text: ‘Are you, inside?’ I ask, letting the bars drop from my hands to thud solidly onto the wooden floor. ‘Inside, outside, all fucking sides, mate. But no, I’m not wearing your body if that’s what you’re thinking. I am your body, same matter, simple as,’ me says. ‘Where are you, mate?’ ‘I’m, I’m on a train,’ I say, vaguely, staring at him. He’s me but there are differences, lines in his face, a light greying of stubble on his chin, sharp blue eyes where there should be green. ‘You need to wake up, mate, you need to wake up now,’ me says, then he darts forwards and stabs something into my right bicep. ‘I need to what?’ I say. My brain won’t work. ‘Where are you? I can help you, we need to go, you’ve got an infection,’ he says. ‘Infection,’ I say, without comprehension. ‘I think I’m on the train to Manchester.’ ‘Get off at the next stop,’ me says. ‘Now, wake up,’ me says, and I do. My eyes open and I’m leant against the shoulder of an awkwardly polite middle-eastern man, who meets my gaze and smiles, somehow apologetically, as I right myself. I’m on the train, I’m me. Ticket inspector at the end of the carriage, no ticket. I hop to my feet, gingerly testing the ground beneath me, all normal. I wander as far up the train as I can and sit in a corner of the first-class carriage until we pull into a little village station. The doors ding and slide open and I trot up the carriage and outside. Me is waiting for me on the platform. ‘Come on,’ he says, and hurries away. I follow. Over a bridge across the tracks, through an empty ticket office, to a car parked outside. ‘Get in,’ me says. I get in. The engine sputters and sparks into life and we rumble up the street and around the corner. ‘What is this? Where are we going?’ I say. ‘Nowhere,’ me says, exasperatedly. ‘Look at this.’ He fishes in the glovebox, swerving dangerously as he does so, ‘it’s simpler if you just read,’ he says, showering me with A5 sheets. I pick one up and start reading. *INTERDIFECTION: A GUIDE* *Hi Paul,* *I’m Paul 357375486-045372-5-1, your immune response.* I look up, me catches my gaze and grimaces. *You are experiencing an out of body infection, I will assist you with the removal process. Do as I say. Everything will be OK. No questions. All of your lives depend on it.* *Also, no questions.* I look up at me. ‘Not much of a guide.’ ‘It’s simple,’ me says. ‘Shut up and do what I’m told, basically,’ I say. ‘Correct.’ ‘Interdifection?’ ‘No questions,’ me says. ‘But.’ ‘No fucking questions, you don’t know how many times I’ve had this talk,’ me says, ‘Who are you? What am I? What’s wrong with me? Is this real? Christ, is this real? Look at it, touch it, does it feel real?’ ‘OK, so?’ I say. ‘No questions,’ me says. ‘Right.’ We continue on in silence down winding country roads until we reach a small blue bungalow at the edge of a forest. ‘Out,’ me says. I obey. Inside the bungalow is cosy. Tartan tablecloths and doilies cosy. ‘Is this?’ I begin. ‘This is not my house, no,’ me says. ‘I’m borrowing it.’ He trots upstairs and I follow up two flights to the locked door of an attic bedroom. He clicks a key in the lock and we enter. Lights flick on and computer screens blink into life all around us. Each screen appears to show a different image of me in various states of unconsciousness. Every so often a screen warps and shifts to another image of another me, asleep, or passed out, or pissed or whatever. I’m so transfixed I barely notice the two people on the bed in the centre of the room. A man and a woman. They’re restrained, with wires inserted into either side of their necks, snaking down to a machine at the foot of the bed, pumping dark fluid beneath their skin. ‘And these are?’ I point towards the unconscious pair. ‘The owners of the house, yes. Please stand here,’ me says. ‘Right,’ I say, must continue to just go along with this or I will completely lose my shit.