Seven Point Eight The First Chronicle - By Marie A. Harbon Page 0,24

was 4am, such a lonely time of night, and the appearance of a figure that looked just like Michael exacerbated the emotional famine.

On their last day together, he’d held her face in his hands, kissed her softly and told her with sincerity that their new life in the States was going to be wonderful. After that, she got no answer on his phone and found no one at his flat. In fact, she discovered a ‘to let’ board attached to the brickwork. It had been so abrupt.

The old hurt almost drowned out the lucidity of the vision. In an absent minded manner, she touched her cheek and found it felt rough to the touch. Startled, she jumped up and examined her face in the bathroom mirror. A red mark stood out, as if it had been previously exposed to the sun. The Michael figure had left physical evidence to suggest that the lucid dream had been more real than she wanted to believe. How could such a meeting ever have taken place, and how could something imaginary leave physical evidence though?

It called into question the other hallucinations she’d experienced. Did they have any basis in reality after all, no matter how absurd that reality? Or was someone slipping psychedelic drugs into her food or drink? No, that was really paranoid thinking. It led her back to an unfortunate conclusion: she was developing schizophrenia. Her sister, Maria, had been institutionalised due to this and if Ava developed the same condition, it would ruin her career. Should she seek help with the condition, or as the ‘angel’ indicated, let the process take its course?

6

The Institute

Paul arrived at The Institute, an imposing Victorian house on a side street in Chelsea, London, on December 8th 1959. The sun had already started to set, casting a twilight glow over the city. Since his last visit to London, the air quality had improved, with no pea-soup smog to clog the lungs. However, in many ways it felt like nothing had changed. Little, if any traffic stood on the side streets. Children still played out, although some were being called in for tea. Boys played with hand-crafted guns, made by whittling away a stick or lump of wood with a penknife, and girls either pushed their dolls in prams or played hopscotch. Chimney sweeps with sooty faces made their way home on their pushbikes, long-handled brushes, rods, and dust sheet strapped on tight.

He stood on the doorstep and tapped loudly with the brass knocker, not sure what to expect. The elegant front door had a large stained glass effect window in it, and an additional window high up above the door. It added some character to its otherwise imposing Victorian architecture. No one answered so he tapped again. Looking around whilst waiting, he noticed a red, Route Master Double Decker bus stop on the adjacent main road. A few people jumped on the back, and a man chased after it as it pulled away.

Finally, a woman answered the door. She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties, judging by the first etchings of age in her face and the mature style of dress. She seemed somewhat stiff and awkward, but when she saw him she smiled, revealing a slightly warmer side to her personality.

“You must be Dr. Paul Eldridge. Mr. Richardson informed me last week you were coming to work with us for a while. My name is Miss Tynedale. I’m his administrator and housekeeper. Please, come in.”

Paul stepped inside the hallway. It contrasted radically to The Establishment’s warm interior, with white walls and chequerboard tiles on the floor, which gave it a clinical feel. An imposing Victorian staircase with ornate spindles and newel posts faced the door. Miss Tynedale took Paul straight through to a small office on the ground floor, and closed the door. Nothing like the offices back at The Establishment, this sterile room had rows and rows of books on shelves, and several filing cabinets likely to be as full as the shelves. The simple and minimalistic furniture comprised a desk, two chairs, and a lamp, aside from the cabinets and bookshelves. The pale green paint on the walls looked ancient, giving Paul the impression this place wasn’t particularly homely.

Would he enjoy it here?

“We’re honoured that you’ll be working closely with us,” Miss Tynedale declared. “You come with the highest commendations.”

“Thank you,” Paul responded.

“This is the more human side of Mr. Richardson’s business. He has a number of…investments he’d like