The early summer's evening lay over the sleepy fields as I turned on the radio. The programme was playing band music from the thirties and forties and, much to my surprise, I found myself humming. My hands tapped the beat on the steering wheel and I joined in with the chorus. I'd no idea where I'd heard it before but it I just knew where it would go. Pictures drifted into my mind in full, vivid colour of a ballroom, filled with men in uniform and couples dancing and drinking while on the stage at the front, the band played happily. The crackle filled broadcast, captivated me on a level which I had not experienced before. A shiver ricocheted from vertebra to coccyx and as the music faded the announcer spoke. 'That was Ambrose and his Orchestra playing at the Savoy in 1943.' The announcement amplified the feeling of déjà vu for me and the feeling persisted with me long after I had switched the radio off, but by the next day it had faded into a distant but interesting experience. I continued with my life as normal, blissfully unaware of what was to occur a few months later and which, in a way, was to leave me less sure of my place in the grand scheme of the Cosmos.

Mrs Spencer was a very ordinary looking lady dressed in a cardy and wearing slippers. Her bleached youthful cut hair looked odd against the lined face of a woman used to hardship. Her house was neat and functional and the presence of native American Indian paraphernalia jumbled amongst the painted plaster cats gave only a small clue to her calling. She had a very warm, caring manner about her and despite my scepticism I liked her immediately. My friend Sal had recommended her after I'd related my radio tale to her one drunken evening at a 'do'.

I should have known better. I knew Sal was a compulsive follower of any and every crackpot new age fad. However, my better instinct was suborned to intrigue and I presented myself to the lady as arranged. Silver crossed her hand in the distinctly unmetallic form of a twenty quid note, which, I noted should I ever sink to burglary as a career, disappeared into a slot in the top of a china cat's head on the mantle-piece. She sat me down and began to play some sort of whale music and asked me to close my eyes. Slowly, at her insistence I felt myself slip into a relaxed state. I was fully conscious but half asleep as well. 'Imagine', she said 'you are in a long corridor with doors leading off to the side.' I imagined and nodded my head. 'Pick one. Any one and open the door. Go in and tell me what you see.' I did as I was told, even mentally turning the brass door handle. I closed it behind me and found I was totally sightless. Perturbed, I waited until I sensed something happening. I now relate to you what I experienced.

All around me is impenetrable darkness and a blackness, which stifles me and sucks my breath into short painful gasps. And then, slowly, I begin to make out a little. As if suspended in the sky I can see the silvery grey clusters of water vapour that form a mass of clouds drenched in moonlight. An overwhelming feeling of terror encompasses me. A movement draws my eye fearfully, and unwillingly, into the cloud where I can just make out a shape moving away into the grey mass. The shape is as familiar as all of the aeroplanes I have constructed during my model making play as a child. An aircraft with twin tails plunging through the shadows is now clearly visible, and I can make out clearly, that painted onto the tail is a Swastika. The picture dissolves slowly into another tableau in front of my eyes, but one that is even more real than the first.

Hard, ribbed metal projects into my back uncomfortably. Coldness penetrates and numbs my skin beneath the unfamiliar bulk of my clothing. Dully I gaze around me trying to make sense of the environment. Wind whips at my face continually and the noise of heavy engines throbs through the darkness of my world yet the rhythm of the sound is strangely comforting as if it is something with which I am used to living. Slowly my head turns towards my left. In the darkness, I can see a panel of switches above a small table, illuminated by a low green light. I think hard about where I am but cannot fathom it. The darkened, windswept world I inhabit is beginning to take on a form I recognise, although I do not know why or how, I seem to be in a bomber. A Lancaster bomber although that is impossible because I know that the date is 1998.

To my right, the reason for the wind becomes apparent. A large, ragged hole, close to where I sit permits me to see, faintly, in the darkness, clouds below and to the side. I look past the hole and follow the metal wall until it fades into black. My clothing is alien. I am wearing a sort of boiler suit in khaki. Thick gloves sheath my hands and when I move my head, I become aware of a mask dangling below my chin. A leather helmet dulls the noise a little.

My eyes travel downwards. From the waist down the suit has changed colour from dull brown to black. Clad in dirty sheepskin lined boots, my legs lie unmoving if front of me, stretching limply toward the other side of the fuselage. I am unaware of any feeling or sensation in them and begin to suffer a rising sense of frustration. Desperately, I look around me for signs of another human being and, although I see no one, I am aware of muffled voices forward of my position on the floor. I know that I should be able to see the Navigator from where I am but there is no one. I try calling and then shouting loudly.
'Where's the Navigator?'
My voice seems weaker than I expected and it tails off without result. Only the relentless sound of the engines and wind fills my ears.
'Skipper.'
Nothing.

An interesting phenomenon is now attracting my attention. Below my legs, just visible in the dim light, the metal upon which I sit, is washed by a swirling, eddying black liquid with tiny silver reflections from bubbles of trapped air here and there. There is so much liquid, so much. Unintentionally and unstoppably, my upper body slides against the metal behind me until it falls sideways from my upright sitting position and I can feel the cold wet metal of the floor resting on my cheek. The wetness is viscous and sticky on my skin and the wind plays with the hair projecting from the helmet. By moving my eyes up to the top of my vision I can just make out the lightening sky outside the hole, as the dawn begins to rise. The kaleidoscope of colour fades and swims in front of my eyes, then begins to turn from blacks, greys and browns into colour again. Below, a coastline trimmed by a white frothed tide gives way to dull yellow and green fields with, here and there, a scattering of farmhouses and villages. I am not in pain but just very, very tired now, as if I've worked a very long night shift. I long to close my eyes but just know that I really shouldn't do that. My eyes remain open though the wind on the lashes forces an annoying twitching motion in my face. Shouting reaches my ears over the wind and a shadowy figure aft of me ducks in and out of the blackness, busying itself. Once it turned and looked towards me but I could not make out his face or if he actually saw me on the floor.

How long I lie there I do not know but I watch the ground growing brighter and nearer and the fields growing larger and larger as we descend. Images drift in and out of my mind. Music, a hotel foyer and a laughing, bright-eyed girl holding my hand, dragging me to the dance floor. I regret my reluctance and want to run, scooping her into my arms and hold her again. Uniforms and girls, laughter and passion, life and music are all around me. Sadness swamps me totally at the thought of never being part of that world again. And the girl. What will she do if I'm gone? Will she also be denied them too?

The images fizz and fade in front of me and are replaced by another scene. Watching unseen by the players I ponder the activity unfolding in front of me. The grey morning light sits heavily on the green airfield with its hangars and gun emplacements in the distance. Trees behind a small fence are motionless in the slightly misty atmosphere. In the foreground a huge black shape crouches still and menacing on the tarmac. Surrounding the Lancaster, a number of Groundcrew personnel, firemen and ambulance people are busying themselves around a huge hole in the port side of the aeroplane. Holes litter the rest of the fuselage and perspex of the gunner's bubbles. I can even smell the sweet aroma of hydraulic fuel and petrol. A stretcher is brought out from the melee and is rushed by panting orderlies past me and into the waiting box of an ambulance. As I look down at the young face with a thin moustache I recognise him even in sleep. The Navigator. Five airmen of dishevelled appearance stand smoking near the aeroplane with grim expressions on their faces watching the ambulance depart. A rising sense of panic and sadness overwhelms me as they turn back to look at the aeroplane as another stretcher is passed slowly and carefully over the heads of the airmen. Lying on the stretcher and shrouded from head to toe by a grey, coarse blanket, lies a body. I know who it is.

With tears streaming down my face, I related this to Mrs Spencer. She talked calmly and with sympathy. Slowly she brought the session to an end and, finally, with my red rimmed eyes open I took advantage of the box of tissues she proffered. With a serious look on her face she regarded me.
'You need to come back and see me again. This isn't finished for you yet.'
I nodded without any enthusiasm. Thank God I paid her before starting this mumbo jumbo.
I headed off down the garden path and returned her wave, smiling. Quickly I scurried to the car and jumped in, relieved to be back in the real world of here and now. I couldn't believe what I'd just experienced. I couldn't believe I'd gone through with it for a just couple of quid bet. I wouldn't claim the money. I'd deny that I ever went. I wanted to forget it all and as I drove home I rationalised and deconstructed the experience. Regression therapy. What nonsense. My hand reached for the radio, but then withdrew, unable or unwilling to turn the switch on.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...