Glimpse

by Renee Wakefield

  “Andrew.”

  He leans over ever so slightly, still not looking at me. “I told you I can’t help you.”

  The lift dings and the doors open. Andrew steps inside. I watch him go. Deflated. Defeated. The doors begin to close. This is my moment and it is vanishing.

  Not going to happen.

  I thrust my arm in between the closing doors, causing them to open again and step into the lift. This gets the first hint of a reaction from Andrew. A crack in the façade. I ignore social convention and face Andrew, my back to the doors. The lift is reasonably large, comfortably accommodating the half-dozen people inside. Witnesses don’t concern me. He casts a wary eye over me, imploring me not to say anything. Tough. Without any hesitation, I pull a photo of the dead girl from my pocket and hold it in front of his face. I keep my voice even and calm and conversational.

  “This is the girl from the party. The one I saw on the dance floor. The one we saw. Quinn. The dead girl.”

  This gets everyone’s attention. Our fellow passengers’ eyes flit between me and the photograph. Andrew appears utterly mortified. As though the floor of the lift dropping out and all of us falling to our deaths would be preferable to continuing with this conversation. By contrast, I couldn’t care less. I keep going.

  “How is that possible? She was alive at the party. How could I have seen her dead on the dance floor if she was alive at the party?”

  The focus switches to Andrew. Everyone in the lift is engaged, expecting him to answer my question. His face burns red. He stares down at the threadbare carpet.

  The lift dings as we reach the next floor. The doors open. No one gets out. Too involved in our little drama. The doors close again.

  “You know, Andrew. You know something about what’s going on.”

  Andrew squirms, hideously uncomfortable.

  “Why can’t you talk to me? Tell me. Tell me what you know.”

  More silence. We all wait for some kind of response, whatever it might be.

  The ding sounds again.

  Andrew grabs me by the arm and hauls me out of the lift. Our fellow passengers watch on, stunned. Their eyes remain locked on us as the doors close again.

  Andrew ushers me past a number of cubicles and computers and into a cramped office which has a distinct cardboard and dust odour to it. He shuts the door, keeping us away from prying eyes.

  “How dare you? How dare you come to my office and do this to me?” He is shaking. He begins to pace.

  “You wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “This is my work. I have to see these people every day.”

  “I needed to get your attention.”

  I move a box from a chair so that I can sit down. My intention is to make it quite clear that I’m not going anywhere. “Why won’t you help me?”

  Andrew gives me an exasperated stare and moves behind the desk. This must be his office. It suits him. Hidden around the back, out of the way.

  I take out the photo of the dead girl alive at the party and slide it across the desk towards him.

  “You saw her too, didn’t you? At the party?”

  He picks it up and examines the image. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

  I click my tongue. “Oh, come on. A dead girl, writhing around in the middle of the dance floor. Tube hanging out of her mouth, eyes taped shut, and you’re not sure if you remember seeing her or not? It’s not the type of thing you forget, no matter how long ago it happened.”

  “Actually, you’re wrong. That is exactly the type of thing I would forget. Or not notice in the first place.“ He places the photo back on the desk. “I probably did see her. It’s quite likely. I don’t remember her specifically.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You see others?”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Why did you lie to me?”

  “I never lied to you. You accused me of seeing ghosts. I don’t see ghosts.”

  I wait for the “but…”

  “Occasionally I get a glimpse of someone who is about to die.”

  The cogs start to spin in my brain. “Like a premonition?”

  He lets out an exasperated exhale. Uncomfortable. “I guess. It’s not something I try and dwell on.” He fiddles with various items on his desk, moving them minutely to the right or the left, achieving very little.

  The implications of this new information this spin wildly in my mind, throwing up a million questions.

  “How many do you see? How often do you see them?” These are merely the questions which make it to my lips first. I can only assume many and often if he sees such a high quantity he readily forgets them. Does he see them every day? The dead girl was ten years ago. Has he been seeing them this whole time? How is that even possible? What kind of life is that? Is this what I doomed to? God, so many questions. I could be here all day.

  “Look, I am very busy. I have a lot of work to do.” He refuses to make eye contact. I wonder if it’s me making him distinctly uncomfortable or if it is that he is not used to conversation in general.

  “Is that what I’m seeing?”

  “What?”

  “You said you see premonitions —”

  “No, you said I see premonitions.”

  “Are you always this pedantic? I want to know if what I’m seeing is the same thing as what you are seeing.”

  “How would I know what you’re seeing?” His tone is a long way from friendly.

  “I… I want them to go away.”

  “Good for you.”

  I fix him with the most spiteful glare I can muster. He doesn’t notice.

  Andrew stands and crosses the room. He holds open the door, making it quite clear it is time for me to leave.

  “Why won’t you help me?”

  He doesn’t respond.

  22

  There is no energy left in me to move. I rest up against the bus stop, eyes shut. My entire body riddled with tiredness, my mind overwhelmed. I feel completely spent. I may sit here for the rest of my life. I may never move again. There is a chance I might not even be able to climb the stairs into the bus if the stupid, smelly thing ever arrives.

  All I needed was a little help. It couldn’t be that hard. If the situation was reversed and someone wanted my help, I wouldn’t hesitate. I would do everything in my power to assist in any way that I could. I wouldn’t wish this upon anyone.

  Behind me, a large advertisement depicts an underwater scene. Full of exotic fish. Very calm and tranquil. How nice would it be to be underwater somewhere, surrounded by exotic fish? Anywhere but here and now.

  My eyes spring open. Oh, no. Please. The all too familiar edginess assaults me once more. No more. Not here. Not now. The wave of discomfort is similar to a wave of nausea. When you have been vomiting all night and you feel that next horrible wave approach. It doesn’t matter that there is nothing left inside of you. There is no avoiding it.

  Maybe if I close my eyes. If I can’t see them… My heart crashes relentlessly against my ribs. Short, shallow gasps are all my lungs allow.

  This is no good. Having my eyes closed is worse. My imagination runs riot as to what might be right in front of my face. I ease my eyes open. My surroundings appear normal, yet I know something is not right. It takes me a couple of moments to spot her. A woman across the road. Watching me. A dead woman.

  She’s middle-aged and dressed in head-to-toe lycra. She has a helmet on. Evidently, the helmet didn’t help all that much. A trickle of blood runs down her face, alongside the all-too-familiar bewildered facial expression of the dead. An arm and a leg stick out at odd angles. Unnatural angles no arm or leg should bend.

  I stare, praying that she will just go away. Leave me alone. Traffic passes, obscuring my view. When the traffic clears the woman reappears considerably closer.

  Panic grips me, causing me to run. My work clothes aren’t the best for running. It could be worse. At least I’m not in heels. I bolt down the road, no real sense of where I’m going, just trying to
get away. I throw a quick glance over my shoulder.

  The woman doesn’t appear to be moving and yet every time I look back she is closer.

  I run harder, even though my lungs are burning and my breath is sharp. Up the street and around the corner. I check over my shoulder again. The woman isn’t there. Success. I seem to have lost her.

  My breathing evens out as I slow slightly. Shit! She is right in front of me. Staring at me with her dead eyes. Desperation and confusion etched on her face.

  I switch directions, crossing the road. Cars beep me, more because my sudden appearance startles them than because I am in any danger of being hit.

  Once again I turn back to where the dead woman last stood. No sign of her. But where is she? She has to be somewhere. I am so distracted searching for the dead woman that I don’t watch where I am going. I don’t notice the two people in front of me, having a chat. I plough straight into them.

  “Sorry, I…”

  I freeze. One of the two people is a middle-aged woman, dressed in lycra. The dead woman. Alive.

  The two people regard me as if I am mad and continue with their conversation. My head darts all about. From nearby, the woman’s dead doppelgänger observes the scene with bewilderment.

  As I catch my breath I can’t help but stare at the alive woman. She has a bike with her. I linger awkwardly. Staring. Waiting. My eyes shift between the woman with her bike and her dead counterpart. The woman and her companion do their best to ignore me. Finally, their conversation winds up.

  “All right. I’ll see you later,” the woman tells her companion.

  “Have a good ride.”

  The bike woman wheels her bike a short distance as her companion walks away.

  I follow the bike woman. I have to say something to her. But what? She stops and eyes me expectantly, wondering why I am following her. Awaiting some sort of explanation.

  “Ummm… Sorry… I…”

  There’s an awkward pause. I have no idea what to say. My head moves between the dead woman and the live version, struggling to find the right words.

  “I… You’re going to die.”

  She screws up her face at me. “Excuse me?”

  The dead version watches on angrily.

  “You… You’re going to die.”

  The bike woman has heard enough. She jumps onto her bike.

  “No, please…” I reach out for the woman.

  “Get away from me.” Genuine fear in her voice. Despite her outfit, the woman apparently isn’t that adept on a bike. She wobbles along, doing her best to put some distance between us.

  “Please, wait…”

  Except what else can I say? I get premonitions of people who are about to die? And your dead soul is standing across the road staring at me? So I think you could be in trouble?

  “Please… I can see…”

  The woman peddles faster. Despite still catching my breath I give chase on foot. The woman glances back. Seeing a manic charging up the road after her only serves to freak the woman out even more. She speeds up, causing her to move faster, but no more steadily. It is fast enough to get away from me. I follow for a few more strides and stop. It’s futile. She’s on a bike and I am not. I watch her ride away.

  The woman reaches the intersection and it is as though the entire thing plays out in slow motion.

  “No…”

  I start to run again, submerged in the sense of horror.

  A horn sounds. Brakes skid. And there is a horrifying crunch. The crunch is possibly the worst sound I have ever heard in my entire life.

  “No!”

  I run as fast as I can. The horn continues to blast. Stuck on.

  The bike woman lies motionless on the ground in the middle of the intersection. Dead. Her arms and legs contorted into some unnatural position. Her bike a few feet away, a crumpled mess. The car horn continues to blare.

  A small crowd quickly gathers. People on foot, passing cars stop.

  The driver who hit the bike woman gets out of his car and stares about, desperate for absolution. “She… She came out of nowhere.” Pleading to anyone who will listen. “She went straight through the stop sign. There was nothing… I couldn’t do anything.”

  No one is listening. The small crowd stands around. None of them are sure quite what to do.

  I approached the body of the dead woman as it lies on the road. Her eyes are open. Staring lifelessly up at my horrified face. A small stream of blood trickles down her forehead.

  Through it all the jammed horn blares.

  Across the road the dead woman stares accusingly at me.

  Oh God, what have I done?

  23

  Andrew can’t focus. The work just won’t come. He tries as hard as he can, resulting in little spurts at best. Spurts that only last a few minutes. He pushes back from his desk, the wheels on his chair denied a smooth ride by bulges the carpet. That stupid woman. This is all her fault. She has ruined his whole day. Marching in here and stirring everything up again. He needs the normality. The routine. That’s how it works. If he doesn’t have that he has nothing. He drags his hands down his face, pulling on his cheeks.

  “Come on. Get on with it.”

  Andrew rolls back over to the desk and picks up the report he is working on. He only gets about another five words through before he finds himself floating away in the stream of memory.

  The old house remains so clear in his mind. The dated kitchen, with all that 70s wallpaper.

  Andrew blinks and shakes his head, attempting to chase away the painful memories. Maybe some fresh air will help.

  The kitchen is a short work through the maze of cubicles. Andrew marches out, clutching his water bottle. The bottle is already mostly full. He would prefer to drink the entire contents before he refills it, so he has an idea of how much he drunk. Oh well, doesn’t matter. No harm topping it up now.

  He strolls back to his office. People work at their desks. Or talk in small groups. Nobody watches him. No one gives him funny looks. He hadn’t known any of the people in the lift this morning, thank goodness. He very easily could have though. Even so, people talk. Gossip spreads quickly.

  He settles himself back behind his desk. Right. This time. He is going to focus. Get a heap done. The determination only lasts a few seconds. He finds his mind in the same old kitchen.

  The old-fashioned metal trike, red and rusted. The slight murmur of his parents whispering quietly in the other room.

  Andrew shoves the report across his desk, causing a number of items to fall off the other end. It’s that sort of day.

  24

  The clock ticks quietly. Not quietly enough. I hate that stupid clock. It’s one of those small travel clocks with a part you flick up to turn on the alarm. It’s probably perfect for a guest room and it makes sense to have in here. And I’m sure if I asked Virginia would get rid of it. Maybe I should just take the battery out.

  My frustration with the clock is helpful. It gives me something to fixate on, which I need because every time there’s a spare moment, a gap in my thoughts, all I see is the bike woman. Lying on the road. Mangled by the car. Or standing there, leg and arm akimbo, staring at me from across the street. The expression on her face hasn’t changed, my interpretation has. Initially, I took her look to mean ‘Help me’. Now all I see is accusation. ‘Why? Why did you kill me?’

  I try not to cry. I’ve been crying on and off all afternoon and I don’t want to set myself going again. Instead, I grab the travel clock. It shatters loudly as it hits the wall, falling to the floor in pieces. Smashing the clock brings me no relief. All I feel is a faint sense of guilt and the knowledge I’ll have to buy Virginia a replacement travel clock. Worse still, the stupid thing appears to still be ticking. There is some sort of truth about my life in all this. I can’t even smash a clock right.

  My phone rings, immediately raising my heart rate. The screen informs me at Buckley. It takes all my resolve not to send the phone the way of the clock. I press t
he button to answer and that is all. I can’t bring myself to say anything. After a pause, I hear Buckley’s handsome voice on the other end.

  “Hello? Ellie?”

  I need to talk to him. I want to talk to him. And yet I can’t. Especially not now. It’s ironic that I am so scared of losing Buckley that I am actively pushing him away.

  “It’s Bucks. Are you there?”

  He knows I am. What if I never get to hold him again? Never touch him again? What sort of life am I creating for myself?

  “I love you.”

  It’s too much. I can’t listen any more. I hang up and drop the phone. I seem to have lost any sense of weight. I’m not tied down. A firm gust of wind might blow me away forever.

  Knock, knock.

  Bear opens the door, appearing decidedly unimpressed. “Ellie?”

  I don’t bother to look over.

  “Some dude here to see you.”

  To my surprise Andrew shuffles in. Bear lingers, awaiting an explanation. He gets nothing. I continue to stare at the wall.

  Andrew isn’t quite sure what to do. I won’t look at him, Bear won’t stop looking at him. Finally, Bear puffs and stomps out. I still refuse to make eye contact with Andrew. He stands in the awkward silence. I’m guessing this is not the first awkward silence of his life.

  “I’m still not sure I can help you.”

  Whatever.

  “But I was thinking about it. I wish somebody had helped me.”

  “Did I kill her?” I try to keep my voice at a reasonable level. There is hardly anyone in the café anyway, so I am not sure how much it matters.

  I left Virginia’s place with Andrew, not bothering to inform Bear where I was going. Bear scowled at us the whole way out, making it clear he was watching.

  “Who? The woman on a bike? Maybe. Who knows?”

  Not exactly the reassurance I was after. Andrew really needs to brush up on his people skills.