“It’s not the sort of thing I would dwell on too much.”
I want to slap him. “I may have killed this poor woman. How do I not dwell on it?”
Our table has the advantage of being tucked away in the back corner and the disadvantage of being wobbly. I spot a little wedge of cardboard intended to keep the table legs steady. It has come loose and sits a small way from the leg. I can see the wedge there and I don’t care. It would be an easy fix. Just slide the thing into its intended position under the table. I don’t do it. I have no desire to fix the table.
Old Ellie would have been down there straight away. Old Ellie was a problem solver. Me, I’m nothing but a mess of problems.
Andrew holds his coffee in both hands, blowing on it. Not drinking it though. Endlessly blowing. It can’t be that hot.
“Where were you trying to run to? When you first saw her you said you ran.”
I don’t say anything.
“You can’t run.”
This really isn’t going to be much use to me if all he can tell me are things that I already know.
“Running wasn’t a conscious decision. It was a reaction.”
“What about talking to this woman, was that a reaction too?”
There’s something about his tone, or maybe his manner. A constant suggestion that I’m a blithering idiot. I know I am, I don’t need this anally retentive, sad-sack to reminding me.
“What we are trying to achieve?”
My hand reaches forward, removing several packets of sugar from the small bowl in the centre of our table. I have no idea what I’m going to do with them. Arrange them into a little stack maybe. It’s good to have something to fiddle with. To focus on.
When Andrew realises I am not going to answer, he clears his throat with a little cough and puts down his coffee cup. The coffee remains untouched.
“A while ago, a few years back now, I used to see a little kid. A little boy. He was about four years old. Maybe a bit older. Who knows? Little. Anyway, this kid had some kind of neck injury.”
Andrew talks in a very even tone, without the slightest hint of emotion. “His injury was so severe his neck wouldn’t sit on his shoulders properly. He had to hold his head to keep it in place.”
His hands mirror his words, demonstrating how the child held his head. I put down the packs of sugar and focus on Andrew.
“I used to see him every day. For months. Six months. Every single day.”
He picks up the coffee.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. One day I stop seeing him. He must’ve died. They all do.”
I watch him blowing on his coffee, waiting for him to continue. Evidently, there is no more to the story.
“Six months… How did you…”
Andrew shrugs. “That’s the discipline. You have to have discipline if you want to survive.”
I screw up my face. “ I don’t want to survive…”
Andrew looks down his nose at me.
“I mean, I do, of course, I want to survive. Survive seems like the wrong word. I want my life back…”
He regards me as if I’m speaking some different language, then shakes his head.
We sit in silence for a while. “If you just want to hope these things will go away, that’s up to you.”
“Why not? They came out of nowhere, maybe they’ll disappear again.”
“Maybe,” he says, leaving me in no doubt what he thinks of this as a suggestion. “If they don’t go away and you want to survive, you have to learn how to be disciplined. You have to put aside any thoughts or feelings or any kind of responses at all. Reactions create fear. Fear breeds more fear. You have to control how much power you give your fear. Limit it.”
I do my best to take in what he is advising.
“Right now, you’re tumbling down the rabbit hole. The hole is deeper than you are. You fixate on these things, give them power, they will destroy you.”
“What do you think they want? These people.”
“What ‘people’?”
“The people we see. The dead.”
“They’re not people. People are alive.”
“What are they then?”
“I don’t know. Glitches. Aberrations. Mistakes. Don’t humanise them. That’ll just get you into trouble.”
The café’s other two customers pay their bill and leave. We are the last to here.
Gravity feels that little bit heavier right now, pawing at my cheeks. Pulling on me. Dragging me down. I resist the urge to lie on the floor of the café. How would Andrew react if I did lie on the floor?
“Why is this happening to me?”
His coffee cup lands back down on the table. “Do you play sport at all?”
“Not really. Any more. I used to play at school a bit.”
“When I was a little kid, all I wanted to do was play cricket. I had my whole life planned. I was going to play cricket for Australia. Except I really wasn’t that good cricket. I was okay. Now my brother, he was really good. But he had no interest in cricket.”
I watch one of the workers fill a bucket, preparing to mop the floor. Do the staff want to get rid of us? Close up early? They can ask us to leave if they want to.
“Do you think life is fair? Anyone you ask, they’ll tell you life is not fair. But as soon as anything bad happens, those same people will bitch and moan ‘It’s not fair, it’s not fair.’ There is no rhyme or reason to anything. Just life. The sooner you start dealing with it, the more chance you have.”
“More chance at what?”
“Surviving.”
There is that word again. The café staff pack up around us. The waitress glances over hopefully, too polite to tell us to go but trying to give us the hint. I don’t want to go. I feel safe here with Andrew. They won’t find me here and even if they did he’d be here to help. To guide me through.
“Did you wake up one day and find you are like this? Afflicted? Is that how it happened to you?”
“No.” Andrew doesn’t elaborate.
It is easy to assume Andrew and I have the same problem. Maybe we don’t. Maybe they are different. Would that be good or bad?
I want his help, I’m not sure I want his solutions.
25
Andrew gives me a lift back in his tiny, two-seater car. One of those ones that looks more like a toy. Small and practical. Perfect for him. If he could have a car for one, I am sure he would.
“So, this isn’t your place?”
“No, it’s my friend Ginny’s. And Bear. You met Bear.”
Andrew nods. “Why aren’t you at home?”
We pull up out the front of Virginia’s place.
“I can’t go home.”
“Wrong! You have to go home. You have to live your life. You’re not going to survive lying about, hiding. Obsessing. You have to live your way through this.”
I glance over at the house. The curtain flutters slightly. Someone looking out at us. Bear or Virginia.
“You want to beat this? Act natural. Go home. Go to work. Stop trying to run away.”
“That seems to be the main thrust of your advice. Get on with things.”
“You sound disappointed.”
I am, frankly. “So, if one of those things, one of these dead … whatever they are… comes at me, I ignore them. I get on with my life.”
“I’m not suggesting it is easy. Actually, it is the opposite. In the end what other options are there?”
I let myself into Virginia’s where I am greeted by raised voices. Virginia and Bear in a heated discussion about something. Unusual for them. The sound of the front door closing brings the conversation to an abrupt halt. Bear’s footsteps stomp to some other part of the house.
Virginia works at arranging a large flower display in the kitchen. She gives me a tired smile as I enter.
“Was that the guy? The mystery man?”
“Yep.” I slump into a chair. “You were right. He was lying. Well, kind of.”
“I’m not sure. He’s all riddles and metaphors.”
I watch Virginia building up her display. I know she arranges flowers to help her relax. Does this mean she is particularly stressed? Or am I reading too much into it?
“Is everything okay with Bear?” I feel uncomfortable asking. Old Ellie was happy to have these conversations with Ginny, but everything is different now. “I heard… voices.”
“Everything is fine. Bear is being a jerk. You know how guys can be. He’ll get over it.”
“It’s not about me is it?” I would hate to think I’m causing any sort of problems between Ginny and Bear.
“You can relax. Not everything is about you, El.”
The white of the lilies compliments the pink roses quite nicely. She’s good at this.
“Because, I can move out, if…”
Virginia doesn’t bother to look at me as she responds. “I said it’s not about you, Ellie.”
The flowers look beautiful. I don’t probe Ginny anymore. If she wants to tell me she will.
Every time the wind blows outside the shadows on the ceiling flicker ever so slightly. I try to relax my whole body, piece by piece, from my toes to my head. It’s a meditation technique I learnt ages ago, back in school. I have never really got meditation; however, the idea seems as though it could be beneficial in my current situation.
My muscles are tired all the time. A by-product of the constant tensing. The tensing is not just confined to the attacks, but every other second of my existence anticipating the attacks. Fearing them. Wishing them away. My body is like a tightly coiled spring. All of the time. At no point do I ever fully relax. Even now, lying here, I am expecting to see something. Worried they could appear at any moment. If there were some sort of discernible pattern to it all, a way for me to know when and where an attack might occur, that would be different. While I don’t doubt I would spend my whole time worried about that next one, at least there would be some comfort in the knowledge I would be all right the rest of the time. Worrying about every second of every day and never knowing. It’s exhausting.
I decide to leave the flickering shadows to themselves and force myself out of bed. The house is calm and quiet. I sneak around, doing my best not to make a sound. The last thing I want to do is disturb Bear and Virginia.
I ease myself out the front door, screwing up my face as I pull the door closed, as though the facial expression might help make the click of the lock quieter. The night air feels cool against my face. As with the rest of my life at the moment I have no real idea what I am doing out here or where I might be going. I am simply moving.
The conversation with Andrew floats around my head. At the time there didn’t seem to be a whole lot of substance to what he was telling me and now, reflecting back, there seems to be even less. The sum total of his advice seems to be to ignore these things. Don’t react. I guess it’s different to my approach thus far of running screaming in the opposite direction. On a practical level though I’m not sure how ignoring them will play out. I understand what Andrew is saying, I think. Fear feeds them. Makes everything worse. All well and good. Yet if, Long Hair, that scary dude with the fork, comes at me again, standing still will be the furthest thing from my mind.
I move to the middle of the street. The world is dark and quiet. The streetlights spill evenly spread pools of light periodically along the roadside. I creep down the middle of the street, my arms stretched out on either side of my body, balancing on the white line.
A car turns into the street and comes roaring towards me. There’s plenty of time to move out of the way, I just don’t. I have no intention of jumping in the car’s path, nor do I intend to move to the side of the road. It’s how life feels at the moment. Whatever will be will be. There’s no point fighting it.
The car flicks on its high beams, temporarily blinding me. Will I regret not moving if the car ploughs into me? What will that feel like, those few moments of flying through the air?
The driver seems to have much the same mindset as me because the car doesn’t slow or swerve. It passes close enough for me to reach out and touch it, the wind from its momentum pushing me back. The driver yells something unintelligible at me and is gone. The street returns to dark and quiet. I watch the car’s red taillights grow smaller and disappear before I continue my journey along the white line.
I haven’t fallen yet. I will. The fall is inevitable.
26
The walk to work from Virginia’s place is becoming more than familiar. Ingrained in me. If Old Ellie ever comes back, will she keep any of my traits? Like getting around with no car? Or will she go straight back to the way things were?
I arrive at the underpass and immediately become nervous and uneasy. Andrew’s instructions ring in my ear. Live my life. It’s the only way. I stride as confidently as I can through the concrete tunnel, distracting myself with the details. Noticing the thick grey clusters of spiderwebs collecting above my head. There doesn’t appear to be any spiders though. Examining the mossy green pattern on the concrete tiles. The damage from the water endlessly leaking down the walls. The slightly mismatched grey paint job covering the mindless graffiti tags.
All of this helps but doesn’t completely obscure the fact I can feel with absolute certainty. I am not alone. There is something else in here with me. I can feel this as clearly as the solid concrete under my feet. And yet… It’s okay. For now. Maybe Andrew was right. Maybe I can do this.
I deliberately attempt to slow my pace. Still moving fast, just not as fast. I run the tips of my fingers along the coarse wall. It’s the sort of thing I would have done as a child. Experiencing the tunnel. Up ahead the light gets brighter and the exit gets bigger. I smile. It isn’t wise to get ahead of myself. Even so, the tunnel feels like it is a good first step.
My underpass success from the morning walk emboldens me. I am going to work the best I have since the accident. Make up for everything. A perfect employee. Remind Jill and everyone else why they employed me. Not Old Ellie, or New Ellie. Ellie 2.0. Better, faster, stronger.
Ellie 2.0 lasts about an hour until a wave of uncertainty washes her away. I can feel it coming. I do my utmost to balance, as though I am surfing the wave, promising myself that I can do this. That I will be okay. Even as I am telling myself this my heart rate skyrockets. My breath becomes stilted. My chest feels as though it has been dipped in ice. My eyes dart this way and that. I flinch as I see something out of the corner of my eye. Someone. Watching me from the dreaded wall near the water cooler. Someone dead.
I turn my head. Of course, there is no one there. Only a shadow and the water cooler. The shadow is not even really human shape. I attempt to laugh off my silliness. The laugh refuses to come.
Ness walks between me and the shadow, obscuring my view. When she moves on, the shadow has gone and a woman has appeared in its place. A woman who shouldn’t be here. The woman has the most manic smile I have ever seen plastered across her face. Too happy. Crazy happy. Eyes like saucers.
I shudder. Short, sharp puffs escape my mouth. My mind scatters about, trying to find something to grasp. The underpass. What worked in the underpass? I attempt to focus on the details. All that comes to mind is how little I like the manic woman’s yellow plaid skirt. How it does nothing for her fat ankles. The woman appears less confused than the other dead I have encountered and has no visible signs of injury and yet she’s definitely dead. Her wide, crazy eyes bore straight at me.
I focus back on my monitor. I can almost hear Andrew. Ignore her. Get on with your life. My mouse refuses to behave properly, my hands trembling too much to control it. Looking away isn’t working. I can feel the woman’s crazy eyes drilling into me. I need to know where she is. What she is —
“Ellie?” Ness appears so apologetic. “I’m sorry. I have to stop creeping up on you. I always seem to give you a horrible f
right.”
“It’s not you, Ness. Believe me.” I force myself to focus on my workmate, refusing to give any more attention to the dead woman by the water cooler.
“Are you feeling okay?”
Except I can’t help myself. I sneak a quick peek past Ness. The manic woman has gone. Momentary relief.
“Yes. I’m okay,” I lie. I don’t know why I bother. Ness can see how I am. They all can. They must know I’m not okay. That I’m very far from okay. “What’s up?”
It takes every bit of control I possess not to scream in Ness’ face, as the woman reappears, right over her shoulder. And she doesn’t merely appear, she rises up from behind Ness, like some sort of demented game of peekaboo. Her eyes impossibly wide, her mouth fixed into the most manic of smiles.
I might not have screamed, but I must’ve reacted. Ness regards me with pity and concern. “Jill… Jill would like to see you.”
Jill wouldn’t be my first choice of people to see right at this moment. My legs don’t want to work as I make my way down to her office. Jill’s office is like microcosm of the whole building. A glass box, in a glass box, with a wall of windows out onto the street and a wall of windows facing back into the main office. Through the glass I can see her fixated on her computer screen.
Ness holds the door open for me which is nice. When we are both inside, she positions herself at Jill’s shoulder.
I recognise the expression on Jill’s face immediately and know my day is about to get a whole lot worse. Should I sit down? Whether it’s appropriate or not is of little concern. I am not convinced my legs will agree to support me if I continue to stand.
Jill waves a hand towards her monitor. “What is this?”
Up on her screen is what I have been working on for the past few days.
“Cos I can tell you what it is, it’s shit.” Jill has never been one for sugarcoating. “How dare you hand this in.”
Glimpse Page 11
