Thief of Mind

by Ben Thomas

  I put my fist to my mouth and started biting hard on my knuckles. Kev hated me and I understood it because I caused his hatred. I didn’t blame him for making me redundant. I couldn’t protect him. It was me that caused his depression. I created his stress. It was me who caused the hurt to Helen, it was me who allowed the evil in.

  Don’t think the evil word. Don’t think the word.

  I couldn’t stop thinking it. I had tried to subjugate him and he cruelly allowed me to think that I was wining, but I’d just been amusing him. He quietly watched me with a sly smile on his face as he saw me try to live my life without him. He was teaching me a lesson. Throughout the years, wave after wave of anxiety and dread had tirelessly crashed through my mind, eroding my sanity…eroding it to nothingness. I had no more defences. I couldn’t live without him. I knew it. It was over. I gave in.

  Evil had won.

  18

  For the next eleven days I was under self-sentenced house arrest. The day after the date with Helen, I awoke to realise that although I had thought everything had changed, really nothing had. The mornings still started with getting out, and in, and out, and in, and out of bed until I felt sure that the good word had supplanted the bad word in my head. It continued with going in, and out, and in, and out, and so on and so forth of every room in my house. The kettle was switched on and off, and on and off. The lock on my front door was checked, and checked again, and again, and again. Nothing had changed. Though I had already established that I was damned, I still had to go through my routines to ensure I didn’t get more damned, if that was possible. Logic didn’t get a say in the matter. Logic had fled a long time ago. I still had to do my safety checks to prevent any floods, gas explosions, or electrical fires. I still had to do my security checks to ensure no murderers or burglars were able to pay me a visit. So the status quo was maintained.

  Typically, my biggest fears from the day before had lessened as something new took their place. Something had changed though. Previously I had always deep down had a sense of hope, a glint of optimism that told me I could defeat him. That hope, though, had been stolen. I had resigned myself to never knowing hope again. He didn’t like me to have hope and had punished me for daring to believe. Without hope it was easier to control me; it had been pretty easy before.

  Did I have any control left? Rationality would tell me that now I was damned I didn’t need to be scared of the words anymore. I didn’t need to try and cancel them out. But he told me, more convincingly, that if I thought them again it would make it even worse. So I had to still be vigilant and try my best to cancel them out. Even though I was dammed, I couldn’t risk harm coming to those I loved. I had to increase my rituals. I had to stay away from everyone. To stay at home. I was already a prisoner in my head; now I had to be a prisoner in my own home, for everyone’s safety. I had to be good this time; had to be obedient to him. I surrendered to his will.

  The days and nights were spent, in the main, checking and ruminating. He would spoon feed me a mosaic of thoughts in different shades of doom and catastrophe. As usual, the more I resisted, the more distressing the thoughts became. There were images of Mum drowning, Jess being abducted on her Kilimanjaro trip, Julie being run over, Bobby being ostracised by his friends for daring to rekindle our friendship, and the more I tried to block these thoughts, the more he upped their production. Resistance bred fear, fear bred inaction, inaction bred despair.

  The more stubborn thoughts that kept me company were less extreme. I obsessed over whom Helen had spoken to about me, and how the people she spoke to would have judged me. I ruminated on whether Steve and Julie had actually left the pub when they did, or whether they hid nearby and listened in to Helen’s judgement of me. Julie may well keep her counsel, but Steve would have no such qualms. Then he told me to stress again about Julie telling everyone about our night together. I would be a complete laughing stock. I wouldn’t be able to show my face in public ever again. I only stopped worrying about one thought when it was replaced by another. Was there anyone in the pub who knew me? Would they have told all their friends and family about me, trying to strangle myself and beating myself up? I racked my memory trying to dredge up faces from the pub that I knew, but my memory was faulty, so he told me it was best to assume that most people knew me and were sullying my name even as I thought about it. I thought about the article Helen was writing about me. I wondered how badly it would paint me. I wondered who would read it. I didn’t even know who she wrote for. I tried looking her up on the internet to find the article, but I couldn’t find it.

  I did this every hour of every day.

  This was my world.

  At least no one would miss a loser like me.

  *

  I was onto my sixth day of exile. It was about 19:30 and I was sat in my kitchen in my dressing gown and pyjamas counting the tiles on the wall. I’d counted them four times now and got different answers each time, 172, 174, 182 and 162. I was onto my fifth attempt when there was a gentle, knock at the door. I froze. It wasn’t the secret knock of Mum, Jess and now apparently Jez. Obviously I wasn’t expecting anyone. I stayed in silent statue status with the only movement coming from my heart which had started racing, waiting to see if the silence would be breached again. It stayed quiet. I relaxed my shoulders and took a breath, but then the knock came again, more determined this time. I got up out of my chair and poked my head around the kitchen door into the dark hallway where the frosted glass of the door obscured a presence illuminated by the outside light. All I could see was red. I couldn’t make out who it was. Then I heard the letter box being opened, but the expectation of an envelope being delivered wasn’t met as a soft voice landed in my hallway instead.

  “Toby? Toby? It’s Julie. Can you open the door?”

  My eyes widened, my heart accelerated, and I felt nausea threatening my stomach. What was I meant to do? Open the door obviously. But even if I was a sane person, I don’t think I could have: I couldn’t let her see me like this. I had my skanky dressing gown on which showed the history of my last three months’ breakfasts, my hair wasn’t done, I hadn’t showered, and yes, I reeked of body odour. Julie could probably smell me already.

  “Toby, I know you’re in. I just saw movement at the end of your hallway, so it’s either you or your house is getting burgled.”

  Shit, my stealth skills had let me down. I dropped to my knees and started crawling along the hall way towards the door. Why? Well, I had no intention of opening the door, but I just knew I had to be closer to Julie.

  “Please, Toby. I just want to talk.”

  As quietly as I could, I turned myself round and sat down with my back resting against the door. I just wanted to soak up her voice.

  “Toby?”

  Don’t think the words.

  “Toby, please?”

  If you see her you will infect her with death.

  “Okay, Toby. I can take the hint, but if you’re listening, I just wanted to see how you are. I hadn’t heard from you till I saw you the other night, and that night, I mean I know you had company, but you didn’t look yourself. You didn’t look happy. I’m worried about you, Toby.”

  A sensory surge was overwhelming me. I was sure I was going to be sick. I wanted to open the door. I wanted to see her. I wanted to be with her, but…

  You’ve thought it. The devil will take her.

  “We miss you at work. It’s all so serious now. There’s no one I can have a laugh with now you’re gone.”

  Blessed blessing bless me. Please, I just want to see her. I just want to be with her.

  Do not let harm come to her.

  “Anyway, if you are in and you’ve heard any of this, just know that you can call me anytime to talk. If you’re not in, and I’ve been talking to the burglar, then please could you pass this message on to Toby, after you’ve finished robbing all his stuff that is,” she paused, I was wavering, I despera
tely wanted to see her…. “Okay, bye then.”

  I had to see her. I went to pull myself up, to open the door, to be rescued by Julie.

  You will damn her. She will die.

  I collapsed back down to the floor, only to hear her footsteps walking away down the street. And as the footstep got softer and softer, the banging of the back of my head against my door grew louder and louder.

  *

  Over the eleven days of house arrest, besides Julie, the only two people who had tried contacting me were Mum and Bobby. I had texted Mum back to say all was well and I was going to be really busy over the next couple of weeks. If I hadn’t replied to her, she would have worried and called round and let herself in with her spare keys. I didn’t want her to do that. It was safer for her to stay away.

  Bobby I just ignored. I had ignored him for the past ten years, so I had plenty of practice. It was hard though. I felt guilty, especially when he came knocking on my front door. As usual, I spied on my attempted visitor from the upstairs window. Bemusement came over me, and surprisingly I found myself smiling, as I saw Bobby at my door with what I took to be a comedy golf costume, complete with cap and plus fours. I didn’t respond to him; it was best that way. It was safer.

  19

  After a few days I was getting restless cooped up in the house. The strategy of isolation was not without its flaws. I was bored and frustrated. I needed to do something. I didn’t feel brave enough to turn on the radio or television, I couldn’t risk hearing or seeing anything that he didn’t like, and I couldn’t be bothered watching any of my ‘safe’ DVDs for the umpteenth time.

  It occurred to me that I wouldn’t survive very long in my prison without food and I was already running low on supplies. At some stage I would have to go out to the shops. I could have done online shopping and had it delivered but I’ve tried this before and it takes too long with all the checking I have to do. Besides running low on food, there would also come a point when I would run low on money. I still had plenty to last for a good few months and would be receiving my redundancy pay out soon, but I would have to work at some point. Unless I could find a job that allowed me to work on my own at home, I would eventually have to step out of my house. I didn’t feel ready to leave the house yet, and I certainly didn’t feel ready for a new job, what with all the fresh dangers that would present, so typically I put off the job hunt. I did try and write my CV but shelved it when the thoughts of a job turned to thoughts of Kev using his influence to badmouth me to every company in the UK, making me unemployable.

  It was no fun being isolated.

  It was no fun being me.

  *

  Since my redundancy I had been getting up later and later, and since my car crash meeting with Helen I had spent most of the mornings in bed, and part of the afternoons. One morning, though, I was awoken early by a persistent ray of sun shining in through the curtains, dissecting the darkness of the room and infiltrating the darkness of my mind. When I eventually manged to get out of bed after completing my rituals, I opened my curtains to witness a beautiful, sunny, winter’s day. It was the type of day that could persuade even the most troubled and mixed-up soul to feel a joy for life. I tentatively felt the embers of hope sparking somewhere deep inside of me. I watched as a man and a woman jogged past my window. I had always admired runners. When I saw someone out running I thought, ‘There’s a person who has got something about them. They have discipline, they are healthy, and they are free.’ I had nearly become a runner, thanks to Bobby’s Bobitivities, and I had enjoyed it; well, sort of. Even though running was tough, so tough, when I’d finished a run and sat down at home and taken my trainers off, I felt good about myself and whilst running I had fleeting moments of freedom. I glanced over to where my nearly new running shoes lay neglected next to my wardrobe. They looked imploringly at me. I had accepted that my mind was a prisoner but had found it harder to accept being physically imprisoned in my home. It was time to regain a little liberation.

  It was a cold day, but I soon warmed up as I got into my stride, and as I ran along the river I felt a surge of appreciation for life. I enjoyed the crispness of the fresh air massaging my cheeks. The sun was sparkling on the water, such beauty. The river was flowing, unconcerned by the troubles of life. It was free. If it came upon an obstacle, it just went over, round or under it. It didn’t stop and dwell on troubles, it kept moving forward, and it left its troubles behind. I felt safe running, as if he couldn’t keep up with me, as if I was literally outrunning him. I also enjoyed the solitude of running, it was the only time when I felt that it was just me.

  I couldn’t run forever though, and being a new runner, if I didn’t already know my limitations, my body soon told me. It was time to head back to solitary confinement, the solitude I couldn’t enjoy. To get back home I had to cut through the park. I felt apprehensive about that. The riverside had been quiet save for some fellow runners and the occasional dog walker. The park was bound to be busy with people enjoying the welcome winter sun. I didn’t want to be around people, I didn’t feel ready for that. I could double back and go home the way I’d come, but I wouldn’t be able to run that distance, so if I was to walk, it would take at least an hour, while if I cut through the park, it would only take ten minutes to run. I had to be around people at some point – as I said, I had to eat, and if I could summon enough remaining fitness to run through the park, then there was less chance of interaction and the chances of me coming across someone I knew were low. So finally, a win for logic as I forced my body home through the park.

  The park was rammed, totally rammed. Along with the obligatory runners and dog walkers, there were families and friends chatting amiably, people playing football and carefree lovers walking arm in arm. There were too many people, there was too much danger.

  Don’t let the evil taint them.

  I desperately tried to block him out.

  You are responsible.

  I started running faster.

  Stop the evil.

  My breathing quickened.

  Do not dare to let the evil in.

  Faster. I had to get away from him.

  The evil is here. You are causing it.

  I was sprinting.

  Don’t think the words.

  Faster and faster. I had to get out of here, away from these people.

  Don’t let harm come.

  I grappled for breath. The cold air attacked my lungs. I couldn’t go on. My body screamed at me, demanding that I stop. I bent over, doubled up, unable to catch my breath. I gradually started to get my breathing under control. Just then a football casually rolled past me and stopped a couple of yards to my right at the side of the path.

  “Excuse me, mate. Over here, please,” bellowed a man’s voice from behind me. I ignored it. “The ball! Pass it back, would you, please?” His voice came again, and I glanced over to the ball and understood it was me he was calling to.

  Don’t kick it back, you’ll contaminate the ball with evil. You have thought the word.

  What? How can you contaminate a football with evil?

  But what if you did?

  “Hey, mister, pass the ball back, please,” This time it was a child’s voice.

  You will contaminate it with death.

  I wanted to kick the ball back, of course I did. It was the easiest and simplest of tasks, but I couldn’t. He was telling me I mustn’t, I couldn’t risk contaminating the ball, whatever that meant. What was I doing?

  It’s just a fucking ball, Toby. Kick it back.

  I was frozen.

  Just kick it back, Toby. You absolute imbecile.

  I couldn’t move. I felt what had become an all too familiar sensation in recent weeks: tears forming in my eyes.

  “Don’t worry, mate. I’ll get it myself,” I heard the man say as I looked down at my feet to prevent the man from seeing my shame as he walke
d up to me to retrieve the ball.

  “Toby? Toby, what on earth’s the matter?”

  I looked up to see the face of kindness, and before I knew it, I found myself in the middle of the park bawling my eyes out, desperately hugging Rory, whispering in his ear, “I’m mad, Rory. I’m mad. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t carry on. I just want to be normal.”

  *

  “Here we go, Toby.” Rory came over to our table with two mugs of coffee. Rory had been in the park with his two children and his wife. After extricating himself from my embrace, he had exhorted me to stay where I was and not to move as he went over to his wife to explain that he needed to have a chat with me to find out the answer to his son’s question, ‘Why is the man crying, Daddy?’

  His wife, whom I had met before but whose name I couldn’t remember, gave me a brief smile as she looked over. I felt too embarrassed to return her pleasantry and just reverted to staring at the ground, my head heavy with shame and self-loathing. With the promise of ice cream, Rory had managed to assuage the protests of his children and bought himself some time to be able to – well, I didn’t know what, and I don’t think Rory did either, but I clearly needed someone to do something, and so I found myself sitting opposite Rory in the corner of the park’s café.

  We initially sat in silence as I kept stirring my coffee and staring at it, contemplating the swirling emotions I was feeling. I was still embarrassed and I obviously felt nervous, which was the usual response to the ever-present danger that weighed on me, but I also felt nervous because I didn’t know what to say to Rory to explain myself. Yet there was a hint of hope alloyed with the nerves, because I just knew that I wanted to explain myself and I felt maybe I was on the threshold of unburdening myself.