James often sat in his chair in the office, absorbing every last imperfection in the dreadful monotone wallpaper, every last bent screw misplaced during the construction of his desk, the location of every last poster on the peeling noticeboards around the room; dreaming of how he would rather be anywhere but there, endlessly entering the same information over and over again into the mocking computer before him. Often he wondered, in that fantastic way that one can do only with things that will never come to pass, what it would feel like to pick up his bag, sling it casually over his shoulder, and stroll nonchalantly past the glaring mistress that patrolled the area between the desks and the doors to the outside world; to say to the constricting common sense and wearying conformity that held him here, “Sod it!”

Never did he imagine he would actually do it, that he could ever show that much disrespect to his employers, or indeed, that much respect to himself. Yet here he was, walking off down the street, the last image of his boss’s face imprinted on his mind, causing him to grin wildly as he wandered aimlessly for a few minutes. Then it returned: a strange nagging sensation, like he had forgotten something terribly important, a feeling that he had somewhere to be, very urgently. The same feeling had driven him to finally take action on his impulses moments before, and had been temporarily forgotten in the guilty elation of having done so.

A bus pulled up at the bus stop nearby, headed out of Golford. James got on, paid a fare to the next village, Chileston, and sat down. Only once he had done so did he realise he had no reason to be going this way; indeed, once he got off, he would have to walk back, having spent all his change for the ticket out. “Oh well,” he muttered, “too late to get off now. Besides, what else will I do?”

“Better to ask what else you can do.” The low, creaky voice with a wisp of aspiration crept from behind him, like a serpent seeping its way into his ears with the absolute minimum volume necessary.

James looked around to the speaker, and his eyes met with those of a middle aged man several seats back, far too far away to have been the owner of such a voice. A compact face with chiselled features, long wiry black hair and a shortly cropped beard, capped with a black wide brimmed hat, sat atop broad shoulders, over which was draped a brown wax-coated jacket, with a strange symbol pinned to the lapel. James was sure he had seen that sign before. He churned through memories, trying to recall where, but to no avail.

The man looked at him at smiled softly. James looked away, feeling completely uncomfortable in these strange circumstances, and sat in silent isolation for the rest of the journey.

As the bus pulled up at a stop on the edges of Golford, the voice drifted towards him again: “Come with me, we have much to do.” The strange man stepped past him and looked down, smiling again.  

James felt torn: for some, strange, inexplicable reason, he felt a huge desire to follow this odd man, and see what he wanted, and yet... he had to get to Chilesford!

The man shook his head, almost disgusted, muttered something under his breath, traced his thick fingers along some invisible lines above James' head, clicked them, and abruptly, the need to get to Chilesford was gone. No, not gone, just... less urgent.

“Come.”

James sighed, thinking to himself, “I am going to regret this tomorrow!” He got up, and followed the man off the bus.