In a Philip K Dick world

- If this was a Philip K Dick novel, what would happen next?

Although it wasn’t late, they were both lying in bed. They’d just finished sex and were hoping now to drift into sleep. It was a warm summer’s night and they had the windows open.

They could hear loud and fast footsteps echoing down the street.

- That man would knock on our door, and we’d answer, and he’d know us, but we wouldn’t know him.

- Or he’d knock on the door, and we’d answer, and he’d be confused, because his sister has been living in this house for 17 years and he saw her here only yesterday.

The footsteps went past, grew quieter as they rounded the corner, towards the station.

- Or he wouldn’t need to knock, because his key would work, and he’d want to know what we were doing in his house.

- And then he’d call the police and he’d be right.

- And as soon as he said it we’d know he was right and we’d wonder what we were doing here.

He sat up, drank some water from a glass and then lay back down, this time facing away from her.

- Or we’d answer the door, and outside would be a completely different place. We wouldn’t be on this street, or in this town, or maybe even on this planet.

- And when we turned back from the door the house would be different too.

- And there’d be different people living here and they’d want to know what we were doing here, and it would be like we’d knocked on the door of their house and were coming to see them. They’d answer the door and not let us in.

- Or it would be a hundred years in the future and we’d be remembered as the victims of a grisly murder committed a hundred years before and still talked about to this day.

He turned again to look at her. Not that they could see much of each other in the dark. He could see the curve of her shape and the gleam of her eyes.

- Isn’t that a bit too much Tales of the Unexpected?

- Yeah, you’re right. Save that one up, eh? That’s another game.

- So?

- So he comes to the door, and I get dressed, and I go and answer it. And he recognises me. He’s my husband. He’s been away. He’s been in jail. He was dangerous to the authorities. And now they’ve let him out. He’s come home for me. And he wants to know why I don’t recognise him. Because of course he thinks I must. And so he assumes the authorities have got to me. That I’m on their side. Or maybe they’ve threatened our children.

- You have children?

They didn’t.

- Yes, a boy and a girl, one of each. So he thinks maybe they’ve threatened the children. And it breaks his heart.

Silence. They lay there for a while. She sounded genuinely upset.

- Or he comes to the door, and you get dressed, and go and answer it. And you recognise him. You recognise him straight away. He’s your husband. He’s come back from jail. And instantly you’re deprogrammed. You have false memories, of a false life with me, but when you see him instantly something clicks, and you know he’s your husband. And so you let him in.

As he said this, the footsteps approached again. They got louder, then halted, and then someone knocked twice, clearly, on their front door.

Are you going to answer, he asked.

Sorry, who are you?, she asked.