The Book of Exquisite Corpse
An emerging collection of stories and novels inspired by the surrealist word game, Exquisite Corpse. SUBSCRIBE to my free Deeply Weird newsletter to find out more!
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The Empty Danger
is the first short novel-length release in the series: a weird, wildly imagined fantasy about facing Fear during the coronavirus lockdown. A sample of the book is free to read below... BUT... SUBSCRIBE to my free Deeply Weird newsletter and you'll receive a FREE e-book copy of The Empty Danger! You'll also receive a short story, Barely Composed, which is exclusive to subscribers (not published or available anywhere else). It's mid-March in the UK. Elina’s been exposed to the coronavirus and has to self-isolate. Afraid for a young abuse victim called Kyle, her empathy draws her into another plane of existence, a shared mind-space beyond the clouds where Fear has leathery wings, a black tongue and breathes a gas that instils dread. Now that Elina has been Intrigued into the secret world of the Watchers, can she help them guard the collective unconscious and fend off the creatures that threaten to take over our world? |
EPISODE 1: THE TRESPASS
I stood on the kerb and pressed my phone closer against my ear so the wind wouldn’t catch on the receiver.
“Sorry, what was that?”
It was weird enough that Clare, the manager of the finance team, was calling me after work, but I couldn’t process what she’d just said.
She repeated herself. “Jake, who led our training session today, has developed symptoms of the coronavirus.”
I felt none of the usual irritation at hearing Clare’s voice. Instead, something like a piece of ice slithered into my stomach where it pooled and grew nauseous.
No. No.
“But he looked fine. He seemed fine.” My voice sounded distant, like somebody else’s.
“It was towards the end of the day when he started to feel unwell. He just called us to let us know.”
A car murmured past, such an ordinary sound. The road was clear. I was waiting to cross but I stayed where I was, bracing my free arm across my front against the cold wind, repeating Clare’s words in my head, but all the meanings were jumbled.
“He’s going to be tested shortly,” she said.
“How long – ”
“It takes… about four or five days, I think?”
“Four or five days!”
“We’ll all need to self-isolate.”
I hesitated. There was still a gap in the traffic. I’d be better off finishing this conversation indoors, in the warm. But I couldn’t move. The edge of the kerb dug against the soles of my shoes while I stared at the building opposite: the red bricks, a light on in our flat’s window, second floor up. The natty old TV aerial blown sideways on the roof, like a stick man gone wrong, waving its arms in a silent “Help!” Another car groaned past, a blur of dull silver in the edge of my vision.
It was pizza night. Sarah would be wandering around in her dressing gown, having showered off the lab smell as soon as she got home. Matt and Carlos would be sprawled either end of the sofa, debating how much garlic bread to get. I needed to get inside, dump my stuff and make sure they ordered my pepperoni.
But I was infected. Very likely infected. I was going to be ill, maybe soon, maybe seriously.
I couldn’t go home. I’d infect them all. Sarah was my best friend, practically my psychotherapist. The guys… they were decent people; yes, they were friends as well as my flatmates. Why should they suffer because of one man, one meeting? Because of something that happened to me?
Clare’s voice broke through a gathering hurricane of thoughts. “Are you okay? Do you have everything you need?”
Oh no. Clare had shaken his hand. I saw her do it.
A fierce, strange compassion gripped me. I didn’t particularly like Clare, but I didn’t want her to get ill. Thankfully I didn’t have time to blurt out anything stupid: I reacted to her practical question and switched back into work mode, running a finger down my bag’s shoulder strap.
“I’ve got my laptop and my charger on me. I can answer emails....” But most of the systems weren’t available off the premises, were they? They always said it was for security reasons – as a financial institution, that sounded right – but I guessed they just didn’t want to spend the money on one overarching system that could handle all the different functions and accounts.
“IT are working on a secure virtual gateway so we can access all systems remotely,” said Clare. It sounded like a sentence she’d rattled off many times; I could picture her nodding as she said it. “In the meantime, I’m afraid there’s not much you can do other than sit tight. Stay in touch by email, stay isolated as much as you can and… let us know.”
The bit she didn’t say out loud crashed in my ears, a crest of horror breaking over me. Let us know… if and when you get sick?
So that was it.
Somehow, we’d ended the call, wishing each other well. I was still there on the kerb, still waiting to cross.
All that stuff Sarah and I argued about yesterday. I knew this pandemic was going to get big, out of control. She kept saying I was worrying unnecessarily, that there was no point in stressing about something that might never happen.
Well, she was right about that. No amount of worrying in advance could have prepared me for this.
The road was still clear, like it was mocking me or something. I stared up at the big window into our lounge. With a long bus commute, I was always the last one in.
I frowned at my phone and scrolled for Sarah’s number, then flipped it shut. I couldn’t speak to her yet. I couldn’t listen to her plain, sensible logic, not when everything was so wrong. I needed to walk first.
I turned and started walking along the pavement. My feet seemed a long way down and yet there they were, doing what they always did, one flashing in front of the other like they knew exactly where I was going. Where was I going?
Just keep moving.
It couldn’t be a simple case of going straight home and passing the virus on to all of them. Could it? There had to be another option. But I couldn’t afford to go and stay in a hotel… And what hotel would let me in, if they knew? I wouldn’t deceive a bunch of strangers like that. It was just as bad to pass it on to strangers. Worse, if I didn’t tell them. Why should they put themselves at risk for me?
I was infected, wasn’t I? I had to be.
I had a flash-forward of what it would be like at home. Staying in my room as much as possible – at least my room was next to the bathroom. Sarah bringing me soups, doing all the food shopping. And I would – what? Sit on my bed day after day, browsing social media, playing Patience and Angry Birds. Would I even get a test? I probably had to go out somewhere to get that: bad idea. I tried to remember what they’d said on the news. Some countries like Germany were doing loads of tests. The UK, not so much.
Damn – if only my parents had listened to me about converting their crumbling garage into a second living room or mini cinema, that would’ve been perfect...
Logic said it was inevitable I had to go back to the flat but I wasn’t ready to accept that yet. I was stubborn, an idiot, but this didn’t feel right. There had to be another way. Sarah, just let me have my moment of irrationality.
I pushed on against the chill wind, following the slope of the pavement, tracing the rise and fall of garden walls and fences until they trickled away and were replaced by the wire fence at the end of the park. Did I want to go to the park? Not while it was getting dark. But I needed somewhere to sit and think. A bench, but somewhere quiet.
Suddenly I knew where my feet were taking me. There was only one bench I wanted to sit on, although the thought of it gave me a jolt of sadness. It was like a memory of hope rather than hope itself. I so wanted to have that feeling of hope, lost to me now.
Down curving roads, past houses that seemed faceless now that the light was fading. I’d have to call Sarah soon; she’d be wondering where the hell I was. They might still order my pepperoni but if I wasn’t back when it arrived, Carlos would be tempted to eat it.
“Take it, Carlos,” I whispered to the street, then glanced around to see if anyone was listening. No-one. Everyone was home, cosy indoors. But a pair of eyes caught my attention: a tabby cat, curling its tail around the lamppost, mewing for a fuss. I reached down but stopped myself just in time. If I had the virus, I might leave traces in her fur and pass it on to her owners.
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and kept walking.
Would the gate be open? Seeing the grey stone building at last, I rushed the last distance, throwing a cursory glance for oncoming cars while I jogged across the road. It was hard to tear my eyes from the shadow of the big yew tree where the gate would either be open or closed.
Closed – but locked? I nudged up the latch with the crook of my elbow and pushed it open with my foot, holding back a sigh of relief so I wouldn’t breathe virus-breath all over its black metal surface.
The garden was empty. I exhaled, but something other than relief welled up inside me. The churchyard looked so small in the light of the mini street lamp. Light bowled softly against the lower branches of the oak tree, making them look like elephants’ trunks.
To see the winding path again was to remember the kids running along it, squealing and trying to clamber up the branches when I asked them to find some ideas from nature for our next project. Of course, half of them ran straight to the gravestones at the back, their eyes bright with morbid fascination. Was that why we ended up making clay gargoyles that time? I couldn’t remember how I’d settled on that idea in the end.
This place reminded me of a time when my hopes were big, huge even. Had I really believed it was the beginning of something? That a few freebies for some disadvantaged local kids might lead to fee-paying groups and supplement my non-existent income as an artist selling sculptures and paintings?
As I took in the scene, business ideas still buzzed within me like flies that refused to die, nuzzling against a window that was long shut. I wondered along the thinning path, touching the tops of wildflowers, breathing in the earthy scent. In the crook of a tree trunk an object like a large, twisted stone stood out, shadows leaning from its weird features. I crept closer and took in a breath. A clay gargoyle! Like a ghost of this place, a ghost of the good memories. As I reached for it the little boy who made it sprang into my mind: Kyle. So sweet and quiet. Those deep, dark eyes, serious and hesitant. Yet when he got into modelling there was no stopping him.
I edged closer, spellbound. The grey figurine was squat, hunched, with low hanging wings peeping out either side. Its ugly great mouth stretched open in a grimace, the tongue sloping over its chin. From under the meticulous fur-effect eyebrows, two deep dents stared at me. I had to break a grin. I could actually remember Kyle scooping the eye holes with the end of a pencil – the same one he’d used to sketch the drawing he’d made first of this fantastic gargoyle, surely the best of the bunch.
My smile dropped. “He left it here. He never took it home with him…”
A twig snapped and I glanced up, heart thumping.
A pale face emerged from the semi-darkness beyond the trees. I gasped and covered my mouth, immediately embarrassed at having reacted this way. It was only the gardener.
I opened my mouth and raised my hand in a wave, but something was wrong. He looked different. His eyes were distant, like they were fixed on something surrounding me. For an odd second I had the sensation that I was semi-invisible, that none of this was really real. That the effect of getting the virus – which in any case seemed like something out of a horror-fantasy or sci-fi movie – was to make me less real…
I inwardly tutted. Sarah was always saying, Don’t let your weirdo imagination get the better of you.
The gardener came towards me with those long, loping strides I recognised, an uncertain smile on his lips. “Hello? Can I help you?”
“I’m so sorry. I suppose it is late, isn’t it? You are Dale, aren’t you?”
I smiled, relieved to have finally remembered his name. He had to recognise me, surely. True, it was nearly two years ago that I ran the group, but he was often there in the background, quietly digging or pruning. He would wait until the unsuspecting kids came closer, then he would thrill them with monster roars, stomping around with deliberate clumsiness as they scattered in all directions – trampling his flowerbeds, which never bothered him as much as I thought it would.
Dale’s features resettled into surprise. “Oh yes! It’s you!” His eyes flicked meaningfully to the gargoyle in the tree.
“Elina.” I nodded, pinning my arms behind my back against the urge to shake his hand. “Actually, sorry, I’ve just been told I have to keep my distance…”
“Oh.” He glanced away, cheeks darkening. A memory pinpricked my fretful state of mind: Dale had always struck me as a bit childlike. And he always seemed to be here, gardening. I guessed he was trying to work through something, some trauma or mental difficulty. That would be just like Paul, the Pastor, to take someone in like Dale and give them a job. Dale managed a cheerful enough exterior but sometimes a haunted look floated into his eyes.
Like now. Still holding his spade as he emerged from the shadows.
“It’s Paul you’ll be after, isn’t it?” Dale’s eyes hooked on me, appraising. With his free hand he rubbed his unshaven chin. It was so quiet in the garden, I could hear the bristles rippling under his rough fingertips.
I frowned. Had I come here to just sit on the bench and think? Or did I want to talk to Paul? Guilt about finishing the kids’ group flashed through me; that was probably the reason I hadn’t stayed in touch with my old friend. But it was early evening, nearly dark now, and I’d be interrupting his meal.
“Wouldn’t it be better – ” I began, meaning to suggest I went and knocked on Paul’s door a little later, but Dale had set off at a fast march and I only had time to see him lean his spade against the fence before the gate clanged and he was gone.
I was left alone in that garden, under the weak spot light of the Narnia-style lamp post. It felt like a tiny movie set, which matched my mood exactly: it was unreal. I should be at home by now, tucking into pizza in front of the TV, watching some quiz show or the latest murder series Carlos was trying to get us into. Instead I was here, outdoors, shivering while the tall grasses of the wildflowers shuffled this way and that in the breeze. The artificial light bleached them of colour, turning them into grey ribbons.
How ill was I going to get? How soon? What was I going to do?
I sat down on the bench, cursing myself for touching the wooden seat. Too late. Maybe Paul would have something to clean it with. I needed to get some alcohol gel. I needed a mask.
If I went home, Sarah would take over the whole operation like it was a war effort. She’d shop for everything: plastic gloves, anti-viral sprays for door handles. She’d chivvy the boys into doing their share of cleaning, cheerful military style, perhaps even get a bit Mary Poppins just to annoy them. Matt, for one, could barely be bothered to wash up his own plates. But it was all too logical. I didn’t want logic. I wanted something irrational and impossible to come along and magic everything better – to go back in time and not bother to go to work today so I missed the training session and was never exposed. How long was it before I had to accept the inevitable?
Footsteps on the gravel made me stand up.
It was Paul, in his jeans and black polo neck, his big smile.
“Hi Paul.”
“Elina, how are you?”
I realised I was readying myself for a hug and took a step back. “Don’t come too close. Sorry. I’ve just been told I’ve come into contact with the virus. But I haven’t touched anything, except this bench...”
Paul’s forehead creased in worry. “I’m sorry to hear that, Elina.” His warm voice was a mix of London and faint African accents. A big, cosy, welcoming sort of voice, like a great storyteller. While my stomach churned over the awkwardness of what was to come – what was I going to say? What did I even expect to get out of this conversation? – it soothed me just to hear him again. Maybe I would have to satisfy myself with that.
Just seeing Paul’s face brought a rush of memories rising like tears to my eyes: the kids’ group. How sheepish I felt those first few times, embarrassed in front of the children; how Paul coached me, got me to relax with them, saying, “It’s not school, and they know it”. Autumn afternoons with the low sun streaming through the windows, the busy silence as eight or nine children become completely absorbed in the artwork they were making. Pure magic.
“It’s good to see you,” he said.
“I’m sorry it’s been so long.” I wasn’t quite ready to tell him everything, though I could feel it coming. My knees felt like putty so I sat on the bench. Paul nodded and settled on a tree stump a short distance away. Patient as ever, he understood straight away that I needed a moment to compose myself, to chat about other things.
“I guess… I felt a bit bad about the way things turned out. I had to go and get a ‘normal job’ after all.” I even hooked my fingers around the inverted commas. Oh God, I’d interrupted Paul’s evening and now I was going to throw a bunch of problems at him that he could likely do nothing about. The least I could do was level with him as quickly as possible.
Every second hammered in my ears. What was wrong with me?
But then it hit me: saying it out loud was like admitting the reality of my situation. Maybe this was the real reason I’d staved off ringing Sarah. I needed to tell someone else first. Someone like Paul, whose job it was to listen and whose personal circumstances weren’t potentially ruined by my news.
Paul brooded, his hands loosely clasped together over his lap while my explanation spilled out, broken and stumbling, my mouth parched. It was as if my throat was trying to stop it all coming out.
“My friends. I can’t just go back and infect them all. I mean I could, in fact I don’t even think I have any choice, but… it’s horrible. I hate this. Not having a choice.”
I swallowed but it was all still there, still close, this poison just sitting in my throat. I’d almost forgotten this quiet way Paul had, of lifting the truth out of you with just a look. Straight out.
He paused. He shifted on the tree stump, as if he had to rethink his instinct to reach out a hand. More changes he might have to make soon, for all his work with people, if this coronavirus thing escalated in the UK.
“OK, first things first. None of this is your fault. I know that’s obvious on the conscious level, but your unconscious mind probably has something else to say.” He raised an eyebrow. How well he knew me. “And at this point, we don’t know for absolute certain that you’re infected, do we? How close did you get to this person?”
I sank my cheeks into my hands. “When I think about it, we all touched everything the trainer touched. The coffee dispenser, those handouts. Then there’s the door handles. He shook Clare’s hand! She must be really freaking out…”
I could feel my breath speeding up, the more I spoke. I stopped and stared at my shoes. It was ‘dress down Friday’ so I was wearing my trainers. Usually the sight of them made me feel elated, ready for the weekend, but they looked alien to me in the whitish light, drained of colour. Sort of pathetic. They were tipped around the edges by dust from the gravel path.
Paul spoke softly. “Fear is a tough emotion. There’s so much of it around at the moment, bubbling under... I’m afraid that your friends are already burdened with this, though they don’t yet know it, unless there is some other practical alternative?”
I hesitated, unsure whether he was asking me outright or just thinking aloud, feeling his way around the ideas the way he sometimes did. Well, I wasn’t going to interrupt if he had one of those thoughtful, faraway expressions in his eyes – which I couldn’t see from here. With his head tipped forward, chin on his hand, the lamp light illuminated his forehead but his eyes were sunken into the shadowed slope beneath.
I sat clutching the bench, listening to the wind swirling the oak tree’s branches, my hair whipping about my face; wondering how long it would be rude not to say anything. Wondering why I expected something like magic to just sprout out of this man’s mind.
A soft thump sounded across the garden, lost in darkness. It might have been a twig dropping off the tree and knocking the fence, but Paul’s head flicked up, attentive.
“Dale’s friend. Feeling a bit nosy, are we?”
“Sorry, what was that?”
It was weird enough that Clare, the manager of the finance team, was calling me after work, but I couldn’t process what she’d just said.
She repeated herself. “Jake, who led our training session today, has developed symptoms of the coronavirus.”
I felt none of the usual irritation at hearing Clare’s voice. Instead, something like a piece of ice slithered into my stomach where it pooled and grew nauseous.
No. No.
“But he looked fine. He seemed fine.” My voice sounded distant, like somebody else’s.
“It was towards the end of the day when he started to feel unwell. He just called us to let us know.”
A car murmured past, such an ordinary sound. The road was clear. I was waiting to cross but I stayed where I was, bracing my free arm across my front against the cold wind, repeating Clare’s words in my head, but all the meanings were jumbled.
“He’s going to be tested shortly,” she said.
“How long – ”
“It takes… about four or five days, I think?”
“Four or five days!”
“We’ll all need to self-isolate.”
I hesitated. There was still a gap in the traffic. I’d be better off finishing this conversation indoors, in the warm. But I couldn’t move. The edge of the kerb dug against the soles of my shoes while I stared at the building opposite: the red bricks, a light on in our flat’s window, second floor up. The natty old TV aerial blown sideways on the roof, like a stick man gone wrong, waving its arms in a silent “Help!” Another car groaned past, a blur of dull silver in the edge of my vision.
It was pizza night. Sarah would be wandering around in her dressing gown, having showered off the lab smell as soon as she got home. Matt and Carlos would be sprawled either end of the sofa, debating how much garlic bread to get. I needed to get inside, dump my stuff and make sure they ordered my pepperoni.
But I was infected. Very likely infected. I was going to be ill, maybe soon, maybe seriously.
I couldn’t go home. I’d infect them all. Sarah was my best friend, practically my psychotherapist. The guys… they were decent people; yes, they were friends as well as my flatmates. Why should they suffer because of one man, one meeting? Because of something that happened to me?
Clare’s voice broke through a gathering hurricane of thoughts. “Are you okay? Do you have everything you need?”
Oh no. Clare had shaken his hand. I saw her do it.
A fierce, strange compassion gripped me. I didn’t particularly like Clare, but I didn’t want her to get ill. Thankfully I didn’t have time to blurt out anything stupid: I reacted to her practical question and switched back into work mode, running a finger down my bag’s shoulder strap.
“I’ve got my laptop and my charger on me. I can answer emails....” But most of the systems weren’t available off the premises, were they? They always said it was for security reasons – as a financial institution, that sounded right – but I guessed they just didn’t want to spend the money on one overarching system that could handle all the different functions and accounts.
“IT are working on a secure virtual gateway so we can access all systems remotely,” said Clare. It sounded like a sentence she’d rattled off many times; I could picture her nodding as she said it. “In the meantime, I’m afraid there’s not much you can do other than sit tight. Stay in touch by email, stay isolated as much as you can and… let us know.”
The bit she didn’t say out loud crashed in my ears, a crest of horror breaking over me. Let us know… if and when you get sick?
So that was it.
Somehow, we’d ended the call, wishing each other well. I was still there on the kerb, still waiting to cross.
All that stuff Sarah and I argued about yesterday. I knew this pandemic was going to get big, out of control. She kept saying I was worrying unnecessarily, that there was no point in stressing about something that might never happen.
Well, she was right about that. No amount of worrying in advance could have prepared me for this.
The road was still clear, like it was mocking me or something. I stared up at the big window into our lounge. With a long bus commute, I was always the last one in.
I frowned at my phone and scrolled for Sarah’s number, then flipped it shut. I couldn’t speak to her yet. I couldn’t listen to her plain, sensible logic, not when everything was so wrong. I needed to walk first.
I turned and started walking along the pavement. My feet seemed a long way down and yet there they were, doing what they always did, one flashing in front of the other like they knew exactly where I was going. Where was I going?
Just keep moving.
It couldn’t be a simple case of going straight home and passing the virus on to all of them. Could it? There had to be another option. But I couldn’t afford to go and stay in a hotel… And what hotel would let me in, if they knew? I wouldn’t deceive a bunch of strangers like that. It was just as bad to pass it on to strangers. Worse, if I didn’t tell them. Why should they put themselves at risk for me?
I was infected, wasn’t I? I had to be.
I had a flash-forward of what it would be like at home. Staying in my room as much as possible – at least my room was next to the bathroom. Sarah bringing me soups, doing all the food shopping. And I would – what? Sit on my bed day after day, browsing social media, playing Patience and Angry Birds. Would I even get a test? I probably had to go out somewhere to get that: bad idea. I tried to remember what they’d said on the news. Some countries like Germany were doing loads of tests. The UK, not so much.
Damn – if only my parents had listened to me about converting their crumbling garage into a second living room or mini cinema, that would’ve been perfect...
Logic said it was inevitable I had to go back to the flat but I wasn’t ready to accept that yet. I was stubborn, an idiot, but this didn’t feel right. There had to be another way. Sarah, just let me have my moment of irrationality.
I pushed on against the chill wind, following the slope of the pavement, tracing the rise and fall of garden walls and fences until they trickled away and were replaced by the wire fence at the end of the park. Did I want to go to the park? Not while it was getting dark. But I needed somewhere to sit and think. A bench, but somewhere quiet.
Suddenly I knew where my feet were taking me. There was only one bench I wanted to sit on, although the thought of it gave me a jolt of sadness. It was like a memory of hope rather than hope itself. I so wanted to have that feeling of hope, lost to me now.
Down curving roads, past houses that seemed faceless now that the light was fading. I’d have to call Sarah soon; she’d be wondering where the hell I was. They might still order my pepperoni but if I wasn’t back when it arrived, Carlos would be tempted to eat it.
“Take it, Carlos,” I whispered to the street, then glanced around to see if anyone was listening. No-one. Everyone was home, cosy indoors. But a pair of eyes caught my attention: a tabby cat, curling its tail around the lamppost, mewing for a fuss. I reached down but stopped myself just in time. If I had the virus, I might leave traces in her fur and pass it on to her owners.
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and kept walking.
Would the gate be open? Seeing the grey stone building at last, I rushed the last distance, throwing a cursory glance for oncoming cars while I jogged across the road. It was hard to tear my eyes from the shadow of the big yew tree where the gate would either be open or closed.
Closed – but locked? I nudged up the latch with the crook of my elbow and pushed it open with my foot, holding back a sigh of relief so I wouldn’t breathe virus-breath all over its black metal surface.
The garden was empty. I exhaled, but something other than relief welled up inside me. The churchyard looked so small in the light of the mini street lamp. Light bowled softly against the lower branches of the oak tree, making them look like elephants’ trunks.
To see the winding path again was to remember the kids running along it, squealing and trying to clamber up the branches when I asked them to find some ideas from nature for our next project. Of course, half of them ran straight to the gravestones at the back, their eyes bright with morbid fascination. Was that why we ended up making clay gargoyles that time? I couldn’t remember how I’d settled on that idea in the end.
This place reminded me of a time when my hopes were big, huge even. Had I really believed it was the beginning of something? That a few freebies for some disadvantaged local kids might lead to fee-paying groups and supplement my non-existent income as an artist selling sculptures and paintings?
As I took in the scene, business ideas still buzzed within me like flies that refused to die, nuzzling against a window that was long shut. I wondered along the thinning path, touching the tops of wildflowers, breathing in the earthy scent. In the crook of a tree trunk an object like a large, twisted stone stood out, shadows leaning from its weird features. I crept closer and took in a breath. A clay gargoyle! Like a ghost of this place, a ghost of the good memories. As I reached for it the little boy who made it sprang into my mind: Kyle. So sweet and quiet. Those deep, dark eyes, serious and hesitant. Yet when he got into modelling there was no stopping him.
I edged closer, spellbound. The grey figurine was squat, hunched, with low hanging wings peeping out either side. Its ugly great mouth stretched open in a grimace, the tongue sloping over its chin. From under the meticulous fur-effect eyebrows, two deep dents stared at me. I had to break a grin. I could actually remember Kyle scooping the eye holes with the end of a pencil – the same one he’d used to sketch the drawing he’d made first of this fantastic gargoyle, surely the best of the bunch.
My smile dropped. “He left it here. He never took it home with him…”
A twig snapped and I glanced up, heart thumping.
A pale face emerged from the semi-darkness beyond the trees. I gasped and covered my mouth, immediately embarrassed at having reacted this way. It was only the gardener.
I opened my mouth and raised my hand in a wave, but something was wrong. He looked different. His eyes were distant, like they were fixed on something surrounding me. For an odd second I had the sensation that I was semi-invisible, that none of this was really real. That the effect of getting the virus – which in any case seemed like something out of a horror-fantasy or sci-fi movie – was to make me less real…
I inwardly tutted. Sarah was always saying, Don’t let your weirdo imagination get the better of you.
The gardener came towards me with those long, loping strides I recognised, an uncertain smile on his lips. “Hello? Can I help you?”
“I’m so sorry. I suppose it is late, isn’t it? You are Dale, aren’t you?”
I smiled, relieved to have finally remembered his name. He had to recognise me, surely. True, it was nearly two years ago that I ran the group, but he was often there in the background, quietly digging or pruning. He would wait until the unsuspecting kids came closer, then he would thrill them with monster roars, stomping around with deliberate clumsiness as they scattered in all directions – trampling his flowerbeds, which never bothered him as much as I thought it would.
Dale’s features resettled into surprise. “Oh yes! It’s you!” His eyes flicked meaningfully to the gargoyle in the tree.
“Elina.” I nodded, pinning my arms behind my back against the urge to shake his hand. “Actually, sorry, I’ve just been told I have to keep my distance…”
“Oh.” He glanced away, cheeks darkening. A memory pinpricked my fretful state of mind: Dale had always struck me as a bit childlike. And he always seemed to be here, gardening. I guessed he was trying to work through something, some trauma or mental difficulty. That would be just like Paul, the Pastor, to take someone in like Dale and give them a job. Dale managed a cheerful enough exterior but sometimes a haunted look floated into his eyes.
Like now. Still holding his spade as he emerged from the shadows.
“It’s Paul you’ll be after, isn’t it?” Dale’s eyes hooked on me, appraising. With his free hand he rubbed his unshaven chin. It was so quiet in the garden, I could hear the bristles rippling under his rough fingertips.
I frowned. Had I come here to just sit on the bench and think? Or did I want to talk to Paul? Guilt about finishing the kids’ group flashed through me; that was probably the reason I hadn’t stayed in touch with my old friend. But it was early evening, nearly dark now, and I’d be interrupting his meal.
“Wouldn’t it be better – ” I began, meaning to suggest I went and knocked on Paul’s door a little later, but Dale had set off at a fast march and I only had time to see him lean his spade against the fence before the gate clanged and he was gone.
I was left alone in that garden, under the weak spot light of the Narnia-style lamp post. It felt like a tiny movie set, which matched my mood exactly: it was unreal. I should be at home by now, tucking into pizza in front of the TV, watching some quiz show or the latest murder series Carlos was trying to get us into. Instead I was here, outdoors, shivering while the tall grasses of the wildflowers shuffled this way and that in the breeze. The artificial light bleached them of colour, turning them into grey ribbons.
How ill was I going to get? How soon? What was I going to do?
I sat down on the bench, cursing myself for touching the wooden seat. Too late. Maybe Paul would have something to clean it with. I needed to get some alcohol gel. I needed a mask.
If I went home, Sarah would take over the whole operation like it was a war effort. She’d shop for everything: plastic gloves, anti-viral sprays for door handles. She’d chivvy the boys into doing their share of cleaning, cheerful military style, perhaps even get a bit Mary Poppins just to annoy them. Matt, for one, could barely be bothered to wash up his own plates. But it was all too logical. I didn’t want logic. I wanted something irrational and impossible to come along and magic everything better – to go back in time and not bother to go to work today so I missed the training session and was never exposed. How long was it before I had to accept the inevitable?
Footsteps on the gravel made me stand up.
It was Paul, in his jeans and black polo neck, his big smile.
“Hi Paul.”
“Elina, how are you?”
I realised I was readying myself for a hug and took a step back. “Don’t come too close. Sorry. I’ve just been told I’ve come into contact with the virus. But I haven’t touched anything, except this bench...”
Paul’s forehead creased in worry. “I’m sorry to hear that, Elina.” His warm voice was a mix of London and faint African accents. A big, cosy, welcoming sort of voice, like a great storyteller. While my stomach churned over the awkwardness of what was to come – what was I going to say? What did I even expect to get out of this conversation? – it soothed me just to hear him again. Maybe I would have to satisfy myself with that.
Just seeing Paul’s face brought a rush of memories rising like tears to my eyes: the kids’ group. How sheepish I felt those first few times, embarrassed in front of the children; how Paul coached me, got me to relax with them, saying, “It’s not school, and they know it”. Autumn afternoons with the low sun streaming through the windows, the busy silence as eight or nine children become completely absorbed in the artwork they were making. Pure magic.
“It’s good to see you,” he said.
“I’m sorry it’s been so long.” I wasn’t quite ready to tell him everything, though I could feel it coming. My knees felt like putty so I sat on the bench. Paul nodded and settled on a tree stump a short distance away. Patient as ever, he understood straight away that I needed a moment to compose myself, to chat about other things.
“I guess… I felt a bit bad about the way things turned out. I had to go and get a ‘normal job’ after all.” I even hooked my fingers around the inverted commas. Oh God, I’d interrupted Paul’s evening and now I was going to throw a bunch of problems at him that he could likely do nothing about. The least I could do was level with him as quickly as possible.
Every second hammered in my ears. What was wrong with me?
But then it hit me: saying it out loud was like admitting the reality of my situation. Maybe this was the real reason I’d staved off ringing Sarah. I needed to tell someone else first. Someone like Paul, whose job it was to listen and whose personal circumstances weren’t potentially ruined by my news.
Paul brooded, his hands loosely clasped together over his lap while my explanation spilled out, broken and stumbling, my mouth parched. It was as if my throat was trying to stop it all coming out.
“My friends. I can’t just go back and infect them all. I mean I could, in fact I don’t even think I have any choice, but… it’s horrible. I hate this. Not having a choice.”
I swallowed but it was all still there, still close, this poison just sitting in my throat. I’d almost forgotten this quiet way Paul had, of lifting the truth out of you with just a look. Straight out.
He paused. He shifted on the tree stump, as if he had to rethink his instinct to reach out a hand. More changes he might have to make soon, for all his work with people, if this coronavirus thing escalated in the UK.
“OK, first things first. None of this is your fault. I know that’s obvious on the conscious level, but your unconscious mind probably has something else to say.” He raised an eyebrow. How well he knew me. “And at this point, we don’t know for absolute certain that you’re infected, do we? How close did you get to this person?”
I sank my cheeks into my hands. “When I think about it, we all touched everything the trainer touched. The coffee dispenser, those handouts. Then there’s the door handles. He shook Clare’s hand! She must be really freaking out…”
I could feel my breath speeding up, the more I spoke. I stopped and stared at my shoes. It was ‘dress down Friday’ so I was wearing my trainers. Usually the sight of them made me feel elated, ready for the weekend, but they looked alien to me in the whitish light, drained of colour. Sort of pathetic. They were tipped around the edges by dust from the gravel path.
Paul spoke softly. “Fear is a tough emotion. There’s so much of it around at the moment, bubbling under... I’m afraid that your friends are already burdened with this, though they don’t yet know it, unless there is some other practical alternative?”
I hesitated, unsure whether he was asking me outright or just thinking aloud, feeling his way around the ideas the way he sometimes did. Well, I wasn’t going to interrupt if he had one of those thoughtful, faraway expressions in his eyes – which I couldn’t see from here. With his head tipped forward, chin on his hand, the lamp light illuminated his forehead but his eyes were sunken into the shadowed slope beneath.
I sat clutching the bench, listening to the wind swirling the oak tree’s branches, my hair whipping about my face; wondering how long it would be rude not to say anything. Wondering why I expected something like magic to just sprout out of this man’s mind.
A soft thump sounded across the garden, lost in darkness. It might have been a twig dropping off the tree and knocking the fence, but Paul’s head flicked up, attentive.
“Dale’s friend. Feeling a bit nosy, are we?”
A crow barked twice. Surprised, I stared into the darkness at what might have been its beak, just a fleck of shine, before the bird flapped off noisily.
“How did you see that?”
Paul smiled. “I just recognised the sound. They’re always hopping in and out – they’re quite tame, some of them. Dale spends a lot of time in this garden…” He trailed off, his smile lost in doubt. Fair enough: it was inappropriate for him to say any more. Dale was his effectively his patient.
“I’ve heard they can use tools,” I said. It calmed me, just to consider this simple, easy fact. A completely non-life-and-death matter. Crows use tools. I took a deep, slow breath and let it out again, thinking only of that.
Paul nodded. “It’s true. Listen, I’m sorry your art company didn’t work out for you the way you wanted it to. But you can still try, find another way…”
I blinked at the sudden change of subject, but this was probably one of those counsellor things – to get the person to talk about their life as a whole and hopefully make the immediate problem seem less scary in context.
“Of course it won’t be quite how you envisioned, but you never know how things work out…” He looked at me, his expression gentle. “You had a real connection to those kids, too.”
“I know…” My mouth twisted guiltily.
“It’s a shame for you, too, I meant. These things have a way of opening us up.”
I turned on my seat to look at him. “What do you mean by that?” These big, sweeping always statements frustrated me – but I heard my demanding tone and blushed. I was getting too much into this ‘honest’ mode. We used to have these friendly meaning-of-life debates while the kids were running around the garden, but here, in the darkness and cold it felt utterly wrong.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so blunt,” I said quickly. “But I do want to understand: what did I open myself up to?” He wasn’t talking about his belief system, was he? Paul was well aware I didn’t share his, and he’d never pressed the matter. So far.
“Ah. I’ve missed you Elina, with all your questions.” He chuckled. “The psychologist is back!”
I bit my lip then laughed anyway. “God, it was only an A-level course,” I said, then felt bad about saying “God”.
“Life,” said Paul, nodding at me. I didn’t understand. Was he correcting my use of the word “God” to “life”? Was that the all-holy thing at the centre of it all?
Seeing my confusion he said, “We open ourselves up to life. This experience, on this plane.” He held out his hands to the garden.
Silently I asked, “What other plane might there be?” But this was religious stuff and you either bought into it or you didn’t. It wasn’t my territory… for now. I had enough on my plate. An immediate problem I needed to resolve right now.
Okay, so I didn’t believe everything he believed, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy his company and his problem solving skills. “So… Any ideas what I should do?”
“Stay here.” He spread his hands again.
I looked around me, at the wildflowers casting striped shadows over each other, the old, lopsided gravestones that I couldn’t see, but I knew were there, further back. What did he mean? Sleep on the bench? But – oh no. If he had a spare room I wasn’t going to take it. That was way too much of an imposition. Besides, I’d pass the virus on to him.
He watched me carefully. “I meant the church hall. It’s not ideal, but if you really want somewhere to stay and keep a social distance from absolutely everyone, I’ve just cancelled all events until July.”
I stared across at the white door which glowed dimly in the edge of the light. The church hall was where we’d held the kids’ art group; a modern, oblong extension to the church which looked a bit like an out-building.
“But… That’s really very generous of you, but… what would I sleep on?” Images of the interior quickened through my mind. The racks of chairs stacked along the wall. Of course, it had a kitchen area! It was small and practically antique, but still. I’d have to cut through to the church to get to the toilets… I couldn’t believe I was warming to the idea already, except for the one obvious thing lacking: a bed.
“Perhaps one of your flat mates could drop off your duvet amongst other things. You should be able to make up a bed using sofa cushions. I seem to remember from my early days roughing it as a young evangelist, if you stuff a few sports bags with enough clothes and line them up, they can be more comfortable than some of the worst mattresses in this world.”
I shivered with the delicious weirdness of it. Could this really be happening? Only ten minutes ago I was dizzy with the impossibility of my situation, not really believing there was a way out. The sports bag thing had to be hideously uncomfortable, no matter what he said (how bad could those hotel mattresses be?) but I didn’t care. A light had come on inside my head. A feeble but welcome light.
My mind was racing with so many details I hadn’t worked out what to say.
“Don’t answer me yet,” said Paul. “Speak to your friends. I’m sure they’ll help you make sense of it. But either way,” he added, standing up, “I'd like to think you already have what you came here for.”
“What’s that?” I stared back dumbly.
“A choice.”
Silence stung the phone line. I thought of all the internet lines and wireless phone lines that criss-crossed the air right now, a web of connections being tried and made, conversations going on. Possibly there were many at least as weird as this one.
Sarah repeated it back to me. “You’re moving in to the church hall.” She was piecing together the words, checking my logic for holes. I sensed she was also holding back a tide of shock and worry. I hadn’t given her time to react to the news of my likely infection before I threw this new development at her.
But despite the obvious danger posed to her by my staying at home, she wasn’t going to be hurried in to this new idea. “Won’t it be cold?”
“Um, there’s a heater I think.” Paul had already unlocked the door for me, but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to go in and check these things. I had to stay there, it was the only viable choice.
“What about a cooker or hotplate?”
“There’s a whole kitchen in there, Sarah. It’s bigger than ours! True, it’s ancient. But they use it for events and stuff. Remember, I used to do the kids’ art group in there.” I had a stabbing urge to add, back when my life had a purpose. “If I’m using electricity I guess I’ll just have to pay him at the end.”
“The end? When is the end?” She half-whispered it to herself.
No way was she going to freak out. That was my job. I ignored the rhetorical question and brought her back to the issue at hand. “I’ll stay here until I’m clear of this thing. What is they say? Ten days after you’ve had symptoms? Fourteen? I’ll look it up. There’s no way I’m infecting you.”
“You might infect Paul,” she said quietly.
“I hope not.” I took a moment. “Actually, the chances are pretty low. He has no need to come in to the church hall. He’s already cancelled their events. I think he’s pre-empted the total lockdown that might happen across the whole country, soon enough.”
“It is happening, isn’t it?”
“I think so.”
Silence again. This wasn’t like us. In fact it was downright topsy-turvy. Sarah was leading on the doubtful silences. I’d rung her after I’d worked out a solution. But this was a different type of problem than usual. I wasn’t just feeling low for no apparent reason. There was nothing for her to psychoanalyse; she couldn’t even offer me a chocolate bonbon with a mug of tea.
It struck me that she might be busy in this silence, trying to find a reason I should come home.
“I’m not coming home.” There, I said it. “I have another option, and I’m going to take it.”
She laughed once. “I like this new decisive Elina.”
I felt a smile widen on my face but it was stopped by this horrible, creeping feeling underneath my skin.
“I don’t like… any of this. Sarah, I’m scared. I’ve probably got the coronavirus. And I don’t know what’s going on with my job. The systems, they’re not even set up remotely! Not the ones our team uses. Not the band four numpties. They’ll get rid of me!”
“They can’t just get rid of you…” Sarah’s sensible tone was back. I imagined her fisting her hip as she spoke.
“They might. They could make me redundant. If proper lockdown goes ahead, just imagine. Companies everywhere will be losing so much money.” I was pacing now, back and forth in front of the bench. I forced myself to stop. “At least… you’ll be okay, won’t you?” Sarah was a lab technician for a medical company.
“I think so… I don’t think we can do lockdown, not properly. We’d lose too many experiments. Besides, we wear so much protective equipment anyway that there’s no need to shut us down. I guess – all I have to is don my work gear before I get on the train!”
We laughed. How much I missed this feeling, already. I’d only been gone an hour or so. But everything had changed.
We went through the things she’d need to drop off for me: toothbrush, change of clothes (she could always drop more off in a day or so), duvet. My share of the pizza.
“It’ll be all right, you know,” she said. “Things’ll work out.”
Really? How did she know that? How could she be so confident? Or was she just being the counsellor again?
“Remind me, Sarah. Why didn’t you take psychology any further? You know you would’ve made a great counsellor. I’m being serious.”
She snorted, still playful. “Because I didn’t want to spend all my time talking to people about their problems – oh wait – look, here I am.”
“Oh ha ha...”
“Well, you know. With psychology I was looking for something a bit different, maybe something downright un-sensible before I settled down to a sensible degree in Chemistry.”
“And did you find it?”
“Well, I met you, didn’t I?”
I gasped in mock dismay. “Dr Sarah! That’s most unprofessional.”
“Yeah well, where else would I get my entertainment? And no, Matt’s quiz show obsession does not constitute entertainment. Thank God for my job…” Her tone changed and I could hear the frown in her voice. “Oh, sorry.”
“S’okay… So. Any other instructions, Dr Sarah?”
“Yes. Just – don’t spin out of control, okay? I’m asking you nicely.” She hesitated. “Or else I’ll get Matt on to you.”
I frowned. “What’s Matt gonna do? Quiz me to death?”
“Well that’s just the thing. You’re like the best puzzle ever. Every time I solve you, you go and mess yourself up all over again.”
“How did you see that?”
Paul smiled. “I just recognised the sound. They’re always hopping in and out – they’re quite tame, some of them. Dale spends a lot of time in this garden…” He trailed off, his smile lost in doubt. Fair enough: it was inappropriate for him to say any more. Dale was his effectively his patient.
“I’ve heard they can use tools,” I said. It calmed me, just to consider this simple, easy fact. A completely non-life-and-death matter. Crows use tools. I took a deep, slow breath and let it out again, thinking only of that.
Paul nodded. “It’s true. Listen, I’m sorry your art company didn’t work out for you the way you wanted it to. But you can still try, find another way…”
I blinked at the sudden change of subject, but this was probably one of those counsellor things – to get the person to talk about their life as a whole and hopefully make the immediate problem seem less scary in context.
“Of course it won’t be quite how you envisioned, but you never know how things work out…” He looked at me, his expression gentle. “You had a real connection to those kids, too.”
“I know…” My mouth twisted guiltily.
“It’s a shame for you, too, I meant. These things have a way of opening us up.”
I turned on my seat to look at him. “What do you mean by that?” These big, sweeping always statements frustrated me – but I heard my demanding tone and blushed. I was getting too much into this ‘honest’ mode. We used to have these friendly meaning-of-life debates while the kids were running around the garden, but here, in the darkness and cold it felt utterly wrong.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so blunt,” I said quickly. “But I do want to understand: what did I open myself up to?” He wasn’t talking about his belief system, was he? Paul was well aware I didn’t share his, and he’d never pressed the matter. So far.
“Ah. I’ve missed you Elina, with all your questions.” He chuckled. “The psychologist is back!”
I bit my lip then laughed anyway. “God, it was only an A-level course,” I said, then felt bad about saying “God”.
“Life,” said Paul, nodding at me. I didn’t understand. Was he correcting my use of the word “God” to “life”? Was that the all-holy thing at the centre of it all?
Seeing my confusion he said, “We open ourselves up to life. This experience, on this plane.” He held out his hands to the garden.
Silently I asked, “What other plane might there be?” But this was religious stuff and you either bought into it or you didn’t. It wasn’t my territory… for now. I had enough on my plate. An immediate problem I needed to resolve right now.
Okay, so I didn’t believe everything he believed, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy his company and his problem solving skills. “So… Any ideas what I should do?”
“Stay here.” He spread his hands again.
I looked around me, at the wildflowers casting striped shadows over each other, the old, lopsided gravestones that I couldn’t see, but I knew were there, further back. What did he mean? Sleep on the bench? But – oh no. If he had a spare room I wasn’t going to take it. That was way too much of an imposition. Besides, I’d pass the virus on to him.
He watched me carefully. “I meant the church hall. It’s not ideal, but if you really want somewhere to stay and keep a social distance from absolutely everyone, I’ve just cancelled all events until July.”
I stared across at the white door which glowed dimly in the edge of the light. The church hall was where we’d held the kids’ art group; a modern, oblong extension to the church which looked a bit like an out-building.
“But… That’s really very generous of you, but… what would I sleep on?” Images of the interior quickened through my mind. The racks of chairs stacked along the wall. Of course, it had a kitchen area! It was small and practically antique, but still. I’d have to cut through to the church to get to the toilets… I couldn’t believe I was warming to the idea already, except for the one obvious thing lacking: a bed.
“Perhaps one of your flat mates could drop off your duvet amongst other things. You should be able to make up a bed using sofa cushions. I seem to remember from my early days roughing it as a young evangelist, if you stuff a few sports bags with enough clothes and line them up, they can be more comfortable than some of the worst mattresses in this world.”
I shivered with the delicious weirdness of it. Could this really be happening? Only ten minutes ago I was dizzy with the impossibility of my situation, not really believing there was a way out. The sports bag thing had to be hideously uncomfortable, no matter what he said (how bad could those hotel mattresses be?) but I didn’t care. A light had come on inside my head. A feeble but welcome light.
My mind was racing with so many details I hadn’t worked out what to say.
“Don’t answer me yet,” said Paul. “Speak to your friends. I’m sure they’ll help you make sense of it. But either way,” he added, standing up, “I'd like to think you already have what you came here for.”
“What’s that?” I stared back dumbly.
“A choice.”
Silence stung the phone line. I thought of all the internet lines and wireless phone lines that criss-crossed the air right now, a web of connections being tried and made, conversations going on. Possibly there were many at least as weird as this one.
Sarah repeated it back to me. “You’re moving in to the church hall.” She was piecing together the words, checking my logic for holes. I sensed she was also holding back a tide of shock and worry. I hadn’t given her time to react to the news of my likely infection before I threw this new development at her.
But despite the obvious danger posed to her by my staying at home, she wasn’t going to be hurried in to this new idea. “Won’t it be cold?”
“Um, there’s a heater I think.” Paul had already unlocked the door for me, but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to go in and check these things. I had to stay there, it was the only viable choice.
“What about a cooker or hotplate?”
“There’s a whole kitchen in there, Sarah. It’s bigger than ours! True, it’s ancient. But they use it for events and stuff. Remember, I used to do the kids’ art group in there.” I had a stabbing urge to add, back when my life had a purpose. “If I’m using electricity I guess I’ll just have to pay him at the end.”
“The end? When is the end?” She half-whispered it to herself.
No way was she going to freak out. That was my job. I ignored the rhetorical question and brought her back to the issue at hand. “I’ll stay here until I’m clear of this thing. What is they say? Ten days after you’ve had symptoms? Fourteen? I’ll look it up. There’s no way I’m infecting you.”
“You might infect Paul,” she said quietly.
“I hope not.” I took a moment. “Actually, the chances are pretty low. He has no need to come in to the church hall. He’s already cancelled their events. I think he’s pre-empted the total lockdown that might happen across the whole country, soon enough.”
“It is happening, isn’t it?”
“I think so.”
Silence again. This wasn’t like us. In fact it was downright topsy-turvy. Sarah was leading on the doubtful silences. I’d rung her after I’d worked out a solution. But this was a different type of problem than usual. I wasn’t just feeling low for no apparent reason. There was nothing for her to psychoanalyse; she couldn’t even offer me a chocolate bonbon with a mug of tea.
It struck me that she might be busy in this silence, trying to find a reason I should come home.
“I’m not coming home.” There, I said it. “I have another option, and I’m going to take it.”
She laughed once. “I like this new decisive Elina.”
I felt a smile widen on my face but it was stopped by this horrible, creeping feeling underneath my skin.
“I don’t like… any of this. Sarah, I’m scared. I’ve probably got the coronavirus. And I don’t know what’s going on with my job. The systems, they’re not even set up remotely! Not the ones our team uses. Not the band four numpties. They’ll get rid of me!”
“They can’t just get rid of you…” Sarah’s sensible tone was back. I imagined her fisting her hip as she spoke.
“They might. They could make me redundant. If proper lockdown goes ahead, just imagine. Companies everywhere will be losing so much money.” I was pacing now, back and forth in front of the bench. I forced myself to stop. “At least… you’ll be okay, won’t you?” Sarah was a lab technician for a medical company.
“I think so… I don’t think we can do lockdown, not properly. We’d lose too many experiments. Besides, we wear so much protective equipment anyway that there’s no need to shut us down. I guess – all I have to is don my work gear before I get on the train!”
We laughed. How much I missed this feeling, already. I’d only been gone an hour or so. But everything had changed.
We went through the things she’d need to drop off for me: toothbrush, change of clothes (she could always drop more off in a day or so), duvet. My share of the pizza.
“It’ll be all right, you know,” she said. “Things’ll work out.”
Really? How did she know that? How could she be so confident? Or was she just being the counsellor again?
“Remind me, Sarah. Why didn’t you take psychology any further? You know you would’ve made a great counsellor. I’m being serious.”
She snorted, still playful. “Because I didn’t want to spend all my time talking to people about their problems – oh wait – look, here I am.”
“Oh ha ha...”
“Well, you know. With psychology I was looking for something a bit different, maybe something downright un-sensible before I settled down to a sensible degree in Chemistry.”
“And did you find it?”
“Well, I met you, didn’t I?”
I gasped in mock dismay. “Dr Sarah! That’s most unprofessional.”
“Yeah well, where else would I get my entertainment? And no, Matt’s quiz show obsession does not constitute entertainment. Thank God for my job…” Her tone changed and I could hear the frown in her voice. “Oh, sorry.”
“S’okay… So. Any other instructions, Dr Sarah?”
“Yes. Just – don’t spin out of control, okay? I’m asking you nicely.” She hesitated. “Or else I’ll get Matt on to you.”
I frowned. “What’s Matt gonna do? Quiz me to death?”
“Well that’s just the thing. You’re like the best puzzle ever. Every time I solve you, you go and mess yourself up all over again.”
Fifteen minutes later, Matt’s car pulled up. Out they both came, struggling up the path with armfuls of sofa cushions. I stood well back as Matt and Sarah sidestepped through the church hall door to drop the pieces of my new bed in a heap against the wall. Their second shift included two bags of my clothes plus a bag of pasta, jars of sauce, bread, teabags and my favourite raspberry jam. Sarah was still reeling off lists of things she’d buy and bring over tomorrow night, even as they both backed off, waving, towards the car.
And so I was alone. The lamp’s light seemed colder than ever, bleaching the grass of its green before the rest plunged into blackness. I was grateful for having one last conversation before turning in, although the idea of it made me nervous all over again.
But it was almost too easy to knock on Paul’s door (with a pebble, of course) and formally accept his insanely generous offer. Too easy to step into this strange, alien situation; and all the time, behind every word we spoke was the knowledge of my likely infection. It made my skin prickle, like I had a temperature. Even as I reassured Paul that I had everything I needed – God, he was so kind it made my stomach hurt – I made a mental note to talk to Sarah about it tomorrow, this psychosomatic effect. It was one thing reading about it in a psychology text book, but kind of creepy when it happened. Unless I really was coming down with virus symptoms straight away.
I swallowed. Don’t even think about it.
Once I’d thanked Paul and caught the keys from his underarm throw, it was as if all the distractions of talking to people became a sort of retrospective tension which slipped away as soon as I moved off. That was the business of daytime; this was night. They were two completely separate worlds. Here I was, my trainers clattering the gravel of this garden path which I knew so well, but from another lifetime. The place was the same but it felt so different, though it was really me that had changed.
And now here I was, sunk into a whole other layer of night. Infected, isolated, in a place I didn’t belong, with no idea whether my job would still be there at the end of it all. My throat strained as if all this hideous truth had swelled into a boil in there; as if I’d swallowed my fist.
No, there’s much, much worse than this. I cursed under my breath as I locked the church hall door behind me, then remembered that these were church grounds, and cursed some more, silently this time.
Feeling cold and hollow inside, I sat on one of the chairs, flipped open my laptop and went to a news channel.
The virus was spreading fast, taking lives. Crazy numbers were no longer only in China, but in Italy and Spain. The death toll was creeping up in Britain, too. How had it come to this? From a single British carrier who travelled back from a conference in Singapore, to hundreds of cases. A mere few weeks ago we’d all been focussed on this one case in Brighton, waiting to see how that panned out; now, presumably, several if not dozens more had unknowingly brought the virus into the country and the infection rate was multiplying fast.
How stupid we were, for carrying on as normal when most carriers have no symptoms for the first several days.
The screen blurred as I let the tears come. I was useless to the world. There was nothing I could besides this: just sit here on a church hall chair and stare at a screen while the politicians debated and the health staff slaved and people got sick and died.
I cried for them, I cried for my sad, pitiful self for crying for my losses when others had lost so much more. My eyes and my chest burned.
Eventually I had to do something sensible. I had to eat, or I’d wake up hungry in the night.
I laid out my sofa cushions in a row on the floor and tucked the sheet around them – Sarah really had thought of everything – then sat down again to eat the pizza cold. I couldn’t be bothered to faff around with the oven. No, that was only part true. The real reason was that none of this was mine to use. I was borrowing someone else’s space and it didn’t feel right.
“I’ll have to make it feel right soon,” I told myself out loud. My words echoed in the near-empty space and I shivered. Yes, it was a bit cold, but not bad. The room was as wide as our lounge but long, ending in the kitchen units at the other end, white squares that glared brightly under the light.
I’d have to ask Sarah to bring my desk lamp over tomorrow. The overhead fluorescents were a bit all-or-nothing, and when I finally switched them off it would be total darkness except that the light in the garden would probably stream through the window.
I twisted round to look at it. Was it weird that there were no curtains? I’d locked the gate on my way back in. The only person who could let themselves in besides Paul was Dale. An image of his face jumped into my mind, the way his face emerged from the shadows. But Dale was a well-meaning bloke, he was fine. A bit odd…I was a bit odd.
I was grateful for this place, I told myself, wiping my eyes. This place was a life saver.
Out of nowhere, I found myself thinking: Would I survive?
I wasn’t ready to think about that yet. My mind rejected it; it was at once too ludicrous and too scary. Instead, I found myself twisting round again, squinting for a glimpse of that little gargoyle figurine in the tree. Why was I thinking about that again now? Maybe it was just the memories of this place…
Oh. That little boy, Kyle.
I remembered the bruises on his arm. My breath caught as I recalled overhearing Paul’s voice, kind but firm, checking up on Kyle’s “situation at home”. I was vaguely aware that many of the kids who came to these groups were from difficult backgrounds, though Paul spared me the details. But with Kyle I’d seen the bruises for myself; once, a thumb shape imprinted on his forearm, purple against the brown.
There was something they’d said on the news, speculating about lockdown. There was a woman from a charity saying that abuse victims would find themselves more trapped than ever. Shouldn’t they be allowed outside more often than others? But how would you regulate such a thing?
God, poor Kyle. With an ache, a fresh wave of tears streamed down my face and I let out a small sob. It echoed horribly in the carpet-less hall. Why was I so emotional?
Snivelling, I hurried to the church toilets to blow my nose, and gathered some handfuls of tissue for later. Get a hold on yourself. I needed to calm down, meditate.
I settled myself into a chair with the duvet wrapped around my legs and closed my eyes, focussing on my breathing. A slow, gentle rhythm like a calm sea breaking on the shore. In. Out. I began to get drowsy but didn’t fight it.
Something flapped past my face and I jerked back, holding my face. But there was nothing there. I must have fallen asleep; I hadn’t realised I was so tired. The fluttering sound persisted, but from somewhere behind me, outside the window. It was only my half-asleep state that made me think it was closer.
It was so bright in here, all I could see in the glass were ghost shapes layered behind my reflection. I switched off the light and stared out.
In the pool of light, a black shape hopped away.
That crow again? Don’t be stupid, there were plenty of crows around here. But I noticed something else on the ground: a white lump. It was an uneven shape, sort of scrunched. A handkerchief? I tutted and reached for the door, groping to get the keys out of my pocket and into the lock. It was silly to worry about going out here on my own. It was a private garden! But the skin all over my back and arms tightened in anticipation. Gingerly, I pressed down the handle and stepped outside.
I forced myself closer to the bone-white puddle of light. A breeze blew and the screwed up blob shuddered along the ground: just a ball of paper. I half-turned, ready to go back inside, but something made me as nosy as that crow. I ought to put it in the bin, although even as I told myself this I knew that wasn’t the real reason for bending down and picking it up.
Checking that no-one was watching – what, did I think the crow was going to come back and claim it? – I smoothed the page out, taking in the scrawled handwriting, the crossings out. Whatever it was, it was a first draft. At the top I saw the one line that should have made me stop right there and mind my own business:
Dear Paul,
I scanned down the page and suddenly I was breathless. What was this? These weird half lines, meanings struggling to make themselves clear…
It’s too much. I’m not built for this sort of work.
I’m sorry.
When I said I quit, I meant it. If that means no longer gardening here, then I have to make that choice, with reluctance. My nerves are frayed, I can’t handle this any more.
Dale!
I really shouldn’t be reading this…
It feels so close now. Dangerously close. The cloud is growing. The mass grows bigger every day. I’m sorry, you will have to find someone else. Another pair of wings.
What the hell was this? ‘Cloud’ and ‘mass’? Were they code for something – Dale’s mental health problems perhaps?
This was deeply private. I had to stop reading now. But I couldn’t let go of that crinkled piece of paper. What could he possibly mean by ‘Another pair of wings’?
I hope we can still be friends, firm friends. If I can just let some time pass before I make contact again. On this plane, of course.
My eyes flew wide open, fixed on those words: on this plane. Hadn’t Paul mentioned that earlier? But again, this had to be part of a half-joking language they’d built up between them. If Dale had been in deep therapy with Paul for years, they probably had loads of private, shorthand terms for Dale’s worst troubles or fears.
I couldn’t, I shouldn’t keep reading this. It was wrong.
I read on.
You always said the unknown was the most terrifying thing to face. But I would gladly go back to those days before I knew what I.
I don’t know how (something crossed out, several times.)
Seeing what others don’t see is so much worse. You have to be stronger than anyone. I’m not that person. I’m just a gardener, whose curiosity got the better of him.
It’s worse than before. I have nothing left to give, I’m empty.
More crossings-out. I flipped it over, my heart thudding in my throat. More scribbles. What was this – poetry?
The Fear is near
Here comes the storm
Where nightmares take their form.
Why had Dale put a capital ‘F’ in front of ‘fear’? I shook my head. A lot of people did that by mistake. This was a bunch of doodles, an afterthought when Dale realised this was a draft to be chucked away. Maybe he was a big sci-fi fan or something and was playing around with their mental health references. But those lines caught my imagination and I found myself picturing a heavy cloud bursting with… What? Some dark force. Fear itself.
A trickle of cold in my stomach. Oh God, don’t start dreaming up weird fantasies now – not when you’re about to go to bed. In a place you’ve never slept before. Completely alone.
Jeez, I’d have to turn my laptop on again and watch some cartoons or something. Maybe watch a rerun of Friends to bring my mind to normality.
Dale! Remind me to ask you, “What the hell?” next time I see you… But just thinking that gave my stomach another sickly twist. I was the creepy one. I’d trespassed on his private thoughts, his draft letter. I wondered if he’d got round to writing the final version, whether he’d put it through Paul’s door.
I traipsed back in, almost tripping over the threshold, I just couldn’t tear my eyes off that letter. So strange, to write poetry on the back… It really did seem to be about the same thing. Clouds, fear.
I couldn’t put it in the bin. I folded it up and tucked it deep inside my jeans pocket.
I half lay in the dark watching clips of old cartoons for as long as I could. I figured if it was already dark I might drop off more easily.
I kept slipping into a half doze. I couldn’t decide whether I was looking at the bunched duvet over my knees or at something else: a storm cloud. Even the third time this happened, I couldn’t be bothered to sit up. If I resisted sleep I’d be a mess in the morning. But the in-between state only worsened as I lay there, willing myself to sleep. The cloud idea grew. At the same time, I had the sensation of something crowding in on me. Flutterings, wing tips, hooked claws. Twice more the wing flapping came close, making me jerk from my almost-sleep. Breathless, I tried to wedge myself upright but I could no longer be sure if I was awake or just dreaming that I was sitting up.
The image drew closer, and I realised what I’d been keeping at bay all this time. The swell, the roll of grey-black clouds. A touch of purple in its darkest part, spreading and deepening like a bruise. It raged, a storm of hurt growing thick. From the heaviest part of the swell, the belly of the cloud, a mass of claws and arms reached, grappling their way out into the naked sky. Each one the colour of grief.
I’ve never hallucinated. I couldn’t know how badly the stress had infected my mind and whether this was a new way of having nightmares whilst being half-awake.
The next day I would know it was real.
The Fear was coming.
And so I was alone. The lamp’s light seemed colder than ever, bleaching the grass of its green before the rest plunged into blackness. I was grateful for having one last conversation before turning in, although the idea of it made me nervous all over again.
But it was almost too easy to knock on Paul’s door (with a pebble, of course) and formally accept his insanely generous offer. Too easy to step into this strange, alien situation; and all the time, behind every word we spoke was the knowledge of my likely infection. It made my skin prickle, like I had a temperature. Even as I reassured Paul that I had everything I needed – God, he was so kind it made my stomach hurt – I made a mental note to talk to Sarah about it tomorrow, this psychosomatic effect. It was one thing reading about it in a psychology text book, but kind of creepy when it happened. Unless I really was coming down with virus symptoms straight away.
I swallowed. Don’t even think about it.
Once I’d thanked Paul and caught the keys from his underarm throw, it was as if all the distractions of talking to people became a sort of retrospective tension which slipped away as soon as I moved off. That was the business of daytime; this was night. They were two completely separate worlds. Here I was, my trainers clattering the gravel of this garden path which I knew so well, but from another lifetime. The place was the same but it felt so different, though it was really me that had changed.
And now here I was, sunk into a whole other layer of night. Infected, isolated, in a place I didn’t belong, with no idea whether my job would still be there at the end of it all. My throat strained as if all this hideous truth had swelled into a boil in there; as if I’d swallowed my fist.
No, there’s much, much worse than this. I cursed under my breath as I locked the church hall door behind me, then remembered that these were church grounds, and cursed some more, silently this time.
Feeling cold and hollow inside, I sat on one of the chairs, flipped open my laptop and went to a news channel.
The virus was spreading fast, taking lives. Crazy numbers were no longer only in China, but in Italy and Spain. The death toll was creeping up in Britain, too. How had it come to this? From a single British carrier who travelled back from a conference in Singapore, to hundreds of cases. A mere few weeks ago we’d all been focussed on this one case in Brighton, waiting to see how that panned out; now, presumably, several if not dozens more had unknowingly brought the virus into the country and the infection rate was multiplying fast.
How stupid we were, for carrying on as normal when most carriers have no symptoms for the first several days.
The screen blurred as I let the tears come. I was useless to the world. There was nothing I could besides this: just sit here on a church hall chair and stare at a screen while the politicians debated and the health staff slaved and people got sick and died.
I cried for them, I cried for my sad, pitiful self for crying for my losses when others had lost so much more. My eyes and my chest burned.
Eventually I had to do something sensible. I had to eat, or I’d wake up hungry in the night.
I laid out my sofa cushions in a row on the floor and tucked the sheet around them – Sarah really had thought of everything – then sat down again to eat the pizza cold. I couldn’t be bothered to faff around with the oven. No, that was only part true. The real reason was that none of this was mine to use. I was borrowing someone else’s space and it didn’t feel right.
“I’ll have to make it feel right soon,” I told myself out loud. My words echoed in the near-empty space and I shivered. Yes, it was a bit cold, but not bad. The room was as wide as our lounge but long, ending in the kitchen units at the other end, white squares that glared brightly under the light.
I’d have to ask Sarah to bring my desk lamp over tomorrow. The overhead fluorescents were a bit all-or-nothing, and when I finally switched them off it would be total darkness except that the light in the garden would probably stream through the window.
I twisted round to look at it. Was it weird that there were no curtains? I’d locked the gate on my way back in. The only person who could let themselves in besides Paul was Dale. An image of his face jumped into my mind, the way his face emerged from the shadows. But Dale was a well-meaning bloke, he was fine. A bit odd…I was a bit odd.
I was grateful for this place, I told myself, wiping my eyes. This place was a life saver.
Out of nowhere, I found myself thinking: Would I survive?
I wasn’t ready to think about that yet. My mind rejected it; it was at once too ludicrous and too scary. Instead, I found myself twisting round again, squinting for a glimpse of that little gargoyle figurine in the tree. Why was I thinking about that again now? Maybe it was just the memories of this place…
Oh. That little boy, Kyle.
I remembered the bruises on his arm. My breath caught as I recalled overhearing Paul’s voice, kind but firm, checking up on Kyle’s “situation at home”. I was vaguely aware that many of the kids who came to these groups were from difficult backgrounds, though Paul spared me the details. But with Kyle I’d seen the bruises for myself; once, a thumb shape imprinted on his forearm, purple against the brown.
There was something they’d said on the news, speculating about lockdown. There was a woman from a charity saying that abuse victims would find themselves more trapped than ever. Shouldn’t they be allowed outside more often than others? But how would you regulate such a thing?
God, poor Kyle. With an ache, a fresh wave of tears streamed down my face and I let out a small sob. It echoed horribly in the carpet-less hall. Why was I so emotional?
Snivelling, I hurried to the church toilets to blow my nose, and gathered some handfuls of tissue for later. Get a hold on yourself. I needed to calm down, meditate.
I settled myself into a chair with the duvet wrapped around my legs and closed my eyes, focussing on my breathing. A slow, gentle rhythm like a calm sea breaking on the shore. In. Out. I began to get drowsy but didn’t fight it.
Something flapped past my face and I jerked back, holding my face. But there was nothing there. I must have fallen asleep; I hadn’t realised I was so tired. The fluttering sound persisted, but from somewhere behind me, outside the window. It was only my half-asleep state that made me think it was closer.
It was so bright in here, all I could see in the glass were ghost shapes layered behind my reflection. I switched off the light and stared out.
In the pool of light, a black shape hopped away.
That crow again? Don’t be stupid, there were plenty of crows around here. But I noticed something else on the ground: a white lump. It was an uneven shape, sort of scrunched. A handkerchief? I tutted and reached for the door, groping to get the keys out of my pocket and into the lock. It was silly to worry about going out here on my own. It was a private garden! But the skin all over my back and arms tightened in anticipation. Gingerly, I pressed down the handle and stepped outside.
I forced myself closer to the bone-white puddle of light. A breeze blew and the screwed up blob shuddered along the ground: just a ball of paper. I half-turned, ready to go back inside, but something made me as nosy as that crow. I ought to put it in the bin, although even as I told myself this I knew that wasn’t the real reason for bending down and picking it up.
Checking that no-one was watching – what, did I think the crow was going to come back and claim it? – I smoothed the page out, taking in the scrawled handwriting, the crossings out. Whatever it was, it was a first draft. At the top I saw the one line that should have made me stop right there and mind my own business:
Dear Paul,
I scanned down the page and suddenly I was breathless. What was this? These weird half lines, meanings struggling to make themselves clear…
It’s too much. I’m not built for this sort of work.
I’m sorry.
When I said I quit, I meant it. If that means no longer gardening here, then I have to make that choice, with reluctance. My nerves are frayed, I can’t handle this any more.
Dale!
I really shouldn’t be reading this…
It feels so close now. Dangerously close. The cloud is growing. The mass grows bigger every day. I’m sorry, you will have to find someone else. Another pair of wings.
What the hell was this? ‘Cloud’ and ‘mass’? Were they code for something – Dale’s mental health problems perhaps?
This was deeply private. I had to stop reading now. But I couldn’t let go of that crinkled piece of paper. What could he possibly mean by ‘Another pair of wings’?
I hope we can still be friends, firm friends. If I can just let some time pass before I make contact again. On this plane, of course.
My eyes flew wide open, fixed on those words: on this plane. Hadn’t Paul mentioned that earlier? But again, this had to be part of a half-joking language they’d built up between them. If Dale had been in deep therapy with Paul for years, they probably had loads of private, shorthand terms for Dale’s worst troubles or fears.
I couldn’t, I shouldn’t keep reading this. It was wrong.
I read on.
You always said the unknown was the most terrifying thing to face. But I would gladly go back to those days before I knew what I.
I don’t know how (something crossed out, several times.)
Seeing what others don’t see is so much worse. You have to be stronger than anyone. I’m not that person. I’m just a gardener, whose curiosity got the better of him.
It’s worse than before. I have nothing left to give, I’m empty.
More crossings-out. I flipped it over, my heart thudding in my throat. More scribbles. What was this – poetry?
The Fear is near
Here comes the storm
Where nightmares take their form.
Why had Dale put a capital ‘F’ in front of ‘fear’? I shook my head. A lot of people did that by mistake. This was a bunch of doodles, an afterthought when Dale realised this was a draft to be chucked away. Maybe he was a big sci-fi fan or something and was playing around with their mental health references. But those lines caught my imagination and I found myself picturing a heavy cloud bursting with… What? Some dark force. Fear itself.
A trickle of cold in my stomach. Oh God, don’t start dreaming up weird fantasies now – not when you’re about to go to bed. In a place you’ve never slept before. Completely alone.
Jeez, I’d have to turn my laptop on again and watch some cartoons or something. Maybe watch a rerun of Friends to bring my mind to normality.
Dale! Remind me to ask you, “What the hell?” next time I see you… But just thinking that gave my stomach another sickly twist. I was the creepy one. I’d trespassed on his private thoughts, his draft letter. I wondered if he’d got round to writing the final version, whether he’d put it through Paul’s door.
I traipsed back in, almost tripping over the threshold, I just couldn’t tear my eyes off that letter. So strange, to write poetry on the back… It really did seem to be about the same thing. Clouds, fear.
I couldn’t put it in the bin. I folded it up and tucked it deep inside my jeans pocket.
I half lay in the dark watching clips of old cartoons for as long as I could. I figured if it was already dark I might drop off more easily.
I kept slipping into a half doze. I couldn’t decide whether I was looking at the bunched duvet over my knees or at something else: a storm cloud. Even the third time this happened, I couldn’t be bothered to sit up. If I resisted sleep I’d be a mess in the morning. But the in-between state only worsened as I lay there, willing myself to sleep. The cloud idea grew. At the same time, I had the sensation of something crowding in on me. Flutterings, wing tips, hooked claws. Twice more the wing flapping came close, making me jerk from my almost-sleep. Breathless, I tried to wedge myself upright but I could no longer be sure if I was awake or just dreaming that I was sitting up.
The image drew closer, and I realised what I’d been keeping at bay all this time. The swell, the roll of grey-black clouds. A touch of purple in its darkest part, spreading and deepening like a bruise. It raged, a storm of hurt growing thick. From the heaviest part of the swell, the belly of the cloud, a mass of claws and arms reached, grappling their way out into the naked sky. Each one the colour of grief.
I’ve never hallucinated. I couldn’t know how badly the stress had infected my mind and whether this was a new way of having nightmares whilst being half-awake.
The next day I would know it was real.
The Fear was coming.
“It’s too late. You have seen and you have… been seen. The beasts of the other plane know you now. They’ve watched you watching them. They will haunt you now. You are one of us. Whether we like it or not.”
Thanks for reading. All written contents copyright of Anna Tizard, 2020.
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved.
