PLEASE CUT AND PASTE THIS BOOK INTO WORD IF YOU WANT TO PRINT A COPY. A Little, Brown Book DREAM DETECTIVE First published in Great Britain in 1996 by Little, Brown and Company Copyright © 1996 by Christopher Robinson and Andrew Boot The moral right of the authors has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 0 316 91466 5 Chris Robinson first contacted the Regional Crime Squad in 1988 with information concerning an IRA atrocity. It was treated with scepticism at first as the police have many approaches from people claiming psychic powers who are either attention-seeking, misguided or whose information proves inaccurate. I was, however, asked by the Regional Co-ordinator to monitor Chris' dreams, which I did, sometimes on a daily basis, until I retired from the police in 1995. As a senior police officer and experienced detective, I had always concerned myself with hard facts and usable evidence. Because of this, Chris did not find me an easy contact to report to, but over the years Chris has convinced me of the genuine belief he has in his powers. Despite the vagueness of many of his dreams, we have worked together on a number of investigations and Chris has been able to offer helpful information in relation to major crimes and terrorist activities. ALEX HALL: Ex-Detective Chief Inspector, Regional Crime Squad. AUTHOR'S NOTE INTRODUCTION Go outside on any night and look up to the sky. If it is cloudy you will see very little, but on a clear, dark night you will see thousands of stars. Take a powerful telescope, look through it and you will see much more, but on a cloudy night you will still see very little. We know the reason - clouds of water vapour. We sometimes get very clear messages in our dreams and at other times it is just a mess. Maybe something gets in the way of the messages in just the same way as the clouds do with starlight. We know a little about light and how it behaves, but we have almost no knowledge about how or why we dream — or for that matter about any other kind of psychic ability. I ask that you keep an open mind as you read this book and form your conclusions at the end. Remember, we used to think that the Earth was flat. In the early months of the dreams I almost cracked up. Without the support of Detective Inspector Paul Aylott, Chief Inspector Alex Hall, and Detective Inspector Chris Watt and their superiors who remained open-minded, I probably would have. The Rev David Bolster from St Andrew's Church helped me enormously then and is still doing so now; thank you all. I would also like to thank all my friends and family who are too many to mention; but especially Penny Thornton, Dr Keith Hearne and Gary Jones who gave me the most valuable professional help. Most of all I would like to thank my friends who now dwell in the next world for coming to me with the information about events due to happen. Thank you Yvonne, Keith, Trevor .Nan Robert and everyone else, may God bless you. I look forward to joining you in the realms beyond this one . . . Chris Robinson Andy Boot I first met Chris Robinson over the Easter of 1994. At that time I was promoting a book about psychics who have been used by the police to solve murders. The publisher had dispatched me to Wire TV, a cable company operating out of Bristol, where I was to take part in a talk show about psychics and the police. It was an awful night: very stormy, windy and rainy, making urban Bristol seem like the back end of hell — in some ways, the perfect setting for discussion about the so-called supernatural. It didn't make matters any less doom-laden when you consider that the studio was located in the middle of a shopping mall — and is there anything more dark and creepy than a deserted mall? It was like something out of a George Romero zombie movie. The people from the television company, however, were very pleasant, and their production offices - across the road from the mall - were warm and full of people willing to make tea when you came in out of the rain. This was where I first heard of Chris. One of the researchers said to me, 'We've got a guy called Chris Robinson appearing. Have you heard of him?' I had to admit that I hadn't. Underneath her desk was a small cardboard box, perched on a pile of phone books. 'We've set a little test for Chris,' she went on with a sly smile. Puzzled, I said nothing until Chris arrived from our hotel - he had reached Bristol earlier than I had - with CHRIS ROBINSON another of the guests on the show, parapsychologist Robin Furman. Straight away Chris impressed me. He was casually dressed, and very open and friendly. Many of the psychics I have come across like to project a vaguely mysterious and otherworldly aura. The ones with the most to offer are usually more natural. Chris already seemed to fit into the latter category. We talked about many things that had nothing to do with psychics, and then I took the plunge and asked him about the theory that all ghosts are nothing more than 'tape recordings', impressions of things past trapped in buildings and locations. Chris told me that he felt this was untrue, as he'd been having conversations with ghosts for years, and you can't conduct a two-way conversation with a tape recording . . . We also talked about football, and he told me that he'd had a dream the week before about the West Ham-Luton FA Cup Quarter-Final. Luton caused an upset by winning 3—2, and, interestingly, Chris's son had dreamt the name of the Luton scorer — hat-trick hero Scott Oakes. Then, came the time to open the box. The researcher asked Chris what he'd dreamt about the box, and Chris got out his dream diary, flipping to the entry for a few nights before. The page was filled with disjointed phrases and scrappy line drawings. The phrases were coherent in themselves, but resembled a stream of consciousness, jumping from one subject to another with little apparent connection. I was looking over Chris's shoulder, fascinated. There were phrases to do with dentists, razor blades and teeth. Chris explained that he'd had a dream about cutting his mouth with razor blades, blood everywhere. He'd also dreamt about going to the dentist, which he usually did only when he actually needed to go himself. There was also a reference to 'yellow pages' in the diary, and I remembered that the box was standing on a pile of old phone books. When the researcher opened the box, inside was a baby's teething ring, of the kind that is made up of brightly coloured plastic keys. The symbolism of a mouthful of razor blades, and trips to the dentist, in relation to a baby cutting its first teeth was obvious. The researcher asked Chris if she could use that on the show. He refused. That, made me take even more of an interest in him. Most psychics would be more than pleased to have such an obvious piece of symbolism used as a direct 'hit'. Not Chris: he told the researcher that it wasn't accurate enough for his liking. Unless he'd actually dreamt of keys, or a baby, he didn't want it included on the program. This was definitely impressive. If such an obvious piece of dream symbolism wasn't good enough for him, then what was? After the show, on our way back to the hotel, I made sure that I got to talk to Chris. He told me about his life: he'd had the odd precognitive dream, but not until 1989 had he started to get them with any regularity. He was a down-to-earth man, trained as a television engineer, and had in the past run his own business as a television repair man and had also run a chain of video hire shops. He'd been an entrepreneur, in his own words a 'ducker-and-diver', for most of his life. Now he was unable to work, as the dreams were so frequent that they kept him in a state of semi-consciousness through the night. He no longer slept properly. Things began to get even more interesting as he told me of some of the terrorist and homicide cases he had worked on. Back at the hotel he showed me press clippings, and letters from the Ministry of Defence .mil the Metropolitan Police relating to his dream premonitions. Most importantly, he showed me his current dream book. Over the years since 1989 Chris has built up a vast archive of these dream diaries, written at night. Extracts from these will feature heavily in the course of this book, so perhaps now is the best time to explain what they are. Every night Chris keeps a notebook and pen by his bedside. Throughout the night, while he is dreaming, he writes in this book by the method known as automatic writing. This is performed when the subject is not conscious of what he is doing: usually in some kind of trance state. It is believed to be the unconscious mind that guides the hand, bypassing our everyday conscious mind. As a result, the subject has no idea what has been written down until he or she is conscious again — in Chris's case, when he wakes up. Consequently Chris's notebook is a confusion of half-sentences, phrases describing vivid images, and some line drawings and sketches. Often the dreams are couched in symbols. It took Chris a little while to work out what these symbols mean, but they form a definite code, with the same images and symbols recurring time and again. Interestingly it became apparent that sometimes it is not the dream itself that provides the code, but rather what is written about the dream. I found all this fascinating, and when Chris told me that he wanted someone to help him write a book about his experiences, I offered my services. At that time I had no idea that Chris was used by the security services, and that every chapter of this book would have to be vetted before it could be offered to the publisher. I didn't know that the police were wiling to endorse everything that Chris says in this book. Chris Robinson feels that it is time for these things to be recorded, and that whoever - or whatever - is guiding these dreams for him wants him to tell people about it. I know that he has a phenomenal accuracy rate, and that the police have never before endorsed a psychic. Chris Robinson: Dream Detective describes how this psychic came to be endorsed, and how he gets such incredible results. The events in the book all happened, and my accounts are based on Chris's memory and on research of subsequent news reports. It should, however, be pointed out that all conversations are dramatic reconstructions, pieced together from memory. They are not verbatim reports of actual conversations, as there are no transcripts from which to work. I have been asked to point this out by both Chris and Alex Hall, his liaison officer with the Bedfordshire Police Force. ………………….. PART ONE THE LEARNING PROCESS CHAPTER ONE Chris Robinson's strange experiences with dreams really began in 1989, although he is somewhat reluctant to discuss them in great detail. Over the years he has encountered a lot of skepticism and downright hostility towards his premonitions, and so he prefers to use in this book only material for which he has written corroboration. The fact is that until January 1990 he didn't keep a dream diary — all his automatic writing was done on scraps of paper, which have since been lost. So the purpose of this short chapter is to fill you in on what happened before Chris started to take records. I think it's important as, despite his own lack of documentation, there are others who will endorse what he has said. Some of what follows cannot be proved without records — not at a distance of over Haifa decade. But what can be corroborated from other sources is more than enough to introduce you to the world of Chris Robinson. Back in 1989, Chris was in his late thirties, and in the middle of a period of upheaval in his life. Following the collapse of his video business and subsequent court cases concerning the circumstances of that collapse -circumstances in which Chris was an innocent third party caught up in other people's private wars — Chris was living in a caravan in a mobile homes park in Bedfordshire doing odd jobs. He had just become a father again — his daughter Lauren was born in January of that year. Some nights Chris's sleeping pattern was disturbed by the child's feeding: one night, Chris was woken by what he thought was the child crying. Then he realised that he could hear a voice in the room. A voice he recognised. His grandmother's voice. But his grandmother had been dead for several years. When she was in hospital for the last time, Chris had gone to visit her. All his relatives knew that she was dying, but they were keeping it from her. They asked Chris to do the same. 'I told them - if she asks, then I'm going to have to tell her, 'cause I can't lie to her,' he said to me. 'So I went to see her in hospital, and I was on my own. And she said to me, "Christopher —" and I knew it was trouble, 'cause she only called me Christopher when she knew I was trying to fool her, "Tell me the truth. I'm not coming out of here, am I?" 'And I said to her, "Look, you know I can't lie to you, Nan. Why are you asking that?" 'So she said, "I keep seeing your grandad, down at the end of the bed. He keeps asking me to go with him." 'And I said to her, "Well, Nan, the only thing I can say to you is this: next time he comes to see you, and asks you to go with him, I think you'd better go." 'I knew it was the last time I'd see her, so I kissed her, and we both cried a bit. And then I went. She died that evening. In fact, from what one of the nurses told me, she was probably dead before I'd even reached my car.' Chris could hear his grandmother's voice clearly, as though she were standing next to him. 'Christopher,' she said, 'someone is trying to steal your car.' Chris's car wasn't outside his friend's house, where he was sleeping — he'd left it at home, back at the caravan, five miles away. His car was a Porsche 924 Turbo, his pride and joy. He'd bought it as scrap and had spent much time, love and money on restoring it. The first time he took it to his friend's house, hooligans had broken into it. Since then, he'd taken the bus when he visited her. Chris found himself talking to the voice in a half-dream state, accepting it as fact that he was talking to his dead grandmother. 'Nan, the car's five miles away. There's no buses, Lorraine hasn't got a car, and by the time I get a taxi or walk there, it'll be long gone. No, it's lost. Anyway,' he added, wanting to get back to sleep, 'it's insured.' 'Don't worry, Christopher,' his grandmother said, I will do something about it.' Chris fell back to sleep and thought no more about it. The next afternoon, as he reached home, one of his neighbours came out to see him. 'Is your car all right?' she asked. Chris was surprised. He hadn't been to examine the car, which was parked in the mobile homes' small car park, but had noticed it as he passed by and everything seemed okay. He'd almost forgotten about the dream. 'Are you sure your car's all right?' the woman continued. 'Only something strange happened in the middle of the night. There was a blinding light, and a voice. My husband got up, because it frightened the life out of him, and he looked out of the window. There were these blokes trying to break into your car, so he chased them off. He spent the rest of the night sitting up, guarding it.' Chris went and checked the car: it was perfectly all right. He thanked his neighbours, and went into his caravan, where he sat down and thought about it. Had it been his grandmother who had saved his car? The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced. He went down to his local church and prayed to his grandmother and grandfather, thanking them. He was convinced that they were responsible. At the same time, he had no idea that this was the beginning of something. He simply put it down to a strange coincidence, something that could never really be explained. The next incident didn't occur for several months. Chris was flying over water. There was a man below him, in the water, and obviously in some distress. He was calling up to Chris for help. Chris knew that the man was going to die. He flew down to help him but, as is the way in dreams, they ended up talking inconsequentially. The stranger had fallen off a boat that Chris could see in the distance, sailing away from them. At one point, the man - who hadn't identified himself, and who bore no resemblance to anyone Chris knew — said, 'It's all right for you — you're going back to your body in the morning. I'm not.' He then began to rant and rave about wreaking revenge on the boat's owners, who had left him to die. It was shocking and frightening, waking Chris with a start. He told his friend, who — none too happy at being woken — told Chris to write it down and go back to sleep. Chris found an old letter by the side of the bed, scribbled down a few details, then went back to sleep. Two days later there was an item on the news about an ex-soldier who had fallen overboard from a ferry bound for Sweden and had drowned. Chris knew immediately that this was the man in his dream. He was shocked by the revelation, but at the same time excited about what it could mean. 'It's all right for you - you're going back to your body.' These were the words that have stayed with Chris ever since. After his dream about his grandmother, he had mentioned the dream to two policemen whom he had been assisting with an investigation concerning some ex-colleagues. He had also told his friend Trevor Kempson, a News of the World journalist. A week later the same boat was involved in another incident. Chris had already had a feeling that something terrible was going to happen to the boat, and had told the policemen (who have, unfortunately, asked not to be named): it wasn't a dream, more a vague notion, something half-remembered and grasped. The boat was carrying a consignment of beagles to Sweden, something that it did every week. Only this time it was different: nearly all the beagles died, suffocating through lack of oxygen. This was a regular run, and such a thing shouldn't have happened. Chris could remember the ex-soldier's vows of revenge. Could it be that — impossible though it sounds — he had returned as a ghostly presence and scared the dogs to such a degree (remembering that dogs - like cats - are particularly sensitive) that they panicked and used all their oxygen in manic barking? Chris was disturbed by this. What did it say about his dreams that he knew something was going to happen -and then it did? The night after the incident concerning the beagles [had featured on the news, the soldier appeared again in Chris's dreams, and told him that he was going to set e boat alight. The next morning Chris was on the [ phone to his police contacts, telling them what he had dreamt . Ferries work on a 'sister-boat' system: as one boat leaves, say, Harwich, its sister will be departing for Harwich. This time the incident occurred not on the boat from which the soldier had fallen, but on its sister-boat. About halfway across the route, at the point where the coastguard felt sure that the soldier had drowned, the sister-boat caught fire. It didn't take long for the police to pay Chris .1 visit. What was going on? A spontaneous fire in a linen cupboard — how could Chris possibly have known? The summer went on, and a few dreams came and went. Having no proper records, Chris can't recall the exact details now, but the dreams were jumbled and confused, with elements of precognition among them. At this time Chris wasn't too sure what it was that he possessed, only that it both excited and worried him. The police, on the other hand, were becoming extremely interested. Two officers took over the job of dealing with Chris and, if not monitoring him, then at the very least keeping an eye on his dreams. For reasons of security they prefer to be known simply as Frank and Steve. 'Let's face it,' Frank said to Chris, 'we knew where you were when all this happened. You couldn't have pushed that bloke overboard, you couldn't have killed the dogs, or set fire to the ship. So how the hell did you know about it?' Everybody — including me — has always asked Chris the name of the soldier. His reply is that the man was just there - only once did he mention his name, in passing, referring to himself as Robert. Otherwise, the soldier never bothered with names, sticking instead to an 'all right, mate?' approach, as the exchange of names didn't seem significant. Chris had far more important things to talk about, as became obvious on 30 September 1989. CHAPTER Two Chris could feel himself float up from his body, as though gently sucked upwards by something from above. At first the sensation terrified him, and he could feel his own resistance straining at the upwards pull, trying to drag him back. But the gentle pressure continued, and he found himself beginning to enjoy the upwards motion, his fear starting to disappear and be replaced by a calm acceptance. As the fear lessened, so the movement upwards became easier. He allowed himself to be pulled along, and it seemed as though his acceptance was all that was needed: from a feeling of floating, he found himself instantly pulled up with a shock. Suddenly he was sitting in the branches of a tree that overhung his caravan. He was sitting next to a British soldier, dressed in uniform. Chris recognised him immediately as the man who had fallen into the sea and drowned — but he'd never seen him in uniform before. Chris looked at the soldier, and then looked down. He could see the roof of his caravan underneath the branches. As he looked around, he could see all the other homes in the park, which was dotted with oak trees like the one in which he was sitting. The park was sprinkled with lights, and the greenery of rural Bedfordshire disappeared into the black of night. Chris had been living here for three years, and had never seen it like this before. Chris turned around to ask the soldier what was happening - but he had gone. Later Chris told me, 'I remember thinking what a strange dream it was. I realise now that it wasn't a dream at all. It was a totally different state: not dreaming, nor waking, but something that lies in between.' For Chris it was already an unusual dream: he was fully aware of who he •was and felt as though he was awake. It was as though he had climbed the tree and was looking around, rather than merely dreaming about it. There were a sharpness and clarity that were unusual for a dream - at least, for the dreams that Chris usually had. It seemed as though he was sitting there for ages, just flocking around. Then he felt that pulling feeling again, just as he had when he was lying in bed. Wherever tit wanted to take him, he was keen to find out. He stretched his arms out like wings, and toppled off le branch. Instead of falling, as he had half-expected, he found [himself flying through the air. He'd had flying dreams before, but this was different. In other dreams Chris had |no idea of who he was: his identity was lost, and he was lying in the same way as you view a video taken out of i aero plane window. There was no direct involvement. This was quite different. He could feel the wind plucking It him as he flew, could feel the currents of air around id beneath him, buoying him up. This time he was experiencing everything involved in the physical act of flying, and knew that it was really happening. In previous dreams he had been aware of the flying, but at the point when he was about to awake and knew that it was all a dream. The difference now was at if this experience was a dream, then being alive was really the dream, and this was reality. The sensation of flying alive was more heightened than anything he had ever experienced. Chris felt himself flying. It was a westerly direction this much he knew from the landmarks that passed underneath him, places he drove through every day. ice past them, he watched the fields and hills unfold below him. Over trees, rivers and houses, villages and towns he flew, some of which he recognised, and could therefore confirm the direction his guided flight was taking. And guided it certainly was, as Chris had no control over what was happening. Somehow, recognising a few landmarks made him feel a little more comfortable about what was happening. He had no idea how far he flew, or for how long. Eventually he felt himself begin to descend towards a small town, which he could pin down only as being somewhere in the West Country. He landed softly on the pavement of the town's main street. It was deserted. Chris looked around for any signs of life - after all, it was still early for the Saturday night revelers you get in the centre of any town. If he had fallen asleep quickly, then it must only be about eleven or half-past ... if normal time scales applied. Here he was, at a point that seemed to have been planned for him, rather than by him. Chris isn't the type of man to scare easily. All his life he's battled against obstacles. He is also naturally laid-back, to the point where some people wonder if he really cares about anything. He does: but he's seen too much to let anything really bother him. Because of this, he's prepared to turn any situation to his advantage. Rather than be scared of what was happening to him that night, he maintained a curiosity about what would happen next. When he looked around again, the soldier was standing in front of him. His uniform had changed, and he was now in full dress, as though ready to go before the Queen at the Trooping of the Colour. Chris wondered what the soldier wanted. He'd featured in Christ's dreams since that night when he had fallen off the ferry. Yet Chris still didn't know who he was, and if he was some kind of symbolic or fictional dream figure of the kind that sometimes populate the landscapes of the night, then there was little Chris could recognise in terms of origin — he looked like no-one Chris had ever known. Come to that, Chris didn't know anyone in the army at all: so why a soldier? Chris wanted to ask him who he was, but this question went unasked as the soldier suddenly said, 'You know why I've brought you here, don't you?' Chris looked at him in silence for a moment before shaking his head. 'No, of course I don't - I don't even know who you are.' 'Come with me,' the soldier replied abruptly. If Chris thought he was going to get some idea of what was going on, he was very much mistaken. Instead, he was given a tour of the town. The buildings were mostly fairly old, made of stone rather than brick, with a few new developments scattered about. The weirdest thing was that the town was totally empty. And despite his attempts to catch sight of a few road signs, Chris couldn't make out where it was, and the soldier was less than helpful. When Chris asked him where they were, he didn't answer. Instead, he led Chris up the steps of a cheap hotel-cum-bed-and-breakfast. They walked in through the front door and up the stairs to one of the rooms. Chris had the strangest feeling about this: although he was following the soldier, he seemed to know where they were going and could easily have taken over the lead. This disquieting thought was put to the back of his mind as the soldier sat down on the bed and began to speak in weary, measured tones as Chris stood and listened. 'There are five men in this town,' he began, 'who are not what they seem. They're posing as building workers, but in fact they are an IRA cell. They're over here doing reconnaissance work, because they've got a bombing mission planned. They're working on a site near here, and they've got guns and explosives stored nearby for future use.' He looked up at Chris, and continued with emphasis, 'It's important that you remember all this.' Chris nodded, listening intently. The soldier went on to tell him all the technical details involved in making a bomb, details he found hard to follow. His attention kept straying: would he remember all this? And where, exactly, was he? Chris woke with a start and sat up in bed with his heart thumping, the sweat pouring off him. He looked at the clock: five in the morning. He felt on the edge, not knowing what to believe, or how to feel. It was a strange and frightening experience, but also exhilarating. He felt as though he was discovering a whole new world, but didn't know what it held. His mind was racing, and he had to do something to ease it. The dream was so clear and vivid, as though etched on his memory with battery acid to make sure that it was permanent. Although he was extremely agitated, and had to do something about the dream, the question remained: what? The first thing was to write down all that he could remember. As Chris was writing, he thought about where he had been. A distant memory of a holiday made him think that it might have been Gloucester. It certainly reminded him of that part of the country. But as he went to write down the word 'Gloucester', a voice behind him said, 'No -Cheltenham.' Chris looked round in shock: there was no-one else in the room. He turned back to the piece of paper, shaken by the sudden mystery voice, and wrote down Cheltenham. As he scribbled the name down, something else came back to him: in the part of the dream when he had been flying, he could remember seeing some satellite dishes. The only dishes of that type in that part of the country were at GCHQ, the secret government listening post. None except those who work there really know what goes on inside GCHQ, but it suddenly struck Chris that this might be an ideal terrorist target. My God, he thought, these terrorists I've been told about are going to bomb GCHQ, and I know that people will be killed. I must do something about it -I must tell someone. But who on earth can I tell? Although he had already had contact with two officers concerning his dreams, the first person Chris thought of was Paul Aylott. He was a Detective Inspector based at Dunstable, the nearest town to the mobile homes park. Chris and Paul Aylott had first crossed paths three years before, when Chris was down on his luck and living in a boarding house that was also used as a brothel. Mistaken for the man who ran the brothel, Chris was approached by a businessman •who wanted him to procure a couple of prostitutes in order to set up the local Tory MP, who was also a business rival. Chris had agreed to go along with him, then promptly contacted the police. Paul Aylott was the officer who had dealt with the matter. The plot was foiled and the businessman not seen again. After this, Chris had kept in touch with Aylott, and the two men had become friends. This had been useful, as strange things seemed to happen to Chris with alarming regularity. All his life he has been plagued with the strange coincidences that the psychologist Carl Jung termed synchronicity. It sometimes seemed that his life was a complex web that wove in and out of other people's, connecting them in the strangest way. Although no criminal,, Chris was forever 'helping the police with their enquiries', simply because his life seemed to touch on a number of strange events. Aylott always used to say, 'It can only happen to you', whenever Chris found himself caught up in something. So it came as no surprise to him when Chris phoned and told him of what he had dreamt. Paul Aylott was only too well aware of Chris's contact with Frank and Steve, and so accepted that what Chris was saying to him that morning was no concocted story. It was obvious that Chris found it deeply disturbing, and Paul agreed to a meeting later that morning. At quarter to twelve Chris met Aylott in the car park of the Do-It-All superstore in Dunstable Road, Luton. Aylott was in his car, waiting, when Chris arrived. 'What's all this about, Chris?' he asked genially as Chris got in beside him, clutching the sheets of paper on which he had scribbled down his dream. Chris hesitated for a second — did it all seem too incredible? 'Go on,' urged Paul with a grin, 'spit it out.' Chris began to tell him about the dream, taking a deep breath and not stopping until he had told Aylott everything, from being pulled up into the tree to hearing the voice behind him as he scribbled down what he could remember. When he had finished, Chris hardly dared ask Aylott what he thought. Aylott looked at the pieces of paper in silence for some moments, then said slowly, 'If this is true, then I suppose I'd better eat it all, right now. It's top-secret stuff, isn't it?' 'Yes,' Chris replied nervously, 'I suppose it is. But I think that it's true, and the IRA really are there.' There was another moment of silence, and then both men burst out laughing. It all seemed so absurd, even though Chris knew it to be true, and could tell that Aylott believed him. 'Leave it with me,' Aylott said when they had both stopped laughing. 'I'll file these, and notify my boss. It's all I can really do with any information - of any sort.' Chris shrugged. 'Well, it's more than I could have hoped for, isn't it? I know how cynical you lot are towards psychic stuff. I'll tell you what, thought. I'm not going to leave it at that. This is really bothering me. I'm going to tell Chris about it as well.' This referred to Detective Inspector Chris Watt, who was based at Scotland Yard. His path had crossed with Chris's during an involvement in a fraud case some few years before. Both men had stayed on friendly terms, and Chris Watt lived only a few miles away, near Watford. Aylott agreed with Chris that two heads would be better than one when it came to making sure that people listened. But he did have a warning. 'You do realise that if this really happens, or we find these guys before something actually happens, all sorts of people are going to be jumping on my back, and on Chris Watt's. They're going to want to know where this information came from, and I'll tell you this for free: no way are they going to believe it came from a dream. I'm going to have to tell them it was you •who passed this on, and it could get a bit rough.' He smiled. 'But I guess we'll have to cross that bridge if, and when, we come to it.' That bridge was reached in eight days. Chris Robinson is still trying to cross it. When Chris contacted DI Watt about the dream, it was suggested that he go and see someone who understood the mind and the way it works — perhaps an accredited psychotherapist and hypnotherapist. Chris wondered if they thought he needed psychiatric help, but was assured that this wasn't the case. In fact, there were two valid reasons for Chris to see a therapist. The first was that a professional opinion on Chris's state of mind would come in useful later, if accusations of mental instability were thrown at him. The second, and perhaps more important reason, concerned the therapist's skills. It was hoped that, under hypnosis, Chris might be able to recall more of his dream and so give the police more details with which to work. There was such a therapist based in Luton, not far from where Chris lived, and the appointment was quickly made for him to visit the next day. By the time he arrived at the therapist's office he was far from relaxed. Not only was he nervous about what might happen, he was also under a growing conviction that he was being followed. A car seemed to have trailed him into town from the mobile homes park, and while he was walking around town it seemed as though a few faces kept popping up in shop windows wherever he went. Perhaps it was paranoia - but perhaps not. Fortunately for Chris, the therapist, Jim, was not at all surprised when Chris told him his dream. He assured Chris that he had heard of such things happening before, and he believed that some precognition was possible. Whether or not Jim really believed this was beside the point - Chris immediately felt more relaxed and confident. Jim asked Chris what he really wanted from him. Chris replied that there were aspects of the dream that were unclear, and he wanted to try and get a better grip on them. For instance, although everything about the dream seemed to scream Cheltenham, there was something about the hotel that gave him a vaguely uneasy feeling: for some unaccountable reason, Chris felt that it might actually be in Wales. It was as though the dream had compressed both places into the one spot in order to give him as much information as quickly as possible. This highlights - both for Chris and for those who have studied his dreaming — the problem of interpreting the dreams and their symbolism. The symbols in Chris's dreams later became very complex and personal, but even at this early stage, when they were much more literal, there were things that didn't quite add up. In fact, the hotel was nowhere near Wales, and whatever had made Chris feel that Wales was involved was an intrusion from his subconscious. This was to be one of the initial problems for Chris: the sorting of dream detritus from the true messages that he was somehow receiving. After a cup of tea to calm his nerves, Chris lay back in a reclining chair. Jim dimmed the lights and began to talk Chris into a relaxed hypnotic state . . . Three-quarters of an hour later they were finished, and Jim handed Chris a tape. Chris couldn't remember a word of what had been said, but handed the tape back to Jim with the suggestion that it would be better if he sent it directly to DI Watt at Scotland Yard. But, as soon as Jim took it, Chris reconsidered: Watt lived within easy driving distance, and it might be quicker to drop the tape off at his house the next day. Chris thanked Jim, left the office in Luton, and walked back to his car. He had parked it near the police station, and by one of those strange quirks of fate to which he was prone had bumped into Paul Aylott on his way to the appointment. But was that purely coincidence? For as Chris walked the short distance to his car, he again felt he was being followed. He was sure he could see someone turning every corner just a few yards behind him. In the few minutes it took him to reach his car, he became a paranoid wreck, aware only of the tape he was clutching. He got into his car and began the journey home, the tape beside him on the passenger seat. The paranoia was increasing: it was much greater than he had felt that morning. The journey seemed to take longer than usual,, as though time had become elastic. It took what seemed like an eternity to get out of the centre of town, as every set of lights seemed to turn red as he reached them. Every time he stopped, he looked over his shoulder. It was impossible to tell for sure, but had that same car that was three back been the one he had seen that morning? Was it the one that had pulled out of the car park when he had? As he drove out of town and headed into the country, Chris found his sense of unease growing. In his rear-view mirror he could see a car gaining on him. Then it seemed to settle into a speed like his own, so that it stayed at a uniform distance — just hovering, waiting ... It was hanging back, waiting to see what he would do. Chris speeded up a little, and the car gained a little. He felt a sudden rush of blind panic, and an overwhelming belief that if he went straight home he would be killed, and the tape lost. He didn't know if it was a premonition or just fear, but he trusted his own instincts enough to follow them. He knew that he couldn't afford to go home. As soon as he made that decision the feeling subsided, almost as though his instincts knew he had made the right decision. He looked back over his shoulder: the car was still there, but it seemed to be dropping back again. Perhaps it wasn't really following him after all? He kept driving, and kept glancing back over his shoulder. The feelings might have subsided, but he didn't want to take any chances. The car hadn't gained any more on him, but it was still there, maintaining a discreet tail. At least, that was how it appeared. Now they were well away from town, and the autumn evening was turning to twilight. The country road was deserted, with only the occasional passing car to give any sign of life. There was little in the way of lighting, and as Chris looked in his rear-view mirror, the headlights on the tailing car loomed ominously. If he wasn't going straight home, then where the hell was he going? Chris considered this for a while, still driving aimlessly. Then he made a decision: Chris Watt lived not too far away — it would be a simple task to drop the tape in tonight instead of tomorrow morning. It was some distance from Luton to Watt's house, especially taking into account the detour through open country, and it was nearly ten o'clock at night by the time Chris arrived at the semi-detached house in a quiet suburban street. He parked a little way down the road and walked slowly towards the house. There had been no sign of the car tailing him, and now he felt a bit foolish. Halfway up the drive he stopped. Should he really bother Watt at this time of night? On consideration, he decided: why not? I've come this far ... 'What on earth do you want?' Chris Watt asked in surprise when he answered Chris's knock. His tone changed when he saw Chris more clearly. 'Are you all right?' 'I think so,' Chris replied. But he was white with fear - a reflection on how he had felt that evening. He asked Watt to come back to the car with him, as he wanted to talk about the tape in total secrecy. He didn't even want Watt's wife to hear them. When they were sitting in the car, Chris handed Watt the tape, and told him about the car that he thought had followed him out of Luton. He explained that the tape might contain further evidence from his dream that had emerged under hypnosis. Watt took the tape. 'Leave it with me,' he said quietly, Til give it to someone in SB.' Chris knew that this was how serving officers referred to the Special Branch, the police department dealing with matters that touched on security and intelligence. Quite what was going through the policeman's mind concerning the tape was one thing - but Chris now knew Watt was taking the matter seriously enough to pass the tape on. That was important, as Chris firmly believed that the soldier had come to him in a dream to warm him of a serious IRA threat. He apologised to Watt for being so paranoid, and for calling on him so late. 'Don't worry,' Watt smiled, 'go home and get some sleep. I'll be in touch when I know what's happening.' Chris's dream happened on 30 September, and the interview with the hypnotherapist was conducted at the beginning of October. A further week passed by, with no word. Then one evening, as Chris was driving home around six o'clock and listening to the news on his car radio, he heard the following: 'Police in Gloucestershire have arrested a number of suspected IRA terrorists in a raid on a hotel in Cheltenham. A cache of guns and explosives has been recovered.' So the hotel was in Cheltenham, after all, not Wales. Not that Chris had time to think about it right then: he was far too busy trying not to crash the car, as the shock of what he had heard made him temporarily lose control. Had it been as in his dream? And did this mean that somebody had been following up his dream evidence? A thousand other questions filled Chris's mind: was the soldier real? Had Chris seen into the future? Read the minds of the terrorists? How was that possible? Why was he the one •who had received this message? He put the car into gear and drove home as fast as he could. As soon as he was inside the door he grabbed the phone and called Paul Aylott. 'Is Paul there?' he asked, shaking from head to toe as Aylott's wife answered. She told him to hold on, and there was an anxious wait while she went to fetch her husband. What would Chris ask him? Would Aylott know anything? Paul came on the line. 'It's me,' Chris said hurriedly. 'Have you heard the news?' 'Heard it? I nearly crashed,' Aylott replied. 'I was on the way home from work and heard it on the six o'clock news.' It was another one of those little coincidences. 'Look, is it because of what I told you? And the tape I gave to Chris Watt?' There was an awkward silence. Finally, Paul said, 'I can't say anything about it to you at the moment. I just can't — I don't know what to say.' He seemed keen to get off the phone as quickly as possible. Chris wondered what would happen next. It was both exhilarating and frightening at the same time. He told me that he had never been so scared in his life, but never as curious as to what would happen, and where this new force in his life would take him. 'The one thing you've got to get across,' he said, 'was the total feeling of fear, and the total feeling of wonder and exhilaration. And the exhilaration is so strong that it cancels out the fear. I suppose it's like climbing a mountain: I've never done that, but there must come a point when you're halfway up, when you look down and think "What the hell am I doing here?" And there's no way back other than the way you've already come. 'But you want to go on — you've got to. Because now you know that you're not mad. You've told people, they've written it down, and then you've gone back to them afterwards and they've said, "Look, it's written down, we know you're not making it up. We can't understand it, but we know it's there." 'But that doesn't really make it less scary.' To this end, Chris went to his local church and discussed the matter with Reverend David Bolster, vicar of St Andrews, Slip End. Chris asked the vicar if he were mad, or if it were a case of possession by evil spirits. Bolster replied that evil spirits might be involved, but that was unlikely considering that Chris's dream was designed to do good. He couldn't refute the evidence, but couldn't offer an explanation either. The two men did, however, keep in close touch over this period, and the Reverend Bolster had a hand in some of Chris's later dream exploits. But for now there were other, less spiritual matters to be attended to. CHAPTER THREE Following the incident of the Cheltenham dream, Chris got together with Chris Watt, Paul Aylott and the Reverend Bolster. All four men knew they were on to something important, but none was quite sure what it actually was. What they needed was some kind of corroborated and irrefutable proof. It was suggested that Chris keep a proper diary of his dreams, rather than scribbling things down on scrappy pieces of paper that could easily be lost. Chris didn't like the idea at first. This was partly because of the dealings surrounding the collapse of his business, when all the paperwork had led to a maze of legal tangles. But it was more than that: he felt a vague unease about writing things down that were specifically to do with the dreams. What would be revealed if every night's dream was written down? What was Chris opening himself up to? He might have been halfway up a mountain with no wish to turn back, but that didn't make what lay ahead any the less scary. Trevor Kempson, perhaps sniffing a possible story for his newspaper, came in on the project, and the five men eventually agreed that Chris should start his dream diary on 1 January 1990. Chris had started to get himself used to the idea of writing everything down, and he was now looking forward to the day with considerable excitement. So much so that he began three nights early. Christmas is a period when people traditionally drink too much, and over-indulge, and this is exactly what Chris was doing, with the result that he began his diary without any qualms. Perhaps this was for the best, as he got an immediately startling result, although — perhaps due to the over-indulgence — the first few months of diary entries run in reverse order: the pages must be read from right to left, instead of the more usual left to right. This was not without its own perverse sense of logic, for if an ESDA (Electro Static Document Analysis) test were carried out on these pages, they •would reveal that the pages were written in order, and that nothing was added at a later date. The first surprise was that Chris woke up to find that he had already written quite a lot on the first page. This both astounded and shocked him: the idea was to keep the diary by the bed so that he would be able to scribble down his dreams as soon as he awoke. Instead, he sat up in the morning to find a page covered in writing. Either he had written it during the night, then forgotten as he dropped back to sleep, or else . . . well, Chris couldn't even, at this stage, consider the idea that he had written it while actually asleep. The first thing written related to Chris being in a submarine, with someone shooting at him. There were also the phrases 'Parcel In Paper' and 'Something Sent To The Police', with the letters 'SA' and 'SN', one on top of the other, and surrounded by a box. Chris was puzzled - what on earth was that supposed to mean? It would be some time before things like this became understandable and Chris became aware that they were a sort of code that he had to learn to crack. The next entries related to trains: he dreamt he was a train driver, and he was in the cab of his train. Then something happened: through the window of the cab, his face was covered with something that was burning him - it stuck to his skin, and he couldn't pull it off. He was filled with terror, frightened beyond any capacity for thought . . . And then it changed, and he was walking along a track in Wales — a steam railway where he used to go when he was a child, on holidays with his nan. It was a coal train, and the driver would sometimes let kids ride in the cab. And his nan was there. It changed again, and the train driver (now separate from Chris) was trying to pick the burning substance from his face, and was in great pain and distress. Then Chris could see people on an embankment, or sea wall, planning something, although he couldn't hear what. It seemed to Chris that the steam train was there because it was his only experience of riding in the cab of a train, but the fundamental of the dream was that he was with the driver of a train, and the train was somehow attacked, injuring the driver's face. Two nights later, on New Year's Eve, a train driver in Wales was injured when drunken New Year revellers threw rocks from an embankment near Cardiff and shattered the windscreen of his cab. The glass smashed into his face, and he was blinded by the flying fragments. In effect, Chris had seen this attack two nights previously, and had experienced the driver's pain and distress. However, at this early stage Chris was still inclined to put this down to coincidence. It would need a great many coincidences, or something really incredible, to make him truly believe that a continuous process had started. That was exactly what the night of 30 December had in store for him. There were cameras and people everywhere, although Chris didn't know where he was. He was standing under a gantry with a television camera on top of it, and he had written down 'German not Japanese', and 'Telefunken'. Did this refer to the make of the cameras, or was it a reference to where he was? Certainly it could have meant the cameras, as Chris had a number of different cameras - still, movie and video. All of them were Japanese. Were the words an attempt to differentiate from his own collection? Then there were two things side by side — a line drawing of two objects that looked like the crash barriers that used to be scattered around football terraces. By the time Chris woke up, the significance of the drawing was lost to him. There was also some writing about the girl he had been standing with. She had been raped by her father, and there •was a newspaper involved — the News of the World (the paper for which Trevor Kempson worked). It seemed like nothing more than a confusing jumble of images, and that's the way it would have stayed, were it not for the fact that cameras and the crane occurred again on the night of 31 December. This time the number 120 was written next to the line drawing of the crash barrier-like objects, with the phrase 'Camera up in air. Broken.' Why did the same dream occur two nights running? Perhaps because it was leading up to a real event: on the night of 31 December, at the coming down of the Wall in Berlin, there were several camera crews filming the exodus to the West. Two of the crews were German, and had their cameras up on gantries shaped like the objects Chris had drawn. They were too close, and the cables became entangled. One of the cameras plunged down to the ground, falling into the crowds below. One hundred and twenty people were injured. Also in that night's dreams came the first appearance of Terry Waite, who would later regularly haunt Chris's dreams. The Archbishop of Canterbury was seeking an audience with the Queen to discuss Waite's kidnapping, and there were bees in the same room, buzzing around a honeypot. At the time this seemed inconsequential, but it would return later. These dreams were exciting and frightening at the same time. Chris had begun his diary three days earlier than agreed, for no real reason, and in those three days had received premonitions of two events that had actually occurred. It wasn't enough, by any means, to present as proof that something truly remarkable was happening. Not yet. It did, however, allay any last lingering doubts about whether or not he was fooling himself. Something really was going on: now he needed to find out what. The new year began with Chris in a space ship, and the crew worrying about the loss of CFCs in their ship. It was floating aimlessly out in space. A few days later it was announced that the space shuttle currently in flight had problems with the cooling system, and had to return early from its flight... it was only after it landed that the truth came out: the ship had been brought back under manual control, and for a while it was touch-and-go whether or not it would be able to make the trip home. Another segment of that night's dream related to Chris's wife Bessie's flight home after visiting her family in the Philippines: 'Don't worry. She is not going on today's flight but next week's.' In fact, she did re-book her flight and stayed an extra week. So already it was clear that the dreams were not just foretelling major events: there were things in them that mattered only to Chris. The whole affair has been a learning curve from day one, with things sometimes not becoming apparent until some time after the event. For instance, the dreams of 2 January yielded nothing that would make any sense, apart from the fact that Prince Charles cropped up in connection with a man who had a broken right arm. Chris watched the news carefully for the next week, but there was nothing that related to this. However, some four months later, Prince Charles had a polo accident and broke his right arm. Was this a coincidence? Or was it proof to Chris that the area of time covered by his dreams would be more than just a few days? At several years' distance, and with the benefit of hindsight, it's easy to make connections that may be in some way spurious. The point is that later events showed Chris that matters could evolve in his dreams over a long period of time. Could this have been an early intimation of that? Certainly Chris believes that now: the information builds over a series of dreams and a period of time. On Thursday, 4 January 1990, Chris dreamt that he was with a group of journalists who went to visit a prisoner. When they arrived, he found that the prisoner was Myra Hindley. At the top of the page he wrote the words 'Cookham Wood' and 'HMP' with a box around it. He also wrote about a man with a child, and lesbians and prisons, with boxes around them. There was also the time '4.15 p.m.'. This meant nothing to Chris at all, and he forgot about it until he picked up a copy of the Daily Mail dated 31 January. The lead story concerned a letter from lan Brady, in which he detailed the full extent of Hindley's involvement in the murder of Leslie Anne Downey. The story went on to mention that Hindley was serving life in Cookham Wood prison, in Kent. This followed on from an interview she had given to journalists . . . Chris was shocked. He hadn't known about the visit to Cookham Wood - more importantly, he'd never heard of the place in his life. Yet, four weeks after his dream, a connection had occurred. It could be put down to coincidence, except for the fact that he had never even heard of the place. Trevor Kempson was receiving faxes of Chris's dreams every day, and when Chris phoned him, Trevor referred back to the pages from 4 January and was astonished. He told Chris that, given the nature of the story, it was possible that the journalists had visited Hindley within days of Chris's dream. Now, several years later, Chris tells me that he considers it possible that he may have heard of Cookham Wood at some point — if Hindley had been there for some time, and it had been on the news, then it may have buried itself in his subconscious. However, he was not consciously aware of the place at the time. More startling events were to overtake this. … CHAPTER FOUR In his dream Chris was standing in Bedford police station, the headquarters of the local force. He was talking to a police officer, and they walked into a meeting where the police were discussing a bomb explosion. A man had been injured, and parts of his body had been blown away. It was all connected to a triangle - the sort that is used to set up balls on a snooker table. The name of the policeman Chris spoke to was J. Branscombe. The next day the local paper came out and Chris bought a copy as usual. The lead story concerned a man who had an argument at a snooker hall. He went home and built a bomb to blow up the hall. Unfortunately, he •wasn't the expert he presumed, as the bomb detonated in his hand, severely injuring him. The name of the officer in charge of the investigation was John Branscombe. Aylott and Watt found this particularly interesting. Could Chris be of some use to them in their investigations after all? If nothing else, it proved that the Cheltenham affair wasn't a one-off event. The possibilities were to become apparent sooner than they thought, for on 8 January 1990 Chris had the dream that began his long-term involvement with the police. Chris was in a car, accompanying a •woman who was setting out to kidnap a baby. They stopped at a hospital by a river. The tide •was out. Chris could see this, and he could also see a bridge. On the bridge were police from the Metropolitan force. The baby was now missing. The dream •went on: Chris could see the baby being taken, despite the watching police. The woman ran through the double doors of the hospital and put the baby in a carry-cot pulled out of the car boot by a man. She put the baby on the back seat, then they got in the car and drove away. The dream changed again: Chris was now standing in the car park of a police station, talking to a Detective Inspector called Peter Ireland. He was telling Ireland about everything he had seen. Then he woke with a gasp, and glanced at the clock. It was seven o'clock. Looking down at the diary by his bed, Chris could see that he had written down key words from the dream, including the name Peter Ireland. For a few moments he sat there, his mind racing. He knew that a child was about to be kidnapped, and he had a rough idea of what the locale would look like. But there was nothing definite. He •was left •with the sure knowledge that it would happen, but no way of preventing it by himself. At ten past seven he called Paul Aylott. Although none too pleased at being dragged out of bed at this time in the morning, Aylott considered it serious enough to drive over to the caravan straight away. When Chris had told him everything he could remember about the dream, Aylott looked perplexed. 'So what do you want me to do?' he asked. 'Put a guard on every hospital on a river when the tide's out? What are we supposed to do when the tide's in, then? Not bother to look?' 'No, no, •we're not supposed to be doing that,' Chris replied, 'but there is going to be a kidnapping from a hospital somewhere where there are Metropolitan Police, and where the tide comes in and out — so it can only be along the river in London, can't it? If it "was further up or down it'd be Thames Valley or something. It's got to be that central stretch in London.' 'So how are we supposed to stop it?' Aylott asked. 'I don't think we can. I think I'm supposed to be able to trace the baby when it's snatched. It's a baby or a little girl, but I just feel that it's a new baby - only a few hours old.' 'All right,' Aylott sighed. 'I'll put it on the log at the station, and I'm sure that if a baby gets kidnapped they'll •want to talk to you.' There was more than a hint of irony in his tone, and he left to log-on at the station when his shift began, and to record what Chris had told him. Nothing happened for the next couple of days: Chris's dreams were quiet, and there was no story breaking about a baby being kidnapped. Then, on 11 January — a Thursday — Alexandra Griffiths, a 36-hour-old baby, •was snatched from her mother at St Thomas's Hospital, in south-east London, overlooking the River Thames. All hell broke loose, and no sooner had Chris seen the story on the news than there was a knock at the door, and Chris was greeted by two policemen with the words, 'All right, where have you hidden her, then?' It was not the last time that his dream premonitions were to place him under suspicion. His caravan was searched, and he was questioned about his whereabouts that day. The officers felt that Chris had so wanted his dream to come true that he had driven to London and taken the child, just to make it so. But the baby wasn't in the caravan, and Chris had witnesses to prove he had been nowhere near London. Despite the heavy-handed behavior of the police, Chris could see their point: 'If someone tells you there's going to be a baby snatched, and then it is ... well, you're going to decide that you want to talk to them, aren't you?' Chris went to see the Reverend Bolster again and told him what had happened. The curate was, understandably, appalled by what had been going on. Like Trevor Kempson, Paul Aylott and Chris Watt, he had been receiving copies of Chris's dream diary on a regular basis. He told Chris that, as far as he was concerned, it was either God or the Devil who was sending messages via his dreams; and, as the messages were primarily designed to help people, then they must be messages from God. Chris returned home with a renewed sense of purpose. It was obvious to him now that he must try and help find the baby. There was just one problem: how could he direct the dreams so that he would receive messages that pushed him in the right direction? It was not until much later that he discovered that he could actually ask questions before going to sleep by the simple expedient of writing them at the top of the page. Right now, all he could do was hope. On the night of 14 January the dreams gave him images of a high street, with clocks that showed a series of incorrect times. He was standing in a village on the side of a hill, standing behind some shops, then in a cottage. He had a very clear picture of this village as it looked when approached coming down a hill. When he awoke Chris puzzled over this and tried to match the village in his dream with any he might actually know. The only place he could think of was a village called Berkhamsted: the view of the town as you approached it on the road from Aldbury, with the canal on one side, and the main street of the village. It didn't all fit, but it was the best he could come up with. He phoned David Bolster and told him about the dream. Bolster was decisive: they must go there. At the time it seemed like a wasted journey, as they found nothing, and there was nothing in the village itself that inspired Chris. It appeared to have been a dead-end. But the next few nights gave the lie to this, for Chris dreamt again about the baby. It seemed well, but was seen in a variety of strange situations. On one occasion it was in a boat, but there was no water around, and the boat was covered in chains. He dreamt of an empty lock on the canal, and then the area of London known as Camden. Most bizarrely of all, he dreamt of being on the London Underground, and of Farringdon and Oxford Circus stations. It must all mean something, but what? It was early days, and cracking the dream code was still difficult. However, Chris and David Bolster worked on the dream diary, and through word association came up with the notion that the baby might possibly be in a village called Farringdon, in Oxfordshire. They resolved to visit Farringdon as soon as they could, as Bolster had work commitments that prevented them going immediately. They would see if the village resembled Berkhamsted in any way, or tallied with the images in Chris's dreams. They were in no particular hurry to go, as the current theory splashed across the newspapers was that the baby had been taken to Australia. Chris wondered about this as he went to sleep on the night of 23 January. He did dream about Australia: he was in the King's Cross area of Sydney and ended up on the beach, which was littered with rubbish. When he awoke he could only take this to mean that the theories about Australia were - literally — rubbish. On the evening of 26 January, two days before Chris and David Bolster were to visit Farringdon, baby Alexandra was found in the nearby village of Burford. She was being kept in a cottage that lay at the back of an antique shop. In the window of the shop was a model boat, a large wooden carving suspended by chains. Burford stands on a hill, with a river running at the bottom of the village. It is only four miles from Farringdon. Chris was relieved that the baby had been found safe and well, but more than that: if it had taken the police just a few days longer, then he would, in all probability, have passed within a few feet of where the baby was being kept. And he was beginning to learn more about interpreting his dreams. The juxtaposition of Farringdon and Oxford Circus underground stations was fairly obvious with hindsight, but another, more inscrutable symbol had wormed its way into the dreams: the empty lock and being in Camden had appeared on the same night as the boat in chains. Camden Lock is an antique market in London. The boat was kept in the window of an antique shop, the baby being kept in the cottage behind. Paul Aylott had been informed of the dreams as they occurred, and the police had been considering Berkhamsted as a possible site. The kidnapping was Chris's first encounter as a psychic with the press, as Tony Snow - a reporter from the tabloid Sun - had met Chris and David Bolster in Berkhamsted, and they had spent an afternoon looking for cottages on a hillside near the canal. When the baby had been found, Chris had traveled to Burford, just to look over the village and see how much it matched his dreams. While looking around he bumped into Tony Snow. 'Well, you weren't right,' he said, 'but you were bloody near. You said a cottage on the side of a hill, and this village is just like that place we trudged around last week.' One night, in the middle of all this excitement, there was a program that Chris •wanted to watch on television. But it •was on fairly late, and so he set the timer on his video and went to bed. The program was about ghosts and the supernatural. That night Chris dreamt about a man called Mr Green, who lived in a haunted house. The dream was a complete, self-contained story. In its coherence and logic it was quite unlike a usual dream. The next day Chris wound back the tape and sat down to watch the program. It was about a man called Mr Green, who lived in a haunted house. Chris watched it with both a sense of dismay and hilarity: it was exactly as it had been in his dream. This suggested two things to him: first, that he was now able to watch anything he liked just by dreaming about it, and - less flippantly -that the dreams were probably not just random trawlings. In some way they related to his own future, and to people and events that he would have some kind of contact with. He decided that if he hadn't wanted to watch the program, then it wouldn't have entered his dream. Chris is a believer in destiny. His experiences since 1989 have convinced him that his life led up to the point where he was ready to receive these dreams. All his adult life he has experienced strange coincidences, whereby his path has crossed those of people who have either led him into contact with the police or were policemen themselves. When he first started to have dreams that related to forthcoming crimes, he knew exactly who to get in touch with, and they knew him well enough not to dismiss him out of hand as a crank. He reasoned that the only way to get a good result from his dreams was to involve himself, so that the dream would touch him personally in some way. If, for instance, he had wanted to know more about the kidnapping, and had wanted the information more clearly, should he have gone to St Thomas's before dreaming? It was a question he resolved to answer as soon as possible. Baby Alexandra had been found on 26 January. On 27, Chris went to Burford and bumped into Tony Snow. He also talked to police involved with the case. He stayed overnight, and on the Sunday he found the boat hanging in the window of the antique shop. He felt sure that he would have had a clearer vision of things if he had become more closely involved. That was the way forward. CHAPTER FIVE Dr Keith Hearne is a parapsychologist whose specialty is dreaming. In the 1970s he put forward a paper that laid out his research into the matter of dream transference. Through the study of experimental subjects he was able to ascertain that some people can dream the same dream in unison and pass messages through their dream states. It was a discovery that was hailed as a breakthrough. Since then Dr Hearne has been one of the country's leading parapsychologists, so it was natural that he should study Chris Robinson. The contact came about through Chris Watt, who had been checking into possible avenues of investigation since the Cheltenham incident. Watt had made contact with Keith Hearne through the Society for Psychical Research, a London-based body that has been at the forefront of research into the so-called supernatural and strange and anomalous phenomena since the end of the nineteenth century. Chris Robinson had been in touch with Hearne since October 1989, and had been phoning him every morning to read him his dream diary. Hearne came to visit Chris and ended up staying for days on end, recording the dreams as they happened, and studying Chris as he slept, observing the way he wrote in his sleep. Hearne has been keeping an eye on Chris ever since, having described him as potentially the most important subject in the field. He has been working on a paper about Chris for the last five years, and still no end is in sight. When the paper eventually emerges it will be possibly the most important paper since Hearne's discovery of the early 1970s. Hearne was studying Chris when the next major event occurred. February started with some terrible dreams about the rape of young women. There was nothing definite in the dreams, but they seemed to tie in with the arrest and charging of Russell Bishop over the rape of a 7-year-old schoolgirl at Devil's Dyke, outside Brighton, on 8 February. Nothing specific in the dreams could be used to help the police, and all they succeeded in doing was make Chris feel ill-at-ease with his dreams. There had also been an accumulation of data concerning planes, which built up to the night of 9 February, when Chris filled a whole page with references to 'plane', 'end', 'die', 'child on a plane', 'gone to airport on way home' and 'CRASH'. He happened to be talking to Paul Aylott the next morning, and said, 'I think there's going to be a plane crash, and there's going to be people die. I don't know how many, but I've got the number ninety-three for some reason. I still don't get all this stuff about chemicals, though. I just know that it's going to come down in a bunker.' 'A bunker?' 'Yeah, like on a golf course. And I think it's going to be Valentine's Day. There's Asians on the plane. Two of the people will die later. But the clue to it is really these bloody chemicals.' 'So where does that come from?' Aylott asked. 'Don't ask me,' Chris said. 'Just you wait and see. Valentine's Day.' It was actually on 15 February — the Wednesday rather than the Tuesday predicted by Chris — that Aylott and Chris next spoke. An Air-India plane had crashed in India, on a golf course, killing ninety-three people. It had left Bangalore on an internal flight, and had exploded coming in to land over the town of Bhopal. That was the link with the chemicals: Bhopal was the scene of a chemical works explosion in the late 1970s that had left many dead and the inhabitants of the town with long-term health problems. If Aylott had ever had the slightest doubt about Chris's veracity before, then this occasion finally convinced him. Whereas previously Aylott had come into the picture later on, this time he had heard the dream directly from Chris before anything had happened. He had been told that the plane would crash on a golf course, that ninety-three people would die and that the accident would be linked to chemicals. Paul Aylott was now more than just a friend in the police force: he was one of Chris's staunchest defenders. Despite its connotations, this dream premonition was nothing compared to •what was to happen on the night of 16 February. Chris was standing in a street. It was nowhere that he recognised and the street itself was out of focus. But the location was unimportant: what mattered was that the soldier was there again, for the first time in several months. 'Look,' he said, 'I want you to listen like last time. There's going to be a bomb. Now what I'm going to do from now on is give you postcodes.' 'What?' Chris was stunned. If he had postcodes, then finding the locations of any bombs would be so much easier. 'What is all this about?' 'There's three bombs,' the soldier continued, intent on getting his message across. 'Three in BT, but they're in two parts. Two there, one here. The bombs have been made and they're here: LEI.' Chris took all this in, worried at the back of his mind that he had no idea where LEI actually was. LEI is the centre of Leicester, and BT is the postcode for Belfast. The soldier continued to talk, but Chris could remember little more when he awoke, and the sparse writing in his dream diary didn't reveal much: 'DANGER', 'clean up mess' (inside a box), and 'danger' yet again being the only clues to what had happened in the night. Things were getting just a bit too strange for Chris now: postcodes were a new one on him — he had enough trouble remembering his own code, let alone knowing where these others might be. There was only one thing to be done: he phoned Paul Aylott straight away. 'There's going to be another bomb,' he began. 'It's going to be under an army vehicle — a Land Rover, I think. And it's going to be at LEI — wherever that is.' The dreams of the following night reiterated this: 'LEI' appeared again, this time inside a box. The letters 'ALR' appeared, each one boxed. 'Packets', 'BT' and 'Telephone Engineer' (an obvious association of ideas) appeared, linked by a drawn line. The words 'council house' were written, with 'bombs made here' directly underneath them. The intensity of the message was staggering: it blotted out everything else in the dreams that night. Chris could see the house clearly, and when he woke he drew a map of the layout, pinpointing the lounge, where he was sure the bombs were made. His soldier's claim that the three bombs were in two parts was also explained. It seemed to Chris that the bombs were being posted from Belfast: the timers and other electrical parts •were sent to the council house through the post, and the explosives were added there. One of the bombs had been sent, and two were in Belfast waiting to be dispatched. Chris phoned Paul Aylott again. He was told that he should come in and make a statement - but not until Tuesday (it was now Sunday). On the Sunday night, Chris dreamt only of submarines coming into dock - the next day a consignment of 'W'-class subs arrived in Britain to be broken up for scrap. It was another small and interesting outcome, but had no real bearing on the bomb in LEI — and this was really beginning to worry Chris. If, as he believed, this was a genuine premonition, then the bomb could go off without anything being done to prevent it. People might be killed or injured: something that could be prevented, if only he were able to talk to someone. He spent the whole of Monday in an agitated state, worried in case something terrible occurred. Yet at the back of his mind, something reassured him that it wouldn't happen that day. It's hard to imagine the strange mix of emotions that coursed through him during that Monday: concern and fear on the one hand, yet on the other a hope that he might yet be able to help avert a disaster. There were no dreams on Monday night: there was very little sleep, as Chris lay awake worrying about what would happen the next day. On the Tuesday Chris kept his appointment, and went to Leighton Buzzard police station, where he made a statement in front of Frank and Steve. The statement was simple: a bomb would go off in LEI — wherever that •was. It would happen today — or if not today, then tomorrow. The bomb would be under an army vehicle. This was what he had been told in his dream. But the important part was LEI. 'Or it might be LEI,' Chris shrugged. 'I don't know. That's only what I'm being told.' His statement was two pages long and by the time they had finished, and Chris had checked and signed it, they had been in the room for two hours. He left the station between half-past three and four o'clock, got in his car and drove home. At ten past five a bomb exploded under an army Sherpa van in the centre of Leicester. There was a television newsflash and Chris immediately phoned the police in Leicester. 'Look,' he said, 'I've just been in a police station giving a statement that a bomb was going to go off in Leicester. Please - what's the postcode where the bomb went off. I must know.' The voice on the other end of the phone replied that the postcode was LEI. He took Chris's name and address. He also took the names of the policemen who had been with Chris all afternoon, and Paul Aylott's telephone number. 'For your information, Mr Robinson,' he said, before hanging up, 'LEI is a very small area in the centre of Leicester. Very small.' Chris put the phone down. 'I felt freaked,' he told me years later, 'and totally exhilarated, too. Because no-one had been hurt in the bombing — there were a few minor cuts and bruises, but not what you could call casualties. That was a relief. But I thought: now we're going to get postcodes. This is brilliant. Now we can crack it.' But not everyone was as happy as Chris. Not everyone believes in the powers of precognitive dreams: particularly the Royal Ulster Constabulary and the Special Branch. Within two days representatives of these forces arrived to interview Chris. The interview was held at Dunstable police station. Chris was questioned for over five hours in two separate sessions, both of which were taped. The questions were always the same: how did he know about the bomb? Did he have any connections •with it? Why had he reported it only a couple of hours before it went off, not before? Why was he saying that the premonition came in the form of a dream? Who was this soldier? The truth was that Chris had as little idea at this stage about what was going on as the officers interviewing him. Six months before he had never had an experience like this, and now he was dreaming about bombs. All he could do was tell them, again and again, that it just came to him in a dream, and that was all there was to it. The persistent interrogation, -with the same few questions hammered at him over and over again, was designed to break Chris down: to try and find some inconsistency in his story, some flaw that would break, that would reveal what - in their minds - was really going on. Of course, the truth was that Chris Robinson had started to have precognitive dreams, and such things are just not supposed to exist. Each interview was taped, and two copies were made. One of the interviewers told Chris, 'One of these is for us, but the other is for another agency who is interested in you.' 'Don't I get a copy?' Chris asked. 'No way — you'll never see or hear these tapes again.' 'Fair enough,' Chris replied — what else could he say? But he did wonder who this other agency might be. And he noticed that, as he left the station, there were several lingering looks after him from officers who had obviously heard about the interviews. He asked Paul Aylott to find out what was going on, but Paul was non-committal and tried to get rid of Chris as soon as possible. Chris then tried asking Frank and Steve: neither policeman would speak to him at first, but eventually he did manage to speak to Frank, who sounded distinctly nervous on the phone. 'What's all this about?' asked Chris. 'Look, I don't want to talk to you,' Frank replied. 'That business with Leicester - there's no way you could have been involved in that, so how the hell did you know about it? I don't know what to say, and I really don't want to talk about it just now.' Chris put the phone down, not knowing what to think: his friend Paul Aylott seemed to want to maintain a cordial distance while this investigation was going on, and now Frank and Steve were so spooked by what had happened that they didn't want any further contact with him. Things couldn't get worse than this, could they? They could. Over the next few days, as he went about his daily business, Chris noticed that he was being followed. What's more, it seemed that his followers wanted him to know that he was being tailed, because their actions were none too subtle. The same car - a green Volkswagen -would start to tail Chris when he left the caravan park in the morning, heading into town. Whether he went to Leighton Buzzard, Luton or Dunstable (all towns within about a half-hour drive of his home), the Volkswagen would always be there, one or two cars back in the traffic, always parking just round the corner. Sometimes Chris would get out of his car, round a corner and the Volkswagen would be sitting there. Empty. Then there were the people who followed him on foot. It was just like that first occasion, when he had the dream about Cheltenham. He was sure that he was being followed, as the same faces kept appearing, again and again: behind him in supermarket queues, at the bar in pubs, buying spare parts in car-repair shops. The difference was that, whereas previously they were keen not to seem to be following, this time they were blatant about it. They would smile at him if they caught his eye, bid him good day, and then follow him right out of the shop. How much of this could he put down to paranoia, and how much of it was real? Certainly, because of the complications when he lost his business, Chris was inclined to be paranoid about these things, and he admitted as much to himself. After he'd reported the Cheltenham bomb attempt and thought he was being followed, he was able to dismiss that as paranoia. But not this time — people who said hello to him and used the same car all the time? They wanted him to know he \vas being followed. He sat down and tried to think about it calmly. It was impossible for him to have travelled to Leicester, planted the bomb and returned to give the interview at Leighton Buzzard station in the time scale they had to work on. Therefore they — whom he assumed to be either Special Branch, the Anti-Terrorist Squad, or even MIS or 6 -were not working on the theory that he might be one of the actual bombers. Instead, they must be following to see if he had contact with anyone who could possibly be involved. But if that were the case, why would they be so blatant about it? He reasoned that they were either trying to pressure him into making a mistake, or ... or what? It had him confused and worried. It was also bad for business. By this time Chris had returned to his old trade as a television and electrical engineer and was repairing televisions both on-site and in the back room of the caravan. He also bought a few old sets, which he renovated. It wasn't good for trade to have a green Volkswagen roll up after you'd arrived at a customer's house. Chris's wife Bessie was working as a waitress at a local hotel, and what would happen if they started to follow her so blatantly? So far, she had been shielded from the hassle that Chris had received over his dreams. In the meantime Chris and Paul Aylott had decided that, if they were getting postcodes in the dreams, the time had come for action. Paul told Chris that there was a computer program that contained the postcodes for the entire country overlaid on area maps. Chris needed no more prompting: he went out and bought the program. Now he was ready for the next postcode - which was just as well, as the next code had already arrived. Back on 22 January, the letters HX had been written on the dream diary page. At the time Chris had been totally baffled by this, and had dismissed it as something that just hadn't quite come out right. But, using his new computer program, he was able to establish that HX was Halifax. There were also elements of the dreams that suggested that the target was to be a government building: he had repeatedly seen the front of the Social Security offices in Luton, but all of the entries for that had a box drawn around them. From his study of the dream writing, Chris was beginning to understand that a box drawn around a word or phrase meant that it did not actually stand for that precise thing, but for something like it. In this case, he assumed that the attack would be on a government building, and that the Social Security offices appeared in his dream because they were a government building with which he was familiar. Yet at the same time there were references to Chris's friend Gary: where did this fit in? All this material went off to Paul Aylott, who asked Chris what the connection was. 'I don't know, do I? I just know that there's something to do with Gary and his dad mixed up in this.' There was a bomb in Halifax: it exploded in the letter box of an Army Information Office, next to the forecourt of a garage owned by Gary's father. The building was leased out to the army by the same man. It left Chris with a sense of failure: he had been unable to decipher enough of the dream to tell the police when and where the bomb was to go off — yet there was enough to say for sure that he was receiving premonitions about future events. It was a question of balance: but when would he achieve it? He was impatient, yet he knew that it would happen soon, for as well as the material concerning the future, he had also received messages from what he considered spirits, who were guiding him. On the night of 22 January, when the postcode for Halifax first appeared, Chris had also written the following in his sleep: Christopher, I have shown you many things. The time will come when they accept you and the gifts that I bestow through you. They have seen but cannot believe. Your faith will see you through. Chris had sent this to David Bolster and had asked him for help and guidance, as he had also seen a Christ-like figure, who had spoken to him. Chris was hardly the world's most religious man, although he did believe in God, and once again he was left confused by his dreams. He asked Reverend Bolster if this really did come from God, and if he was doing the right thing. Bolster considered for some time before replying, and when he did he told Chris that he believed the dreams did indeed come from God, and because they were continuing after Chris had prayed to receive more, then God must be willing to reveal more to Chris. There was a purpose to all this, but what it was must remain - for now - a mystery. The night of 22 February saw the beginning of recurring symbols in Chris's dreams, one of which was to become more important as the years went by: dogs. For most people, dogs are household pets, objects of affection. But for Chris Robinson dogs mean one thing alone: they are a symbol of the IRA. That night Chris dreamt once more of the Halifax bomb, and the connection that it had with his friend Gary. The dog was there, not specifically connected with anything, but lurking in the background. It was not the most auspicious or obvious of entrances, but it wasn't difficult for Chris to associate the dog with danger and fear. Later Dr Hearne psychoanalysed Chris and took him through regression therapy in an attempt to establish the basis for many of the symbols in his dreams. His theory is that Chris's subconscious uses dogs as a symbol for terrorists because he is - quite literally - terrified of them. No-one in his family has a dog, and he has never owned one himself. When he was a child he was threatened by a dog, and since then dogs have been associated with fear in his mind. The month of February ended with a premonition of a train crash. On the night of 27 February Chris dreamt that he was on a train running towards a junction where the line was closed. It was a commuter train and the passengers were unaware of what was about to happen. Chris phoned Paul Aylott when he awoke, and said, 'Look, there's going to be a train crash in Penge. I don't know when, but the line's going to be closed, and the train will be derailed.' Aylott made a note of it, but commented that there was little he could do about it. Later in the day Chris saw his friend Gary Simpson and mentioned the dream to him. And that would have been that — except that, on the night of 28 February, Chris received a phone call from Aylott. 'Have you seen the news?' Aylott asked. 'No — why?' 'Because there's been a train crash in Penge.' 'Well, what did you expect? What did I tell you?' 'Yeah, but even so, it still amazes me.' Chris put the phone down and pondered on what his last dreams of the month might mean. Washing machines and radiators: there he was, sawing the top off a radiator and repairing a hole in the pipes of a washing machine. He also had the words 'water' and 'WATER - leek' written on the page. Why had he spelt 'leek' that way? The answer became obvious within the next day or two, when torrential rains caused flooding in parts of Wales. Not only had he been repairing potential flood risks in radiators and washing machines, he had written about a water leak with a double meaning: 'leek' being the vegetable with which the Welsh are associated, and also an obvious misspelling of the word leak. If nothing else, this showed that his subconscious had a sense of humour. CHAPTER SIX During March Chris obtained a fax machine, thanks to his friend Gary Simpson. For some time he had needed one in order to get his dreams distributed as fast as they were written. Taking photocopies and throwing them into envelopes, or hot-footing it down to the local copy shop in order to send a fax later in the morning, was no good: what was needed was a machine of his own, whereby he could fax the dreams to either Paul Aylott or Keith Hearne as soon as he awoke. It was now that one of those coincidences came to his rescue again. Gary Simpson, a. friend of Chris's, had a fax machine at his home. Chris approached him with an offer to buy it. Gary declined, as he needed the machine for his work, but a few days later he turned up on the doorstep in the evening, clutching a brand new Mitsubishi fax machine. 'Here,' he explained, handing it to Chris, 'I've got this mate who works for an office equipment company. He's heard about you, and wants to help in some way. I've told him how genuine you are, after that business with my dad's garage and the train crash. If you can make use of this, he can let you have it for two hundred pounds.' 'Can I make use of it?' gasped Chris. 'Give it here.' Within a month he had paid for the machine, and the machine had more than paid for itself. The dream was odd: it was more realistic than many of the dreams Chris had been having lately, and all the more scary for that. Chris found himself standing behind a wall on a dyke. Although he had never seen this particular wall before, he had seen many like them when he was in Holland. So he knew that he must be somewhere in the Lowlands. And he wasn't alone: he was in the middle of a group of men, obviously soldiers of some kind. There were four of them, and they were dressed in black, talking in quiet, cautious voices. They were also keeping their heads down - Chris did likewise, and wondered how long it would be before they would notice he was there. They didn't: it was the start of another kind of dream. Now he was able to take part as a detached observer. It was as though he were part of a virtual-reality game, where he could move about with the inhabitants of this dream world, yet not be seen. So did this mean he was like a ghost, moving in the real world? Had his spirit astrally-projected to this point? All such questions flew out of his mind when he moved in closer and heard what the camouflaged men were talking about. 'He's a large fish,' one of them said. 'Yeah, and about time he was caught,' another replied. They laughed softly among themselves. As Chris followed them, they drove across country. It seemed as though they had been picked up from the dyke by pre-arrangement, as a car was waiting for them. Throughout the short trip they kept talking about fish, and landing or netting them. They drove into a large city. By now Chris was convinced that they had come to 'make a hit' and eliminate somebody. He knew they were secret service agents of some description, but had no idea who they worked for, or who their target was. But one thing had become clear. The operation was to do with arms being smuggled and supplied to the IRA. The car drew up at an anonymous block of flats in the suburbs of the city. The men got out of the car, now silent and moving with great stealth. They slipped into position outside the building, two of them keeping an unobtrusive watch while the other two entered. It was the middle of the night, and there weren't that many people about. Chris tailed the two look-outs as they signaled to each other and followed their companions. Inside the block they took the emergency stairs at the back of the building, in order to avoid being seen by too many people: a minimal risk, but one that had to be considered nonetheless. They reached the second floor and gathered in front of an apartment. 'Is he in?' one of them muttered sotto voce. Another of the men shook his head briefly. The first one nodded at this. They were keeping verbal contact to a minimum. The large fish was not at home: they had to wait. In dreams time is a strange phenomenon. It can stretch out or be compressed in the most bizarre manner. The study of REM (Rapid Eye Movement) in dreamers has shown that dreams that appear to take several hours can, in reality, pass in a matter of minutes. And so it can sometimes seem in dreams themselves. Chris knew that he and the security agents had been waiting for the large fish for hours, yet it seemed as though it were only a few minutes. The action seemed just as brief. The four men were positioned outside the apartment — in hiding as much as was possible, although cover was scarce. Then they heard the lift clank on the ground floor and the motor whir as it began to move upwards. Chris could feel every sinew in their bodies grow taut as they prepared themselves. This could be the man they were waiting for. The hall and landing in front of the flat were in semi-darkness: they had taken the precaution of removing one of the light bulbs in the hall, so that there was a reflected illumination from further down the landing, but in front of the flat was shadow. There was enough light for them to kill by, but not enough for anyone coming out of a lighted lift to see his assailants. The lift seemed to take for ever to reach the right floor, and Chris could feel the bitter taste of tension in his mouth. All four agents drew handguns, screwing silencers on to the ends. The lift stopped and the doors opened. A man in late middle-age, dressed in a shabby suit, stepped out. He looked incongruous, as this was a block that clearly only wealthy tenants could afford. He •walked down the hall, taking a few steps out of the light and into the dark. The execution was an anti-climax. As he approached his door, the four men stepped out of the shadows, weapons poised. Two kept watch around the hall while the other two lined up the man. 'What —' he began, looking bewildered and blinking in the half-light. He got no further: one of the agents squeezed his trigger twice, and the soft 'phuut' of a silenced pistol sounded in the hall. Both shots went into the man's neck, blood spurting from an arterial wound. As the target slumped to the floor, the four men began to withdraw. Chris tried to go with them, but found he could not move, his attention drawn to the man on the floor. Then he awoke, in a cold sweat . . . He looked at what he had written. [Fishing] Large Fish Caught [Landing] [No witness] [Follow to exterminate] Shot in head. It was exactly as he remembered the dream. Yet the strange thing was that there were two pages of further dream writing that seemed to indicate a bomb in Kent, perhaps in a pub. The final sheet also contained a map with a compass direction on it, but nothing relating to an actual town or place. Chris could remember nothing of these last dreams, yet he must surely have had them. It was the beginning of a process that was to lead him to the conclusion that what he wrote was equally as important as the dream to which it related. At that precise moment, however, all he could think of was the graphic dream of death. And the disturbing recollection that this was not the first time he had dreamt it; the vague memory that he had seen someone being shot in the head a few nights before. He hadn't written anything about it, but could remember the phrase 'blown away', as though someone was saying it. He wasn't sure, but it seemed as though that had happened more than once. Not for the first time, Chris found himself emotionally and mentally drained by his dreams. He felt in need of more sleep, but knew that he would only dream again. For the first time it struck him how alone he really was in this experience. Reverend Bolster, Paul Aylott, Dr Hearne . . . they were supportive and fascinated by his dreams, but they didn't experience them, they didn't know how much they took out of him. He sank back, exhausted, on to the pillow. He wanted to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. But for him, there was no longer any such thing. Over the next couple of nights Chris had uneasy dreams. In one of them, he dreamt about the smuggling of mercury detonators of the type used in nuclear weapons. There were also intimations of forthcoming problems between Iran and Iraq. Were the two connected in some way? And did they have anything to do with the shooting he had seen on the night of 23 March? Certainly the next night had seen him write 'shooting in the street' and '[Bullet] in [head]' in his dream diary. On 26 March he wrote '[Holland]' beside more references to shootings. The fact that the country was in a box suggested to him that it would be somewhere near Holland - Belgium, perhaps. In the same way the box around the word 'head' a few nights before suggested that the assassination victim would be killed by a bullet somewhere near his head . . . like the neck, for instance. Something big was brewing, and somehow Chris knew that it was connected both with the Middle East and with a man being shot in either Holland or Belgium. But how could he approach Paul Aylott with this? It seemed to an outsider to be nothing more than a series of half-remembered facts and sheer conjecture. In some ways that's all it was: but driven by the conviction and memory of what Chris had seen in that dream. It was something big. And at the very end of March it all fell into place. On 28 March five people were arrested at Heathrow airport after the security staff made a chilling find in a hangar there. A routine security check uncovered a cache of forty kryton triggers stored in an ordinary suitcase. These triggers, manufactured in the United States, form part of a sophisticated electronic triggering system for a nuclear device. They are high speed electrical switches, which send impulses within microseconds, detonating the conventional explosives used to trigger the critical nuclear mass in a warhead. They have no other purpose, and are useless on their own. Whoever was in possession of these items had only one intention: to link them to a nuclear device. One of the five arrested was an Iraqi businessman, Omar Latif. The others included an Iraqi-born naturalised Briton, a Lebanese and a British couple. Special Branch officers, immediately alerted, soon arrested a sixth man in Lancashire. The krytons were boun'd for Iraq, where Saddam Hussein had, two weeks previously, ordered the execution of journalist Fazad Bazoft for allegedly spying on missile bases. This explained part of Chris's inter-connecting dream — but only part. The really amazing confirmation was to happen the next night. On the night of 29 March weaponry expert Dr Gerry Bull was assassinated outside his apartment in Brussels. Bull was on his way home in the'early hours of the morning when a crack team of agents ambushed him in the hallway. He was killed by two shots in the neck, delivered from a silenced 7.65mm automatic. The Canadian-born arms smuggler was known to be •working for the Iraqis and was one of the few men who could have blown an undercover operation that had been going on for the past eighteen months. His murder •was no casual robbery, for when his body was discovered he still had £16,000 in his wallet. In a plot that resembled something from a thriller novel, MI6 and the CIA had staged an undercover operation that had seen the kryton triggers bought by Omar Latif substituted for fakes. Bull was the only man in the whole Iraqi chain who could have spotted the substitution and blown the operation wide open. The discovery of the kryton triggers at Heathrow was an unexpected development and did not halt the operation to eliminate the arms dealer. Possibly it was decided to continue with the plan as Bull was known to have sold and traded arms with the IRA, and it would still be useful to MI6 to have him out of the way. It is this connection with the IRA that may have brought him into Chris Robinson's frame of reference. Chris believes that all his dreams are connected with things that touch on his life, and the fact that he had already had dreams concerning the IRA was enough to make Bull a subject of his dreams. Gerry Bull was a 62-year-old ballistics genius who •worked for anyone •who paid him: he was working for both Iran and Iraq at the same time, and he also did outside jobs. As such, he was a ripe target for any number of secret service organisations. But the fact remains that he was •working for a country whose activities had featured in Chris's dreams over the period leading up to Bull's death, and that his description and the manner of his execution matched those of Chris's dream. This was not the end of Chris's dreams relating to Iraq, for on the night of Gerry Bull's death, Chris had a dream in which he was watching a large computerised missile system that was connected to a jet plane flying over the Iran-Iraq border. On the pages of his dream diary he wrote '[Navstar]', which was the most up-to-date missile system he had heard of: the boxing of the name indicated that it was close to this, but not quite there. Shortly afterwards the scandal broke surrounding the Iraqi supergun, a computerised missile system that used parts made in Britain. But that wasn't all ... 'Hang my camera on the wall, Please take care it must not fall. Put it there for all to see Complete with film and wait for me.' I can [FREE] [WAITE] It was the night of 1 April, and Chris awoke from his dreams to find that he had written this on the sheet of paper by his bed. Then he remembered his dream: he had been lying in bed when a man approached him and said these words. He seemed to be familiar, but wasn't anyone that Chris actually knew. It was only when he looked at the sheet with the writing on that he remembered who his visitor had been: the journalist Fazad Bazoft, held pending execution by Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein. Bazoft had been accused of spying on military installations, and it was generally believed that he would either be expelled from the country or have his sentence commuted to a lengthy spell in prison. Chris now knew otherwise. The spirit of Bazoft had visited him that night and had spoken that rhyme, in which he gave intimations of the possible freeing of hostages in the Middle East (with particular reference to Terry Waite, the Archbishop of Canterbury's envoy), and also of the manner of his execution — he was hung by the neck, just as a camera is hung around a neck . . . Chris was actually in Holland that night, staying at the Kraznapolski Hotel with a News of the World reporter called Carry Jones. They were investigating a story that had nothing to do with Chris's psychic abilities, and in fact Jones was openly sceptical to Chris about his dreams. 'Wake up,' whispered Chris, knocking on Jones's door at three in the morning. 'What is it?' the reporter replied testily, unhappy at being woken in the middle of the night. 'They've just executed that journalist bloke — Bazoft,' Chris whispered. 'I've just seen it.' 'Don't be stupid,' said Jones, now fully awake. 'They're not going to kill him. It's common knowledge that he's just being made an example of ... They wouldn't dare. Now go back to sleep, for Christ's sake.' But the Iraqis had executed Bazoft. In the middle of the night, Dutch time, just when Chris had dreamt about the visit from the dead man's spirit. When Carry Jones heard this on the news the next morning he was no longer a sceptic. Despite being vindicated, Chris was disturbed by what had happened: although he had been visited by the spirits of dead men before — indeed, his first contact had been with the drowned soldier Robert — it had never been someone who had been in the public eye in any way. This presented Chris with a distinct problem, as there were two -ways of looking at such a contact. First, there was the positive approach, that such a contact was opportune and everything Chris could have asked for: after all, here was a man who had made international news. If Bazoft could tell Chris something of importance, then it would make everyone sit up and take notice. It could prove to the world that Chris was genuine. Then there was the negative side. Bazoft had been murdered by a despot seeking to keep his weapons-potential secret, paranoid about spying. As a victim of such a fate, Bazoft and his family had the sympathy of the world. For a psychic in rural England suddenly to claim that he was in contact with the spirit of the dead man, and that he was being told by him about the freeing of hostages, could bring down the scorn of that same world. It could, in fact, be counter-productive and guarantee that Chris would never be taken seriously or treated with anything but contempt. So what should Chris do? Bazoft had said that he would keep back some stories for Monday — 2 April. Chris had also written WATCH THIS SPACE inside a huge box. It seemed that he had no option but to wait. In the event, Bazoft's promise seemed to be something of an anti-climax. There was certainly more writing in Chris's diary during the early days of April than at any other time, yet most of it could be seen only as hints of forthcoming events, with nothing really solid to grab hold of. Chris's view is that these days were in some ways an enigma. Whoever - or whatever — was guiding his mind through the watches of the night had decided that Chris must have more information; but, in order to have that, he must be able to decipher a more complex code. There were small things that might be seen as victories, but nothing quite as mind-blowing as being visited by a freshly deceased spirit. There was a prison riot at Sandy Mount in Scotland that could possibly have been foreseen by Chris's dreams, but otherwise they seemed to be nothing more than a jumble. Except perhaps for the inkling that there was something amiss, with another bomb attack . . . On 6 April Chris dreamt that he was back in northwest London, where he had lived as a child. He dreamt of Roger Moore in his 1960s television role as The Saint, and of the car that Moore drove in the program: a white Volvo sports model. There was also a bed with weapons hidden underneath it, and a fire that started on the roof of a building. Chris awoke puzzled: he hadn't been back to that part of London for some time, and certainly hadn't seen any films or television programs featuring Roger Moore. So what did it all mean? The next morning he took the piece of paper, and followed his usual procedure for trying to make sense of the cryptic clues contained within his dreams. Laying the two pieces of paper side by side, he would look at what was written on the dream sheet, which lay on the right. On the left, he would write word associations and ideas, or memories triggered by the dream sheet. This morning he had the following: [ROGER] MOORE [BED] Hidden under weapons [Sports car] Darts. [FIRE] The word 'fire' with a box around it he now knew to mean danger, following past experience. A box, of course, meant something 'not quite' like the word within, and fires were considered dangerous by the subconscious. Likewise, the words 'Roger' and 'sports car' weren't quite accurate. Chris sat for some time, puzzling over what they might mean. It baffled him completely, until a dim and distant memory of his childhood came to him. When he was a small boy, he and some friends used to have a car-washing round in their local area, and they would spend the weekend washing cars for a few shillings a time. Although he had seen Moore as the Saint, driving his sports car in the dream, the boxes suggested that this shouldn't be taken too literally. Quite rightly, as one of the cars that Chris washed regularly was that of Roger Moore, -when he lived at 58 Gordon Avenue in Stanmore, north-west London. He particularly remembered Moore, as the actor would always tip the boys well when his car was washed. Gordon Avenue is situated at the back of the RAF base at Stanmore. Then the significance of seeing Moore as the Saint hit Chris fully . . . The clue lay in the car Moore had been driving. In the series, the Saint's name had been Simon Templar, and his car had the personalised number plate ST1. ST1 was, Chris thought, the postcode for the RAF base at Stanmore. He soon found this to be incorrect, but the link had been made in his mind. Suddenly, a strange and meaningless dream took on a whole new slant. Was it another coded warning from Robert about an IRA attack? Looking at it this way, Chris could see that 'hidden under' and 'weapons' could refer to a bomb being hidden in a storeroom. What the word 'bed' within a box meant was still a complete puzzle. There wasn't enough information. Chris could only hope that the attack wasn't imminent, and that some more information would be coming his way. If only he could ask questions, instead of being a passive receiver. Fazad Bazoft was visiting Chris again in his dreams, with messages about planets colliding and problems with the Hubble telescope. There was nothing definite, but it might have been a garbled attempt to explain the problems that the Hubble was having with the alignment of mirrors in its attempt to study distant planets. It was frustrating to Chris, who was waiting in vain for more information about a possible attack at RAF Stanmore. Bazoft was not the only dream visitor. One night, at the end of Chris's bed, sat a disheveled man in late middle-age. He seemed to be familiar, and it was only a matter of seconds before Chris identified him as Dr Gerry Bull, the arms expert whose death he had so graphically dreamt about a few weeks beforehand. Bull started to tell Chris about the ongoing war between Iran and Iraq, a skirmish that had been going on intermittently for some years. He tried to explain how it would increase in magnitude, to a point where Saddam Hussein would try to take over an oil-rich country and increase his power base. Bazoft would alternate with Bull in these dreams, which continued for most of the month. Again and again they reiterated that the conflict between Iran and Iraq would escalate to such a degree that other countries would be drawn in. Chris didn't know what to make of this, as it was a subject that was starting to fill the news at night. Was this an example of his own subconscious starting to churn over worries about war? Was it getting in the way of any messages that he was supposed to receive? Or were the two becoming so mixed that neither made any sense? The only event at that time that Chris can put down to premonition is the death of Greta Garbo, which he dreamt of on 15 April. He saw her spirit leave her body while she lay in a hospital bed. It walked to an open window and flew off into the night. That same night Bazoft said to Chris, 'I am still with you.' Quite frankly, Chris was beginning to wonder why, as Bazoft had little to say that made any kind of sense. It was not until 21 April that he got the kind of message he was waiting for. [sign. Kill all dogs] This was not the first time that dogs had appeared, but whereas previously they had been representative of killers, this dream was a little more specific. They were connected with a map that Chris had drawn in his sleep, which showed a fenced-in enclosure with a building marked with an X, arrowed with the word 'here' beside it, and the phrase 'Building or work shop' written above. The enclosure seemed to be on a main road. Underneath was written 'Two the road side by side', and 'Men in uniform asleep'. What could this mean? The enclosure might be part of RAF Stanmore, which consists of two separate enclosures, one on either side of the main road. Did this map show the half in which the bomb would be planted? Certainly Chris thought so: on the piece of paper on which he tried to make sense of the dream images he wrote '2 bases side by side', and drew a rough map of the RAF base as he remembered it. There was also an instruction on the dream sheet to 'tell David Bolster'. But tell him what? It was still early days for Chris, and he found that sometimes the dreams slipped away before he had a chance to record anything that wasn't already written. Chris phoned Reverend Bolster and talked to him about the dream. He told him that he feared another attack, yet there wasn't really enough evidence for him to give to Paul Aylott with any sense of conviction. Bolster told Chris what he always did: how the dream premonition worked he didn't know, but in some way it was a gift from God and one that Chris must use as he saw fit. That was all very well, but there were some things that came to Chris in dreams that made him question his very sanity. On 7 April, just a fortnight before, he had been visited by a Christ-like figure, who had dictated the following message: God said I come not this day to teach man charity nor yet to teach man as to what is right and wrong between men. These things were revealed before. I come to produce a new race and show them how to fulfil the former commandments, to do unto others as they would be done by. To return good for evil, to give away all and fear not. Before these things were preached I come now to put them into practice. By this shall man know who are the chosen of the Lord Jehovah. You are a chosen one. One who has shown his worth before me. You live in heaven and dwell on earth. Chris had been so preoccupied at the time with the possibility of messages relating to RAF Stanmore and another bomb attack that he had almost forgotten about this. Perhaps it was this that he had to tell Reverend Bolster? 'It's possible that there are demonic spirits who are trying to deceive you,' said Bolster after careful consideration, 'but I think that the majority of what you are receiving is in some way useful information. I think that someone is telling you it's your duty to record and report what's happening to you.' In other words, Chris should tell Paul Aylott about the dogs, regardless of how little evidence he believed the dream contained. It was a view that was confirmed when, a few days later, Chris started to dream of Holland and Belgium being somehow connected with the dogs. Although he didn't know it at the time, this tied in with MIS and Anti-Terrorist Squad investigations into an IRA arms and explosives-smuggling cell, which operated from the Continent and was instrumental in supplying many of the explosives used in mainland IRA attacks during that year. The next four nights contained nothing of any real consequence. Terry Waite featured again in the dreams, but there was no real indication of when he would be released. It was not until the night of Monday, 30 April, that things really began to move. Chris was driving through Stanmore, and he stopped at a shop. He parked his car around the corner and walked to the shop. The strange thing was that, although he went in, he didn't know what the shop sold, or what he wanted to buy. Instead, he kept looking out of the window, from where he could see the entrance to the RAF base across the road. There were dogs standing outside the base, at the sentry posts. Both dogs had guns. He woke up in a cold sweat. There was something about this dream that was more chilling than all the others, as though there was a stronger intensity to everything he had experienced: a greater sense of being there, a stronger stench of fear in the air. He knew why he felt this when he looked at what he had written. First, there were two small maps, one of which showed the position of his car, the shop and the entrance to the base. The other showed a junction, and had the words 'stop at junction' written underneath. There was also the phrase 'go to shop — message', with '[TAPE]' written beside it. Could this be a message to him: should he go to the base and warn them? Is that what the shop represented: he would be trying to sell the RAF his 'wares' — in other words, his dream. If so, then the appearance of the word 'tape' would become highly relevant in view of future occurrences. The overwhelming feeling of the dream was one of immense urgency. 'Stanmore' was written inside a box — but this was a box drawn in squiggly lines, with the name of the base underlined. Next to it were the words 'ATTACK', '[RESTRAIN]', and '[KILL]'. They were written with such force that the paper was deeply impressed, the sheet underneath containing a deep gouge. Finally, at the bottom of the page, Chris had drawn a container of some kind, with a cartoon bomb inside, fuse smoking. This was just too much to keep quiet about. First the dogs had been recurring for several nights, and now the messages about Stanmore had returned with a vengeance, linking them to the dogs. Whatever was going to happen, it was going to be nasty. Chris felt that this was his big chance really to achieve something with his dreams. Previously he had foretold bomb hits, but hadn't been able to stop them. Now he might just be able to do that. He called Paul Aylott, after faxing him the dream pages for 30 April. 'So what are you going to do about it?' he asked the policeman. 'What can I do?' Aylott replied. 'I can only pass it on. It's not up to me what happens next. Besides, be fair — there's not much hard detail, is there? I mean, like dates or something.' 'Yeah, but couldn't they increase security?' asked Chris. 'Maybe they already have heavy security. I don't know,' Aylott said. It was not a satisfactory conversation. When Chris got off the phone he felt deeply frustrated. Ever since the dreams had started he had wanted something like this to happen. All his dreams had foretold some kind of event, and he wanted to be able to change the course of events, instead of just observing them. But was that possible? It is a vital question, with overtones that go beyond mere action. If what Chris was seeing was the future, then would it be possible for him to change it? For instance, he could see dogs with guns hanging around RAF Stanmore, and had dreamt of the planting of bombs. If that was the future, then was he able to alter it? If he could change the course of events, and prevent a bomb being planted, would he dream about that? And if he had been destined to stop it happening, would he have dreamt about it in the first place: if it didn't happen, would it be there for him to dream about? Chris was now presented with a set of moral and metaphysical questions that could have left him tied in knots. But that's not the sort of man Chris Robinson is. He loathes terrorists and the way their random violence affects innocent people: it runs contrary to everything in his nature. Whatever the philosophical arguments, he knew that his conscience would not let him rest without trying to prevent the bomb. CHAPTER SEVEN If the previous months had been astounding, then May was going to be a different kind of month altogether. It was the busiest month of all in the world of dreams, with more information and detail coming through than ever before. It was also another step in the learning process. But, first, Chris had to gain support for what lay ahead. The first day of May was a beautiful spring Tuesday, with a crisp, sunny morning greeting Chris as he made his way towards the Vicarage. Having spoken to David Bolster a few days earlier, Chris now wanted to see him. The problems that the dreams presented to his faith were questions that he needed to address. Chris Robinson is not a religious man in the conventional sense. He is a Christian, but like most of us only follows a particular religion because he was born into it. He went to church to pray and thank his grandmother after the near theft of his car, and approached Reverend Bolster when the dreams began, but he had no strong religious conviction other than a general belief in God. Now he was becoming close to Reverend Bolster. The other men to whom he faxed his dreams looked at them in a detached manner: Paul Aylott and Trevor Kempson were concerned only with the facts that they could draw from his dream diaries, while Dr Hearne was concerned with them only as pieces of data for analysis. David Bolster, on the other hand, was a man of God, and thus concerned with the idea that Chris was in contact with a world that lay beyond death. He greeted Chris at the door of the Vicarage and showed him into his study. The two men had a cup of tea, while Chris poured out his latest dreams and the questions that were still coming to him concerning the nature of what he was seeing. Usually, David said very little and just sat there listening to Chris; today, there was something he had to say. 'I've been thinking about what you've been saying, and I've made a few notes about it,' he said, rising from his seat and rooting about among the papers on his desk. 'I've been doing some studying, and I think that I may have some answers for you.' Chris was keen to hear more and waited while David found his sheet of paper, covered with a crabbed script. Without a word, he handed it to Chris, who read it eagerly. It said: 1. The dreams are right, not wrong. 2. Don't question why, or why me? 3. He (God) uses your past stories. He knows you. (Psalm 139) 4. Very few answers will be given this side of his Kingdom Reign. Don't look for answers, because you might pick up the wrong answers. I am concerned you will pick up wrong answers. 5. There is a gift of the spirit known as 'testing the spirits'. I want to exercise it for you. It is not infallible, but I do exercise it regularly, and scripture is very helpful in testing. But will you listen if I tell you? Positive 1. Your witness. 2. Solve crimes. 3. Prevent crimes. 4. Show you how to pray (e.g. Terry Waite to negotiate). 5. Angelic ministry (ferry drowning, girls in fire). Warnings /Danger Not all dreams may be right. Be careful. Not everything is purposeful. Look keenly only at those dreams which have a positive lead already, e.g. Stanmore. Only fax the barest minimum to the police. Reverend Bolster believed that the dreams came from one of three sources: God, the Devil, or from -within Chris himself. Chris could concur only with the first and last ideas: by this time he believed that his precognitive dreams fell into two categories. First, there were those that came from within himself. These were the ones where he found himself in strange locations witnessing events. Often these locations resembled places he had visited in his youth. Bolster believed that God could be using Chris's past experience as a reference point in order to relay messages to him, and he had found a relevant scripture passage to explain it. Chris wasn't too sure that he agreed on that point, but was interested in it as a possible explanation. However, he had no doubt that there were some dreams that were motivated by God. When he was visited by the spirits of Robert, the dead soldier, Fazad Bazoft and Gerry Bull, then he had no doubt that they were sent by a higher power in order to pass on messages that would be of some use. As for the Devil . . . Well, it was possible that some of the nightmares Chris had suffered from were due to interference from the Devil or from demons, but Chris remained ambivalent towards this. 'Only fax the barest minimum to the police' . . . This went against everything that Chris's instincts told him. Besides, he now had another contact in the force. As well as faxing his dreams to Paul Aylott at Dunstable police station, Chris now had to send faxes to John Branscombe, Head of the Regional Crime Squad, based at Hatfield. By one of those strange coincidences, Branscombe's name had come to Chris in the dream concerning the man who had blown his own hand off in a bungled bomb attack. Chris left Reverend Bolster feeling in a more optimistic frame of mind than he had known for some time. He would still fax everything through to the police, but he would take notice of most of what David had suggested. He resolved not to worry about the information he was going to receive, but instead to concentrate on deciphering whatever he was given. There was going to be a lot to work on ... On the night of 1 May Chris felt renewed, and a stronger pull from his subconscious than ever before. It felt as though he had taken some kind of powerful stimulant, which shot him through the ceiling as soon as he fell asleep. He felt more alive and alert than when he was actually awake, and he was soon flying through the air. He landed beside the sea, on a tourist beach. It was a beautiful day, and there were children running across the sands, laughing and building sandcastles. It was an idyllic scene. Chris could feel the sun on his face, and the joy of the children. But there was a cloud on the horizon. In the distance Chris could see a crowd of youths, shouting and screaming their way along the beach. They got closer, and Chris could see that they were fighting among themselves. Some of them were wearing football scarves. Before he knew what was happening they were upon him, scattering the crying children and smashing the sandcastles. The idyllic beach scene became a scene of bedlam, with blood and bodies everywhere, and only the thin blue line of the police to stop further mayhem. And then he was awake. Chris was puzzled by the dream, and even more puzzled when he looked at the sheet of paper by his bedside. There was a lot scribbled across the paper, much of it relating to things that he couldn't even remember. Some of it referred to a Porsche, but not in any kind of context. Chris was inclined to relate this to his own subconscious, as his own car was a Porsche. There were also several references to coins, which baffled him. However, there \vere several things that related to the dream as he remembered it: [Foot Ball] = Place [Pool] Sandcastles on road/Fight in street Children playing. [Hooligan] The words 'football' and 'pool' equalling 'place' puzzled him most. Did this mean that the location where the riot would take place was contained within this cryptic clue? One thing was for sure: if Chris was going to crack this, he would have to be patient and wait at least until the weekend. After all, a riot involving football hooligans only takes place after a match, and most matches occur at the weekend. The chances of trouble following a midweek evening match were very slight indeed. Although the rest of the week was busy, Chris made sure that he kept an eye on the news, and was not surprised to see on Saturday that there had been trouble with football hooligans in the town of Poole, in Dorset. 'Pool' equals 'place'. Poole. A simple example of wordplay. Chris was amazed at the simplicity of the code, and also at its sudden appearance. But that wasn't all: referring back to his diary for that day, Chris saw that he had also written 'low door — go under to get in'. Chris was not that familiar with Dorset, but had once holidayed there as a child. The only place he could really remember was Durdle Door, at Lulworth Cove, where there are a series of caves that can be explored only if you bend almost double. Was this the meaning of 'go under to get in' and 'low door'? Perhaps this was stretching the interpretation of a wordplay code a bit far. It was hard to say; if the new codes were going to be based on wordplay and word association, then they would be highly personal to him. Time alone -would tell how well this worked. Meanwhile, the rest of the first week of May had been full of incident, with further warnings of IRA bomb attacks and more clues to an attack on Stanmore - still Chris's main concern, as his premonitions about this were deeply disturbing. On 2 May he dreamt that he was trying to explain to people how he was able to fly. He was also talking about spoon-bending and levitation to a journalist. This came true eleven days later when Uri Geller was featured in the News of the World discussing exactly the same techniques that Chris had been talking about in his dream. On a less flippant level, Terry Waite appeared again. In his diary Chris wrote '[Terry]', with 'still working, still waiting' beside it. But that told only half the story. Chris still had a clear memory of the dream. He had been sitting with Terry Waite, who had told him that he was alive and well, and that he hoped he would be the last of the hostages to be released. Since he had been sent to negotiate the release of the other hostages, he would feel he had failed if he were to be released before them. Chris told Reverend Bolster, as usual, but didn't pass the message on to Lambeth Palace: earlier, when he had first received messages from Terry Waite, he had contacted the Archbishop of Canterbury, but had been treated like a madman. There was no point in continuing the contact. Interestingly there was a similar 11 -day gap before Chris received confirmation of his message, when the Daily Mail reported on 13 May that news had come through concerning Waite: he was alive, the first time that his survival had been confirmed. On 3 May the first bomb message of a crowded month came through. Although the actual dream was a jumble, the evidence was self-explanatory. Base. [Explosion] NO. Bomb warning. [Holland] Germany. There was going to be a bomb planted in an army base, either in Germany or near Holland. But there wouldn't be an explosion. Somehow the plot would be foiled. Chris switched on the television as he waited for Paul Aylott to answer the phone, but replaced the receiver when he saw a news item telling of the discovery of an unexploded bomb at an RAF base in Germany. It had been discovered at 2 a.m. - while Chris was still sleeping. Another item on the Teletext service caught his eye: there had been a power failure on the London Underground system that morning, at Moorgate station. Looking at the sheet of paper in his hand, Chris could see the words 'electric train', with '[tube]' and '[power fails]' next to it. Two items to be confirmed as soon as he was awake was something he had never experienced before. It was getting to the stage where he was almost too excited to get off to sleep at night. There was another bomb warning during the night of 4 May. 'Time is ten past four,' Chris wrote in his diary. Again, the dream was garbled, but he could remember that his soldier was there, explaining to him that he would be giving times as Greenwich Mean Time. As British Summer Time was now in operation, Chris took this to mean that the bomb would go off at ten past five. But a.m. or p.m.? And on what date would this occur? Chris was certain that the bomb would use a digital clock and delay timer, and that it would originate in Holland — 'same as other dream'. '? —Bomb —Explosion,' he wrote the following night, the second night running that he had dreamt of this bomb. On 6 May another pattern was established. For the third night running he dreamt of a bomb. From this point on, he would know that three nights in a row meant that whatever he was dreaming about was imminent . . . [Radio Set] [TV on front] [Phillips make] Warning. Wires if short out. Bang - Explosion. [Bomb] Add two wires to complete circuit. [Terrorist group] Wires in device short out. Printed circuit board. 4.15-4.30 = TIME Chris woke in a cold sweat. Robert had come to him once again, intent on warning him about three impending bomb attacks. Two of these would occur in the same place, and Robert was insistent that Chris pay close attention. People would die. The first two bombs were going to be in a bed. What kind of a bed? A flowerbed, or one you sleep in? Try as he might, Chris couldn't remember if he had been told. But he did remember more about the third bomb. It would be under a vehicle, possibly a Forces vehicle. Once again, detail eluded him. There was, however, one part of the dream that remained with him vividly. Could this be a clue? Yet again Chris found himself in a shop in his dreams. But this wasn't like the shop near RAF Stanmore: this one was all too familiar. It was the CIVIC store in Wembley High Road, where he had been employed many years before. The shop was a radio and television retailer, and Chris had worked there as one of the repair men. He could only take this to mean that the bomb would be in Wembley High Road, under a vehicle of some kind. Would this be the bomb for which he knew the time? He faxed the information as usual, feeling frustrated that he was getting so close to something important, and yet a few vital details still eluded him. Yet while this occupied his waking hours, his dreams had something more horrible in store . . . He didn't recognise the airport: it wasn't one that he could ever remember using. Yet he seemed to know where everything was situated as he checked in and made his way to the boarding gate. The majority of the staff and passengers were Asian, and the weather was sultry. He didn't know which country he was in, but it was somewhere in the south-eastern corner of the globe. The plane was a 747, and he boarded with all the other passengers, making his way to his seat near the back. Settling back, he waited for the plane to taxi to the runway. Then chaos descended: a sound so loud that he literally couldn't hear it - it made his eardrums ache and his jaw crack. And the light was so bright, so intense that even when he shut his eyes the glow burned through his eyelids. Burned through so brightly that he had to open his eyes. The bomb must have been planted in the toilets at the front of the plane. He knew this by the direction of the blast, and the way it shattered the heads of two people sitting near him, their skulls blown backwards by the blast, sending a spray of blood and brain over him. He tried to scream, but the smoke from the rapidly spreading fire caught in his throat, making him choke. And now that his ears had cleared from the shockwave of the blast, he could hear the thundering roar of the flames coupled with the excruciating screech of rending metal as the plane juddered to a halt. He woke in terror, sitting bolt-upright and staring into the quiet Bedfordshire night. The silence around him was overwhelming, with only the soft breathing of his sleeping wife and the rustle of leaves outside the window. Yet he could still see the after-image of the fire. Chris didn't look at his dream diary — not straight away, as he didn't want to be reminded of what he had just witnessed. Instead, he got up and made some coffee, showered and dressed. By the time he had calmed down it was just past nine in the morning. He drove over to visit David Bolster straight away, and told him what he had seen. 'I don't understand why God should show you these terrible things,' David said sadly, noting Chris's obvious distress. Chris shrugged. 'I think it's because no-one really believes me yet. It's like I'm being shown things that are so far away that I can't have anything to do with them. Yet I know they'll happen - what more proof could anyone want?' Together they prayed that this would be one dream that would not come true. It was not to be: four days later, on Saturday, 12 May, a Philippine Airlines plane was taxiing to the runway at Manila Airport when a bomb exploded in the lavatory at the front of the plane. It decapitated the passengers sitting near the centre of the explosion, killing them instantly. Another five passengers were killed, and eighty were injured. There were 230 people on the flight. Responsibility was claimed by the NPA (New People's Army), which also admitted it had screwed up: the bomb was supposed to go off at cruising altitude, leaving no survivors at all. Chris had faxed his dreams to Paul Aylott as usual, mainly because there were mentions of dead soldiers on the pages, and also the phrases 'face in door' and 'across the road'. Although meaningless in themselves, they triggered memories of dreams where he was in Stanmore and Edgeware. He had also been in a car driven by a dog, which he knew to mean it was being driven by an IRA cell member, and Chris wanted to record what he had seen from the car, in case it might give some clue to what was going on concerning Stanmore. On the same sheet of paper Chris had written: Airways [747] Crash warning. [Head off] [open - toilet - no door] Blood on face. Asian people. Paul Aylott rang him. 'What's all this about a plane crash?' 'I saw it. It's going to happen.' 'Well, can we do anything?' 'You tell me,' said Chris. On the morning of 12 May, Aylott rang again. When Chris answered the phone, he said, 'How did you know that was going to happen?' 'You tell me,' Chris repeated. 'I just had a dream, and there it was.' 'If I had any doubts about it being luck before . . . Christ alone knows I haven't now,' Aylott said. 'What you're doing flies in the face of everything we've ever been taught.' It was the first time he had ever expressed any doubts he might have had to Chris. Their relationship had always been based on Chris's assumption that Aylott simply took the dreams at face value. But now it would seem that there had been a grain of scepticism. No longer. It confirmed what Chris had said to David Bolster. Perhaps this was God's (or whoever's) way of proving Chris's validity to others. On the nights of 10 and 11 May there were strange hints in Chris's dreams about the IRA bombers he had dreamt about so frequently. One seemed to indicate that a soldier with Northern Ireland links would be a victim, and the other somehow connected the IRA with gypsies, as Chris saw travellers changing sites in a familiar north-west London landscape. But there was nothing definite. One dream that was a definite premonition happened on Sunday, 13 May. Sandwiched between eight or nine dreams came one that was startlingly clear. Chris found himself standing by a railway line. It was a rural area, and he recognised it as the stretch of track that runs between Chorleywood and Rickmansworth on the Metropolitan Line out of London and into Hertfordshire and Buckinghamshire. It lay only about forty minutes' drive from where he lived, and he was familiar with the area. There were four people with him, and they explained that they were going to die on this stretch of line. They were resigned to it, and didn't seem in any way distressed. They explained that it would be an accident that occurred in the course of their work, and that this was to be the spot where it would happen. Then, in the manner of dreams, Chris found himself watching the rape and murder of two young girls, helpless to do anything to aid them or to stop the crime. The sudden cut from one scene to another was deeply disorientating, and the futility of having to watch made everything else seem garbled. Chris woke up sweating again. Another night of deeply disturbed sleep. It took him some while to calm down, and then he was able to fall back into a kind of repose. It was in moments like these that he pondered his current situation. Bessie still had her job as a waitress in a hotel. With tips, her income was pretty good. Chris's income, on the other hand, had taken a nose dive. Since the dreams had started, his sleep had been heavily disturbed, and with his other medical problems this left him tired and unable to concentrate for long periods during the day. And it was not just the sleep: much of his days seemed now to be taken up with matters relating to his dreams. If he wasn't puzzling over the meaning of his dream diary, then he was discussing his problems with David Bolster, or talking to Paul Aylott or John Branscombe. He was still in contact with Chris Watt at Scotland Yard, although Watt had taken a back seat of late. In short, the dreams had taken over Chris's whole life. He had neither the time nor the energy to carry out repairs or renovate old television sets, and the way things were going he would have to start signing on for unemployment benefit. To someone who had always made his own way since leaving school, the idea was anathema. Circumstances, however, dictated otherwise. The problems that disturbed him in the quiet watches of the night always vanished when he looked at his diary pages the next morning. This time he was astounded to see that he had drawn a map showing where the railway accident would take place, complete with an X to mark the spot on the line between the two stations. There were also some notes relating to the murders he had seen, with a rough sketch map of the area where one body would be found. He felt that the murders were not connected, though similar. All three premonitions were proven -within a week: on Wednesday, 16 May, at 2 a.m. four London Transport DREAM DETECTIVE track engineers (despite its rural setting, the Metropolitan Line is part of the London Underground system) were killed while taking part in routine track maintenance. An 18-ton trailer wagon containing equipment and sleepers rolled over a 5-man gang as they worked on the line one mile east of Chorleywood. The brake had slipped loose on the wagon, and before the men had a chance to clear the track it was upon them. One man scrambled to safety, but the other four were crushed by the rolling stock. Chris's map shows the point where the accident took place, just before a road crosses the line via a bridge. In some photographs of the accident scene, the bridge is visible along the line. Four days later, two stories appeared in the press. One concerned the murder of student Joanne Parrish in France, the other of teenager Elaine Foley somewhere along the River Thames — exactly where is not known, as the disguised body was dumped on a British Rail luggage van and conveyed along the line. The reporting of both stories described their injuries in similar terms, and this made Chris wonder about the nature of his premonitions: although he had seen both killings, had he really been at the scene of the crime, or had his imagination constructed this from the newspaper reports he would read in the future? In some ways it was an academic argument, but one that interested him greatly, as he was still keen to get at the root of his suddenly acquired gift. When we talked about these events before this book was started, Chris dwelt on this at some length. Was he really seeing the events as they happened, or was he seeing a reconstruction of them? Had he read about them, or seen them on the news, so that they were in his future field? If so, was the dramatic reconstruction his imagination's way of feeding him these facts from the future? After all, he had no more detail to offer on these murders than that contained in the newspaper reports. At the same time his dream about the trackside accident covered totally different ground. Admittedly, everything he had seen was in the newspaper report he later read, and the film of the accident scene was on the local television news. Yet he had spoken to the men involved, before they died. Chris has no doubt now that some of the dreams relate to events that happen in his own future field, and others come from a different source. It took some time to come to terms with the fact that there was no one simple answer, but Chris has learnt by experience not to make any kind of judgment. And, because of the dreams in which he has spoken to soon-to-be dead spirits, he has evolved a theory about the nature of time and events. This will be detailed in a later chapter: for now, events were about to overtake Chris Robinson. Monday, 14 May, brought Chris the realisation that the symbol of cups meant dead people, so that if he saw four cups, then it would mean four dead people. Four dead people on a rail track: the Chorleywood incident, still two days away, was being impressed upon him, as he made a safety check on an electrical tube in his dream. The men were killed during routine safety work, and the Underground system is commonly known as the Tube: another example of word association. It was the night of 15 May that the bomb warnings came back with a vengeance. Things were pointing towards Stanmore and Wembley, as the information built up, both through direct vision and a more personal symbolism. Chris was on a train going to a Nazi death camp. It was so clear that he drew a map of the compound, writing 'Zyklon [B] [Gas]' and 'Jews/Train/Escape'. Then things changed, and he was in the old CIVIC shop in Wembley, where he had worked as a young man. He was looking out of the window at a Hillman Imp, with the registration 666 FXX. Someone was looking under the car, saying that they couldn't find a bomb there. When he woke up Chris was confused by the dream. There was an urgency to it, yet at the same time there were aspects that seemed to muddle the issue: where did a Nazi death camp fit into it? He decided that the only solution was to go out and forget about the dreams for a while. He had to clear his mind, so that he would come back to the diaries •with a fresh outlook. Perhaps then he would be able to make sense of them. It was a pleasant day, though not too warm. So Chris drove his camper van to Northampton, some forty miles away, and spent the morning at the Billing Aquadrome, a camp site and holiday centre five miles from the town centre, doing everything but think about the dreams. When he returned to the camper, he pulled out the pages he had scribbled on during the night. There were four sheets, more than he had ever before produced in one night. This alone showed that something vitally important was contained within the disjointed sentences that he now had to try and make into coherent sense. The make of car and registration number were in boxes, so the bomb would not be under that particular make of car. Instead, it was meant to stir a memory that would assist him. This was followed by: [Sex in a car] — who did it? Where is car now? ? Found under [car] [Bomb] Driver's seat — look for it!!! On the following page the name of the electrical store Dixons was written in a box, followed by a series of boxes referring to stock returns and faulty equipment. The last page began with a sketch of a lorry, with the words 'weight important - no HGV required or got'. Then came 'Spray in another colour', '[Green] + white' and '[Brown] + white'. The last item was '[car] repair'. For some obtuse reason, it was the last part that made the whole thing click into place. Back in 1968 when Chris worked in the CIVIC shop in Wembley High Road he bought a Hillman Imp whose registration number was 666 FXX. The car was blue, and didn't work. Chris had to repair the engine while the car was parked round the back of the shop. Once he got it going, he re-sprayed it green. '[Sex in car]', if it referred to the Imp, meant Stanmore, as Chris had enjoyed many youthful exploits in the back of the Imp when it was parked on the common at the back of the RAF base. The name of Dixons could have been another reference to CIVIC, as the old shop was now a Dixons store. Chris used to park the car outside the shop while he was at work, and believed that the reference to someone looking under his car for a bomb meant that the vehicle under which a bomb would explode would be parked in this place. But what type of vehicle? The drawing made this obvious. It would be a van or lorry — and a small one. 'Weight important — no HGV required or got' was the clue: if a van or lorry weighs under three tons, the driver doesn't require an HGV (heavy goods vehicle) licence. So the bomb would be planted under a small lorry or van in Wembley High Road, and in order to find it a search would have to be made underneath it. Only one thing remained to be explained: the Nazi death camp. It was then that the name of Henry Jacobs came to mind. Chris once knew a Mr Jacobs at around the time he had been working for CIVIC. Henry Jacobs lived in Dalkeith Grove, Stanmore, but had been born in Belsen, and had often told Chris about the horrors of the Holocaust. Another personal reference to pinpoint an area. Chris was appalled. He rushed to the public telephones and rang Paul Aylott, gabbling out his story. He had such a sense of urgency that the words poured out in a torrent, and Aylott had to slow him down, make him go over the story again. 'And you're sure about this?' he said finally. 'Yeah, of course I am. If it's not Wembley, then it's certainly north-west London. Look, Paul, I know I'm being a nuisance ringing up like this, but it's just that—' 'No, you're not being a nuisance,' Aylott assured him. Til pass all this on to "them", and see what they say.' 'Thanks, I really appreciate that,' said Chris, knowing that 'them' meant some nebulous branch of the secret service or Special Branch. 'That's okay,' Aylott replied. 'And look, don't worry about it, okay?' Chris said goodbye and hung up. He returned to his camper and lit a cigarette. He was trying to give up, but the pressure was too great at the moment. Don't worry? It was easy for Paul to say that. He didn't live with it, couldn't possibly know how much anxiety it caused. Chris switched on the television and was greeted with the lead story on the lunchtime news: the deaths of the four workers at Chorleywood in the early hours of the morning. On top of everything else, this was just too much, and he ran back crying to the public phones, from where he dialled Aylott's number, all the while thinking that he should have done more than just pass the information on by fax: he should have contacted the transport police (who are responsible for all railways), or gone there himself, instead of taking the camper out . . . Anything. 'Why didn't you do something?' he asked Aylott when he was put through. 'I passed it on — that's all I can do.' 'But what about what I've just told you?' 'I've passed it on ... Chris, I can't make them do anything, I can only tell them what you tell me. And I do that, believe me.' Chris hung up and returned to the camper. He felt drained, and could only hope that the mysterious 'them' would take notice of the Wembley and north London warning. He fell asleep, and slept until twenty-past five. At 5.12 p.m. on Wednesday, 16 May, Sergeant Charles Chapman locked up the Army Recruiting Office in Thurlow Gardens, Wembley, and walked to the Sherpa van he used for transport. He checked underneath for bombs, as all army personnel had been instructed, but could see nothing. He got into the van, turned the ignition and was killed by a bomb explosion. The van was under three tons, and didn't need an HGV licence. It was parked outside Dixons (formerly CIVIC) in the High Road. Sergeant Chapman had checked the vehicle but found nothing, as the man in Chris's dream had done. Several days later it was reported in the press that police were seeking to interview tinkers seen near the van in the early afternoon. Even this tied in with the travelers seen in Chris's dreams. Chris Robinson had been right in almost every respect: his precognitive dream had foretold the event, and he had warned the authorities. Still Sergeant Chapman died. Did this mean that — no matter what — the events he foresaw would simply have to take place? It was a question that would worry him in the future, but not now. Chris woke at twenty-past five. After a cup of coffee and a cigarette, he turned on the early evening news, hoping to find out more about the accident on the Chorleywood line that had upset him so much earlier in the day. What he saw did more than upset him. The first news reports were garbled, as information was still coming through: a bomb had exploded in Wembley, and a soldier was believed to have been killed. The bomb was under a van. Even now, years after the event, Chris can't find words to describe how he felt. He knew he had been right, he knew he had done everything that it was possible for him to do, and yet — and yet there was a feeling of immense devastation. Failure. He had tried to save lives, yet still they had been lost. He cried: tears of bitter frustration and rage. Rage at himself, rage at those who had seemingly ignored what he had told them. Tears streaming down his face, he ran from his camper, across the road to the public telephones at the Aquadrome. Fumbling in his anger, he dialed Paul Aylott's number. Right then, he hated Paul. He hated the police, and whichever spook section of the secret service was taking his messages. Most of all, he hated himself for feeling so ineffectual. Aylott was still in his office, and picked up the phone to hear Chris screaming at him. It was an incoherent burst of justified rage. Aylott, whom Chris describes as one of the nicest men he has ever known, stayed calm. He waited for Chris to finish, then said, 'Okay, mate, just calm down. I know how you feel, I really do. I feel upset about this myself, but all this will get neither of us anywhere. The best thing you can do is go home right now, and try to calm down. I know you're not going to believe me right now, but I did try and help. I put through everything you said, but there just can't have been enough for anyone to tell when and where.' On reflection, Chris would agree with this, but right then he could think of nothing other than feeling useless: without any kind of result, his gift was futile. Calmer, if not happier, he apologised to Aylott for railing at him and walked back to the camper. He occupied some time by checking the engine, then decided to watch the seven o'clock news and find out what had happened in Wembley. The bomb had been at a Territorial Army recruiting centre, and another soldier had been injured in the explosion. It was almost painful to watch, knowing that he could have stopped it, had he been listened to and the dreams understood. And then came the revelation that made him gasp . . . 'This is the second IRA outrage in seventy-two hours,' the newscaster continued, 'following on from the attack in Eltham, south London.' Chris sat forward on the edge of his seat. Second attack? He hadn't watched the news for a few days, or seen a newspaper, so this was startling. As he listened, he discovered that a bomb had exploded outside an Army Education Centre in Eltham, injuring seven people. The bomb had been planted in a flowerbed . . . Chris's mind reeled. Flowerbed? That made alarm bells and warning sirens scream in his mind. A bomb in a flowerbed, or — a bomb in a bed? Quickly he scrabbled around the camper, desperate to find the ring-binder that he used to keep his dream diary in when he filed the papers. He flipped back to 6 May and there it was: '[BOMB]', on top of a sketch that had a rectangle labelled 'bed', with lamps at each end. At the time he thought this meant that a bomb would be planted in sleeping quarters, but the lamps were like the display lanterns you get in ornamental gardens. Were there lamps around the flowerbeds at the Army Education Centre in Eltham? In his low state, Chris felt more confused than ever. Why did the symbols have to be so ambivalent, so loaded with meaning? Why was it not possible for him to get simple, clear, direct messages? If the dreams came from God, as he believed that many of them did, then surely He would want Chris to make use of the information and help people. If this were the case, then surely He would give the information to Chris in a simple way, that could be understood by anybody. Depressed by his inability to prevent the death of Sergeant Chapman, Chris wondered if he were the one at fault. What if everything was being, as it were, transmitted correctly, and it was he — the receiver — who was at fault? As a trained engineer, Chris wondered if the dreams came like television and radio signals, and he was tuned into their signal. Perhaps it was possible that his aerial — the part of his brain that received the signals — •was not quite correctly tuned? The idea of a psychic as a human radio television receiver is one that has occurred to other people: the writer and researcher Colin Wilson once referred to Dutch psychic Gerald Croiset as a 'badly tuned TV set', and the late Brian Inglis posited the theory that we receive a narrow band of information signals in our brain, and that psychics are like televisions whose aerials have gone haywire, picking up signals that the rest of us cannot detect. This fits with Chris's big worry — that his haywire aerial wasn't picking up the signals clearly enough for him to relay the correct information. What if it was his fault that Sergeant Chapman had died? What if it was his fault that the information was coming out confused? Chris spent the evening wallowing in guilt. He felt that he wasn't making full use of the gift that he had been given, felt depressed and useless. But he is not the kind of man to feel that way for long. If nothing else, he has resilience, and a life full of setbacks has taught him to never give up, just to find a way around things. He was feeling a little better when he went to sleep at around ten in the evening. He produced several pages of dream writing, but the really important move had been made before he went to sleep: Chris had decided that he would work on cracking the dream code, and that he would take a more direct hand in making sure that his dreams were acted upon. No matter who he had to cross.