When I got to Kiln House, Professor Ilyes met me and said she had some ideas – and some further tests she wanted to carry out. First, though, there were a couple of people who wanted to talk to me. She took me to meet them in the canteen, and left me there with them, while they plied me with coffee and questions.

I took them to be post-graduate students of hers, who were interested in my problem, and were looking for ways to help me, so I was completely open with them.

The man introduced himself as Bill Gardener. He was well-built, mid-thirties, with thinning hair, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with some sort of design on it. He looked like the sort of bloke who’s never had a real job in his life, but lives as a permanent student. Frankly, If he told me he played guitar in a band in pubs in the evening, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised.

His partner never did give me her name, although I think Bill referred to her as Debs once. She was quite short – under five foot, I would guess – and was wearing a pink t-shirt with the words ‘I'm no angel’.

They seemed a very pleasant young couple, and I happily told them all about how I had arrived here. Then the trouble started.

Although I am usually not very good at remembering conversations, what followed so shocked me that I think I can recall it pretty well verbatim.

Bill: “I’m afraid, Mr. Colman – if that is your name – that we don’t believe you.”

Debs: “Ever since your television broadcast was seen by one of our colleagues – and you really were rather silly, drawing attention to yourself that way – we’ve been looking into the records – and believe me, we have very detailed records – and you don’t exist. Yes, there was a Robin Colman, who would have been about your age – but he died in 1988. Did you pick his name from a gravestone?”

Bill: “You don’t seem to belong here, do you?”

Me: “Well no, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you – ”

Debs: “The payment card you’re using. It’s not registered in your name, is it? Did you steal it, or is it a forgery? Or did your employers provide it for you?”

Me: “No, I told you, when I arrived here I didn’t have anything, but a coin dealer gave it to me in exchange for some labouring work.”

Bill: “Yes, yes, we know you’ve admitted that you’re an illegal immigrant. But who are you working for? Where are you really from? You may have fooled people like the professor and that silly girl who interviewed you on the television with your cock-and-bull tale, but I think we’ve reached the stage now when you ought to just tell us the truth.”

Me: “Look, who are you? I have been telling you the truth.”

Bill: “I don’t think it matters who we are, does it? Let’s just say we work for the government. More to the point, who do you work for?”

Me: “The British government – same as you. I am Lieutenant Robin Colman, of the Norwich Regiment. I was sent here entirely by chance, as I’ve explained to you at length.”

Debs: “Really? Well, I think we’ve heard enough of this nonsense. You’re an odd sort of spy, certainly. I can’t think of many who would advertise their presence on the television. I’m not quite sure what to make of you.”

She stopped and looked at Bill at this point. He shook his head.

Bill: “We’re not taking you with us just now, but be assured we shall be keeping a very close eye on you. Don’t leave Norwich, will you?”

With that, they stood up and walked out. They left me, I must admit, in shock.

First, there was the very fact of being accused of being a spy by these government agents.

Then there was the shock of there having been a ‘me’ here. I knew that famous people – politicians and the like – seemed to crop up in the same line of work in different worlds, but it had never occurred to me that ordinary people would be replicated too – and certainly not that I might be here too. Except I wasn’t, it seemed, as the ‘me’ in this world had died as a child.

I had a sleepless night last night. I know that, eventually, I’ll be sent away from this world, so threats of imprisonment don’t worry me too much (unless spying is a capital offence here – I’m not sure that sending will be much use to me if I’m dead). Of course, I can’t be absolutely sure that I will ever experience sending again – I still don’t know what causes it, and even if it is, as I suspect, to do with the Hermes team, there is no guarantee that they will keep on doing whatever it is they are doing.

I really don’t know what to do, or think. I couldn’t talk to the professor yesterday – after the interview, or whatever it was, I was just too shaken-up to think straight, so went for a long walk. Anyway, she says she still wants to see me, so I’ve arranged to meet her again tomorrow. Perhaps she’ll have some ideas about what I ought to do.