Arcadia

14

Alex Chang wandered around the streets of Oxford in a reverie of overpowering sensations. He now had only one thing in his head. He needed, wanted, to sleep. He was more tired than he could believe. Whatever had happened to him had been exhausting. Or perhaps he just hadn’t slept for a long time?

Where could he sleep? It was already getting colder, the sky was darkening. What was he to do? He searched in his memory for guidance, but there was nothing. He had to lie down, that was all.

He stumbled around for a few more hours, trying to stimulate some sort of response, but to no avail. Eventually he could do no more. He was going to fall over, hurt himself, or get killed by one of the vehicles that passed by, belching smoke only inches from where unprotected people walked. They seemed used to it; they would just walk out into the path of the oncoming traffic and get to the other side perfectly safely. Their sense of timing was extraordinary. He stood watching this reckless display of skill from young and old, men and women for a long time.

He settled in a doorway down a little alley. It was quiet; the streets were almost deserted, and that solitude was enough to scare him on its own. He had figured out enough to realise that sleeping outside was unusual and possibly dangerous. It required either immense trust or utter desperation. He hid himself as far back as possible, where he hoped he would not be noticed, and drew his knees up to his chest. It was cold and uncomfortable. He’d never manage to fall...

The memories flooded back in his dreams as he slept and the sheer quantity of information that coursed through his head was overwhelming. Too much or too little; it was always the same. Why can’t they ever get the settings right? Who are they, though? He knew enough to realise that he hadn’t pieced everything together yet but when he woke up several hours later — stiff, cold and hungry — he felt at least he was making progress. He knew who he was; he knew where he was. Now he had to establish when he was.

He stood up, stretched and walked from his hiding place into the street. Rubbish of all sorts was thrown onto the ground in this place, or into bins with little thought of the health considerations. Paper was used in vast quantities. He scuffled through one of the bins, unaware of the few passers-by who glanced disapprovingly at him as they passed. He found something of use. A large piece of paper with what he decided was a greasy piece of fried potato stuck to it, and a heavy smell of what he analysed as vinegar. There was writing on it. Daily Herald, it said. Below it a date. October 18th, 1960.

Instantly, another memory arrived, like some sort of reward. Evidently his memory was working by association. When a new stimulus matched some preordained trigger, the appropriate bit of memory was pulled into his awareness to fill in another gap. ‘If all has gone according to plan,’ came the voice in his head, ‘you are now in Oxford, some time in 1960.’

So it seems, he thought.

There was a flippant tone to it which he found annoying. He wished whoever it was would stick to the facts and cut out the commentary. He wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter.

‘Apart from paranoia and a great deal of fear, it is a time with little to complain about; even the poor are cared for, more or less. In this part of the world, at least, no one has starved to death for some time. The same cannot be said for other parts of the world, but the local population is able to show a remarkable lack of interest in anyone but themselves. They pay for it eventually, but you may be able to avoid the worst...’

Very interesting, he thought. How does that help me get something to eat? I’m starving.

‘Glad you asked. Try a café. But you need some money first.’