After They Came

by Tom Kavanagh

  But then the noises started again. They were even louder and shriller than they had been before. They grew with a swelling persistence, peaking in a cacophony of sounds.

  “There it is again!”

  “Isabelle, what are you talking about?” Dad asked, thinking that I was trying to pull a prank on him.

  “Don’t you hear that?”

  The room fell silent as my dad strained to hear the noise that had reverberated in my ears. A few raindrops pinged off the window, and the leaky tap in the kitchen sang along to its usual tune. All of a sudden I felt silly for thinking I’d heard something, and shifted my focus back on my dinner.

  “No, Isabelle. I don’t hear anything. Now, stop playing games and eat your dinner.”

  A few more awkward minutes drifted by before I heard noises again. They were faint, but I knew they were there. I didn’t want to worry my dad any more than he had been, so decided to keep it a secret.

  “Dad, may I be excused?”

  “Of course you can. Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yes. I’m just a little tired.”

  “Okay. It’s probably for the best. You were up early. Go get a good night’s sleep. We have some more work to do tomorrow before you get to school.”

  “Okay. Goodnight, Dad.”

  “Goodnight, Isabelle.”

  I crawled upstairs, my legs weary from a day of chasing sheep around and fixing broken fences. I found my way to the bathroom through the darkness of the upstairs hallway and flicked the light on. Condensation had collected on the window, forming small droplets of water that made their way hurriedly down the glass and on to the windowsill. There was a calmness found in watching them race each other, but sadness at the fact that one would inevitably lose or be absorbed into another drop.

  I grabbed a hand towel from the edge of the bath and walked over to the window. It wasn’t as if I was going to see anything out in the pitch-black darkness of the farm fields, but I just liked the clearness of a freshly wiped window. It was like creating a clear canvas, unburdened with heavy splashes of paint or accidental smears.

  I got to work, wiping at the edges of the window first and then working my way inwards. As I wiped away the final patch of water, a flash of something caught my eye. I leaped backward, steadying myself against the sink. The form was only visible for an instant, but I could have sworn it was the head of a sheep, its eyes just as dead and vacant as those of the ewe we had found in the field.

  My hands shook as I reached out to grab my toothbrush, and my breathing was just as unsteady. I kept my eyes fixed on the sink, unwilling to look back at the window or even the mirror in front of me. I tried to shake off what I saw, breathing as deeply and as evenly as I could.

  After spitting and rinsing, I poured myself a long glass of cold water; it was the only way I could take my tablets.

  It was the most hated part of my bedtime routine.

  I opened up my bedside table drawer and rummaged around for my pill dispenser. There was usually a small rattling that would accompany my finding it, but it didn’t happen this time around.

  I looked on in despair as I discovered I’d taken my last pill the day before. Each section of the plastic container was empty, all the way from Monday through to Sunday. My hand lunged for the bottom drawer, dragging it open as its hinges squealed out in rebellion. Every time I finished a box of medication, I’d throw it in that bottom drawer, including the plastic that had held the tablets. I don’t know why I did it. It was just a compulsion. I liked keeping them in my bottom drawer, kind of like having a collection of pennies. They weren’t worth anything and never would be, but they were worth something to me.

  I went through each box, carefully opening each one and removing the plastic cases that had once held my medication. Bits of foil still clung to the plastic, exposing empty little holes, none of which held any tablets.

  After turning a few bits of plastic over in my hands, staring vacantly at their emptiness, I placed each box back in my drawer, trying my best to stay calm.

  I’d shown symptoms early on in my life, much earlier than is normal. Up until I was a teenager, my dad had been there every night to watch me take my pills. He wanted to make sure I got better. But after I grew up, Dad had trusted me to keep track of my pills, and I’d failed.

  I didn’t want him to get angry and I didn’t want him to start watching me like a hawk, so I decided not to tell him.

  It was for the best.

  I would just have to wait until I went to the doctor’s again and refilled my prescription. I’d probably be fine until then; it was only another week or so until my next appointment. And it usually took three or four days for the withdrawal side effects to take hold.

  I just had to hope that the bleating of the sheep didn’t come back.

  But that was easier said than done.

  As I lay there that night trying desperately to fall asleep, I could hear echoes far, far off, deep, deep down, trying their best to resurface. And they wouldn’t stop until they were the only things I could hear.

  Two

  Echoes

  The next day, there was a frigid bite in the air. Dew had spread across the fields, barely visible in the early light. The sound of livestock was the only indication of life being present in the valley, but it was distant and felt alien to hear that early in the morning, as if it were a prerecorded message being played through tinny speakers far off in the distance.

  I made my way to the edge of the field, clambered up on to the fence, and looked out at the early morning. A cloud of white drifted past my cheeks each time I exhaled, rising above my head like a tiny cloud. My nose tingled as the freezing air bit at it with a frosty indifference, and my hands were already beginning to feel cold and stiff. It was like I had dipped them in cement, and it was slowly drying until my hands were as immovable as stone.

  Fog had spread itself along the lower part of the valley, wrapping itself around trees, suffocating the ground it covered. Sheep drifted in and out of view, swallowed up by the ever-encroaching fog. There was something so ethereal about fog, as if it had come out of another world for a short time, only to disappear after the sunrise.

  I began to notice more of the faint and gentle sounds of the valley, as if my ears were acclimatizing to my surroundings. Soft birdsongs drifted from the trees that encircled our fields, gradually growing in number and strength as the sun continued to rise. I closed my eyes and focused, noting each song from each bird, wanting more than anything to give every one my undivided attention. As I focused my ears, other senses were heightened, forcing me to realize just how freezing it was.

  It was cold, but it was beautiful.

  This is how my morning usually began each day before school; it definitely didn’t start the same way as that of other students. I would go around the farm with my dad, helping him to feed and check up on the animals. I performed each task surrounded by a sleepy haze, occasionally losing almost all sense of reality. A few other students probably had a paper round, but it was nowhere near close to the physical labour I had to go through each and every morning. Dad would always say that it helped build character and a good work ethic; I think it helped grow blisters on my hands and feet.

  The sun had finally risen by the time we finished, bathing the valley in a golden light that caused colours to erupt from every plant and blade of grass. The only good part about the routine was the fact that I could have a warm shower after it was all over. It was my only chance to reignite warmth in my body before going back out into the cold.

  Icy water would shoot from the showerhead before the temperature would reach near boiling point. The chill quickly vacated my bones, rising above me once again like a passing fog. Sometimes I’d sit down and let the water beat down on my shoulders like a mini waterfall. The bathroom would slowly fill with steam, as if it was transforming into a jungle. I’d close my eyes and zone out, only to be dragged back to reality by my dad banging on the door.

  “Hurry
up, Isabelle. You’re going to be late.”

  He used running late as an excuse, but it was actually because he hated me using up all the hot water.

  “Nearly done!”

  I was lying.

  My shower ritual was far from over.

  After I’d finished showering, I liked sitting on the floor with the towel wrapped tightly around me, watching the swirls of steam in the bathroom light. Miniscule droplets of water would drift through the air in shifting patterns, settling on the window and mirror. Watching them that morning, my mind drifted back to watching the fog creeping through the valley.

  But that was where the routine changed. I’d usually wipe down the bathroom, clearing the condensation off the window to create a clear canvas. But I stopped myself. The memory of that sheep’s head was still there in my mind’s eye, staring on with blank, lifeless eyes. I wiped everything else down, keeping my eyes fixed on what I was doing, and then left the bathroom as soon as I was done.

  Dad was already waiting downstairs with his keys in hand, ready to shuffle me off to school. He didn’t show it, but I could tell he was worried.

  My school experience had never been easy on him, especially in a village where everybody knew everybody else. It made for some awkward encounters in the pub with other dads. Most of their kids were “normal,” and so they had no idea how to talk to the dad of the “weird” girl.

  It ended in quite a few scuffles.

  “You ready for another school year?” he asked, his voice uneven and gravelly, probably remembering the fights and arguments he’d had over the past few years.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied in a quavering voice, having felt like I’d been unable to breathe properly all morning.

  Dad’s four-by-four burst into life, sending birds everywhere into a frightful frenzy. The exhaust pipe rattled and sputtered, further disturbing what was at first a serene morning. Pickle sat in the back, her head darting from side to side, unsure of what to focus her attention on.

  We sat there for a minute, gently vibrating as the engine continued its fight to stay alive. Dad was staring blankly ahead, his hands wrapped tightly around the cracked and tarnished steering wheel. They would tense as if he were about to start driving, and then would relax, as if he were suddenly full of trepidation.

  “Dad? Aren’t we going?” I asked, trying my best to draw a response or any kind of life out of him.

  His head shook as if he’d just been released from a spell, and he turned towards me, a slight sadness occupying his face.

  “Yeah. But before we go, I just wanted to say something.”

  “What?”

  “It isn’t going to be the same this year, Isabelle. I’m not going to let the other students bully you, or let the teachers get away with half-arse measures. You’re going to have a good year, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” he said in a less than convincing voice. “Let’s get going, then.”

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  * * * * *

  My school was in the middle of the nearby village, a short drive through rolling hills and patchwork farms. Rows of hedges and long lines of flint wall would flash past the car window, merging together into a dark moss-green colour. Tractors in the distance looked like little tin toys, being pushed purely by the wind. Morning cyclists would zip past in the next lane, shooting like rockets down the little paved roads, their helmets sharp like that of a Formula 1 car driver. Occasionally a small songbird would shoot across the road just in front of the car, and for a heart-stopping second, it looked as if we’d hit it. But luckily we never did. Other animals weren’t always so lucky. It was very rare to have a day where roadkill didn’t garnish the roadside.

  I never liked seeing roadkill.

  But the gory scenes would soon pass, revealing the tranquil nature of our little village. Rolling fields were swapped with squat stone buildings, originally housing miners, but now housed by new families to the area. As much as the village had tried to catch up, it still had that quaint feeling of a town stuck in time. As much as I enjoyed the drive to school, it was a shame that the drive was infinitely better than the destination.

  The school building loomed into view, a blemish on an otherwise calming scene. It had originally been a Catholic school for girls, but the authorities had seen sense and it had become a secondary school for both girls and boys. Although packing a bunch of fifteen and sixteen year olds together was always dangerous, and our school was no different.

  Dad’s four-by-four came to a violent and juddering stop around ten metres away from the main gate, as if it knew that I didn’t want to go.

  “Damn thing,” he said aggressively as he beat at the steering wheel. “I’ll have to look at it when I get home.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to fix it; you always do.”

  “Fingers crossed. Have a good day today, okay?”

  “Fingers crossed,” I responded unevenly, knowing that the chances of having a good day were extremely small.

  “You will have a good day. Just remember what I said. If the other kids give you any problems, you tell me.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  I didn’t know whether I would actually tell him if something went wrong, but it would make him feel better, so I told a little white lie.

  I scratched Pickle behind the ear and kissed her on the forehead, and then jumped out of the car, slamming the door behind me much more aggressively than I’d meant to. The sound reverberated around the playground, alerting a few students like skittish animals around a watering hole. It wasn’t exactly the entrance I had wanted to make. I walked sheepishly across the playground, keeping as low a profile as I could—although it was difficult to do with my big wax farmer’s jacket on, which only added to my freakish persona. Making sure to keep my head low, I crept along the hallways, passing other students like an ethereal cloud; I didn’t like making eye contact.

  When I was little, I thought that people could read my mind if I made eye contact with them. They would be able to hear every horrible or strange thought that I was having, and then they would never want to talk to me again. It was just easier to keep from looking at them.

  And I guess I never really shook off that paranoia. Intellectually, I know that it’s silly to believe that, but you believe in silly things when you’re younger. And it doesn’t help when you’re the only kid with paranoid schizophrenia.

  Most kids don’t know what paranoid schizophrenia is. In fact, most adults don’t even know what paranoid schizophrenia is. They think I have a bunch of personalities fighting it out inside of me, or that I hear hundreds of voices all the time.

  That means I’ve always been easy fodder for any school bullies. All they have to do is find out about my condition, and they’re off to the races.

  Schizo.

  Freak.

  Retard.

  Nutter.

  Spaz.

  Izzy the Skitzy.

  It was all part of being the only schizophrenic in town.

  I took a left at the end of the hallway, heading towards the maths rooms, and was confronted by a group of girls from the year above. I was always having problems with them. They had obviously got bored with bullying people their own size, so they were moving down to me.

  “Hey, schizo! What are they telling you today?” asked one of the girls sarcastically.

  I continued to keep my head low, unwilling to get into a confrontation.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you, schizo. What, do you think I’m just another voice in your head or something?”

  I didn’t break stride, knowing full well that she was following closely behind me, trying to elicit a response. Adults always say that you should just ignore someone if they’re bothering you. But those adults aren’t the ones who have to put it into practice. And all I can say from many tests is that it just doesn’t work. In fact, it makes them try even harder.
/>   From behind me, I felt a hand grab at my neck. Next thing I knew, I was sent hurtling to the floor.

  “Oh, sorry. Did I push you? Maybe you should listen next time I talk to you, schizo.”

  Her friends laughed as they walked off, seemingly impressed by the ability of their friend to push someone over who wasn’t looking.

  “Cowards,” I whispered under my breath.

  I waited on the floor for a moment in silence, ensuring they had left before I tried getting up. Teachers had told me to tell them about the bullying, but I knew they wouldn’t be able to help. They would have to follow me around all day to ensure I was safe.

  I’d just have to look after myself.

  Once I got up, I made it to my classroom without any more drama. The other kids found it difficult to bully me in class, so it was a partially safe area. They didn’t find it impossible, but the teacher would usually hear them and give them detention, so not that many tried.

  “Everybody, please be quiet. I need to take the register.”

  She began running through the names on our register, ticking off each as they answered. And then she got to my name. It was always an interesting experience.

  “Isabelle?”

  “Yes, miss?”

  “More like Izzy the Skitzy,” a student whispered from the back of the room.

  “Who said that?” the teacher growled, staring over her glasses with an intense stare.

  The class fell silent.

  Nobody responded.

  I guess no one wanted to be the snitch, especially if it meant helping the “schizo” girl.

  “If somebody doesn’t tell me, you will all stay behind after class.”

  Everybody continued on in silence. My head dropped below my shoulders, and I closed my eyes, wishing I could disappear. I could feel the other students’ piercing glares, all channelling their collective hatred right at my head. The silence carried on for ten more gruelling seconds before the teacher finally put me out of my misery.