Dreaming David

David would have been the first to admit that he had some very odd dreams. He told me the other day about the one he had the night before he had to meet an important client. His boss had told them that the client was arriving a day early, due to a mix-up over his travel arrangements, and David was given the job of keeping him entertained for the day and ensuring that he was in a thoroughly good mood when the business meeting was held the following day and – all being well - a large contract signed.

Knowing just how much responsibility was being thrust on his shoulders, it took David a very long time to get to sleep and, when he did, that’s when the dream started.

It began with him meeting the client, who was a big man – very big. Actually - very, very big. 

He introduced himself as Mr Li’ath.

“That’s an unusual name”, said David, getting a crick in his neck as he strained upwards to look at the man’s face that was way above his. “How do you spell it?”

“L-I-A-T-H. With an apostrophe after the I.”

“Very unusual”, said David, still gazing skywards.

“It was my grandfather’s idea”, explained the voice from the heavens. “It used to De’Ath – with an apostrophe - but Grandad was sued by someone who accused him of being a liar during a business transaction and he thought it would be a good joke to say that if De’Ath lieth, than Li’Ath would be a good name for him”.

“I see”, said David, although he was not all that sure that he did.

“Not a very funny joke”, said the big guy. “But you can call me Jerry”.

“Jerry?”

“Yes. Short for Gerald.”

There was an awkward pause during which David was thinking that he had never seen anyone who looked less like somebody called Gerald.

“So what’s the plan for the day?” Jerry asked.

David had it all worked out. He reckoned that his best move would be to show the company’s client the best that the capital city had to offer, beginning with a tour of the National Gallery.

However, it did not take long for David to realise that Jerry was not enjoying the experience of viewing some of the world’s greatest art treasures, so he cut it short.

“What’s going to happen this evening?” Jerry asked.

“We’ve got seats at a concert”. David said.

“That’s sounds OK”, said Jerry. “What’s the band?”

“Not a band,” said David. “An orchestra. The London Philharmonic, playing Beethoven and Schubert at the Royal Albert Hall.”

Jerry’s face fell. “I hate all that culture stuff”, he said. “I suppose you could call me a Philistine”.

David had a problem. How could he hope to win that contract tomorrow if Jerry hated everything he was doing to entertain him?

But Jerry then came to his rescue – sort of. As they walked along the street he spotted a poster for an event that was about to take place that very evening.

“That’s it”, said Jerry, “we’ll go to that!”

“That” turned out to be a cage-fighting tournament, which was something that David had only a vague idea about but Jerry seemed to be extremely excited by. 

The scene in David’s dream switched to the cage-fighting venue, which was full of thousands of screaming fans surrounding the cage in which two sweaty and well-muscled men were throwing each other around, with first one and then the other getting the other hand and beating seven kinds of brick dust out of their opponent.

Jerry was clearly loving what he was seeing, hollering and whooping with everyone else – with the sole exception of David – but merely being a spectator of the carnage was clearly not what he had in mind. Dragging David with him, he marched up to the organiser’s table and demanded to be allowed to go into the cage and take part in a fight.

The man in charge of the event – a bruiser who looked to be only slightly smaller than Jerry – seemed only too willing to agree with this idea. 

“You’ve fought before?” he asked.

“Many times”, said Jerry. “Back home I fight under my old family name, De’Ath, but I leave out the apostrophe.”

The man’s expression suddenly changed to one that could only be described as hero worship. “You mean to say you’re Dr Death? This is amazing. I’ve always wanted to meet you – you’re a legend. Two hundred fights and never a defeat – twenty opponents permanently paralysed. Of course you can fight here tonight.”

He turned to his public address system and announced to the crowd that the greatest cage fighter of all time, the one and only Dr Death, was going to get in the cage and show everyone how it was done. The crowd roared their appreciation.

The man produced a consent form for Jerry to sign. “Full name?” he asked.

“Gerald Oliphant Li’Ath”, said Jerry.

“Who are you going to fight?” asked the man.

“I’ve got my opponent right here”, said Jerry, picking David up and dropping him onto the table.

“Isn’t he a bit small?” said the man. “I can’t see him lasting five seconds against you, and the crowd are going to want their money’s worth.”

“Oh, I always come prepared”, said Jerry, and he produced an enormous syringe with a huge needle on it. 

“This stuff is the ultimate in steroids.”, he said. “Once I’ve injected him with this he’ll grow to three times the size with muscles he could never imagine. In no time at all he’ll be able to beat any man alive in a cage fight, with the sole exception of me, that is.”

As David watched, the syringe seemed to change colour and shape. It was now long and green, with purple stripes. The business end looked more and more like a snake, with deadly fangs, but was that really what they were? 

David shook with fear as he heard the hiss of the hypodermic needle, but that dreadful noise was drowned out by the roars of the crowd, calling his name in a chant – David, David, we want David – David, David, wake up, David.

Wake up?

So he did, to find his wife staring at him in alarm.

“You do say the most extraordinary things in your dreams”, she said. “I hope you’re going to be all right when you meet your client today.”

Fortunately, that turned out to be case, and the contract was duly signed the day afterwards. To celebrate the success, David was invited by his boss to join him in the company’s private box at the Royal Albert Hall, for a concert performance of Saul by George Frideric Handel.

“It features your namesake, David”, said his boss. “Just after you’ve defeated Goliath.”

He couldn’t understand why David declined the invitation.

© John Welford