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Now noone’s paying me any attention, I sidle across the carpet and take the only available seat, next to a

dumpy man in a suit with a cigar between his teeth. On my other side, a middleaged woman with long black

hair in a plait. She’s glancing around the room, looking terrified and at the same time, exhilarated. A strange

face to make, believe me. Deciding I’d rather talk to her than the lessthanfriendly looking man to my right, I

ask the all important question once again.

“Where are we?”

She stares at me in shock, “You haven’t figured that out yet? Look around…” Her hand gestures around the

room, to all the people deep in their own neighbourly conversations. My eyes follow and after passing a few

faces, I suddenly begin to recognise them.

“Is that?” I point to a man sat exactly opposite me. A wide guy with a quick quiff of black hair somehow levitat-

ing above his forehead. As I stare, his lips curl at the corner.

I’m in a waiting room with Elvis Presley…

He’s listening intently to a very pretty woman perched next to him, who I instantly recognise as Audrey Hep-

burn.

“What the heck is going on?” I interrogate my companion sitting beside me. “These people are…” as my eyes

dart around, iconic figures from history meet my gaze, all from different eras and professions, but all sat, con-

tent in this mysterious waiting room. But when my scrambled brain finally processes the many personas in

the room, I realise they all have a connection. Elvis Presley, Audrey Hepburn, William Shakespeare, Albert

Einstein, Henry VIII and I can even see Kennedy sat in the furthest seat from me, chatting animatedly with

several other men in suits.

All these people are dead.

Which means that I must be too. How? That’s my first question. I hope I went out with a bang, not stuck in a

hospital attached to countless machines and clinging to life.

“The memories’ll start to come back to you.” the woman says dreamily, “Still waiting for mine, unfortunately.”

Almost immediately after these words meet my ears, my head rings and an image projects across my eyes,

like a video. Or a film, an intense thriller, from the looks of it. An overturned car, smashed windows raining

glass on the road, scuffed and red. The sound of fire crackling and a thin scream. The car interior sparks,

lighting up two figures trapped inside. I quickly recognise the first as my friend Amber, a panicked expression

etched across her usually calm composure.

The other person manages to wriggle out her side of the flaming wreckage and runs around to help Amber. A

struggle, another yell, and an explosion of metal from the bonnet later, she’s free. The two stand next to the

car, clearly in shock. The girl who isn’t Amber turns her head, and I realise I’m looking at myself. I hug Amber

and that moment of safety is shortlived when a blaring car horn rings through the air.

Amber is pushed away, she lands on the tarmac as a truck screeches past her feet and then the vision fades

to black.

And I’m back in the waiting room. Gasping.

“That was quick.” grunts the man with the cigar, “Took me three years…” He puffs a thick cloud of black

smoke that swirls around our heads before giving a friendly nod to two older looking gentlemen sat across the

room, reading newspapers. Then he turns back to me, looking me in the face properly.

“So, who are you then? Some ‘rapper’ or something like that?” he says, spying my ripped jeans and trainers. I

suddenly realise who he is. “Are you… Winston Churchill?” Yes, the bulldog face is so clear now. It’s definite-

ly him. He raises his eyebrows and takes the cigar from his mouth.

“That I am, now who are you?”

“I’m Megan. And I’m not anybody really…”