed it off. ‘Weird boast, but never mind. Maybe you will be more careful with alcohol in your subconscious. It will damage your imaginary liver. What are you trying to say?’
‘I think my drink was spiked.’ Frank said matter-of-factly.
‘In your dream?’
‘In my dream.’
‘Which you correlate to your past.’
‘Yes. I think so. Yes. That would make sense.’
‘Are you sure you hadn’t taken any drugs or medication? In your dream.’
Frank firmly shook his head. ‘No, Ma’am. No way. Drink on a school night? No problem. Liver of steel. Getting high on a school night? No chance. No way. Not me. That’s where I draw the line. In my dreams, I mean.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ Doctor Bedi commented.
Frank was a little confused. ‘That I don’t dream of doing illegal narcotics on a school night?’
‘That you have a line. In your dreams.’ Doctor Bedi quipped dryly. ‘Continue. Please.’
Frank continued. ‘I was out of it. But I remember making an approach to this really beautiful girl.’
Doctor Bedi interjected. ‘Mister Diggory, I feel that I must inform you of this important fact: I do not analyse erotic dreams. Have them if you wish. Just do not involve me. In any capacity.’
Frank was quick to set the record straight. ‘Doctor Bedi, my dreams are far from erotic. And I can assure that they do not involve you. At all.’
‘Twenty years ago I would have taken that as an insult. But not now. Now we are all so sensitive.’ Doctor Bedi told him. ‘Now I am both relieved and offended at the same time. I believe the psychological term for this state of affairs is “womanhood”. Anyway, continue.’
‘So, she slapped me.’ Frank told her calmly.
‘You said this dream was not erotic.’
‘It wasn’t. She then pushed me.’
‘Okay, Mister Diggory, I am going to have to ask you to calm down. Maybe do some breathing exercises.’ Doctor Bedi told him.
‘I am calm.’ Frank told her. ‘A little confused. But calm.’
Doctor Bedi excused herself. ‘Okay. Okay. So maybe “erotic” means different things to different people. Please excuse me if I breathe a little deeper and slower. Go on.’
‘This big guy – I guess he was some kind of bodyguard – came over and hit me. So I hit him back. We started a brawl. I got him on the floor. He pulled a knife on me. We wrestled.’
‘Still not erotic?’
‘Far from it.’
‘You know, I really hate the menopause. And HRT. Continue.’
‘I got the knife. I stumbled. Next thing I knew, there was a knife in his chest. What does it mean?’
Doctor Bedi looked up from her faked notes, which more resembled a list of places to visit during her next trip to Cebu. ‘It means you stabbed him. In your dreams, of course.’
Frank’s face contorted again, this time in shock. ‘But did it really happen? Did I stab a man and then leave him for dead? Or is it symbolic of something?’
‘Symbolic of you stabbing someone, you mean?’ Doctor Bedi probed.
‘Well... Yes... No... I don’t know!’ Frank stammered.
Doctor Bedi cleared her throat. ‘Mister Diggory, as you know, I am a Hindu. This means that I am clear on a lot of things – like, being a vegetarian, which, by the way, in this country, is close to impossible; that the film “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom” was an Imperialist fantasy, even if Harrison Ford was one hot totty, and that Narendra Modi is the political version of the “Rolling Stones”. But I am also unclear on others, like: “What is good and what is evil?” “Will I be reincarnated as frogspawn or as a multi-billionaire with wings?” “Will any of the TV channels in this country ever show cricket?” The depths of the human subconscious mind is something I am really unclear on. Because no-one really knows. It is one of life’s mysteries. It could be that your subconscious mind is processing a past life event while you sleep. It could be that it is replaying the plot line of a Tagalog drama – although, since you said it was cold outside, I sincerely doubt it. Filipinos do not make dramas about the cold. The main thing is that you come here and talk about it and I get paid. This is what counts.’
‘But can’t you even give me something to help me sleep?’ Frank asked her, his expression a picture of mild desperation.
‘Well, you know, I normally do not agree with just handing out drugs. Especially as the drug companies here do not give them to me for free and they are really expensive. The good ones anyway. Only the Indian generic ones are cheap. But tell me, Mister Diggory, have you heard of the placebo effect?’
Frank nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’
Doctor Bedi swung her chair around and took out a pill bottle with a few pills inside. ‘In that case, you can try this one for tonight.’ She handed the pill bottle to Frank. ‘I promise you that they are not expired. The year on the expiry date of these pills always looks like it has been scratched off with a Sharpey.’
‘Thank you, Doctor Bedi. I really appreciate it.’ Frank acknowledged.
‘You are welcome. Just remember: you can come to see me any time, except when my surgery is closed. Or when I am with somebody else. Or when “Boys Over Flowers” is on. And the next time you have a dream, it should not involve me. Even if it is erotic. Because I will be most offended. Honoured, but offended.’
And with that, Frank bade her farewell and went home.
Once more, he turned on his TV to numb his senses with mindless dramas.
Only this time, he decided to channel-hop.
And that was when he saw them: BBC 1, BBC 2, ITV, Channels 4 and 5 (although they really did not interest him), Sky News, Sky Sports, and lots of other Skys.
Frank Diggory had British TV.
Once more, as was now his habit, he bathed at 8pm.
Once more, he and Emet had a good chinwag about their day through the bathroom wall, while sloshing water over themselves.
‘I have British TV.’ Frank told her. ‘Even the premium channels.’
‘Really? I wonder where they came from?’ Emet asked rhetorically in jest, when she knew full well.
‘It means I can watch the football tomorrow.’ Frank told her.
‘Really?’ Emet asked, with a growing air of sarcasm.
‘You could watch it, if you wanted. With me.’ Frank blurted.
Silence. Uneasy silence.
‘And other people, of course.’ Frank added. ‘You can all come.’
Emet was distracted. ‘Sorry, I was digging some dirt from underneath my toenails. What was that?’
‘Would you like to come and watch the Old Firm tomorrow with me? And other people, of course.’ Frank asked her.
‘Sounds good. Love to.’ Emmet replied. ‘But tell me first: what is the “Old Firm”? Is it a movie?’
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