'Look,' Will said, 'Coming to bother me in dreams is one thing, but you don't belong here. This is the real world.'

The fox shook its head, preserving the illusion of its artlessness. To any gaze but Will's, it seemed to be dislodging a flea from its ear. But Will knew better: it was contradicting him.

'Are you telling me I'm dreaming this as well?' he said.

The animal didn't bother to nod. It simply perused Will, amiably enough, while he worked the problem out for himself. And now, as he puzzled over this curious turn of events, he vaguely recalled something Lord Fox had mentioned in his rambling. What had he said? There'd been some talk of Russian dolls, but that wasn't it. An anecdote about a debate with a dog; no, that wasn't it either. There'd been something else his visitor had mentioned. Some message that had to be passed along. But what? What?

The fox was plainly close to giving up on him. It was no longer staring in his direction, but sniffing the air in search of its next meal.

'Wait a moment,' Will said. A minute ago, he'd been wanting to drive it away. Now he was afraid it would do as he'd wished, and go about its business before he'd solved the puzzle of its presence.

'Don't leave yet,' he said to it. 'I'll remember. Just give me a chance-'

Too late. He'd lost the animal's attention. Off it trotted, its brush flicking back and forth.

'Oh, come on-' Will said, rising to follow it. 'I'm trying my best.'

The trees were close together, and in his pursuit of the fox, their bark gouged him and their branches raked his face. He didn't care. The faster he ran, the harder his heart pumped and the harder his heart pumped the clearer his memory became

'I'll get it!' he yelled after the fox. 'Wait for me, will you?'

The message was there, on the tip of his tongue, but the fox was outpacing him, weaving between the trees with astonishing agility. And all at once, twin revelations. One, that this was not Lord Fox he was following, just a passing animal that was fleeing for its fieabitten life. And two, that the message was to wake, wake from dreams of foxes, Lords or no, into the world

He was running so fast now, the trees were a blur around him. And up ahead, where they thinned out, was not the hill but a growing brightness; not the past, but something more painful. He didn't want to go there, but it was too late to slow his flight, much less halt it. The trees were a blur because they were no longer trees, they'd become the wall of a tunnel, down which he was hurtling, out of memory, out of childhood.

Somebody was speaking at the far end of the tunnel. He couldn't catch hold of precisely what was being said, but there were words of encouragement, he thought, as though he were a runner on a marathon, being coaxed to the finishing line.

Before he reached it, however - before he was back in that place of wakefulness - he was determined to take one last look at the past. Ungluing his eyes from the brightness ahead, he glanced back over his shoulder, and for a few precious seconds glimpsed the world he was leaving. There was the wood, sparkling in the spring light - every bud a promise of green to come. And the fox! Lord, there it was, darting away about the business of the morning. He pressed his sight to look harder, knowing he had only moments left, and it went where he willed, back the way he'd come, to look down the hillside to the village. One last heroic glance, fixing the sight in all its myriad details. The river, sparkling; the Courthouse, mouldering; the roofs of the village, rising in slated tiers; the bridge, the post office, the telephone box from which he'd called Frannie that night long ago, telling her he was running away.

So he was. Running back into his life, where he would never see this sight again, so finely, so perfectly-They were calling him again, from the present. 'Welcome back, Will ... somebody was saying to him softly.Wait, he wanted to tell them. Don't welcome me yet. Give me just another second to dream this dream. The bells are ringing for the end of the Sunday service. I want to see the people. I want to see their faces, as they come out into the sun. I want to see-

The voice again, a little more insistent. 'Will. Open your eyes.'

There was no time left. He'd reached the finishing line. The past was consumed by brightness. River, bridge, church, houses, hill, trees and fox, gone, all gone, and the eyes that had witnessed them, weaker for the passage of years, but no less hungry, opened to see what he'd become.

He Meets The Stranger In His Skin

i

'It's going to take time to get you up and moving normally again,' Doctor Koppelman explained to Will a few days after the awakening.

'But you're still reasonably young, reasonably resilient. And you were fit. All that puts you ahead of the game.'

'Is that what it's going to be?' Will said. He was sitting up in bed, drinking sweet tea.

'A game? No, I'm afraid not. It's going to be brutal some of the time.' 'And the rest?'

'Merely horrendous.'

'Your bedside manner's for shit, you know that?'

Koppelman laughed. 'You'll love it.'

'Says who?'

'Adrianna. She told me you had a distinctly masochistic streak. Loved discomfort, she said. Only happy when you were up to your neck in swamp-water.'

'Did she tell you anything else?'

Koppelman threw Will a sly smile. 'Nothing you wouldn't be proud of,' he said. 'She's quite a lady.'

'Lady?'

'I'm afraid I'm an old-fashioned chauvinist. I haven't called her with the news, by the way. I thought it'd be better coming from you.'

'I suppose so,' Will said, without much enthusiasm.

'You want to do it today?'

'No, but leave me the number. I'll get around to it.'

'When you're feeling a little better-' Koppelman looked a little embarrassed. '-I wonder if you'd do me a favour? My wife's sister Laura works in a bookstore. She's a big fan of your pictures. When she heard I was looking after you, she practically threatened my life if I didn't get you back to work, happy and healthy. If I brought in a book, would you sign it for her?'

'It'd be my pleasure.'

'That's good to see.'

' What?'

'That smile. You've got reason to be happy, Mr Rabjohns. I wasn't betting on you coming out of this. You took your time.'

'I was ... wandering,' Will replied.

'Anywhere you remember?'

'A lot of places.'

'If you want to talk to one of the therapists about it at some point, I'll set it up.'

'I don't trust therapists.'

'Any particular reason?'

'I dated one once. He was the most royally fucked up guy I ever met. Besides, aren't they supposed to take the pain away? Why the hell would I want that?'

When Koppelman had gone, Will revisited the conversation, or rather the latter part of it. He hadn't thought about Eliot Cameron, the therapist he'd dated, in a long time. It had been a short affair, conducted at Eliot's insistence behind locked doors in a hotel room booked under an assumed name. At first the furtiveness had tickled Will's sense of play, but the secrecy soon began to wear out its welcome, fuelled as it was by Eliot's shame at his orientation. They had argued often, sometimes violently, the fisticuffs invariably followed by a sensational bout of love-making. Then had come the publication of Will's first book, Transgressions, a collection of photographs whose common theme was animal trespassers and their punishment. The book had appeared without attracting a single review, and seemed destined for total obscurity until a commentator in The Washington Post took exception to it, using it as an object lesson in how gay artists were tainting public discourse.