No silver tray bearing a decanter of water, and two accompanying goblets. Of course not, she thought, angrily: all that existed 20 years in the future, if they existed at all.“Dammit, Leda!” she shouted. “Why didn’t you explain shit!” Furious, she drew back her fist to punch the wall.No, no, no, she thought. Don’t you dare do that! Trembling, she banged the fist on her thigh instead, and stared into the maddeningly empty room.The thought of entering a room with no windows and no visible exists, and no assurance that her ‘poof’ gesture would prove a repeatable ‘key’, made her bowels feel dangerously loose. Unconsciously, she backed slowly away from the door. She blinked as the door suddenly reverse-dilated, leaving an unbroken wall surface again. “Crap,” she rasped, bumping the opposite wall.Her only clear option lay to the left: down the passageway to the intersecting corridor, and on to Leda’s suite. French doors opened onto the balcony, she remembered, and fresh air. Go, she. There, the A120 gets serious past Stansted, so I got on the narrower A1060 and weaved my way to Chelmsford. I’d just as well avoided that city, but navigated through onto the A414 to Maldon, and I was home.The call came a couple of weeks after my coffee with Doctor Green. I was invited to the Health Centre for an interview. Well, it was an interview. Doctor Green was not present – I was, um, interrogated, by the three senior partners in the practice. It was clear that Doctor Scattergood, the Principal, was of the old school, sceptical, if not even dismissive, of ‘talking therapies’. He was clearly within a year or two of retirement, but reluctant to surrender any of his control over the policies of the practice. Doctor Ford, who was male and Doctor Ellis, female, were both ten years or so younger than their Principal and less ... set in their ways, but reluctant to challenge Doctor Scattergood directly.“Doctors,” I sighed eventually, “I didn’t seek this interview. I don’t claim any.
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