The dream came again last night; tormenting my sleep and filling my mind with barbs of melancholy, regret and loss that I swear cannot be mine. These feelings are for a history I have never lived, a set of memories that are impossible for me to have without the drama and the narrative of Hollywood.
It always starts the same: a frame of black and white, the inside of a plane in the midst of a thunderstorm. The uniforms are English, RAF and everyone I can see is soot and smoke-stained. Dark patches of what must be blood is visible on legs, torso’s and arms of various crew members: one is obviously dead from the grotesque angle at which his head is hanging.
It is as if I am watching through the hatch which a parachutist would jump, netting held to the side and smoke drifting from the left of my vision, when one man speaks with the immaculate cut-glass accent so common to the officer class in British war films, bright clear eyes, pencil moustache. His flight helmet is undone and his goggles up on his forehead. He grabs one of his crew-mates, pushing him towards me, as if I am outside the plane, declaiming, ‘Get on, get on. I’ll be right behind you.’
He grabs another, flinging their arm over his shoulders and hauls him to his feet, and gets him mobile. I can see his mouth moving, as if he is sub-vocalising; slaps him sharply and gets his attention. ‘Jump, jump. I’ll be right behind you.’ The man says again as he propells him towards the opening.
He moves forward and my sight travels behind him, as though placed over his right shoulder, it is readily apparent that the cockpit has sustained heavy fire – the glass is smashed and riddled with holes, there is flickering as if of fire behind us and the crew are sprawled backwards in their chairs like puppets with their strings cut. The man checks them both, briefly, and turns to leave. They are obviously dead.
The dream shifts: white, fluffy clouds fill my vision and then I am in a small, narrow public house. Several men are there, some of whom look vaguely familiar. They are all talking in excited tones, discussing local events and twitting each other on being keen on the barmaid. One doesn’t speak, instead looking aside and I can see that the barmaid, whilst laughing with all the men in their banter, is focussing on him. My vision is still in black and white, and everyone seems to be from central casting from an Ealing Studio or Pinewood set. All the clothes and decor I see lead me to believe it is sometime in the 1940’s.
There is another rapid-fire round of laughter, someone has obviously come off worst in a sharp exchange of wits and is shaking his head ruefully as his comrades laugh at the joke at his expense.
One stops, and with a light Scottish tone says, ‘Watch this.’
He fishes a coin from his pocket and tosses it into the street, turning back to the patrons in the bar, raising a finger to his lips to pantomime silence.
A lady riding a bicycle can be seen, where another man in similar uniform to those in the bar stops and picks it up, right in her path. She hits him and they fall, each apologising and dissembling in a stereotypical English manner.
The guys fall over themselves laughing, backslapping and declaiming at the sight. ‘It’s taken him awhile to get that shot right!’ One exclaims. I must have spoken, as he looks at me and winks, ‘That’s right, we’re stuck here until everything is as it should be. Every day is the same – except where we can change it, like now, look at them falling in love.’ He jerks his head behind him as draws my attention to the couple who had crashed. They were now stood coyly, deep in conversation.
He answers again, another question that I have not vocalised, not asked out loud – not by any measure I can tell anyway – ‘Sure, they’re supposed to fall in love, but that could only happen if she hits him. He always sees her and moves unless, as today, I successfully distract him.’ My next question is obvious to me, but he answers before I have time to vocalise, ‘Its easy. When we’ve done it right for ourselves, we get to sit in here and try to get the others. We can’t leave until we’re all back together again. We’re still missing three.’
The question flashes again in my mind and is answered as I think of it, ‘We’re dead. We all are. We didn’t make it, but before we pass on we have to make sure that our lives were lived right. The opportunities we should have has were realised, then we can wait for our comrades.’
I notice that the barman has come out from behind the bar and is looking at me. ‘I think you’re quite tired, is that right Sir?’ I feel a crushing wave of fatigue hit me and I nod my head barely.
He starts showing me upstairs and the scene fades into static and obscurity.
These ads were plastered on the streets and subways of New York City. 
Amnesty International Human Trafficking Promotion: “Woman in a Suitcase”. Read more about the campaign here: bit.ly/1cnkR3q. 
Labor trafficking advertisement of a man on a bus. 
Voice Of The Forge 