Step Right Up

         This is how the dream would go.
         Alex would wake to find himself at a funfair. Invariably it would be one of those travelling funfairs where everything was worked from the back of a truck; the type that would roll into town for a couple of days before packing on up and heading off again.
         Ordinarily you’d expect these sorts of funfairs to set themselves up in a disused open-plan car park, a minor municipal park or some other urban expanse. Not this one though. This one would be in the streets.
         As far as Alex could see, the streets would be closed in both directions and all of the rides and attractions would have been erected bang in the middle of the road, flanked on either side by bakers and butchers, restaurants and estate agents.
         It would be the dead of night and the sky would be such a deep black that Alex would assume that it was winter, but he would not feel cold. In fact, he wouldn’t feel any temperature at all. It was like being in a photograph.
         There was no noise either. Alex expected the air to be filled with the delighted screams of children, the cacophonic piped organ music of a hundred rollercoasters and candy floss vendors, the strange recorded laughter of an amplified automaton clown. He expected test-your-strength bells to be ringing, punctuating the passing of every five seconds, but instead he heard nothing but the sound of his own footsteps.
         They would echo like he was walking on the varnished wooden floors of an abandoned manor house.
         Clack. Clack.
         Clack. Clack.
         And all around him the funfair would be deserted. The stalls, the shooting ranges, the helter skelters, the waltzers, they would all be closed for business. The shutters would all be down and the neon lights that fringed them would be dull and lifeless as if each and every bulb was on the verge of fizzling out.
         The ferris wheel would turn with nobody in the chairs. Goldfish would swim and blink in their little plastic bags, but nobody would be winning them. The dodgems would sit statically on the polished rink, the occasional spark firing silently from the charged grid overhead.
         With his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, Alex would walk around the funfair, looking for some sign of life. He would walk and walk and walk and walk - certain of his direction but not of what he’ll find.
         Soon Alex would become aware of a shadowy figure standing behind the counter of a coconut shy. The figure would be human shaped and a strange wobbling noise would drift out from its mouth.
         “Come and try your luck,” it said. “Step right up and try your luck.”
         As he listens, the corners of a fifty pence piece would make themselves apparent in the soft flesh of Alex’s palm.
         “How much is it?” Alex would ask.
         “I’ll take whatever you’ve got,” the would voice reply.
         Even knowing how this dream ends, Alex still can not seem to stop himself from shrugging, removing his hand from his jacket and handing over the coin.
         The figure gingerly takes it between finger and thumb and drops it into a leather pouch that is tied against his hip.
         Alex positions himself in the pitcher’s stance and examines his quarry. The coconuts seem unnaturally large and really rather close. The thought strikes him that if he was going to encounter any difficulty in knocking over one of these coconuts it wouldn’t be in hitting the target, it would be in mustering up enough force. A direct hit at this range would be easy enough, but even if he were to use a basketball he would still have trouble toppling one.
         Alex jumps up and down on the spot, and shakes his throwing arm about to warm it up. When he feels suitably limber he sees that the figure is offering him up a bucket.
         “How many do I get?” Alex asks.
         The figure lifts his head. He smiles and speaks with a disconcerting wisdom.
         “I shouldn’t imagine you’ll need more than one.”
         Alex stares deep into the figure’s face and doesn’t break eye contact with him as he places his hand in.
         There are no balls in the bucket. This much Alex knows. What exactly is in there, he can’t quite tell. There are certainly a few things knocking about in there and they all feel quite hard and rough. He jostles his hand about, moving the objects about and reaching further and further down, until he finds himself touching bottom of the bucket. His elbow is just above the rim and the contents come up about halfway up his forearm. As a final attempt he swirls his arm around and around, trying to hit upon something that feels recognisable but there is nothing.
         Taking a step closer Alex raises his eyes to peer into the bucket. The figure brings it in a little bit closer towards Alex’s face so that he can get a really good look.
         Inside the bucket is a clump of twisted, rusted metal, sharp at the edges.
         Suddenly, Alex’s arm flares with pain - a cold burning brush that scratches its way over the flesh. He rips it out of the bucket and draws it up to his face.
         He brings his hand to his eyes and there, running diagonally across the length of his palm is a huge flap of ghost white skin. It is half-peeled back to reveal a sticky, shiny gash and, in this thick sliver of brilliant red, Alex can see little metal filings and tiny flecks of rust dotted stuck deep into the flesh.
         Suddenly, the noise of the funfair comes crashing into his ears, the chatter and squealing and bells and sirens. The bitter midnight wind whips its way around him and dives right into the heart of the wound. The muscles in his neck tighten up and start to spasm, pulling his jaw in awkward, unnatural directions. A sickening taste of salt begins to develop in the back of his throat.
         He closes his fingers up around the dirty cut and takes a large gulp of frosty air before he wakes.