His feet were being restrained, even through the haze of slowly departing sleep; he could feel the bonds tighten.  This is how it always happened in the dream.

The dread of being held down, face pushed into the dirt while his hands and feet were bound. The laughing cruel little faces as they gathered round taking turns to deliver a kick or spit on the once new shell-suit, now torn and filthy.  Larry Richardson pissing on him from behind. Him choking and then vomiting, but no that had been years ago, when they were kids and a lot had changed since then.

He kicked his legs to rid himself of the dream and the duvet, wrapped around his legs.

The first shock was the pain, white hot and blinding that seared across his scull, the dull aches in hips, neck and back like he’d taken a beating with a rubber hose.

The kicking wasn’t working his feet were still bound, hands as well and as the last remnants of sleep swiftly departed panic set in.

The room was dark and unfamiliar, with an unpleasant staleness to the air and as he kicked furiously to free himself he could hear again the cruel laughter.

Giving one final Herculean effort he sprang salmon like in to the air and was rewarded with a moments freedom before pain exploded, everywhere.

He lay there momentarily stunned into submission by sheer agony and a door, unnoticed in the darkness, opened flooding the room with antiseptic light.

“Phil, are you alright mate” softly spoken and reassuring as hell.

“yes mate”

Of course, he’d stayed the night at John’s after they’d got so wasted there was no way of him making his way home on the tube, not without risking severe personal injury.  And yes that was right he’d ended up sleeping in a women’s sleeping bag remembering even the comment about how ‘it will fit like a glove’.

“That damn dream”