Dr Joyce nods, makes a note. 'Mm-hmm. Carry on.'

'The first is very short. I'm in a huge, palatial house, looking across a dark corridor to a black wall. Everything is monochrome. A man appears from one side; he walks slowly and heavily. He is bald, and his cheeks seem puffed out. I can't hear any sound. He walks from left to right, but as he walks past where I'm looking, I see that the wall on the far side of him is actually a huge mirror, and his image is repeated and repeated in it, by another mirror which must be somewhere to one side of me. So I see all these thick, heavy-looking men, in a great row, marching more precisely in step than any line of soldiers ...' I look up at the doctor's eyes. Deep breath.

'The ridiculous thing is, the reflection nearest the man, the first one, doesn't mimic his actions; for a second, just for a moment, it turns and looks at him - it doesn't break step, only the head and the arms move - and it puts both its hands to its head, spread out like this - ' (I show the doctor) 'and waggles them and then immediately jerks back into position. The reflected line of fat men walk out of view. The real man, the original one, doesn't notice what has happened. And ... well, that's all.'

The doctor purses his lips and clasps his pink stubby fingers together.

'Did you also identify with the man in the sea at any point? As well as being the man in the robes who was watching from the shore, was there at any time a sensation of being the other one? Who, after all, was the more real? The man on the shore seems to have disappeared at some point; the man with the chain-lash stopped seeing him. Well; don't answer that now. Think about it, and the fact that the man you were had no shadow. Carry on, please; what is the next dream?'

I sit and stare at Dr Joyce. My mouth hangs open.

What did he just say? Did I hear that? What did I say? My God, this is worse than last night. I am dreaming and you are something from within myself.

'Wh-I - I'm sorry? Wh- what? What - how did you ...?'

Dr Joyce looks puzzled. 'I beg your pardon?'

'What you just said ..." I say, my tongue stumbling over the words.

'I'm sorry,' Dr Joyce says, and takes off his spectacles. 'I don't know what you mean Mr Orr. All I said was, "Carry on please."'.

God, am I still asleep? No, no, definitely not, no point trying to pretend this is a dream. Press on, keep going. Maybe it's just a temporary lapse; I still feel odd, fevered; that's all it is, that's all it can be. Fog on the brain. Don't let it disturb you; maintain; the show must go on.

'Yes I - I beg your pardon; I'm not concentrating very well today. Didn't sleep well last night; probably why I didn't dream.' I smile bravely.

'Of course,' the good doctor says, putting his spectacles back on his nose. 'Do you feel well enough to continue?'

'Oh yes.'

'Good.' The doctor actually smiles, if a little artificially, like a man trying on a loud tie he knows doesn't really suit him. 'Please continue when your ready.'

I have no choice. I have already told him there were three dreams.

'In the next dream, in monochrome again, I'm watching a couple in a garden, perhaps a maze. They're on a bench, kissing. There's a hedge behind them, and a statue of... well, a statue, a figure on a pedestal, nearby. The woman is young, attractive, the man T- who is wearing some sort of formal suit - is older; he looks distinguished. They are embracing quite passionately.' I have avoided the doctor's eyes; it takes a considerable act of will to bring my head up and face him again. 'And then a servant appears; a butler or footman. He says something like, "Ambassador, the telephone," as the old distinguished man and the young woman look round. The young woman gets up from the bench, smooths down her dress and says something like "Damn. Duty calls. Sorry, darling," and follows the servant away. The old man, frustrated, goes over to the statue, gazes at one of the figure's marble feet, then pulls out a large hammer and brings it smashing down on the big toe.'

Dr Joyce nods, makes some notes, and says, 'I would be interested in what you think the dialect signifies. But carry on.' He looks up.

I swallow. There is a strange, high whine in my ears.

'The last dream, or the last part of the single dream, takes place during the day, on some cliffs above a river inside a beautiful valley. A young boy sitting eating a piece of bread with some other children, and a beautiful young teacher ... they're all having lunch, I think, and there's a cave behind ... no, there isn't a cave ... anyway, the young boy is holding his sandwich, and I'm looking at it too, from very close up, and a big splash suddenly appears on it, then another, and the boy looks up, puzzled, at the cliff above; and there's a hand hanging over the edge of the cliff top, and it's holding a bottle of tomato sauce, which is dripping onto the boy's bread. That's all.'

What now?

'Mm-hmm,' the doctor says. 'Was this a wet-dream?'

I stare at him. It is asked reasonably enough, and of course what is said here is completely confidential. I clear my throat. 'No, it was not.'

'I see,' the doctor says, and spends some time making half a page of microscopically neat notes. My hands are shaking, I am sweating.

'Well.' the doctor says, 'I feel we've come to a ... fulcrum in this case, don't you?'

A fulcrum? what does the good doctor mean?

'I don't know what you're talking about,' I say.

'We have to go on to another stage of the treatment,' Dr Joyce tells me. I don't like the sound of this.

The doctor issues a precisely weighted professional sigh. 'While I think we might have a ... well, quite a good deal of material here,' he looks back through several pages of notes, 'I don't feel we're getting any closer to the core of the problem. We're circling around it, that's all. You see,' he looks up at the ceiling, 'if we regard the human mind as - say - like a castle -'

Oh-oh, my doctor believes in metaphors.

' - then all you've been doing for the last few sessions is taking me on a guided tour of the curtain wall. Now, I'm not saying you're deliberately trying to deceive me; I feel sure you want to help yourself as much as I want to help you, and you probably think we're really heading inwards, towards the keep, but... I'm an old hand at this, John, and I can see when I'm not getting anywhere.

'Oh.' I can't take much more of this castle comparison. 'So what now? I'm sorry if I haven't - '

'Oh. no apologies needed, John,' Dr Joyce assures me. 'But I do think a new technique is required here.'

'What new technique?'

'Hypnosis,' Dr Joyce says avuncularly, smiling. 'It's the only way through the next line of walls, or to the keep, perhaps.' He sees my frown. 'It wouldn't be difficult; I think you would make a good subject.'

'Really?' I stall. 'Well ...'

'It may well be the only way forward,' he nods. The only way forward? I thought we were trying to go backwards.

'You're sure?' I need to think about this. How much does Dr Joyce want? How much of me does he want?

'Quite sure,' the doctor says. 'Perfectly certain.' Such emphasis!

I fiddle with my wrist band. I'm going to have to ask for time to think.

'But perhaps you'd like to think about it,' Dr Joyce says. I show no relief. 'Besides,' he adds, looking at his pocket watch, 'I have a meeting in half an hour, and I'd like to schedule you on an open-ended basis, so perhaps now isn't the most convenient time.' He starts to pack up, putting the notepad on his desk, checking his little silver pencil is safely in the scabbard of his breast pocket. He takes off his glasses, blows on them, polishes them with his handkerchief. 'You have,' he says, 'exceptionally vivid and ... coherent dreams. Remarkable fecundity of mind.'