After a few moments, the fog lifted, allowing Henry’s senses to return, which wasn't all good news, given the strong smell of rotting garbage. Gripping Henry by both shoulders, the driver lifted him to his feet and firmly shook him until his eyelids relinquished and finally opened.

“Henry,” he said.

Henry did not reply. His eyes were still glazed over, the figure in front of him no more than a blur, only his rough shape determinable. The man repeated his name as Henry felt a hand leave one of his shoulders, before it made contact with the side of his face, hard. Slapped into the present, the featureless figure before Henry took shape. The driver was a pale man with slicked back brown hair, a shark like grin and piercing blue eyes that stared directly at him, unblinking.

“What do you want?” Henry said.

“What do I want? A million quid and a ticket to the Bahamas. I'm here to help you. Trust me, you are in a shed load of trouble and we need to keep moving,” the man said.

Henry's head pounded like an engine ready to explode. On the upside, his thoughts had finally been freed of the endless hallucinations and were again, his own.

“Who the hell are you?” Henry said.

“My name is Gabriel, but believe me when I say I didn't choose it. We are not safe on the street, you need to come with me.”

“Come with you? Why the hell would I do that?”

There was a click and Henry looked down to find a gun pointed at him, a revolver of some kind. It was the first one he had seen in real life and, although it appeared remarkably similar to those he had seen in the movies, it was a damn sight scarier in person.

“Because I am asking nicely,” Gabriel said.

Henry always appreciated the subtle signs in life, especially one as understated as gun pointed to your chest. As things stood, he had two options. He could cause a fuss and try to escape, no doubt getting killed in the process or, alternatively, he could follow this guy and perhaps get some answers as to what on earth was going on. That was, before probably being murdered, which did mean death of course, but a little bit later than option one. There was option three of course, where this was all a delusional fantasy, but then whatever he did wouldn't matter, as his mind would make it up as it went along. Henry gave a half nod, which received a self gratifying grin from Gabriel as he ran his hand along the side of his head to smooth his hair.

The pair stood on a typical street, derelict seventies skyscrapers towering up on either side of them, in what could easily have been mistaken for a make-shift dump. Rubbish lay strewn everywhere, plastic bags floating past them like tumbleweeds, stacks of black bin liners built up like rock faces against the buildings. Before them, set in from the street, stood a crumble of dark red tiles amounting to what looked like an old Victorian fire station, sitting in juxtaposition to its surroundings of beige and grey concrete. The windows were boarded over, as well as three of the four entrances and on the forth, a strip of white tiles above the doorway had the letters 'EXIT' painted onto them. This was where the man, Gabriel, led Henry towards, the distinct cold cylinder of the gun barrel pressed into the small of his back. Gabriel simply touched the door, which swung open without resistance, clattering against the inside wall of the building. He took a step back and gestured for Henry to enter.

Henry stepped into blackness and was met by the smell of decay, notable even in comparison to the outside. The air was stale, heavy in his nostrils and thick with dust.