Tomorrow is Another Year: Is a year of years the end of the beginning, or the beginning of the end?

By Scott Tierney

When Michael accepts a nondescript job for a nameless London-based company, he finds himself embroiled in a fantastical situation: every time he wakes, time has progressed one single year. At first this seems like a gift; but as the future spirals out of control, and the motives of his titanic employer, Greenwood, prove entangling, he discovers it to be a curse...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Acorn Books
• Release date: Aug 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781785387470

Book preview

Year

1

A second too late. As per usual...

If he hadn’t been lodged behind that woman at the turnstiles - slapping her Oyster card against the scanner as though it were the last smears of butter on foil - he would have caught that now departing tube train and been on his way home. There would be another along in a matter of minutes, of course, and another after that; but by the swelling mass of busy-ness people now converging at the platform, Michael knew he now faced the kind of compression only deep-sea divers should have to endure. Less hassle to walk home, he figured, regardless of the rain. And so he did just that, treading London’s glazed evening pavements with anything but grace - making use of his iPod and the first randomized song as a means to hold him tight - bumping shoulders and ducking umbrellas, trying to unravel the implications of what exactly had just transpired during this evening’s surreal interview.

Deep in retrospect he cursed himself for not asking more questions, about the hours, the salary, benefits, or what his position would actually entail. Michael wasn’t accustomed to landing jobs on the first interview, nor in the first five minutes - or at all, for that matter. So why had today’s encounter been so successful? And immediately so? Yet, like a startled sheep, he’d allowed himself to be herded from his new offices with nothing but a limp and automated handshake as an adjournment, a new, unknown profession apparently his.

Although this sudden and unexpected springboard into employment left him feeling light headed, he was relieved to have at least tied down some form of income, however spurious and short term. The months - if not years, he considered - leading up to today’s interview had been arduous: baron of income and forced to take nibbles from his ever decreasing savings, Michael had found himself directionless, a creature of daytime TV, impotent of all initiative. His career - as others would call it - had stalled; and his private life - as others would claim it - was essentially non existent. Family feuds had escalated beyond repair, and friendships had dwindled away like streams under a water wheel - he’d slammed more doors than opened recently, shutting himself off from the outside world, going his own way through spite rather than fury.

Now it was just him, he told himself.

Him and him alone.

Alone on the precipice of a job he knew nothing about, only that it started at 9am tomorrow, and it paid.

He needed to get home, out of this rain, and prepare...

And so Michael continued to follow the streets of inner city London back to his apartment - uncertain, bemused, blinkered by his conundrums - past the familiar billboards, peeling rave posters and perpetual supermarkets, wandering in through habit to buy milk and a bottle of cheap and deserved celebratory, his future seemingly shackled in motion.

Michael’s apartment was ‘desirably located’ a forecourt away from a blistered, gravel-spitting main road - the kind of strip which rattled to articulated lorries by day, mopeds by night - where every Sunday morning was greeted with someone’s half-slurped can of cider, perched on the doorstep. The forecourt was faring little better, most of its paving slabs either lopsided or smashed like an old lichen mosaic. As Michael neared the entrance a man passed by. He was wheeling a rickety stall of produce which juddered as it traversed each crooked slab, before slamming into a lock-up behind the apartments with a crash of galvanised steel. Michael looked forward to hearing that again at first light...the complex’s proverbial cockerel.

Still, the apartment was home, his box within a box - four flights up, four doors down, all bought yet never quite paid for, a retreat from the reality beyond.

To view it from above, the layout of his apartment took the form of a TV dinner, with a small, single space segmented into smaller living compartments. Michael had never enquired what the building had been previously, but he guessed by the painted brick, hard wood floor and ceiling jousts that it used to be a factory of some sort, with his divvy located to the front of the building. At least the view across the city made up for the rest of the apartment’s shortcomings - such as how the bare partitioning walls were little more than balanced playing cards wedged sturdy with his unpacked belongings - with several tall, single glazed windows lining the room. Most of these windows had sills stacked with unread books and sealed DVDs; but one held a large, round goldfish bowl which housed a single shimmering incumbent. Through routine, Michael scattered a few flakes of food onto the water’s surface. Immediately the little fish gobbled them up - not allowing a single morsel to fall to the bed of glass pebbles - before dashing back under the safety of its plastic model church, not to be seen until next feeding.

Still scared of the bubbles, huh? Michael said, inspecting the aerator. He’d been meaning to get it fixed for a while now. For some reason, rather than producing a steady stream of tiny bubbles, the aerator instead spluttered large orbs of air which wriggled upwards before bursting on the surface. No wonder the little fella was scared, enough to put the fear of God into anyone.

However, aquarium repairs would have to wait - for the first time in longer than he could remember, Michael actually had tasks to occupy his evening.

Fail to prepare, he urged himself, prepare to fail.

For the rest of the evening Michael prepared meticulously for his opening day of employment, determined to make a defining first impression at the very least. He checked the contents of his shoulder bag, listing wallet, water, keys, directions and essentials - the bag was still a little damp from the evening’s rain and the day previous, but an overnight airing would cure that. The same applied to his sole, dusty black suit, which he draped over the radiators to ensure it was dry for the morning. Then he laid out the rest of his clothing on the bed: a crisp shirt, tie, belt, and buffed shoes to match - all fresh from the wash and sprayed generously with deodorant.

With his attire in place he set his breakfast on the table: bowl and spoon awaiting cereal, a mug sprinkled with coffee granules and sugar. Then followed shaving and bathing, a clipping of the nails and brushing of the teeth, before checking tomorrow’s weather on his phone - more downpours forecast, so the raincoat was dusted off and added to the pile.

Lastly, Michael set several early alarms on his phone, plugged it in to charge, before drawing the blinds and climbing into bed, earlier than usual but later than preferred. The washing up and other domestic trivialities could wait until tomorrow, he yawned.

Now all there was left to do was try and sleep.

Fail to prepare, prepare to fail, he repeated.

As the night drew in, so did the negativity of doubt.

Was he qualified? he wondered, gaze fixated on the distant ceiling.

Would he fit in like a fifth wheel?

Was he out of his depth?

And more importantly, what the hell was this job?

He hadn’t been inclined to enquire what the job actually entailed during the interview for risk of looking naive, and the demeaning interviewer hadn’t exactly been forthcoming on the details - come to think of it, he didn’t even know the name of the company. All he had to go on was the advert published in the Sunday papers to which he had applied:

‘12 month contract for hard working individual.

Excellent opportunity - Future growth - Fast tracking to greater positions.

MUST BE PREPARED TO TRAVEL.’

Just one of a hundred applications he’d scatter-gunned these past months without a moment’s recollection, and one of a hundred which, unbelievably, had actually heeded a gram of success.

Regardless, he assured himself that, for better or worse, a job was finally his, and he was sure to uncover his fate in the morning. As his interviewer - the informally titled yet never less than stately Greenwood - had assured him, if he required anything in the interim, Michael be certain only to ask.

Take my card. It shall answer all the questions that arise. the man had said, sliding a crisp business card across his desk. In fact, take two - one to hand and another for safe keeping. This card was now tucked in Michael’s bag, while the other he kept on the table by the front door - just to confirm this he got up and checked them both. Indeed, the first card was still in his bag - a little soggy, but still there - while the other remained on the table.

Michael picked up the card from the table and started fidgeting with it as he paced the apartment. The clock on the wall read a quarter past mid-night, as did his phone. When he switched on the TV, the time was also confirmed - yet the arrival of sleep was anything but...

As he lay on the sofa watching the features of late-night news regurgitate endlessly - the street lamps outside sending a barcode of shadows across the room - Michael turned the business card over and over, its fine glossy finish allowing it to glide effortlessly between his fingers. On the back there was a single line of address, the sapphire ink so heavy it seemed poured from wax. The front of the card was as plain as a bed sheet; but Michael noticed, as the surface caught the light, that there was a delicately embossed shape pressed into the material. No deeper than the grooves of a fingerprint, the shape seemed to resemble a planetary globe - Earth perhaps, although the land masses were not quite proportional - with the increments of a clock face jutting outwards as if the rays of an eclipse. Drowsily, Michael continued to examine the card, fascinated by this oddly familiar symbol; but the merest rotation caused the light to escape its indents, and the image fell invisible once again.

A short while later, Michael was awoken by the shrill whine of a distant Yamaha, its howl like a lone wolf in the night. He checked his phone - 2:39am, and 100% charged. The screen also displayed several text messages and missed calls - he unplugged the phone, and remembered to check them in the morning. On the TV there was breaking news regarding a bombing of some sort, but he paid it little attention, instead returning to bed and cocooning under the duvet, forcing himself into an eventual drift of sleep, the business card still clasped tightly in his fist.

Fail to prepare, prepare to fail...

Tomorrow was going to be a long, eventful day.

2

All around they pounded at the earth like hailstones of iron, each impact a seismic crack from which there was no escape. He thought only to run - yet in the searing light he could not foresee where to, an all-consuming flare of white rendering everything else secondary. The pounding grew louder, ever nearer, until, suddenly, it was just outside his window...

Michael awoke with a jolt, escaping his dream as if from the shallows of an icy lake.

Instinctively he realised he’d overslept, comatose and slumbering lazily through his 6am alarm.

As he leapt from his bed he became aware of a pounding outside, a chorus of jack hammers gyrating intensely.

On looking down from his window he saw the tops of a dozen hard-hats tearing up the forecourt, drilling holes and pouring tar, a thirty yard strip of resurfaced earth nearing completion.

How had they done all that in one night without disturbing him? he wondered.

He couldn’t remember hearing his alarm.

Maybe the din outside had drowned it out?

In a panic he checked his phone. Dead. He was certain he’d charged it only a few hours ago.

His head throbbed; his entire body felt heavy and lethargic as if he’d just climbed from a hot bath.

What time was it?

The clock on the wall read a stationary quarter to three, its thin hands motionless like a stuck insect - that piece of junk was always playing up, so he couldn’t read anything into that.

He tumbled out of bed and turned on the TV, straight to the first news channel whose authority he could trust. "...in what has been a seismic few hours in the history of the United Kingdom, we go now to our reporter in Manchester." said the gaunt anchor above a belt of scrolling headlines.

Through bleary eyes, Michael could just make out the time in the left-hand corner: 8:58am.

"Fu-

-kinghell" he furiously repeated as he charged down the busy high-street with all the coordination of a newborn foal, knotting his tie as best he could, overcoat flapping as he went.

The morning was unforgivably hot - where was the forecast rain? he thought - not a single cloud to block the rays which beckoned his brow to moisten, sweat already weeping from every pour, blotching every garment under his heavy winter coat. Maybe it was the heat, the friction, or the fact that he hadn’t had time to wash, but his suit felt dirty and stiff, that stale, musty smell of an old jumper found at the back of a drawer. His shoulder bag didn’t smell much better, the unmistakable odour of damp mould clinging to the fabric.

But, as the lights turned green on yet another busy crossing, bad scent was the least of his worries...

When he eventually arrived at his new offices, Michael clambered across the foyer: suppressed breath, enforced steps, doing his best to look assured under the circumstances - not an easy act to perform in such a regal, eerily still setting.

From the polished marble floor to the white Grecian columns which supported the heavenly ceiling, every surface of the foyer was blushing with opulence. On each side, against the wall, there were a pair of green leather sofas, a growling lion’s head for an armrest, an oak coffee table at one’s elbow. Running parallel with the sofas were vast oak cabinets, their glass doors protecting shelves packed with antique-looking artefacts; and all around, the walls were laced with rich, gold-framed oil paintings. In the centre of the vast space sat an unmanned desk - a horseshoe of black granite on a row of ornate plinths, raised forebodingly above eye-level, acting as a fork to the two staircases which gradually inclined on either side, each culminating at the doors of what looked like an elevator. For all its symmetrical grandeur and pomp, the foyer felt oddly sterile; a sense of the clinical rather than the cavalier. Michael struggled to attain whether the building was archaically old, or if it had been refurbished to resemble a bygone style - neither would have been outside the realms of possibility. Although Michael had only been here yesterday, as he heard his footsteps get lost amongst the columns, he still felt like this was his first encounter in such a place.

Then, to his apprehension, there was a ping at the end of the foyer, and the elevator doors gasped open.

And he graces us with his presence! came the figure of Greenwood, exiting the elevator and casually making his way down the stairs.

Immediately, Michael laid-out the excuses for his new employer. Sorry about the delay. Traffic...terrible this morning...worst I’ve seen...

These things will happen first time around. replied the approaching man with pleasant disregard. I have no uncertainty that you will grow accustomed to the changes of routine, once you have learnt to understand them, and their effects, more fully.

For the first time since their initial meeting, as the gentleman loomed towards him with an imperial aura, Michael became fully aware of Greenwood’s remarkable height. He was a monument, a giant, a straightening below nine feet tall and both as thin and wiry as a pylon. He resembled a wax figure melted over flame then tugged at both ends; a doll spun from a single thread of cotton; every gargantuan aspect disproportionate yet completely at one. His long arms formed into fingers like the hanging branches of a tree; his thin shoulders and small, spherical head separated by an unnaturally unsustainable neck. His eyes were the palest blue, peering out above a nondescript nose in the centre of a face assembled from the merest suggestion of features, early wrinkles the only notable detail of someone nearing sixty. Michael noticed he wore a silver tie-pin of the company’s globe-shaped emblem; from his waistcoat hung the silver chain of what he assumed was a pocket watch; and the giant’s titanium grey suit, despite the abnormal dimensions, was a harmonious fit in both tailoring and style.

As the giant came nearer, Michael felt himself stepping back onto his heels in trepidation. But despite the sheer scale, Michael found the man to be warm, sprightly, amicable - yet, like a mantis, he was undeniably sharp and alert.

With a vast hand Greenwood shook Michael’s, the cool, jointless fingers seeming to wrap twice over.

A pleasure to welcome you back, young Michael. the great figure spoke, his voice resonating with the bare harmonics of the room as though modulated for pitch. If the giant had an accent then Michael couldn’t place it, for every time he spoke the range seemed to reset, adapt, tune as if seeking the exact frequency. Michael guessed he was British - of a class above his own dweller’s upbringing - but beyond that...

Thank you, Mr. Greenwood.

Please, the man relented heartily, his accent-less enunciation, to Michael’s ear, ultra-clean. Such a title is neither required nor appropriate. Just Greenwood will suffice.

The giant considered the smaller man’s black attire with a curious expression, tilting his head as would a fascinated cat, ear turned to shoulder. Has someone died? he chuckled. You seem comparatively overdressed considering today’s climate? I can only imagine you were expecting some alternate forecast?

It seemed set on rain today. Michael blushed.

I do not have any record of that nature? Well, you can predict everything but the weather, as they say. Greenwood remarked. Now, I suppose we should get you settled in. No time like the present.

Yes sir. said Michael. I’m eager to make-up for any time I’ve missed.

Good man. That is the kind of enthusiasm we rejoice in hearing. the giant said ebulliently. He placed an arm on Michael’s shoulder and began leading him towards the elevator. But before we start, I have but one question. A formality, you understand, but nevertheless a necessity. The giant stopped on his toes. Tell me, in answer to today’s lesson...

With a distant voice and neutral expression, Greenwood asked:

What year is it?

Michael was bemused. Surely this was a test, a ritual, a prank played on the new recruits? Maybe this public dressing down was punishment for his lateness?

It’s 2014. he answered, semi-confidently.

Is it? queried the giant.

Well, yes sir...I know what year it is.

"Prove it."

Excuse me?

Prove to me, if you would be so kind, that your assertions are indeed correct. said the giant with a hint of menace, the skull of Peter Cushing rising out of a razor clam. Prove to me, with undeniable certainty, that this is the year two-thousand and fourteen.

Uncertain whether to play along with this charade or stand his ground in an act of expected defiance, Michael begrudgingly went to retrieve his phone from his bag, only to remember it was dead.

Here, use mine. Greenwood pre-empted, offering his small, silver-shelled pocket-watch.

Rather than being flat like a normal pocket watch, the giant’s ornate timepiece was perfectly spherical, the chain at its crown causing it to resemble a wrecking ball. As it was crafted from what looked like silver or some other colourless and polished metal, with no discernible latch or opening, Michael struggled at first to open it. Only with Greenwood’s instruction did he discover that the watch was essentially two balls in one - one inside the other. By sliding his thumb across the surface, the inside of the globular device rotated to expose a half-moon clock face - or rather a multitude of faces, eight in total, all on the inside half of the ball.

In-between the hands of 9:12am on the fifth face - as was the giant’s suggestion - the date read: June 24th, 2016.

Michael was again bemused. He feigned a smile, expecting the giant to call his bluff; but the taller gave nothing away.

I don’t understand sir?

It is merely a statement of fact. smiled the giant, taking back his watch and dropping it into his pocket. But I see you are unconvinced. Why not check elsewhere, if only to confirm your convictions.

Michael looked around the foyer, trying to spot anything that would put an end to Greenwood’s tease.

Behind the horseshoe desk in the centre of the foyer sat a computer. Michael, much to Greenwood’s amusement, peered over and checked the date on screen - 24/06/2016.

An easy adjustment to make with a few clicks. grinned the giant. Why not try to uncover a more convincing evidence.

On a small table in the corner, which acted as an informal waiting area, lay a fanned display of leather-bound brochures, each with the company’s planetary emblem on the top - to Michael’s growing sense of confusion, they were dated Summer 2016.

Could have been printed this morning for all you know, just as these calenders we have dotted around the office may have been the result of an unfortunate typo. All very much disputable.

What is all this? Michael pressed with simmering irritation. Is this some kind of joke?

Are you amused?

I can’t say I am.

"Then I would say that rules it out.

Besides, you are not going to find the answer to your predicament within these walls. suggested the giant. Why not take a step outside? See if that brings any enlightenment.

Greenwood’s cantankerous manner suggested that this little exercise wasn’t going to end until Michael had either exhausted every line of investigation, or found some proof of this pantomime. Reluctantly, Michael bit his lip, and returned outside.

Across the road from the office, in the centre of inner city activity, was a newspaper stand: a rickety tin box supported by stacks of tabloid rags, niche magazines, and a small display of chocolates. Perfect! He could just grab a newspaper, prove the date, and get this demeaning charade out of the way.

Eagerly, Michael nipped between the passing cars - an unusually high number of duel seater electrics today - and picked the top paper from the nearest pile. The front page ran an image of a couple kissing, one with their face painted in the colours of the Union Jack, the other the flag of Europe.

Some fuckin news to wake up to, heh? moaned the bristly vendor in Michael’s direction, never once looking up from the iPad on his counter. Little Englanders - can’t keep their bigotry to themselves. This country will be ruined within the year, you watch.

Michael gave that Yeah tell me about it nod, and while reaching into his pocket for some change, he checked the date on the paper.

Friday, June 24th, 2016...

For a moment he couldn’t comprehend what he’d just seen, reading and re-reading the date as if returning to the same draw for a set of missing keys, knowing full well they weren’t there but double-checking all the same.

He put the paper down and picked up another:

Friday, June 24th, 2016.

He threw that one aside and snatched another:

Friday, June 24th, 2016.

With a tightness creeping into his chest he grabbed at every paper within reach, discarding the top few for those nearer the bottom; but again and again, the year was always the same - 2016.

Oi, you going to buy one of those, mate? barked the vendor, finally looking up from his tablet.

What’s the date today? Michael heard himself say, an unmistakeable tremor in his voice.

You what?

"The date! What’s today’s date?"

Friday, last time I checked...

But yesterday was 2014?

Not for me it wasn’t.

"2014?!"

I wish!

As the vendor was telling him to either buy something or get lost., Michael caught a glimpse of his tablet, the screen a mosaic of news. Without thinking he snatched it from the counter and checked the date, only to be greeted with an impact of bold headlines, none of which made any sense but all sending a tremor through his palpitating heart:

Britain Votes to Leave EU -

Pound Falls to Lowest Point in Thirty Years -

Breaking: Cameron Resigns.

With sweaty fingers he tapped on the live feed:

...I will do everything I can as Prime Minister to steady the ship over the coming weeks and months. came the quaking voice of a broken leader. "But I do not think it would be right for me to try to be the captain that steers our country to its next destination.

I love this country and I feel honoured to have served it, and I will do everything I can in the future to help this great country succeed. Thank you, and goodb...

Without his knowing, the tablet slipped through Michael’s fingers and smashed to the pavement. The vendor barked thief! like a rabid dog, approaching wide-shouldered from the back of his shack.

What was going on? How had he lost two years?

Michael gulped back a stomachful of acid. His spine was soaked with an icy sweat. His forehead streamed yet more sweat into his bulbous eyes. As he tried to take a breath, he realised his throat had never felt dryer, coarse and rough as if each intake was tinged with chlorine. Feeling faint, Michael reached for the bottle of water in his bag and took a desperate swig - he spat it out, wrenching the acrid, revolting liquid onto the pavement. He looked at the clear bottle and saw that the water was a stagnant tinge of yellow. He’d filled it fresh only last night? He was certain?

A crowd was starting to gather - heads turning, chins waggling, stopping for a gawp at the convulsing maniac with sweaty palms on uprooted knees, wide-eyed and turning ever paler.

With his head spinning, Michael dropped the bottle to the floor, following it moments later as his legs quivered and buckled. His head snapped backwards onto the concrete and everything tunnelled into darkness, his last moments falling under the shadow of a thin, smiling giant.

3

With the whine of feedback ringing in his ears and a throbbing grogginess permeating from his temples, Michael awoke like the slipping of a worn clutch. His tongue felt dry and hard like a new sponge; every inch of his skin stung as though it were stretched too tight across his bones. With an effort he gingerly rolled onto his side, willing his eyes open to get a better gauge of his surroundings.

This was his bedroom - he was home.

Everything was peaceful, still, quiet, a light rain running down the window, a hushed hubbub of inner-city activity outside. Although the room was muted and dim, Michael sensed it was afternoon, an overcast, formless day no doubt.

But when exactly?

How long had he been out?

As the events of earlier started to bleed back into his thoughts, he nauseously righted himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

And then came his early morning call...

Worry not, emerged the vast skeleton of Greenwood, his head suddenly appearing over the bedroom partitioning wall like a cat’s paw on a fish tank. Everyone capitulates the first time - even the most experienced of us.

Through a haze, Michael managed to slur, How did you get in here?

I brought you back, naturally. the giant replied as he entered the room in a stride, taking it upon himself to wind the clock on the wall with a single, elongated finger. You hit your head exceptionally hard - an awful lot of work to clean that particular mess up - but still, these things will happen. Just be thankful you have friends in high places.

Sprightly as a grass snake he set the now ticking clock back on its hook, and walked across to the window, thrusting it open, letting the crisp air and activity breathe into the room.

Michael winced, the car horns and outside commotion harsher than usual.

Besides, as of now you are officially under my ever watchful care and supervision - and I would hate to see you waste the remainder of today.

Despite being largely incapable of standing, such was the swelling nausea which rolled around his head like partially melted goose fat, Michael still made eyes for the front door, intent on making an escape while the giant had his back turned. Although the gentile stalk had portrayed little intent of malice - at this moment he was admiring Michael’s fish tank, particularly the pebbles which sat at the bottom - Michael was still terrified of the man’s mere presence.

If he could just slip out the door before the giant noticed...but the moment Michael’s feet touched the bedside rug, he realised he was closer to slipping out of consciousness than the apartment.

A most apt little hideaway you have here. Greenwood continued as he dried his hands on Michael’s duvet, scanning the baron walls, his frame arched slightly so not to drag his head against the comparatively shallow jousts. A little compact for my tastes, and the use of a duster would hardly go amiss, but still, it undoubtedly serves a purpose.

Playfully, Greenwood ran a long finger across Michael’s bedside table, ploughing a line through the dust which sat heavy on the surface.

Another year, another inch. He pointed the dusty finger at Michael, who flinched. Please, the giant said, taken aback by the very notion that he should be accused of such a possibility. You are quite safe here.

"And when exactly is here?" Michael croaked, eager for answers but in no way prepared for them.

Why not see for yourself. Greenwood said, blowing a carpet of dust from Michael’s smartphone before handing it to him. We took the liberty of charging it for you.

Trepidatiously, Michael swiped the screen. To his horror, it read - 16:46, June 24th.

2017.

A stroll had been suggested, a way to blow off the cobwebs and freshen the mind. Michael, fearful of the giant yet simmering with frustration, had resisted, demanding an explanation to this whole tangle of bewilderment in which Greenwood had undoubtedly ensnared him; but in the end he learnt it futile to resist, and so Michael now found himself walking along the embankment beside the Thames - through the smattering of early evening couples, dog walkers, and rain - under the velvet, bat-wing umbrella of the lanky, unnervingly amicable giant.

You seem to have quite the habit for misdressing. chuckled Greenwood, his own suit and jacket never less than appropriate. Earlier you were smothered under the baking Sun, and now quite the opposite.

Michael, still wearing his stale suit from this morning, albeit unbuttoned and untucked, muttered expletives under his breath. He had left his coat back at the flat, as Greenwood had informed him it was in no state to be worn by a member of this firm. due to the resulting blood from his head greeting the pavement.

I didn’t exactly have time to change. Michael responded, struggling to keep pace with Greenwood’s vast, oar-like steps.

Nonsense. You have all the time in the world!

Since the pair had left the flat, the shorter of the two had refused to speak but the barest word to his perceived captor. And so it was up to Greenwood to initiate the conversation.

Do you harbour any ill effects from this morning’s tribulations?

My head’s close to imploding. Michael hissed.

They will soon fade, those symptoms. Person’s prone to anxiety are most likely to suffer from the initial effects. But, as they say, time is a great healer.

Michael offered no reply.

Further questions - which Michael took and treated to be prying - were instigated; but again Michael offered no reply. With little yielded, the giant proceeded to the matter of business.

Well now, he began, I suppose you have a few questions for me, regarding your new employment?

The thought had crossed my mind...

The great figure nodded. Then let us start with the basics, shall we.

The giant slowed his pace slightly, and began to recite, in a more formal and direct approach, the basics.

The contract you have binded yourself to is for the duration of twelve months, starting from the moment of your signing. During this period you will be required to attend the company offices every ten days with the purpose of completing a brief questionnaire, answering the questions we have set to the best of your ability. Aside from that, you are granted free reign to do as you please with the tools assigned.

Tools?

Greenwood smiled thinly to himself. "I say tools. Gifts may be more appropriate."

The pair stopped at a quiet, secluded section of the embankment, just beneath the belly of Westminster Bridge, where the river foamed against the green brick below, and the Thames appeared to simmer with each pellet of rain. In the centre of the river, several small boats crossed paths, a chain of single buoys indicating their lanes. Greenwood leant on the railings, a thin hand gripping it like a vine, and looked thoughtfully across the flowing divide - even in this pose, he still soared over his standing employee.

And so, slowly, each word a ceremony unto itself, the giant explained all.

"It is thus, Michael. Upon each occasion when you pass into unconsciousness, time will progress to the turn of one exact year. For the revolving three hundred and sixty five days that follow, you will be absent, non-existent, only returning to wherever you lay your head once the allotted time has passed. You will not age, you will not change; anything you have upon your possession at the moment of your drifting will remain as unaffected as yourself. Everything else, from the people to the places, the technology to the weather, will continue as it always has - only you will bear witness to the progression."

Despite the giant’s eloquent explanation - of which he was visibly proud - Michael still could not digest such a far-fetched scenario. If this was the future, where were the hover cars, the rocket packs? Inventions of sci-fi perhaps, but Michael, an islander of 2014, could not see anything of which he would class as futuristic. People were still talking on mobile phones similar to his own; denim and cheque shirts were aplenty, as were in-ear phones, dog shit, blocked gutters and litter. There were more police on the street today, but for London that was familiar. The only instance which Michael considered unfamiliar was when he saw some youngsters playing with odd, three-pronged contraptions. The giant remarked dryly that they were fidget spinners: distractions for otherwise underworked minds. Intriguing, Michael considered. Although again, what proof did he have to go on, beyond the forged date on a touch-screen or newspaper, that this was genuinely 2017?

Thinking back to his black-out at the news stand - hadn’t the world seemed on the verge of economic and social collapse?

Greenwood provided a counter. "I regret to inform you that Western Civilisation did not fall on account of a referendum. If you were expecting something more exotic to what you see around you, I am - at this moment - sorry to disappoint."

Yet Michael was still unconvinced. This could all be a trick.

"And why would that be such a case? What good would come of tricks?"

Michael realised he didn’t have an answer, although he argued on, regardless - yet the giant was unmoved.

"You are more than welcome to try and disprove this reality, but you will only come