Doomsday. He’s not on the beach – but who cares anymore. The engines roar and I find myself alone, not even myself, the maple-leafed sign beside me revealing this is Dårlig Ulv Stranden. I got it all wrong. London and the hollow chimes of an unirradiated Big Ben already feel light years away, gongs for a future already written and long since lived. There’s no sunshine anywhere. Chasing Cars. If I just lay here. Close eyes, arms out – back to the Reichenbach mattress as I push with my heel – down, down, down into cold and roaring hell, silent and unnoticed like a stone. I push my neck out so my head hits first. Nothing, just silence. I open my eyes and see only magnolia ceiling – put my hand to my head to find a still intact skull, but my fingers come away bloody all the same. I’m the only one who can see it. I’m the only one. I’m alone.

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