Awakening

Half awake, he lay on his back looking up at an unfamiliar ceiling. One of those high, old, pressed metal ceilings with its lines, circles and patterns of leaves still visible through countless coats of paint. The leafy pattern was repeated in the wallpaper and on the long drapes which added a green tinge to the early morning light filtering into the room through its three narrow windows. The furniture was simple. The big bed. A bedside chest with a reading lamp. A tall, antique wardrobe in the corner. But where was he?

He caught sight of his hands... but they were not his hands. These hands were old, gnarled, twisted by arthritis and cracked from years of manual labour. His hands were barely thirty years old and had not seen anything like hard work since he'd mowed lawns while still at high school. He found he could move the hands and tentatively felt his chin. Instead of the usual morning stubble there was a beard -- short and well trimmed but a beard nevertheless. He was sure he had shaved yesterday. Whose body was this?

It required all his strength to throw back the bed covers and reveal a thin, almost emaciated form clad in faded, blue striped pyjamas. He never wore pyjamas. He moved the spindly legs back and forth and, when he was confident they would obey instructions, swung them over the side of the bed and, pushing with the arms, raised the stranger's body to a standing position. It swayed alarmingly but stayed upright. He desperately needed to see the face. There was a tall mirror in the wardrobe door. He lurched towards it. Standing in front of the mirror he was shocked to find he wasn't there. At least his reflection wasn't. The room was reflected as it should be but no matter how he moved, only the furniture was visible between the green, leafy, wallpapered walls. The old body, which still leaned drunkenly, was nowhere to be seen. Overcome by anxiety he staggered back and fell on the bed, gasping for breath.

Later he heard the voice. It was far away and hollow sounding as though coming to him from the bottom of a well. It mentioned names he felt he should recognise. A Senator Hilary somebody-or-other. And a Bill Clifton was it? Then the angels woke him.

"Hallelujah! Hallelujah!" they sang. "Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Halle..."

The singing stopped abruptly. Was he in Heaven? If so, why did he have this splitting headache and why was there a taste in his mouth as though a colony of fruit bats were expected back at any moment?

Apprehensively he looked at his hands again. Yes, these hands were his. He felt his chin. The beard had gone and only the stubble remained. He glanced around the room -- his own bedroom with his own bed. More confident now, he heaved himself upright and shambled naked down the hallway to the bathroom.

His reflection regarded him accusingly through wary, bloodshot eyes from the door of the shaving cabinet,.

"You're back, I see," he muttered in its direction. "All right for you but I have to get to work. Wonder what day it is?"

He turned the shower on to run hot while he padded back to the bedroom. The clock radio, having failed to wake him at the selected time, had long since fallen silent, but the time glowed red -- 8.56. Finding his watch amongst the litter on the bedside table, he looked at the date. It was Sunday. That was a relief. He didn't open the shop until around 10.30 on a Sunday morning. Time for a quick shower and a large pot of coffee.

Back in the bathroom he wiped the condensed steam from the mirror to make sure the reflection was still there. He looked it squarely in the eye.

"Why did you get drunk last night? And you must have eaten lobster. Why did you do it? You know it always gives you weird dreams. Why did you do it? Tell me why."

The reflection stared back stolidly, saying nothing.

A hazy, foggy memory began a slow spiral to the surface of his brain. The previous evening, before locking up and heading off on one of his rare visits to the Club, he had stuck a roughly printed notice to the door of the shop. It advised all would-be customers....

He turned the shower off and found a couple of aspirins. The coffee could wait. On his way back to bed, he glanced towards the shaving cabinet. The reflection had again taken refuge behind its veil of condensed steam; but he knew it was still there as he muttered in its direction,

"Thank Christ for Easter."