There are but a few immutable laws of the universe - all as inscrutable as they are absolute - of which one is that you will only realise that your television set is tuned to ITV when your hands are too occupied to reach for the remote. Terry was lining his eyes when the jaunty theme-tune of ’Who Are They Now?’ erupted from the corner, followed by a Glaswegian accented account of how being Alexander of Macedon reincarnated, helped a traffic-warden’s career. It pained Terry, how quickly the greatest scientific discovery in human history, had become a staple of reality television. He had intended to watch a BBC2 documentary instead, presented by his mentor, an archeomnemology pioneer, on the impact of past-life gender on one’s current incarnation. Terry had been one of the first case studies, and while the original results were inconclusive, there was far more data available now.

Regressed memory’s veracity could only have been established in the Britain of the early twenty-first century. Sceptical researchers intent on exposing the technique’s fallacy, used the large number of surveillance cameras, and ubiquity of electronic cash transfer, to build incredibly detailed accounts of the recently deceased’s movements. Dismay followed in parapsychology departments, as case after case was debunked, but in a small sample of subjects regressed memory matched the accumulated data. Parapsychology fought back, refining hypnotic practices based on the successes, until it could produce modern regressions to an accuracy of ninety-nine percent. Furthermore, they were able to match regressions to historical data at approaching the same rate. Terry had been a history undergrad when the news broke, but had promptly switched to archeomnemology, as ’Nature’ and ’The New Scientist’ began - temporarily - to outsell ’OK’ and ’Hello’.

Terry changed channel in time to hear a meme obsessed Dawkinsite dismiss it as mere decryption of data stored in collective consciousness, but then atheists had been hit as hard by the discovery, as had all the major religions. Most people accepted there had to be a supernatural explanation, but the random manner of reincarnation, and the reappearance of history’s most vilified characters did away with notions of heaven and hell, and karmic progression, at a stroke. It was enough to know that self would survive death - quite dramatically in some murders - without complicating it any further. John Lennon’s reincarnation made a career of tunelessly singing ‘Imagine’ to huge crowds, until she was herself assassinated; no doubt, in time, he would appreciate the subsequent frenzied copulation of people determined to produce the next receptacle.

Everyone wanted to be someone who had been somebody, and like most people Terry’s past-lives had been a uniformly dull procession of peasants, plague victims and insurance clerks, all the way back to the last ice age when his ‘soul’ - for want of a better word - was new minted. Apart from the leper who had witnessed Richard III riding to Bosworth - settling a few abstruse historical questions - Terry was probably the most interesting, and then only to other archeomnemologists.

How a life reflected those that preceded it was hotly debated, after all could a librarian whose pre-persona terrorised Victorian Whitechapel, be trusted not to dismember card-holders, especially in the anatomy section? That he hadn’t - before being driven into hiding by those who believed he would - added weight to the consensus that past-lives were like pearls strung in a necklace, independent and connected by the string alone. There was, however, always room for research. Given that archeomnemologists spent a great deal of their college years hypnotising each other, the existence of ‘Terri-with-an-I’ hadn’t remained a secret very long. Almost everyone has some peccadillo they wouldn’t normally care to be exposed, so it didn’t create a sensation, but as Terry was the first man after eight consecutive female lives, the significance was thought worthy of investigation.

Volunteering for the research project, inconclusive as it was, had proved invaluable for Terry’s career. Nearing graduation he had considered taking up Oxfam’s offer to head up a regression team in sub-Saharan Africa - Third World countries had benefited enormously from the discovery - but the Metropolitan Police made a much more attractive offer. Terry had published a small book on the ethics of past-life regression that formed the backbone of new laws governing confidentiality, and the use, of information recovered from past-life regression. It hardly made him a household name - while others made a fortune - but it had made him an automatic choice to work with the particularly sensitive historical figures that re-emerged.

Reincarnation had created some peculiar changes in society; none more so than the ‘stigmata fashion’, where a pre-persona’s martyrdom was marked with an external display. Usually this took no greater form than a badge, or small item of clothing, but governments had felt compelled to introduce a law specifically prohibiting numerical wrist tattoos without documented regression - some Holocausts were sexier than others. Newspapers in Britain alone, offered millions of Euros in reward for the whereabouts of Hitler, which even the discovery that Josef Stalin in the person of a Sri Lankan chiropodist did little to sate. Conspiracy theories about ’history’s most hated man’ abounded, endlessly imaginative, and needlessly exotic; most of the Nazi hierarchy were living comfortably enough in Islington, alongside various Khans, Bonapartes and Kennedys.

Peter Gifford had relocated to London on the FBI’s advice; his pre-persona’s memories were too valuable to risk losing for a generation, and the British, as well as being at the forefront of archeomnemology, lacked a national penchant for assassination. Residual concerns over the softly spoken Californian becoming a neo-Nazi figurehead, had largely abated now that Baroness Thatcher’s persona had been unearthed, although a less likely fascist dictator was hard to imagine. Terry had found Peter painfully shy, grappling with the same guilt most people felt over a pre-persona’s crimes, but magnified a thousand fold. Introducing ‘Terri’ as a ’so you think you’ve got secrets’ strategy had proved its worth with many subjects, and ‘she’ had taken over most of their regression sessions.

‘Terri’ had become a greater part of Terry’s life than he would ever have imagined. While not exactly famous, and at pains to publish under a pseudonym, press interest occasionally dogged his steps. Having a female alter ego was a convenience, it blurred his movements, made them more difficult to pattern, while in male attire he was as much a prisoner of secrecy as his charges. What had been an occasional indulgence, was now integral to his daily routine, and he found it easy to pass as a woman in public.

Practice may make prefect, but having generations of women’s memories to plunder was a boon. Regression for most, meant limited access to their pre-personas’ memories, but archeomnemologists could take the process a stage further, bringing their subjects’ pre-personas to a state of limited consciousness under hypnosis. Bringing one’s own pre-persona to this state required a lot of discipline, and wasn’t without its dangers, but there were benefits. Terri had learned to use her voice from Lucinda, albeit with an archaic, clipped English accent. The unfortunate Lucinda had, however, succumbed to polio, and Terri was to rely on American bobbysoxer named Janey, for instruction when it came to heels, becoming admirably adept at walking in them whilst chewing gum. Eventually, half a dozen pre-personas contributed to Terri, which aside from a few oddities in fashion, had little effect on Terry - no matter what his friends might say.

Not that Terry had that many friends; the burden of confidentiality built barriers to intimacy that few relationships could survive. His research subjects were the closest he had, and even then they kept their distance. Their pre-personas had foisted a confidante upon them, they didn’t have to like him. Who wants to socialise with their social worker? Peter’s offer of dinner had, therefore, been a surprise, and a flustered Terry had accepted before realising the invitation was extended to Terri. There was no apparent way of letting Peter down without hurting their professional relationship, or none that Terri could think of. He didn’t let her have much fun anyway, so why not?

Terri paused for a moment before the hallway mirror. Lucinda was right, blonde suited her better, her natural colour was so mousy. She peered over her shoulder, lifting each calf in turn - darn you Janey - to check her seams were straight. After a final primp of her hair, Terri pressed her door key into her purse, pushing aside the packet of condoms she had bought earlier - well, it would give the next tenant something juicy to remember.

Apologies to anyone who's spent the last few minutes wondering how to pronounce 'archeomnemology', it's a made up word and a petty act if revenge on the world from someone who has to say 'mnemonic' an awful lot in work, and suffer as many 'pneumonics' in return.

Not being a Dawkinsite I vetoed 'cryptomemegraphy' but if anyone can think of a better word for someone who digs up past life memories I'd be glad to hear it.