Mr Dover's Visions

Halfway through our interview, Mr Dover has another vision. He sits there vacant like an abandoned house, limbs lying limp over the sides of the chair. His eyes are open but nobody is home. 

“Mr Dover?” I ask. No answer.

I read over my notes again:

• Mr Otis Dover

• 29 years old

• Doomsday Prepper

Really? I was expecting someone a bit more camo, a bit more out-of-touch, but he’s literally wearing Converse.

“Mr Dover!”

He stirs from the depths of his body. Blinks once, then twice. His face distorts. 

“Mr Dover? Can I get you a glass of water?”

He shakes his head. 

“OK, well… Can I ask what you saw?”

He stares pointedly at my pen as it hovers above the page, then speaks. “A decision. Politicians, MPs. They were voting in the House of Commons.”

“Voting on what?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

I try a different angle. “Do you have these visions often?”

“Yes.”

“And do you ever think to warn people?”

Mr Dover smirks. He stands instead of answering and steps over to the floor-to-ceiling window. He looks down on the people passing below. From my office on the 31st floor, they all seem pocketable. 

“You really should consider relocating to the country,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“Well, my job is here but—"

“There it is.”

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s the answer to your question.”

I say nothing and listen to the world moving outside, the clock ticking. I don’t like being in the room with Mr Dover, he makes it all sound like a countdown. 

 “So, when did you begin prepping for Doomsday?”

“When I started seeing it.” 

“In your visions?”

“You could say that,” he says, “but before the visions started, I saw murmurs of it in news articles and weather reports, every second of every day.” 

“Some would say that’s a little extreme. Is there not a moment when you forget the world is ending?”

“I’ve never had that skill. My memory is...” He smiles, slowly. “I can remember every birthday cake my Mum made for me up to the age of sixteen.” 

 “And do you wish everyone else would remember too?” 

“God, no. No, I wish I could join them and forget. I’d be a lot happier.” 

“OK, Mr Dover, one final question. Why did you agree to this interview? I know you’re notoriously hard to get hold of.”

“Because there isn’t long.”

I nod. He’s unflinchingly predictable.

“And my only other offer was ‘6 Doomsday Preppers VS 1 Fake Doomsday Prepper.’ I thought this would be more bearable.”

It’s nice that he’s occasionally funny. For a second, I forget what he portends. I mean, he is dressed like a normal guy. A normal 29-year-old with a career to advance and a partner to marry when the time is right. In other, better circumstances, he’d own a border collie. 

“Thank you for your time. It’s been a fascinating interview.”

I shake his hand and he holds mine loosely, without attachment. I want him to say something, to give me some advice, but he only looks at me. 

“Please. I’m more than capable of seeing myself out,” he asserts. Belatedly, I notice that I haven’t let go. Mr Dover pulls himself away and exits fast. 

Alone now, I become aware of my heart, then my fingers, the nerves that allow me to reach the desk, pick up my phone and press the red button to stop the recording. 

That is when the street screams. Outside, below. The screaming of a thousand commuters cannot be contained by double glazing. “People running.” Mr Dover had said. His first vision. Right after I’d asked how his day had been. Stupid question.

I dart to the window. It’s like I’m inside of his head. Something has torn the people apart. They scatter madly, bashing into one another like marbles as they try to run. From what? Panic is catching. This skyscraper couldn’t feel less like a shelter if it tried. 

Mr Dover must have just reached the lift by now. I could make it. I could go with him, away from the city, from running and decisions and -

A notification slides down from the top of my phone screen. Apple news.

A decision has been made by the UK government…

His second vision. 

I call his name. The street surges below. I join the push. Out of the room and down the corridor, dodging the heads of other employees, poking out of their offices, waiting to be told how to save themselves. 

I’ve forgotten to close my door.

On the ground floor, I pass some poor bugger scanning his card to get into the building. He swipes, and swipes and keeps swiping. 

“It’s no safer in there!” I yell. I don’t recognise my voice. I don’t recognise the street. But I do recognise Mr Dover. He is stock still amongst it all, inside the vision that no one believed would come true. He doesn’t flinch when something smashes on the other side of the street. A car window? A shop window? A second later it’s forgotten.

“Mr Dover!” I shout, battering my way through the blur. His face is vacant and lonely. He thinks he’s having another vision. I take his right hand. I imagine it stroking a border collie, or frying pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. I don’t want to tell him this is not all in his head. 

So, instead, I hug him. As a helicopter beats the sky above us, I hug him and he hugs me back.