Glimpse

by Renee Wakefield

  My voice is tiny. Barely audible. “Sorry.”

  Ness watches on sympathetically, feeling bad for me yet completely powerless to help.

  “I shouldn’t have to tell you this. You know this is unacceptable.”

  Jill shakes her head and swivels her chair around to face me. “Is there something wrong with you? Seriously? I don’t mean to be indelicate. If there is something wrong it is not a problem, we need to know.”

  Hesitant as I have been to tell anyone about what I’ve been seeing, Jill would be at the bottom of any potential telling list. I can’t imagine how it would wash with her straight, practical nature.

  “I know you had the accident and everything, but still.”

  I can do this. I just need a little focus. Jill likes me. I can talk my way out of this. All I have to do is —

  Bang!

  I flinch.

  Bang!

  The crazy woman is at the window that separates Jill’s room from the rest of the office. Still smiling manically, her fists slowly pound on the glass.

  “Way I see it, it’s like injured footy players. If they’re injured, they are injured. But if they are on the field, they are right to play. No excuses. It’s the same with this office. If you’re here, you have to work.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Bang!

  “You’re not all right, look at you.”

  Bang!

  I jump each time the woman’s fist makes contact. I do my utmost to ignore her and focus on my boss.

  Bang!

  Jill shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I know you’re going through some issues with the accident or whatever it is. But we all have problems.”

  Bang!

  “I think we’re going to have to let you go.”

  This gets my attention. I can’t lose this job. “No, please… I need to be here.”

  Bang!

  My eyes blink involuntarily with each whack on the glass.

  “Yeah, but you’re not here. Even now.”

  Bang!

  This is important. I have to focus on Jill. I have to make it through this next few seconds. I have to save my job.

  As I respond, I shift my feet. “Jill, I know I have been…”

  My voice trails off. Distracted. There’s something down there.

  “I need workers, Ellie.”

  I glance down to see what is obstructing my legs and have to suppress the urge to scream. The crazy woman. She is right there, at my feet. Smiling manically up at me. What was it Andrew said? Ignore them? I need him here right now to explain how the hell I am supposed to do that.

  Hands shaking, I do my best to focus on Jill.

  “I don’t need another passenger. I’ve got a whole office of them.” Jill glances through the glass out to the rest of the office. “At least they pretend to work. They don’t sit there staring into space all day.”

  There is a good chance I am going to choke. I refuse to allow myself to look down. The manic woman pulls at me. Pawing at my knees. Grabbing at my legs.

  “What happened to you? You used to be a superstar.”

  I flinch, Jill’s words barely penetrate my mind.

  Refocusing my efforts I attempting to act normal. For Jill. At the same time I twist and squirm, desperate to get my legs away from the manic woman. It’s an odd combination and doesn’t convince Jill of much, other than I am nuts. She glances over her shoulder at Ness, who shrugs sadly. The pair of them eye me with a mix of pity and concern.

  27

  My walk home is long and slow. Not many people about this time of day. I am so lost in my own thoughts that the underpass doesn’t register until I am almost there. My morning success seems a long way away now. I approach, feeling the familiar icy chill of dread. Going the long way round is an option. No one would ever know but me. However, Andrew’s advice is still my best option even if it hasn’t really worked out too well to this point and runs counter to every instinct I have.

  The underpass has its usual puddles and shadows but no apparent threats. I suck in a deep breath.

  I begin to walk and stop. There is movement inside. Someone coming towards me. Their footsteps echo loudly. Are they dead? No, just a jogger. Unsurprisingly, they make it through the underpass with no ill effects. They sweep by without even seeing me, off in their own world. Tinny music drifting out of their overly loud headphones.

  I follow the jogger’s progress and spot someone else on the path behind me. A pedestrian, coming my way. This could be perfect. I wait for the person and fall in line behind them. Following them closely. Sensing a disturbance in their personal space, they turn and give me a strange look, yet say nothing. The two of us step through the large, unavoidable puddles. I stick as close as I can to them, my concern surging despite their presence. When the pedestrian increases their speed, so do I.

  About three-quarters of the way through I decide I might be all right. I might make it. Sure, this isn’t a long-term strategy. I can’t wait for someone to accompany me through here every day. However, it’s working for now. That’s what’s important.

  The pedestrian appears a little unnerved by me, yet still says nothing. Out of nowhere my foot strikes something big and solid, causing me to trip. I crash heavily to the hard ground.

  The pedestrian keeps moving, not turning, let alone stopping or trying to help. Red-hot pain explodes from my knee. Still sprawled on the concrete, I glance back to see what tripped me. Legs. The bottom half of a bloodied torso. Littered on the ground like a discarded piece of junk. Bile swirls in my mouth.

  I try to scramble to my feet. As I do a hand grabs my ankle. My bloodcurdling scream echoes through the underpass. The pedestrian doesn’t care, disappearing out the exit. It is the leg’s owner who has grabbed me. The top half of their body some distance from the bottom. Lying in a pool of blood. They grasp my ankle tightly. I struggle, trying to kick my leg free. It’s not easy. I catch a glimpse of the severed person’s face. They stare at me with fear and confusion. I freak. Thrashing wildly, I manage to extricate my ankle and force my way to my feet.

  My kneecap feels as though someone has taken to it with a crowbar. I do my best to walk, having difficulty putting any pressure on it. I don’t dare look to see how bad it is. I have to get out of there. I hobble away as fast as I am able, half leaning up against the wall. Desperate to get out.

  I stagger the remainder of the way home, only crying occasionally. I want someone to pamper me. To look after me. Fix my knee and tell me everything will be all right. Make the bad things go away.

  I turn into Virginia’s street and stop cold. Buckley’s car is parked outside the house. I contemplate not going in, except where else would I go? The three of them must have decided to take the afternoon off, anticipating that I would still be at work. In my former life, I would have been invited to take the afternoon off with them. Without a doubt. The thought provokes an unexpected sadness and irrational feelings of betrayal. Not simply for the afternoons off, for my entire lost life.

  Virginia, Bear and Buckley lounge about in the afternoon sun, feet dangling in an inflatable kiddie pool. They enjoy a few beers and pass around a joint. Buckley has come straight from work, his trousers rolled up, his expensive leather shoes placed neatly together a small distance away. Bear wears shorts and a Hawaiian shirt and his beaten up old straw cowboy hat. He strums away absently at his ukulele. Ginny looks gorgeous in a simple summer dress. The threesome look like a hip beer ad. Well, except for the joint.

  “It’s me, it has to be.”

  “Yeah, but, Bucks, it’s not. I’m telling you is not,” Virginia counters.

  Buckley takes a long drag and passes the joint to Virginia.

  “She’s just going through some stuff at the moment.”

  Bear snorts angrily. Unimpressed. “What stuff?”

  “Stuff.”

  I hover just inside the back door. It’s a pretty good vantage. They have their backs to me and if they decide to come in I can disap
pear quickly.

  “Stuff to do with that weird dude?” Bear turns from Virginia to Buckley. “She’s been hanging around with some bloke. Is it to do with him?”

  Ginny lets out an exasperated noise. “You just need to talk to her, Bucks.”

  “How is he supposed to do that? She won’t talk to him when he calls.”

  I should really walk out there. I could walk out there right now. Easy. I’m not sure what’s stopping me.

  “You think she’ll come to Macca’s party?” asks Buckley.

  “You want her to?”

  “Bear!” Virginia scolds in an outraged voice. She reaches over and hits him.

  “Ow! What? Messenger.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, I am the messenger, don’t fucken shoot me.” He sucks in a deep drag of the joint. “Look, you tell me Old Ellie is coming to the party? Great. Old Ellie would be the life of the party. Get messed up with us. That’s the best thing about Macca’s parties, how messy we get. And she’s always front and centre, right there with us. What would this New Ellie do at Macca’s? Stand there, looking timid and refusing to speak to anyone? Tell us she wants to go home after five minutes? Yeah, she’d be the life of the party.”

  No one says anything to counter Bear’s suggestions. He goes on, turning to Buckley. “I don’t even know who this new person is. I’m not even sure why you’re hanging about…”

  “Bear!”

  “Ow! Stop hitting me! I’m serious. They’re not married. How long is he supposed to wait?”

  I missed my moment. I couldn’t go out there now even if I wanted to. The sad part is as outraged as Virginia might be Bear is quite correct. How long is Buckley supposed to wait for his mental girlfriend?

  “So, if I start having issues, you’ll dump me straight away?”

  “You start acting like that? Abso-fucken-lutely.”

  Virginia whacks him again.

  “Stop hitting me! No offence to Ellie but screw her. He’s been remarkably patient.”

  “I did try and kill her.”

  “Bucks, that wasn’t your fault. If you never want to have accidents, don’t get in the car.”

  Virginia reaches out and puts a reassuring hand on Buckley’s knee. “From what she has said, this has nothing to do with the accident.”

  “Seems hard to believe.”

  “I know, but that’s what she says.”

  “She doesn’t blame me for it?”

  “No.”

  I love Virginia. Nice to feel like there is someone absolutely on my side.

  “All of this, it’s about… other things.”

  “What other things?” Bear interjects.

  “Things that Ellie is going through.”

  “So, she has obviously told you. Why won’t you tell us?”

  “That’s not my place. I don’t know why she hasn’t told Buckley, but I am sure she will when she is ready.”

  “She’d wanna hurry up.” Bear takes a sip of his beer. “He’s not gonna wait forever.”

  “You know, there’s a difference between being a messenger and being an arsehole.”

  Bear shrugs. I want to drag myself away. There are things you should hear. Conversations you shouldn’t listen in on.

  “If you’re not thinking it too, you’re either lying, or you’re stupid. She’s a different person. If Old Ellie somehow magically reappears, fantastic. But I don’t think she is coming back.”

  With that, I’ve heard enough. It’s self-protection as much as anything else. Bad enough hearing this from Bear, but I don’t think I could take it if the other two start to agree. I manage to slink away. I am barely halfway across the room when something grabs me. Someone. Someone dead. The angry dude from outside. Long Hair. Carrying his fork.

  He throws an arm around my neck and a hand across my mouth. Forcing me backwards.

  Smack! We hit the wall. The impact shatters through my brain. Rattling my teeth. His lips move. He is talking, very threateningly. At least it looks very threatening. It’s completely silent.

  I writhe and squirm, desperate to escape. I manage to get an arm free and elbow him in the gut. He loosens his grip. It’s enough for me to extricate myself. I escape and run… straight into his clutches as he reappears in front of me. All my escape did was rile him up more. Make him angrier. He drags me by the neck and throws me into the wall again. Screaming in my face. Silently. Choking me. Attacking me. Terrifying me.

  28

  A pre-cooked meal balances on Andrew’s lap. Reheated in the microwave and ready to go. The ready-made meals are a relatively new addition to Andrew’s routine. For years he struggled with the hassle of cooking food. The grind of trying to find recipes for one or dealing with leftovers. Cooking was never anything more than a chore. Getting the pre-made meals is great. They get left at his front door, no fuss, no need to think, no need to interact with anybody. The food is even relatively healthy. A perfect piece of the puzzle slotted seamlessly into the daily routine. The only issue he has encountered is that they change the menu sometimes. Unnecessary change is annoying. If Andrew finds a meal he likes, he would prefer to stay with that forever.

  It’s the same with television. Nothing is more frustrating than when they stop a program or change its timeslot unnecessarily. The same show, the same time every night would be much easier. The quality of the show doesn’t matter too much either. All television is similarly mindless. The routine is what is important. And yet, it can’t simply be a new program every night. Some level of engagement is required. Enough to keep the mind occupied. Keep thoughts at bay.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Andrew steals a glance at the door. Visitors are quite unusual. Especially at… 8:47. Whoever it is probably has the wrong apartment. Even if they don’t, they’ll go away.

  He turns back to the television.

  I hop from foot to foot, unable to stand still. Come on. Where are you? I knock again.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I see a very faint flicker of movement through the peephole. He’s in there. I’m not in the mood for games.

  “Andrew! Let me in!”

  There is still more hesitation, as though he is weighing up whether to see me. Finally, the door opens. Lucky. The way I am feeling, I would have kicked the thing down.

  I burst inside without waiting to be invited.

  “I can’t do this. I can’t do this.” I stride back and forth in what I assume would be called the foyer section. The apartment is tiny. There is minimal space between the front door and the lounge and that’s where we are.

  “I can’t live like this. They’re getting worse.” The words vomit out of me. However worked up I thought I was, I’m far worse. I can’t stop moving. Pacing. Pacing. It is all I can do to not to sob. A sob, even a little one, is a slippery slope. It is not far from a sob to lying on Andrew’s floor, wailing uncontrollably.

  “Please, you have to help me. I need something. More. You have to stop them. I don’t want to see them anymore. I don’t…”

  Poor Andrew. He remains frozen to the spot, staring at me, like a deer in headlights. I am guessing he doesn’t get many visitors, even fewer females. Especially not wildly unhinged, hysterical ones. Too bad. Things can’t go on like this. I have to end it. I force myself to stop moving. So I can look directly at him. Make him understand this is a conversation, requiring his input. He has to respond. Then after he has responded, he has to do something. He has to help me.

  “I’m seeing them everywhere. More and more.” I look deep into his eyes and wait.

  “Yeah, you will. Have you ever been pregnant?”

  It’s hard to control my anger when I’m a whirlwind of emotions like this. “No,” I spit through gritted teeth. “I’ve never been pregnant.” Is he blind and stupid?

  “It’s a known fact. When women get pregnant, they start seeing pregnant women all the time.” Nope, not working. He settles on another analogy. “Or if you buy a particular type
of car, you begin to seeing the car everywhere. It’s not that there are any more of them out there, you just start noticing them.”

  I try to keep my rage and frustration in check. I really do. I’m not terribly successful. “How is this supposed to help?”

  “The more aware of the dead you become, the more you will see. Perception. That’s all I am saying.”

  I find myself pacing again.

  “Look, I told you before, this isn’t easy. It’s like anything. It takes work. Practice. Time.”

  “Time?! Time?! I don’t have time. These things… they are getting worse. Every day. I was attacked! He was trying to kill me!”

  My desperate, impassioned plea is met with a flippant shrug.

  “It happens. You’re giving them too much power —”

  “— Oh, so this is my fault?!”

  It’s all I can do not to attack him.

  “Just stick with —” His tone is patronising and unhelpful.

  “— I need more.”

  “More what?”

  “More than just —” I stick my fingers in my ears. “— La, la, la. I can’t hear you. I can’t see you.”

  “I didn’t tell you to do that.”

  “— while they rip out my throat. That’s not helping. I need action.”

  He takes a deep breath. I can see the frustration building in him too. Good. What do I care?

  “You’re doing this all wrong. You’re going about it backwards. Like some sort of problem that you’re going to fix. There is no fixing this. You’re not going to get better.”

  Savage rage burns inside me.

  “This isn’t a puzzle. You’re not going to find some magical solution and make it go away. This is your new world. Live with it.”

  “Great,” I scoff. “How’s that been working out for you?” Both our voices rise, yelling over the top of each other.

  “It’s been going fine —”

  “— How many years have you been haunted for?”

  “— It was going fine until you came —”

  “— Bullshit!”