Ren: The Man Behind the Monster

by Sarah Noffke

  In my first week on the job I’d trained most of the regulars to steer clear of my booth. Even if there was a major queue at the machines, people would endure it if they didn’t have to suffer my wrath. Tourists still bothered me. But they had such poor English that half the time they hardly knew I was insulting them. And I hadn’t used my gifts in over two weeks. This for me confirmed that my bad attitude was permanent, but that didn’t mean that the cloud of doom that hung over my thoughts wasn’t going to dissipate with time. And even if it didn’t, I didn’t trust myself in the “real world” using my gifts. Inside the Institute had been safe, but out here where there were opportunities to deceive and no Trey Underwood to keep me in check I needed to be careful. It was all a slippery slope and I knew I was one scam away from falling into the monster’s mouth again and becoming despicable once more. Then I’d find a new devil and be back atoning for my sins.

  I’m sitting in my booth reading when a woman’s voice disturbs me. I’d actually made it a complete hour without interruption.

  “Can I get a five-day travelcard for zones one and two?” she asks, rummaging through a bag.

  “Use the automated machine,” I say, not looking away from my book.

  “But there’s a ridiculously long queue,” the woman says. She’s a local. They should know better than to bother me. I had a reputation with them. They warned their other local friends about me. The guy who took over my shift was usually bombarded. I was really proud of the strides I’d made in such a short time.

  I lower my book, giving her a cold stare. “Are you allergic to lines? Can you not wait like everyone else?” I say.

  “I was under the impression ticketing booths still sold tickets, what a daft notion,” she says. She has short curly hair and kind of resembles an elfish woman with her willowy build and pointed features. There is a spark of mischief in her brown eyes.

  I lay my book down completely with a long sigh. “What do you want?”

  “Can I get a five-day travelcard for zones one and two?” she repeats.

  “You can,” I say and then sit frozen regarding her with a nasty look.

  She grunts in frustration. “Will you please sell me one?”

  “That will be forty-three quid,” I say, taking her money and handing her a ticket from the dispenser.

  I pick up my book a second after I’ve chucked the travelcard through the receiving drawer.

  “What are you reading?” The woman’s nasally voice echoes through the speaker.

  Obviously she isn’t in too much of a hurry to wait in a queue if she has the time to ask me irritating questions. “A book,” I say, not lowering it.

  “What’s it about?” the elfish woman asks.

  “People,” I say flatly.

  “Are you enjoying it?” the woman says, not reading any of my nonverbal cues.

  I slam the book on the countertop, earning a startled expression from the woman. “Do I look like a fucking librarian? Do I look like the kind of bloke who has a blog about my favorite books? Do I look like I make incessant book recommendations on Goodreads? Or do I look like I want to be left the bloody hell alone?”

  “No, you look—”

  A disturbance twenty feet down on the platform interrupts the lady. An old woman is yelling. Her hands are flying around. “Thief! That man just stole my bag.”

  I just then make out a guy barreling through people, pushing them to the side without concern as he sprints for the stairs next to my booth. They’ll take him up to the street where he’ll be lost in a sea of people. With an irritated sigh, I pick up my book and try to find where I left off.

  “Aren’t you going to do something?” the elf-lady says, her voice rising in panic.

  Without lowering the book I say, “About what?”

  “That thief,” she yells, beating against the glass.

  I nod, a consoling look on my face, although my gaze is still pinned on the pages of my book. “I am doing something. I’m ignoring it.”

  “Call security,” the woman says, swiveling her head over her shoulder as the thief passes by in a sprint. I spy real fear in her eyes when I flick my gaze up for a second.

  “Why don’t you?” I say, still searching for my last place in the book.

  “I don’t have my mobile,” she says, watching the stairs which the thief has probably cleared by now. “You have a phone with direct access to Underground security.”

  I lower the book yet again. “Look, Tinker Bell, it’s not going to make a lick of difference if I call anyone. They can’t get here in time. They can’t do anything about it and the thief is already scot-free at this point.”

  “Because of you,” she says, with a menacing stare.

  “Well, I didn’t see you tackling him on his way through here. You actually flattened yourself to my booth to avoid a confrontation,” I say.

  “How did you see anything with your nose glued in your book?”

  “Do you need a travelcard?” I say plainly.

  She bristles, obviously confused by the sudden question. “No, you already sold me one.”

  “Do you need Underground information?” I say.

  “No.”

  “Well, then may I recommend that you move along since you’re currently blocking other patrons from receiving my excellent customer service,” I say.

  She throws her arm out. “There’s no one else in line.”

  “Probably because you’re making such a scene and they don’t dare come over here. So would you please get on the tube and travel to whatever brothel you belong to,” I say.

  The woman doesn’t give me the punishing look I deserve, which slightly deflates my spirits. I worked hard for that one. Instead she studies me, a strange look in her wise eyes. I don’t like the way this one looks at me. I don’t like a lot of things about her. Finally she blows out a frustrated breath and turns and marches off with her fists clenched at her side.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Undoubtedly parts of London have changed. Technology has reared its evil head and taken over the city more than I’d like. But London is also a city that holds onto its history and preserves places rather than tearing them down. For me that means that my old pub, down the street from my flat, still has its doors open. The interior has hardly been updated, which most would find a bit unpleasing since springs are threatening to poke out of the cushions in the booth seats. But I’m not one of those people. I’m as grateful that this place hasn’t changed as I am that my pops still has the same residence. I had the evening meal here at this pub almost every night I was in London. For almost ten years I patronized this place. I didn’t know any of the other regulars. And I never picked up a woman in this pub. I always considered it bad form to scam in places I wanted to frequent regularly.

  “Have you come to harass me some more?” I hear a nasally woman say as a cocktail napkin is tossed on my table.

  I yank my eyes away from my book to find my waitress is none other than the elfish-disaster-of-a-woman from the Underground that afternoon. Without the glass to protect her she should watch her mouth. She doesn’t know that and she’s probably going to get on my case regarding not calling security about the thief.

  I take the napkin and skip it forward off the table to where it lands on the dirty floor. The woman notices and narrows her eyes at me. “Someone is going to have to pick that up.”

  “That someone will probably be you,” I say. “And if I remember correctly, you were the one harassing me today while I was trying to serve the public.” I pause and arch an eyebrow at the woman. She’s isn’t pretty or ugly. She just is. She’s odd in her features and then also completely uninteresting. Short brown hair. Small brown eyes. A little tall, but nothing to write home about.

  “What will you have?” she says, pulling a small notepad from her apron, along with a pen.

  “Note that I’m not going to be a drain on your time and attention while you try and complete your duties. I’m simply going to move along when m
y order has been satisfied, as you should have done today.”

  “What will you have?” the woman repeats.

  “I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement,” I say. “And also I’m grateful that you don’t purchase travelcards with the wages you make working in brothels. You don’t also work in a brothel, do you?” I then lean forward, appearing curious.

  “What will you have?” The woman now sounds on edge.

  I release a small smile. Good to know I can still get under the hardest of skins. “I’ll have a cup of Earl Grey and the fish and chips.”

  Without writing down a bloody word the woman turns and trots off. “Make it snappy,” I say, realizing she’s already on edge after two altercations with me.

  Seven minutes later, three minutes longer than it should have taken, the waitress hands me a cup of tea. It looks like it was about to rush out of her hands so I help her with it. I’m afraid it’s about to spill down my front, as I’m sure she intended. Unfortunately, the mishap causes our hands to brush and I immediately sense her thoughts. It’s the only gift of mine I can’t shut down. All I can do is hope to never touch anyone and therefore not be punished by their repugnant thoughts. From the waitress I hear her think, This guy really needs a friend.

  My reaction is too immediate. My patience low from our exchange earlier and everything else not going on in my life. I slam the tea and saucer down with a blunt force and the woman jumps. “No, I bloody don’t need a friend, so don’t even try,” I say, a sharp punishing tone in my voice.

  “Why did you say that?” the woman asks.

  I’d been so repulsed by the thought of her reaching out to befriend me that I acted suddenly. Now I’m going to have to cover for my blunder. “Because I sensed you were thinking that.”

  She regards me skeptically. “Well, maybe I was,” she says a tad sheepishly. “I just sensed you were lonely and that’s the reason you’re so rude. I’ve been there before and thought I might be able to help you.”

  “Look, you didn’t sense anything about me,” I say, a bite in my words. “You don’t have super powers. You’re not a special race of people. You’re a waitress. Get it? So don’t try to be my friend. What you need to do is go wait tables. The guy over there looks like he could use a refill actually.” I point behind her.

  The waitress dares to lay her tray down on my table. Then she leans down over the table, a strange look in her shit-brown eyes. “Actually, since you probably don’t believe a word I say, I’ll share that I’m a part of a race known as Dream Travelers and I’m empathic. That means I can sense other people’s emotions. And my gift told me that there’s a deep loneliness in you and I thought I could help,” she says, sounding both angry and sensitive.

  I freeze and try to keep my expression neutral. What are the odds of stumbling across another Dream Traveler randomly? What are the odds that we’d be thrown together like this?

  “This is when you laugh at me for telling you something so ridiculous,” she says with a dry chuckle when I don’t say anything.

  I don’t want to believe she has told the truth, but I have to. My instincts tell me she is in fact a Dream Traveler. And this explains that mature look in her eyes and why I can’t place her age. Is she thirty or forty? I can’t tell.

  “Why are you a waitress if you have a special skill like empathesis?” I finally say. “Why aren’t you a shrink or a detective or something else where you could utilize your skill at a more beneficial level?” And then I throw up a shield around my emotions. It isn’t foolproof, but totally worth a shot. I only ever knew one empath and he had a way of knowing things telepaths never knew.

  The woman slides her head to the side, giving me a cautious stare. “That’s not the retort I expected. And I also didn’t expect you to throw up a shield. Most don’t know how,” she says.

  “Well, let’s just say even though you didn’t expect me to, I believe the foolishness you just spouted.”

  “Because you’re…” She draws out the last word, the reality dawning on her.

  Behind her, a guy who drained his coffee cup six minutes ago coughs loudly.

  “I think you’ve abandoned your waitress duties for too long,” I say, pointing at the bloke. “You’re a lousy empath if you didn’t realize the chap two tables over is pretty peeved at you for ignoring him.”

  She flips her head over her shoulder at the gentleman and then back to me. Then the waitress slaps her hand over her forehead, looking overwhelmed. “Right, I was a little distracted,” she says.

  I read her name tag. “Jane, go do your job, which is to wait tables and not pester me.”

  She shakes her head at me as she turns.

  I pull my book back up from the table. I’m not granted two minutes of peace when Jane, the rude waitress, slips into the seat on the other side of my booth.

  I raise an annoyed eyebrow at her.

  “The other waitresses are covering my tables,” she says, answering my question. “I was overdue for a break anyway.”

  I grant her no reaction but instead bring my book up higher.

  “You’re one too, aren’t you?” she asks.

  I flip a page in my book and continue reading.

  “I suspected from the beginning, but I wasn’t completely sure,” she says, her tone growing cocky. “It’s why I bought that ticket this morning.”

  I don’t lower my book or respond. She can’t see the annoyed expression since the paperback blocks it.

  “So I could ask you the same question. Why is it that you work a mindless job when I sense you are terribly powerful?” the waitress says.

  I don’t lower the book, just speak to her with my face obscured. “Empaths can’t sense power.”

  “No, but we can sense the desire to use it. My empathy sensed that you miss using your power.”

  “You’re a lousy empath,” I said.

  “And you’re lousy at completely shielding your emotions.”

  I slam the book on the table, gaining the attention of a few patrons. “Actually, I’m quite excellent at it, but unfortunately it is impossible to completely guard emotions. So why don’t you mind your own bloody business and leave me alone,” I say, picking up my cold tea cup and taking a sip, my eyes low.

  “I haven’t always been a waitress,” Jane says.

  “And I don’t really care,” I say, picking up my book again.

  “I actually was a social worker. I worked with lots of abused kids and poverty-stricken families.”

  “Still don’t care,” I say, flipping a page.

  “I worked in that role for years, decades actually,” she says, completely ignoring me. It’s like she’s talking to herself. “I actually lost track of how long I did it. Was it twenty-five or thirty years, I can’t say.”

  I yawn loudly and flip yet another page, not having read the prior one.

  “I just quit one day,” she says, plainly.

  There’s a long pause and without having the gift of empathy I still sense a regret in the woman.

  I lower the book. “Let me guess, you were as lousy a social worker as you are a waitress.”

  “I was bloody brilliant at it actually,” Jane says, smugly. “I had stellar success rates. More of the parents in my cases completed rehabilitation than any other. The kids I worked with had great results, improving behavior and grades.”

  I just stare at her.

  “But for every person I saved, there were thirty waiting for help,” she says, her voice dropping an octave. “Our office was overwhelmed with cases. There was no end in sight. I had helped so many and I still felt defeated. I quit because no matter what I did it didn’t make enough of an impact. Does that make sense?”

  More than she will ever realize. Maybe Jane sensed my story as I knew she has the potential to do. Whatever reason she has for sharing this with me, it does slightly endear her to me. We are both quitters. Complex people, seeking a simple life. Tired of the losing battle. And yet I resent God for sending this person into
my life. He intervenes in my life about like the Lucidites do into other people’s affairs. God, I just want to be left alone.

  Jane shrugs her shoulders when I remain stone-faced and silent. “Anyway, that’s my story.”

  I stand, pulling on my jacket as I do. “Well, cheerio,” I say, turning to leave.

  “Wait,” Jane says to my back.

  I turn and regard her with disinterest. “What?”

  “What’s your gift?”

  “I’m apathetic,” I say and turn back around and leave.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I hadn’t even completely left the pub when my mobile rang in my pocket. I’m not sure why I even kept the irritating device after Oregon. I didn’t really do technology. I was pretty certain every time I stuck the stupid thing to my head it was scorching my brain cells like dove eggs in a frying pan. Only two people have my number and I’m fairly certain this call isn’t from my pops since we’d just had dinner the night before.

  I pull the phone out of my pocket. As I suspected. Trey Underwood.

  I tap the screen. “If this is about the fly fishing trip, I’m still checking dates. I’m super busy for the next decade or two,” I say, strolling the noisy pavement.

  “Very funny, Ren,” Trey says on the other side of the line. “I’m not calling about the trip that’s never going to happen.”