Hydra

by Matt Wesolowski

  —I know the type. Every school has a ‘Jobba’.

  —So right near the start of year eleven, Jobba and his mates were hanging around the corner shop near school, smoking. Jobba – inexplicably – had a girlfriend at the time; this pinched little thing in year nine whose face always looked like it had growths all over it because she covered her acne with such a thick layer of foundation.

  I was walking away from the shop, up to get my bus, when I heard a commotion. I turned and saw there were loads of Saint Theresa’s kids there and a few from Stanwel Grammar. And I saw Arla and Jobba’s girlfriend standing face to face in front of a growing crowd. The two were clearly squaring up for a fight; and no one wants to miss a fight, especially when it’s girls, right?

  —Isn’t that rare – a girl fight?

  —Yeah. Especially when one was Arla Macleod. This was right at the beginning of year eleven, remember, before all her ‘scary Arla’ reputation was made.

  —So this was the first time you’d seen Arla be violent?

  —Yes. And the way it happened was … it just was so … I mean, it wasn’t like anything serious, not really. What happened was Jobba’s girlfriend, Tracey, was screaming, calling Arla all these names, and Jobba’s stood behind her, chuckling like a drain. It looked for a bit like Arla was just going to back down, she was shaking her head, moving away. Then he said something.

  —Who? Jobba?

  —Yeah. I didn’t catch it all but it was something … derogatory … something sexual. And Arla … you could see it in her eyes first, it was scary … she just lost it. She brushed Tracey aside and just started laying into Jobba. I remember she had hold of his ear with her left hand and with her right she was just swinging, hitting him over and over again … and he was screaming, ‘Get her off me! Get her off!’

  It should have been funny. It was at first. But then something … something uncertain fell over the crowd. It was the childish panic in Jobba’s voice, I think, and the shrieks coming from Arla. Loads of people just turned and began walking away. A few ran. No one stepped in to help. It took the guy with the moustache from the shop to come out and threaten to call the police before Arla stopped. And she just ran – this lopsided, gangly run, like a half-squashed daddy-long-legs – off round the corner while Jobba just stood there, blood all over his face.

  He came into school the next day with two black eyes. I was fully expecting everyone to be laughing at him, but no one did. And you would have expected Arla to become an almost-hero then. But that never happened either. If anything, what had happened had been too much, had gone full circle. It seemed that then everyone wanted to challenge her, wind her up, to see what she’d do.

  —This sounds like quite unusual behaviour. And I hate to sound sexist – but especially for a girl.

  —I think that’s what first made Arla an … an oddity, something everyone wanted to look at, to poke with a stick.

  Including me.

  —So there were other, similar incidents?

  —Yeah. And it didn’t matter if it was in a lesson, she would just go…

  But Arla wasn’t respected. In a story, after that incident, she would have been, right? I mean, she would have been seen as a sort of hero? Maybe if she’d fought someone who commanded respect themselves, then it might have been different. But, no – Arla ended up a freak show and things only got worse for her…

  —Worse?

  —It was like, there seemed to be this sort of sexuality that emanated from Arla after that. Like, her shirt was always unbuttoned and she always wore a black bra and you could see the straps. I mean, it’s not like some other girls didn’t, but – it’s hard to explain – it was much more raw with Arla.

  —But you said that any sexual remark directed at Arla resulted in extreme behaviour. This sounds like a huge contradiction.

  —Yes, it was. But isn’t that another huge red flag, that kind of behaviour? I remember how wrong it all felt at the time. I was just too young to properly understand it.

  —You were a child too, of course.

  —If … if Arla was suffering from mental illness at the time, were people taking advantage of her? It feels … it’s too much for me to say.

  —You’re just reporting what you heard…

  —OK then. What I will say is that there were rumours of promiscuity; and not just that, it was also said that Arla was into certain things. I don’t want to say what because there was just frankly ridiculous stuff flying about, it was horrible: that she was easy; that she would go with anyone; you just had to get her drunk. I don’t know if any of it was true. It’s just what I heard…

  So … there you have it. That’s me … that’s all I know, really…

  —Are you saying that’s the end?

  —I’m saying that’s all I have.

  We have to remember that all this occurred long ago. I’m also wondering just how significant Skexxixx’s lyrics really are for Arla’s case. I doubt Tessa’s belief that Arla was completely unlike any other Skexxixx fan in the country, possibly in the world. What does stand out for me, however, is Arla’s violence, her unpredictability; it feels like it’s in this part of Tessa’s account that we’re really starting to get a feel for the origins of Arla’s … what? … Madness? Psychosis? But overall I feel like I have come up against a blank wall, an account from a spectator rather than a participant.

  I don’t know what axe Tessa has to grind with Arla, if she has one at all, but I do get the impression that there’s something she’s not telling me. Exactly what seems buried under a mound of conjecture.

  The longer I talk to Tessa, the more frustrated I have become. Her stories and memories are disorganised and fragmented. I feel she’s holding back through fear of something, but I’m not sure what. As our interview draws to a close, I can’t help feeling a little disappointed.

  I finish by asking her the question, the answer to which is perhaps what I’m searching for with this series.

  —In your opinion, why did she do it? Why did she kill her family that night?

  —I couldn’t say. I have no idea other than what was said in court. Arla Macleod is mentally ill. She was at the time of the killing and there were definitely signs of it in school. But I’m not qualified to say anything. I can’t make a diagnosis and I can’t give you a definitive reason.

  —Can I just say something, before we finish?

  —By all means.

  —I just feel like … I don’t know … that I’ve only seen a little bit of what you know; that you’ve only given me a glimpse into what it was like to be close to Arla Macleod back in school.

  —I’ve told you what I know, what I experienced. She wasn’t long out of school, was she, when she killed her family? Twenty-one – no age really.

  But I have told you everything I know. I mean, I was never directly involved with her really, so this is all I can give you. Arla was a troubled kid. It should have been obvious to everyone, but it was missed, ignored, swept under the carpet. I’m not just blaming the school either, it’s all our faults – all of us who knew her, or knew of her.

  —But the ordinary person can’t be expected to—

  —But they should. This is what I mean: there should be so much more awareness of … of whatever was going on with Arla. All the signs were there that something was wrong and as far as I know, they were ignored.

  This is, unfortunately, the truth. There are no records of social services ever having been alerted to Arla Macleod – not by the school, nor anyone else in her life. It’s hard to say whether these are failings of the system or failings in people, or, like most of the things in Arla Macleod’s case, the two are entwined, tangled.

  Tessa had no contact with Arla after she left school. Tessa stayed on for A-levels while Arla was cast adrift and left to her own devices. We will, in next week’s episode, find out more about the years after school but it seems we have come to the end of the line with Tessa, which leaves me feeling strangely unfulfilled.

&nb
sp; —I’m just … I’m intrigued by why you agreed to speak to me. I feel like there’s something you want to say and you haven’t … or you can’t…

  I immediately regret these words and prepare for Tessa to terminate our interview, even perhaps forbid me to use these last few hours of conversation. But after a long pause, she continues, in what at first sounds like an elaborate stage whisper. She drops her voice and its edge carries a very real fear.

  —I’m going to tell you something. No, that’s not right. I’m going to give you something: a warning.

  —A warning?

  —Yes. You’re going to think I’m either insane or paranoid, but to be fair, that doesn’t matter. You’ve promised me anonymity. I hope you’ll respect that promise.

  —Of course. You’ve been gracious enough to talk to me, I—

  —Listen, I asked for that guarantee for a very good reason. And if you’re going to speak out about Arla Macleod, you should follow my example.

  —What do you mean? I should remain anonymous? Why? I can’t really—

  —Let’s just say I’m surprised. I’m surprised you haven’t had any … any contact yet.

  —OK, I’m lost now. Surely you don’t mean…

  —You’re not difficult to find – online I mean.

  —Right … but I’m not online, not personally.

  —You’ll want to have a think about that. Like, you’ll want to make sure. That’s what I mean.

  —Are you talking about threats? Trolls? I’ve honestly never even considered that to be a problem. The internet’s full of strange things…

  —All I’m saying is be careful. I don’t know all the answers to the questions that’ll be flying into your head right now. What I do know is that you need to be careful. That’s why, after this is over, you won’t be able to find me. No one will. That’s all.

  —Can you elaborate?

  —No. I won’t. I just … I can’t have it happen again. No way. I won’t.

  —Can’t have what happen again?

  —I’ve already said too much. I’m sorry, we have to stop here. Just … just … It’s like when you check your locks at night on all your windows and doors – do that online. Do it.

  Our interview ends abruptly and Tessa vanishes back into the ether, behind the cloak she’s spent a long time creating for herself. My immediate response is one of frustration. Our interview has been frustrating; Tessa herself has been frustrating, obscure and difficult to understand. Her warning is the clearest example of that.

  If she didn’t want me poking my nose around in the case of Arla Macleod, if I need to be careful, then why did she agree to talk to me?

  What I’m really interested in are the reasons behind this warning, rather than the warning itself. I can only conclude that Tessa’s final words are simply a deterrent – a way to put more distance between us, perhaps a final gesture to keep me at bay. I did notice that Tessa kept a similar distance from Arla in her recollections. Why?

  It is while I am finishing the edits on this current episode and preparing for episode three, however, that things begin happening.

  I often edit Six Stories late into the night. Anyone who knows anything about the process of audio editing will tell you that it devours time, eats hours in great gulps, and before you know it, it’s 4 am, your back is aching, a cup of cold coffee has formed a skin beside you and your brain feels like it’s been between the jaws of a George Foreman grill for the last few hours.

  During these long periods of solitude, my reverie is generally uninterrupted, save for trips to the kettle or to the bathroom. Editing episode two, however, I am shocked from my hypnotic state by my phone. I must have been asleep, or close to it; the rendered audio on my screen is looping over and over again, and the buzz from my phone sends a galvanic jolt of something akin to horror right through me – as it always does.

  I’ll never get used to being notified of new followers or comments, which are few and so far have been, thankfully, pleasant. Of course, Six Stories is not immune to flame wars, but ninety-nine percent of the time these are between users in the comments section. Rarely is anything directed at me personally.

  ‘Don’t feed the trolls,’ my friend told me. ‘If someone’s being horrid, ignore, ignore, ignore … then block if need be.’

  Thankfully I’ve not been trip-trapping too loudly over any bridges, yet when my phone buzzes, a long-buried, dusty verse from Poe fills my mind.

  ‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –

  Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –

  This it is and nothing more.’

  The first thing I do, of course, is look at the time: 3.27 am. So I fully expect this to be a notification of a new follower – I wake up sometimes to a few new followers, sometimes in the US or Australia. Time difference – makes sense.

  This, however, was a text.

  Here I open wide the door.

  From: [Unknown number]

  Pack up. Pack in. Stop this now. There will be consequences. This is your warning.

  It’s like something out of a bad thriller, yet the hour and the anonymity strike somewhere, niggle down between my ribs and find a sweet spot – the fear I’ve been talking about … its epicentre – and press with a sharpened point…

  …as if someone knew exactly where to place the blade.

  I shouldn’t have looked. I should have trusted my instincts, waited until I’d slept, used the shock of the notification as an alarm that it was time to stop editing and go to bed.

  But all of us know that it is impossible to ignore a text at 3.27 am from an unknown number. You wouldn’t have waited either; you, like me, would have felt the thing throbbing through your phone like an infection, the knowledge of it as intrusive and impossible to ignore as the tingle of a crowning wisdom tooth.

  So I looked.

  This is your warning.

  It has to be a mistake, it has to be. I’ve received mistaken texts before – we all have – and I’ve replied politely, even jovially, only to receive a tirade of abuse in return.

  ‘Don’t feed the trolls.’

  I told myself not to open it, not now in this strange, dead time between night and morning, in this semi-consciousness where the slightest movement, the edge of a shadow can grow legs, become a monster and before you know it, you’re being haunted.

  Something, in that terrible morning half-light tells me that this is no mistake. A tiny, screaming, rational part of me is trying desperately to tell me this is a prank, but after Tessa’s warning, that tiny, rational part of me is swamped in shadows. I feel myself beginning to shake.

  Why such an extreme reaction? some of you may ask.

  Maybe it’s a generational thing; maybe it’s a personality thing; maybe it’s just me. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that there’s a part of me – quite a significant part – that is unhappy with being visible, being available, online.

  Why? You may ask. Everyone’s online these days. You can tweet praise to your favourite celebrity on Twitter; argue politics with a stranger on Facebook. And maybe it’s exactly that – that little pocket in which I’m uncomfortable.

  The thing is Six Stories never was, never is and never will be about me. There are plenty of podcasters out there who have carved out a small niche of celebrity, and that’s fine, well done to them. But it’s a step I could never take. Sometimes I wonder what it must be like to be someone like J.K. Rowling, picking up her phone to have thousands of social-media notifications every moment of every day; dropping the veil of fiction and being a celebrity in her own right. The very idea of facing such a barrage of attention fills me with horror. Because that way lie the trolls, the rape threats, all that stuff.

  Imagine walking out of your house into a busy city centre to have every single person yell their opinion in your face; then those people arguing with each other. Imagine having people calling you names, saying personal things about you and your life and your fam
ily then vanishing behind a wall – the anonymity of the internet.

  I admire J.K. Rowling more than ever for being able to withstand that. I never could.

  I am ready to reply, my thumbs poised to type a wide-eyed protest: Why? What have I done?

  Then I remember: Don’t feed the trolls.

  I go to be bed, but I don’t sleep – I toss and turn and compose replies, playing out entirely fictitious conversations, each with a different outcome, all of which end in something terrible happening.

  To me.

  When I awake from a couple of hours of fitful slumber, I call my friend who helps me with social media and ask advice.

  They tell me what I thought they would: ignore, keep on going, don’t even acknowledge.

  I wish it would help.

  The truth is, a message on the Six Stories Facebook page, or a tweet or an Instagram comment would frighten me less. But this was a text. My phone number is not and has never been publicly available.

  Now, I’m not so naive that I don’t know there are plenty of nefarious ways to find someone’s number, and, in those weary hours of the morning, I endlessly google myself, follow threads, read blogs, even trawl the comments on a YouTube channel where someone uploaded all previous Six Stories episodes without my permission.

  Nothing.

  I should feel at least some relief that there doesn’t seem to be anyone publicly calling out their hatred of me online. I have never before dared to look, in case there is.

  It isn’t until lunchtime the following day, when the fear engendered by the text message has almost evaporated and I am tentatively continuing the edit, that my phone buzzes again. This time, that jolt in my stomach is not so harsh; a protracted text conversation with my friend during the previous few hours has readied me for incoming notifications. This same friend has advised me to be defiant, to update the Six Stories media accounts, to tell my followers episode three will be dropping soon. I have followed this advice.