Yet another bomb attack somewhere in the Middle East. Each day more blood is shed. It's like a wave rolling over that unhappy part of the world growing in size swallowing its victims leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. This is World War 3, Mum says, and it will keep growing until it engulfs the whole world. I see an image of the word SURGE as the wave moves back over Europe in years to come. I know that now is the time for us to intervene and stop it from happening.
I am in the midst of a battle in World War 1. All around me my colleagues are being shot at. The enemy seems to be far fewer in numbers now. This has to be the last battle before the end of the war but how would we know that? We don't have the luxury of hindsight. Suddenly Ed is shotand collapses to the ground. Surely it's just his leg, but no, he's been taken out. I weep for him singing that blue grass song "Will you miss me (miss me miss me) when I'm gone...?"
Military planes fly in formation above a field just outside the town. As part of a "friendly fire " exercise they begin to drop bombs - the idea being to see how much damage will be wrought by such a bomb attack. In a built-up area the damage would be devastating. Now a plane load of refugees from Poland arrive, about 60 or 70 of them, led by a grandmother and her grandchild. I am moved to tears by these proud stoical people as they are reunited with relatives. There are so many more we have left behind.
The Germans have just dropped some kind of slow release biological bomb on London. I gather my sisters together and tell them to get out of the building fast and meet later by Marble Arch. I see an aerial view of railway lines and roads exploding. I find myself crawling peering down at hands buried beneath the rubble. I am one of the survivors. We are going to be OK.
Back in the sixties, Nixon is bombing Vietnam and I have been ordered to use a machine gun to control my class in the supermarket. I refuse. I notice various men being thrown out and beaten up in the alleyway outside. I go to offer my help (after the beating) to one man. He tells me he is OK, then grins flirtatiously and says he likes how I dress like Isaac Newton. I end up taking part in a violent demonstration against the government.
After an increase in terrorist attacks on England has been predicted, a bomb goes off in Murder Street in London. Our city is becoming like Iraq. Five people are killed and there is panic in the air. What has our government led us into? "The panic you feel is just shapes in your head," someone tries to reassure me.
B is on the phone. "Listen," she says, "Something terrible has happened." She can barely speak and I can hardly hear her. "America has attacked Japan!""No that's nonsense," I say, "Why would they? Surely Bush wouldn't be that mad.""Yes yes my sister heard it on Sky news."We hang up - eventually I hear a report on the radio about an unscrupulous journalist cooking up the story out of nothing. What had actually happened was an American tourist had made a complaint about the lack of hygiene on a Japanese plane.
After months of anti-authority espionage, involving intense friendships and wild sexual encounters, I am finally tracked down by the Russian police and compelled to leave the country. I take leave of my friends who, like me, are male and in their twenties. A pile of presents await me downstairs in the local cafe. Here I will spend my last hour with my special gender defying friend and his/her young daughter. I sit clutching my head and weep melodramatically.
"Get out! Get out now!" the guard shouts at me when I attempt to enter a room of the house. Inside I recognise some of the prisoners - some are from my special needs group. In the kitchen I meet all the ordinary people who have become jailers. "It's horrible being a guard," one woman tells me, "Before long everyone will be in thumbcuffs chained to the pavement." I ask what the prisoners have done. "Hardly anything," she answers, "But we have to restrain them for the slightest thing." Everyone is now a suspect. You are either prisoner or guard. Which am I?
I am about to leave for home after my stay in an artists' squat in Bosnia. In the distance we can hear the military music of the British troops preparing to march through the town. White American tanks drive down the streets clearing a path. An announcement is made over the loudspeaker that all occupants of certain buildings should report immediately to army headquarters. There is confusion - do they mean us? We know it is not safe to go to the authorities. I tell everyone to follow me - we can hide in the empty factory next door. We will be safe there for a while.
I was just trying to walk from one station platform to another but against my will find myself in a small white room which has turned into a lift hurtling upwards. There are no buttons to press here. It feels like the inside of a nuclear missile stopping only at the top floor of a high building, where a terrified young woman clutches my ankles shaking uncontrollably. This lift has something to do with military buildup in preparation for a strike on Iran.
