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The air outside was cold and unforgiving. It was mid November and the frost was starting to settle on the tall Victorian houses along Galleon Lane. Children were running along the slippery streets, seedy looking men were walking to and from the corner shop, some with bottles hidden in brown paper bags and others with rude magazines tucked under their armpits. Billy was staring out of the small window of his bedroom. He was slumped in his wheelchair and fiddling with the lucky penny his grandfather had given to him before he had passed away. Billy had been home for almost a week and hadn't left the comfort of his tiny room; his tee shirt was grubby, his trousers creased and his hands dirty from the wheels of his chair.

Billy had been having strange, twisted dreams since he had arrived back on Galleon Lane. He was drowning in the darkest depths of the Pacific Ocean. Prehistoric snapping fish were tearing the flesh from his bones and huge sea dragons were chasing him across the watery globe. He was desperately swimming, in all directions, searching for a safe haven. He was scanning the horizons, screaming for help, splashing helplessly as the beasts attacked him, wave after wave; snap, snap, snap. Then suddenly, in the distance, he saw a small island, about the same size as his bathroom. It was empty, glowing in the hot sun and beckoning Billy towards its dry shore. Billy was swimming furiously, getting closer and closer to his sanctuary. He stumbled onto the sand to find a large tin bath resting underneath a drooping palm tree. It shone, it glimmered invitingly and it called for Billy; so he crawled towards it.