by Tabatha Wood
I tried to keep my voice calm, my tone measured.
“Just go back into the front room, please. I’ll only be a moment.”
He moved closer.
“Are you feeling a bit crook, darling?”
“I’m fine, honestly. Just give me a minute.”
I felt his hand on my shoulder; those surprisingly clean hands, at odds with the rest of his nasty, grubby self. Every part of me ached with a nameless hunger.
I turned.
I shouted.
He saw the change in my face.
“It’s not safe!”
I registered his shock and fear as I lunged towards him. I couldn’t stop myself any longer. The heat, the smell, the rage built up in me. All the power I struggled to hold inside broke loose.
He was just another small-town bloke with an equally small mindset. Just like Jason, may he rest in his eternal damnation. Spouting small-world ideas as if they were something bigger, as if he were someone important. Assuming he could control me. These foolish men never seemed to realise that I was not as weak and powerless as they thought. My experiences had changed me, in so many ways. Despite all my irrational anxieties, my self-doubt and insecurity, I also knew I held a great strength within me. All I had to do was let it free.
I’d survived against the odds, doing whatever was demanded of me to do so. Everything and anything it took. Those not like me only saw what they wanted to see. They never truly knew me, or what I could do to them. I’d stayed in the shadows for so long, hidden in the small towns and truck-stops, keeping out of the sun and the heat. Now it was time to taste the big city. To take a bite out of the bigger boys.
He tasted hot and sweet, like musk and copper. I drank him swiftly, drained him like the glass of water he’d asked me for.
He was right, it’s not safe, a woman such as myself allowing a man into my house alone. Definitely not safe.
Later on, I saw the flecks of blood and flesh I’d missed while cleaning up, nestled in the open flaps of the heat pump. Decaying organic materials.
Yes, that would most certainly cause it to smell.
A Good Cup Of Coffee
The sign outside said ‘Really Good Coffee’ and she was inclined to agree. This was her most favourite place to go in the city. The interior was rustic but homely, the decor comforting and inviting. She sat near the door so she could feel the breeze, and watch strangers in the street as they walked by.
The coffee was strong, fresh and very, very hot, and she welcomed the heat on her tongue. She sipped it slowly, lost in thought, trying to make sense of the troubles which wriggled around her head. She needed to process things while they were still fresh. Uncomfortable realisations that made her second-guess herself. She doodled distractedly on a notepad. Not paying much attention to the shapes she drew.
It had begun a few weeks before. No, that was a lie. If she was really honest with herself, it had first started over two years ago, but it had become more worrying recently. Yesterday, it had all come to a head. She could no longer deny it, excuse it or pass it off as fantasy. Either she was insane or hysterical — and she was positive she was neither — or what she had experienced was real and beyond rational explanation.
She had considered talking about it with others; after all, her profession encouraged such practices, but she knew that it wasn't something that she was fully able to explain. Besides, she suspected it was safer not to bring such attention to herself. The possibility of her losing her job if she were thought unstable was equally terrifying.
It had started with an odd feeling inside of her, like an itch under her skin that she couldn’t scratch. It was as if her eyeballs had slipped, leaving her vision ever so slightly out of focus, but only if she stared too hard. It was a constant metallic tang at the back of her throat with a pull of elastic behind her knees. Sometimes it was a tingle of static on the hairs of her arms, and a buzz at the nape of her neck. Often she thought she saw things that weren’t there, but the images passed so swiftly, like an erroneous frame in a film, she always convinced herself she was mistaken. Quite simply, it was a constant, nagging feeling that something was not quite right.
The first few times were not overly troublesome to her. She put them down to a mild case of anxiety, perhaps sparked by stress and over-work, or prompted by a more complicated case. Every so often she would be overcome by a strange notion of nostalgia, like a memory she was trying to recall, but which proved too difficult to catch. She passed off the physical symptoms as sudden headaches from dehydration, too much coffee, or a sensory overload of sorts. Women were often prone to things of such nature, she knew, especially if her immediate relatives were any indication. Some hysteria was normal for the women in her family. As her mother was always so quick to reminded her, sensible ladies suffered behind closed doors. They never drew attention to their afflictions.
She took another sip of her drink, surprised that it had cooled so quickly, unaware of how much time she had spent in contemplation.
Last night was the worst that it had ever been. She had been walking through the centre of the city towards Courtney Place, intending to catch her usual bus home. The day had been ridiculously busy and emotionally draining. She had been thinking about nothing more than getting home, opening a bottle of wine and watching something undemanding on the television.
She had heard a high pitched noise in her head, almost akin to tinnitus, but much louder and intense. It had affected her balance. She had stumbled and almost tripped. She had put her hands out to stop herself and grazed the back of the person walking in front of her. A young man wearing a smart suit and expensive shoes. He had turned quickly, no doubt surprised, perhaps annoyed, at the unsolicited touch.
Immediately she had started to apologise, and then she’d seen his face. It wasn’t right. His features were arranged wrong, like those in a Cubist painting. He was fuzzy. For want of a better word, he was buzzing. She’d blinked, and a hundred fractured eyes blinked back.
Her head had pounded, throbbed and swelled. She’d clutched at her face, pressing the flats of her palms into her eye sockets as if she could somehow quell the pain with their pressure. In that moment she had truly believed that her head were going to split in two, that her brain was writhing and doubling in size. The pain was so swift, so intense that it filled every part of her and consumed her whole. She had tried to scream but she couldn’t make the sound come out, it caught in her throat before she could expel it. All she could manage was a faint keening whimper, like that of a frightened animal.
Panic had filled her as she struggled to comprehend what was happening. Was this some sort of allergic reaction? Or maybe some kind of fit? Her tongue felt too big for her mouth, her jaw clenched and went into spasm repeatedly. She couldn’t breathe properly, it was like she had forgotten how to, and she sucked in air in loud, desperate gasps as her body disobeyed her. Every part of her had felt wrong, alien, and hostile.
The man had reached out to steady her, and she had jerked her arm away from him, not wanting to feel his touch. He had seemed confused. His mouth flapped fish-like, open and closed, as if he were trying to speak to her, but she couldn’t hear anything he said.
Eventually the pain had begun to lessen and she regained her posture. She had looked up fearfully. Whatever she thought she had seen was now gone. The man had peered at her in curiosity. His features were completely normal.
“Are you alright?” he’d asked her. “Do you need anything? Do you need a doctor?”
She had shaken her head and apologised. Thanked him for his concern. She’d seen her bus heading down the street and jogged to the stop as quickly as she could, still battling with some leftover vertigo.
She’d found a seat on the upper deck next to the window. She had seen him still watching her as the bus moved away. She hadn’t known why but his gaze had frightened her. The look of concern had gone from his face, instead he had seemed almost suspicious. As if he knew what she had seen.
She
looked up, casting her gaze around the cafe again. There were a number of customers sitting, laughing, chatting and generally just getting on with their day. So many people with so many lives. Their own loves, their own problems, their own fears. She wondered if any one of them could possibly be feeling like her right now. Be dealing with so much confusion.
A smartly dressed woman in blue with grey flecks in her dyed blonde hair, possibly in her forties but maybe older, sat alone at a table adjacent to the open door. A coffee cup sat on the table in front of her but it looked untouched. She was staring at nothing, lost in her own thoughts. Was she happy? Sad? Perhaps she was thinking about what she needed to buy at the shops later. Who knew how complex people could be and what a stranger felt?
The barista walked past her, caught her eye and smiled. She smiled back automatically, but knew there was little warmth in it. Much like her forgotten coffee, now completely cold. She watched him as he picked up a discarded chocolate wrapper, and a brown paper bag from the floor. Rubbish that had been blown inside off the street. He nodded at her cup, an unspoken question — should he take it away? She nodded in return, holding out the cup to him. It was half-empty, she noted, as he took it from her.
She was surprised by the thought. She had become someone who saw things as half-empty not half-full. When had that happened?
More people came into the café and ordered drinks at the counter. Some took a number and found themselves a seat, others took cardboard cups to go. She waited a moment, until the queue had gone down again, before going up and ordering a second coffee for herself; cappuccino with a shot of caramel syrup. It didn’t take long before the barista brought it over to her. She thanked him and wrapped her hands around the warm mug, staring out of the doorway into the busy street.
A movement caught in the corner of her eye made her glance up again. A man stood by her table, staring down at her intently. He wore a dark grey suit covered by a scruffy beige overcoat, which may have once been smart, but was now soiled and dishevelled. His hair was tousled and unbrushed. He sported a full and untidy beard, which looked less like a hipster fashion choice and more a consequence of irregular grooming.
“Can I help you?” she asked him brusquely.
He sniffed and pinched his nose. His cheeks flushed red.
“Um. Yeah. I couldn’t help but notice your drawings.”
“What?” She looked down at her notebook, realised that she had been drawing faces. Faces with huge, black eyes and inhuman features. Like those of the man in the street.
He pulled the chair out opposite her and sat down before she could protest. He flipped his long fringe out of his eyes and looked directly at her before holding out his right hand. His skin was thick with a layer of grime; his long nails caked with dirt. The stench of musk and sweat that surrounded him made it clear that he had not bathed in a while.
She took his hand warily and shook it.
“I apologise for the intrusion, Miss. My name is Rawson, Ethan Rawson.” He looked at her expectantly.
“Oh, Doctor Julie Ames.” She grimaced, immediately regretful about telling a stranger her full name. A force of habit from her work. She wiped her hand surreptitiously with a napkin and reached for her coffee.
“Good to meet you, Julie.” He nodded at the notebook. “Those pictures, are they something you’ve seen?”
She faltered, not knowing what to say. It was such an unexpected question.
“Um... why do you ask?”
He leaned in close.
“Because I’ve seen them too.”
She laughed then, at the sheer awkward ridiculousness of the situation. His expression stayed completely serious. She couldn’t deny it, she was strangely intrigued.
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying,” she told him carefully.
“I think you do,” he told her. The absolute certainty in his voice was almost strong enough to convince her he was right.
He took a long look around the cafe, and stroked his beard thoughtfully. He seemed to note everyone in the building, before he leaned towards her again. His voice was low and conspiratorial.
“How much of this stuff do you drink?” He motioned to the cup in her hand.
“What, the coffee?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. Maybe three or four cups a day? Why? I know it’s not that good for me really.”
“It makes you feel strange doesn’t it?”
“Well, sometimes, but I know I can be sensitive to caffeine, so…”
“Stop drinking it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Seriously, stop drinking it. You must have noticed it’s a ‘thing’ here. The coffee culture. Everyone drinks it, there’s a café or a truck on practically every corner. It's an epidemic. People think you’re strange if you shun it.”
She coughed nervously and set the cup down on the table before speaking again, trying to hide the waver in her voice.
“Look, I’m sorry, um… I think I’d like you to go away now, please. This is somewhat weird. I don’t know you, and you’re being rather intrusive.” He ignored her request and kept talking.
“Your drawings, they’re no accident. You’ve seen them, I can tell. You’re finally waking up and you’ve probably been feeling quite ill. That’ll pass. You’ve been medicated all your life, but the drugs in the coffee aren't really working any more. Stop drinking it.”
She went to stand up, but he reached out and grabbed her arm, whispering urgently.
“If you make a scene they’ll realise you know. They’ll just make it stronger. Please. Listen.”
The barista at the counter glanced over, seemed to be taking an interest in what was going on. She almost tried to shout out to him, let him know she needed help, but he looked away and turned back to the glasses he was stacking behind the counter.
Her heart thumped frantically in her chest. She was afraid, but of what she was not quite sure. Of the man holding her arm at this moment who believed they had shared some sort of psychotic episode, or that deep down she was worried there might be some truth in what he said?
She sat back down in her seat and he released her arm. He spoke quickly in hushed tones.
“Listen to me. This is important. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Shit, I mean, it’s so unusual to find others in the open like this. You’re not crazy, okay? And neither am I. Whatever they put in the coffee, it makes you see what they want you to see. Helps to hide what they don’t”
She tried to interrupt him, but he shook his head quickly, gesturing for her to stop.
“Just listen. Please. Sometimes, in some people, it doesn’t quite work, or they become immune to it. Those people, just like yourself, can see through the lies. They can see them for what they really are. The drugs in the coffee make you blind to what’s really going on in the city. They’ve been here for years, controlling us without us realising. They change the way we think, make us behave how they want us to.
“Just stop drinking the coffee for a few days, three at the least, and you’ll see the truth. But do it carefully, okay? Don’t make it obvious”
She didn’t even know where to start with all that, she just stared at him incredulously.
“Mister Rawson, I think you should know, I’m a behavioural psychologist. I work with troubled children every day. I know a fairytale when I hear one; or a plot from a movie. I expect next you’re going to tell me that I can slip on a pair of special sunglasses to see the truth?”
He shook his head again.
“I’m aware of how it sounds. I didn’t want to believe it either. Trust me, things were so much easier when I didn’t know.
“We like to think we are intelligent beings, Julie, that we are in control of our own lives, but the truth is, no-one is ever really in full control. Not unless you are one of the few who can get high enough up the ladder, that you’re helping to control those below. They soften you up and placate you, let you think that you hold some of the power.
It’s all a lie. Every time you vote. Every time you protest. Every choice you make in your life, they’re behind each one. There are no individuals, we are all just part of the Hive.
“Three days, stop drinking the coffee, and meet me here. Friday lunchtime, around 12:30. Will you do that?” He picked up the pen and scribbled something in her notebook.
“Here’s my number. You can call me any time you need me. I know how it feels right now, I really do.” He walked towards the door, stopped and turned before he left.
“I really hope I get to see you again, Julie.”
She sat rigid at the table, feeling slightly sick. Was that some sort of joke? A peculiar pickup line which she had almost fallen for? She read what he had scrawled beside her doodles. His name, a telephone number and something else.
If you still don’t believe me, go and spend some time outside the Beehive.
The woman had gone, replaced by a grey-haired man and an excitable woman with large earrings. The barista was still busy behind the counter. She caught his reflection in the mirror mounted on the side of the wall. For a second his face seemed to shift and morph, as if his features didn’t quite fit his skin, but it was fleeting and surely impossible. She looked away quickly, embarrassed by her own imagination.
Her head was filled with Rawson’s words. She had a strong desire to dismiss him as a lunatic, and yet, although she hated to admit it, his story held echoes of others she had heard from some of the children she had worked with.
They spoke of seeing strange reflections, of people they did not know. Of seeing monsters wearing human clothes that didn’t properly fit, walking amongst them in the city. Of telling their parents or carers and always being dismissed. It was standard in these cases that the children be medicated. She hadn’t given it much thought before, was simply following protocol, but now the implications left her chilled.
