K. Ker. Ket. Kettle.

He’d left the kettle on. But it didn’t matter because that was a hundred years and a thousand miles away, and Norman was here and now.

Grey vision swam out of greyness. Grey words in his mind. Something smooth beneath his hands. He stared down into the grey. His left index finger was cut down to the bone. It didn’t hurt.

He observed that he was holding something in his outstretched palm. A little lump of red, with wires sticking out at all angles. It was heavier than it looked. Intricate with machinery. The only thing that wasn’t grey. There might be more things that weren’t grey, but he couldn’t lift his head. He stared and stared.

He stared until he felt timeless. Ten years, or five minutes, went past before he drew breath. Tremors drummed his arms against the table below him, where more wires coiled to break up the blinding glare of lights he couldn’t see. He was thin, he noticed. Much too thin. But he couldn’t recall what those gnarled limbs should look like.

He trembled, and trembled, until the red thing rattled from his grasp and clattered to the grey tiled floor. Something else moved by his side. It was a man in a soft grey jumper. He knelt by Norman’s table, picked up the red thing, and settled it gently into the bony hand, closing Norman’s stiff fingers around it for safety.

“There, there,” said the man in the grey jumper. His voice was slow and soothing, like a long drink from the glass of water Norman suddenly and desperately needed. “Just a little accident. Nothing to worry about. But you best settle back in and finish these, because the next batch will be along soon.” The man smiled pityingly, then took a step away. Norman stared at the table. “You’re the only one left to finish. Look,” the man prompted, and Norman felt his head swivel instinctively to take in the rest of the room. It only hurt a little.

It was a large, square room with grey tiles on the walls as well as the floor, and there were other men and women around him. They wore grey plastic aprons about their scrawny, wrinkled necks. They all stood at their own tables silently, thin as saplings, heads down, eyes staring through the assembled red boxes that they had tossed haphazardly across their space.

There were twenty or so in total. They had all finished the red boxes.

The man in the jumper, who was the only one not wearing an apron and the only one without a table, shuffled calmly by Norman’s side, where he read a coloured band that had been plastered to Norman’s left wrist. The man smiled again. He had short black hair and a moustache. “It’s alright, Norman,” the man whispered. “You’ll be okay again soon.” And he reached out to pat Norman on the shoulder with one hesitant, grey-gloved hand.

Then the man walked briskly away down the row of tables, almost inaudible in his soft slippers, and exited the room via a sliding panel in the far wall. No-one else looked round. No-one moved at all.

But Norman looked. He looked at the nearest red box on the workbench of the woman to his right. He knew it was a workbench now, and he saw that he’d already made seven of the red things himself. But it was easier to turn his neck to the woman’s box. He didn’t think. He just forced his numb hands into action, curling and twisting his wires into place until his last red thing looked like the woman’s red thing. Then he put it down, and rested.

Two minutes later, more panels opened in the walls of the room, and tiny wheeled containers rolled in on tiny felt tracks, and arranged themselves by the workbenches. A slot slid back on each table. A low strip of grey plastic rose out of each worktop and pushed the completed red boxes off the surface, from where they fell soundlessly into the cushioned interiors of the containers. Then the containers drove away back through the panels.

Norman watched without interest. He was still not interested when the containers returned with parts for the second batch. But he did observe one difference.

The boxes were green.

A day later, Norman thought more about the kettle. It was important, though he didn’t know why, because he did not have to eat, did not have to drink or sleep. All he had to do was make the boxes that came in the little trucks and put them on his table and wait for them to be pushed away and then wait some more for the next boxes.

The boxes weren’t always red or green. Sometimes they were blue or yellow. But mostly they were red.

The days went on. Norman made many boxes of all colours. He didn’t ask why. It was best to do what the others did. If anyone stopped, then one of the men (it wasn’t always the one with the moustache) in the grey jumpers would come and talk to them, and check their wrists, and sometimes gave them something to eat. Norman did not get anything to eat. Of course, he didn’t need it.

He realised he had been wrong about the glass of water, when the man with the moustache came to talk to him. He didn’t need it after all.

But, as the days went on, and the work went on, Norman came gradually to a new, bleary understanding.

He wanted it.

The parts and wires came until there were no more boxes to be made. Then they started making cylinders. The cylinders were trickier because there were lots of small and delicate pieces that went into them before they sealed the ends.

Norman stood at his post and made lots of cylinders too, for what might have been hours or might have been decades. Sometimes he worried about the kettle that he’d left behind. One time, all at once with no obvious stimulus, he remembered that he’d been going to make a cup of coffee when the kettle had boiled. But the water would be cold now, like the water in the glass that he wanted to drink. You couldn’t make coffee with cold water, so eventually Norman stopped worrying.

He started watching the room instead. He seemed to be the only one that ever looked away from his workbench.

Sometimes, a woman in a white jumper came round to shave the men and cut everyone’s hair. She had a leather case containing three pairs of scissors. Every time she moved table, she would put the scissors in her hand to the back of the case, where an automated rack brought the next ones forward. Then blue lights would go on in the case and sterilise the scissors. Norman turned the word sterilise over in his mind, but couldn’t think what it meant. He just knew it was happening.

When the woman with the scissors got to his table, Norman would always look down at the cylinder he was making and focus. It seemed the safest thing to do.

There was also a man who came to clean their teeth, and what Norman labelled a nurse afterwards who would come to take temperatures and feel their pulses. Next, he started to store patterns. He found that the woman with the scissors came every ten or so batches apart, but the man with the toothbrush came after each four. The nurse was somewhere in the middle.

None of them would ever make a sound.

And there were the men in the grey jumpers. One padded in just before each tiny truck was loaded with the cylinders, and spoke to anybody who did anything but stare at their wasted hands. Then they would feed them and leave. And a man came with each of the people who looked after them, always hanging back slightly, always watching the work but never doing the work.

Once, the man three tables to the right and two up from Norman flinched when the woman with the case held a razor to his hairy neck. Then the man in the slippers behind her did something with a little black pad in his pocket, and a man in a blue jumper and blue slippers came to take the man with a beard away. A scrawny kid with dark skin came in two cylinders after to take his place. One of the men in the jumpers walked him to the table. He stood docilely while the nurse wrapped the apron around his middle. Then they showed him how to build a cylinder.

Norman did not turn his head while any of the visitors were there. Now, the man with the beard had shown him he was right to avoid it.

Norman didn’t want to go with the man in the blue jumper.

But he did want to go.

He found another pattern too, shortly after the cylinders were done and they were doing metal grates.

The men in grey jumpers were changing. He’d known for a long time that it wasn’t always the same one with the other visitors, but the entire rotation had, bit by bit, been transformed. Since the grates came, there was a man with glasses, and a man with a scar on his cheek. The new men said no more than the old ones.

More patterns.

The man with the scar usually did the wrist checks. The others did the visits. But when the man with the cleft lip left when they were back making boxes, and the two with ginger hair started, there was something else different too.

The nurse and the toothbrusher and the shaver started to come in alone.

Norman did not know why his limbs twitched when no-one was looking.

For a while longer, he made boxes. Then, one day, the hairdresser arrived by herself. He let a wire fall as she began to clip his matted locks. He let it fall to his right, and his right hand stayed stock still, but when the woman knelt to retrieve his part, speaking in hushed tones of reassurance, he allowed his left hand to wander into the case with the blue lights and take a pair of scissors.

He stared down at his workbench and let her finish his hair.

He waited until she had finished everyone’s hair and crept out of the panel in the far wall, the one for people. Then Norman put down his things and walked to the panel too. His legs were shaky after standing still for so long, but they did their job. Just like Norman had.

He looked back at all the others, but they were too busy making their boxes to see him. He watched them put all the wires in and all the other parts too, and as each box was set aside, he felt his neck prickle with anticipation.

When all the boxes were made, he heard footsteps from beyond the room. The panel slid back. The man with the scar shuffled in. The man with the scar was good at his job; he saw the empty table instantly, and halted, and straightened, and fumbled for the device in his pocket, but Norman reached out from behind and threw it to the ground and stamped on it with his slipper. It didn’t break, but the man with the scar was not going to try to pick it up, because Norman had him pressed against the wall with the scissors against his throat.

“Please,” whimpered the man in the jumper. “Please. I have a son. A little boy. Four years old.”

But Norman had no intention of stopping the man from seeing his son again.

He only wanted out.

He stepped back, kicked the little black device into the grey tiled corridor beyond the grey tiled room, and strode out.

There was nobody else to meet him out in the corridor. Nobody to stop him. As quickly as he could, he slid the panel back into place. The man with the scar did not move away from the wall. As Norman closed him in, he lowered his head and wiped at his eyes with shaking hands.

There was nothing to guide Norman in the corridor, and there seemed no end on either side. The tiles, like the work, went on forever. Every twenty metres or so, a faint blue strip marked the outline of another panel. Norman thought there might be more men in grey jumpers behind those, so he turned left and walked.

It was a long walk. Finally, he saw an end in front of him. Another panel, marked out in yellow. Norman didn’t want to walk any more, so he opened the panel.

Inside the room, there was a table, big enough for five or six men to sit around. The men sitting around it were all in grey jumpers and grey slippers. Norman recognised the man in glasses and one of the men with ginger hair. The two familiar ones leapt up as he entered.

“Oh shit!” the one with ginger hair cried out. “Oh fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!”

He didn’t seem very happy, so Norman brandished his scissors again. A third man jumped up and held out a placating hand. “What the hell’s this?” he snapped to the others. His eyes never left the scissors.

The man with the glasses gulped. “He- he’s one of ours.”

“Fuck fuck fuck!” cried the man with ginger hair.

“What the actual hell?” bellowed the third man.

“Get him back in,” said a fourth, rising from his spot. A mug of liquid sloshed over the table as he scraped his chair back. The sound raked through Norman’s head like a board of nails. “Which room? Which room?”

But the man with glasses had made up his mind. “Shit, it was Mike’s round, and he’ll never cover for us.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “If he’s still alive.”

“There’s no blood on the scissors,” babbled the one with ginger hair. “No blood, no blood.”

“Call Mr. Reed,” sighed the man with glasses. “Let’s get this over with.”

The panel slid back into place behind Norman. He tried to back out but the door was locked. So he put his back to it and held his scissors out and dared the men to come for him.

Nobody moved.

Then a panel behind the men opened and Mr. Reed stepped through and Norman started to remember all about the kettle.

“Would you like a glass of water?” asked Mr. Reed.

“Yes please,” said Norman.

Mr. Reed smiled and it was a warm and genuine smile. “It will do you good. We’ve flushed the inhibitors from your system. All your normal functions are slowly returning. You’ll be thirsty soon.”

He poured Norman a drink from the jug on his desk, and Norman tipped it shakily to his lips. Too many colours assaulted his eyes through the kaleidoscope curvature of his glass. There were green plants on the tiered shelves of the office, which itself was cool and green and spacious. It reminded Norman of the word forest, though he still could not quite recall why. But, as he looked about him, more and more was returning: there was a computer monitor by the big bank of tape reels on one wall, blinking with charts, and that brought back a memory of Norman’s bedroom, which had been painted blue. Or perhaps that life was just a dream. Perhaps he had always been making boxes in the grey room three or four floors beneath his one.

On the other wall stood Mr. French, who had taken away his apron shortly after being escorted up here in the lift, and who had given him a nice suit in cool green cotton as soon as he had washed the fog from his mind with the hot shower. Mr. Reed sat on one side of his glass desk, and Norman faced him across the jug of water. The third side was against the wall. On the fourth, there was a chair which contained the grey, uncomfortable bulk of the first man Norman remembered seeing, the one with the black hair and moustache. The man with the moustache was beetroot red, and couldn’t keep his interlaced fingers still on his lap.

There were no windows.

Mr. Reed poured a glass of water for himself, then he offered it to the man with the moustache, who shook his head and looked down at his knees. Mr. Reed took a sip, set his glass down neatly on the desk, clasped his hands in front of him, looked Norman in the eyes and told him all about why he had been in the grey room making things.

Norman stopped looking for a way out and listened. It was easier that way.

Mr. Reed informed him, in simple and friendly sentences, that he had walked into the recruitment office downstairs some time ago, seeking work. Norman had passed the interview. Mr. Reed himself, Mr. Reed told him with with beaming, happy eyes, had given him the job.

And it was as simple as that.

“Why don’t I remember?” Norman said after a while. The man with the moustache twitched but did not look up.

For the first time, Mr. Reed hesitated. He wasn’t smiling any more. “Because you did not want to, Mr. Naylor,” he said. Now he was being soft and gentle. Norman shook his head. Fuzzy voices buzzed at the back of his mind, merging with the buzzing and rattling of the tape reels across the room.

Mr. Reed leant forward, slowly. “Working is a difficult choice, Mr. Naylor. Once upon a time, almost everyone worked. They had to. They did not have all the systems our society runs on now to do the work for them. And even now, the world is not perfect and the people rely on some essential individuals to do what little work cannot be automated. Out there, Mr. Naylor,” and he pointed vaguely to his right, past Mr. French, “Out there is utopia. And some of us who choose to do the work we still need to do sometimes struggle to adapt to giving it all up even for the duration of our shifts. And so we came to our solution, Mr. Naylor.”

“Make us forget,” Norman, or at least one of the fuzzy voices at the back of his mind, murmured. The voices were getting clearer with every word Mr. Reed said.

Mr. Reed leant back, hands behind his head, clearly relieved. “Exactly, Mr. Naylor. You’ve said it yourself.” He half-jumped from his seat towards the monitor, suddenly remembering. “With your express permission, of course. I can show you your consent records, if you like.”

But Norman waved him back. He was weak with buzzing voices and flickering images, but he waved him back because there was no need. The voices and images were enough, and Mr. Reed had spoken the truth.

“What did I sign up for?” he asked half from his seat in the green office and half in the blurred red room of the consent centre when he’d scanned his thumbprints and retinas for the nice girl in the skirt after the recruitment centre. The girl had no face now because he hadn’t remembered everything, but he did remember the sadness and the regret and above all the burning, desperate need to forget. “How long?”

“Eight years. The longest full-immersion contract we offer,” Mr. Reed said cheerfully, evidently pleased with his employee’s responses. “But a nice low-risk assembly choice, Mr. Naylor. Parts for air conditioning units.”

“Air conditioning?” Norman repeated. He winced. The things being said in his head were getting violent. He wanted to listen to Mr. Reed instead. Ignore the dark.

“The filtration units. There are some fiddly parts in the design best suited to human hands,” Mr. Reed was saying. He broke off as he watched the struggle unfold on Norman’s face. Something bad was brewing behind those dead eyes. His own eyes flicked towards the wall, to check that Mr. French was still there. “Are you okay, Mr. Naylor? Would you like a break?”

Norman shook his head and then he put his head in his hands. The man in the grey jumper next to him began to sob gently into his palm.

“Well, in that case, let’s move on. I am afraid you have only completed nine months of your contract, Mr. Naylor. This is due to an unacceptable oversight from a member of my staff, who upon assessing your inhibitor levels some ten days ago failed to adjust your input streams, resulting in your premature return to full consciousness. I can only apologise, wholeheartedly, and assure you that we are engaging in a complete overhaul of our workplace assessment protocols as we speak.”

“Did I hurt him?” Norman gasped, clutching suddenly for his water. “The man and the scissors. Did I hurt him?”

Mr. Reed was all smiles again. “You hurt nobody, Mr. Naylor, absolutely nobody.” But that’s not true, a voice in Norman’s mind lashed out, razor-sharp in its mocking sincerity. “And that... blunder in security is an entirely different and equally serious issue which has already been dealt with. You should never have been subjected to the stress of escaping your workshop, Mr. Naylor, and we immediately terminated all staff members involved in that incident.”

Norman nodded along. He was concentrating intensely, but not on Mr. Reed.

“But in regards to your initial unfortunate immersion break,” Mr. Reed went on, “We have honoured the non-reimmersion clause in the contract you signed.” He glanced up at Mr. French. “We have also, in utmost apology for failing to uphold our side of our workplace agreement, transferred five years’ labour privileges to your civil account and that of your next of kin.” He grimaced apologetically. “It’s the maximum the authorities allow under such circumstances. But please realise, Mr. Naylor,” and Mr. Reed rose from his chair to clasp his silent employee about the shoulder, “You’ve been working some serious overtime, and five years makes you one extremely privileged man.”

“Thank you,” Norman whispered. His throat still felt dry.

“And one last thing,” Mr. Reed went on. “We have, of coursed, terminated Mr. Valens here for his unforgivable error in your inhibition management, but Mr. Valens wanted to apologise in person before he leaves.” Mr. Reed, frozen in place protectively across Norman’s shoulder, did not look at Mr. Valens. Mr. Valens, cheeks wet with tears, opened his mouth.

“No need,” said Norman at once, because Norman had remembered that he was a shining beacon of sweetness and light to all that had the pleasure of coming into his radiance, to all, that was, apart from those he loved the most. He forced a charming smile, and rose to meet Mr. Reed eye to eye. “Really, it’s one... simple error. All those people to monitor. Please, let him keep his job.”

Mr. Valens reddened some more as Mr. Reed regarded Norman for a long moment. “I- I suppose there’s precedent for a final written warning,” he decided.

Norman beamed with happiness. “Perfect. Just perfect. Thank you for all your help, Mr. Reed.”

Mr. Valens held out his hand and burst into tears once more. Norman gripped it warmly. Mr. Reed patted Norman’s back politely, a contradiction of embarrassment and gratitude. “If that’s settled then, Mr. Naylor... Mr. French will see you out. We’ve kept your belongings in the recruitment centre archive room. You can collect them on your way out.”

“No, thank you,” said Norman, still smiling, because somewhere amongst the gold watch and the winter coat and the real leather shoes there was a letter that he did not need to read again.

Mr. French stepped forward, and Norman went with him along the wall with the tapes to the lift in the corner. Mr. French pressed a button. They waited. “I wish your wife and kids all the best,” said Mr. Reed from his desk, above the sobbing.

“Me too,” said Norman. The lift arrived and he got in and he got out on the ground floor and gave his thanks to Mr. French and went out into the world that Mr. Reed had been perfectly right to call a utopia.

It really was, Norman reflected as he bent to adjust his slippers in the sun-dazzled street that soaked him in memory with every blade of grass and every sighing leaf he took in.

It was just that in utopia, bad things happened.

It didn’t turn out too hard, apart from the memories. At the government labour authority, he found a way to transfer all his labour privileges to his wife and daughters. When he inquired as to their address, so as to send his eldest a birthday card in two or three weeks, he was politely declined and informed that due to a current non-contact request against him, any further enquiries would result in his immediate arrest. He asked if violation of the request would result in mandatory full-immersion labour. The answer was no, so he went home. But before he left, he asked if he could keep two months’ labour credit.

In his apartment, overlooking the dizzying vista of the mountain, he found the kettle that he’d abandoned a hundred years and a thousand miles ago, even if it had really only been nine months and a twenty minute ride away. He’d left it bubbling to escape the memories. Isabel had left the week before he did, and it made Norman sad that no-one had had any use for that water. People had fought for water, died of thirst, not so long back. They were very lucky to live in the times they did, he reminded himself. People hadn’t always had a choice about working, nor to escape their past so completely.

In the end, though, that latter hadn’t worked out for him, either. Because in utopia, mistakes still happen.

He could go back in whenever he wanted, he thought, and the revelation was bliss. He was a lucky man, and lucky men could forget.

But not right now. Right now, he wanted a cup of coffee. He realised with fierce relief that the precious water that had boiled nine months ago was the same dormant, limescaled pool that awaited him still. It could still be used, hadn't gone to waste. Nothing had changed in his apartment since he had gone, and nothing would change now. Except the coffee, of course. The two months’ privileges he had kept would grant him real Javan coffee direct from his outlet. He was a lucky man.

He watched the kettle boil again, wanting his coffee and trying to want nothing else.