After They Came

by Tom Kavanagh

  Along with his office, there was something off-putting about him. His face almost glistened, as if he’d spread disinfectant over his body. It was made worse by his tiny eyes that stared at you like a vulture waiting for a sick animal to die.

  “I’m fine,” I spat out through clenched teeth, unwilling to take in the smell of disinfectant or coffee.

  “That’s good,” he said as his head sank towards the keyboard in front of him.

  He typed frantically for another minute. I wondered what he was writing; I had only said two words.

  Had I given something away through my body language? Or was he just making stuff up so that if something went wrong, it wouldn’t be his fault?

  “How have you been sleeping?” he asked suddenly, tearing himself away from the keyboard for a moment to look at me directly.

  “Better.”

  Once again he typed away furiously for a few moments before returning his gaze to me.

  “And your diet?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good. Right, let’s get going on the examination, shall we?”

  “Okay.”

  We went through the usual tests. He took my blood pressure, checked my weight, tested my breathing and my heart, and went through the usual questions. It never really changed. He might as well have just kept a voice recording of my answers, copying them down every time but in a slightly different way. The last question was always the same.

  “So, have you had any lapses lately?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, okay. What happened?”

  “I was hearing things.”

  “Hearing things?”

  “Yes.”

  “What things? Did you hear any sound in particular? Voices? Was it similar to the last time?”

  I knew that it sounded like a sheep screaming, but I didn’t want to tell him that. My dad would probably dive in with a bunch of questions, too. So I lied.

  “I couldn’t make out any particular sound. It was just a sound somewhere far off.”

  “Okay. And did these sounds appear to be external or internal?”

  “I couldn’t really tell. It started off as sounding like they were internal, and then it sounded like they were external. It got really loud at one point. It felt far off, but very close. It was like an echo in a cave.”

  “Right . . .”

  He typed notes as I spoke, nodding his head and grunting as I explained what had happened.

  “I thought that the medication she was on was supposed to stop this from happening,” Dad said, his voice full of annoyance. He’d had this same conversation with a few different doctors as they had all tried to put me on the correct medication.

  He had never really understood my condition. He tried to understand, but it was difficult. He came from a generation that didn’t really understand any mental illnesses. It wasn’t his fault; he was a product of his time.

  “Well, that’s the difficult thing with paranoid schizophrenia. Sometimes you have to try a few different medications before you find one that works well for that particular person. It varies in severity from person to person, so we have to find a specific treatment for each case.”

  “Okay. So, is there another medication that could work better?”

  “We do have a few options. I think we should try clozapine. In my experience, this seems to be the most effective drug when trying to reduce symptoms of schizophrenia.”

  I tried to hold on to the words that the doctor was speaking, but with each syllable, my attention reduced dramatically. I could feel myself slipping, but I was unable to stop it. Panic was spreading through my body. They were trying to give me new medication.

  Were they trying to control me?

  Who knew what was in the new medication? It could be anything.

  “Isabelle?”

  They’d noticed that I’d stopped paying attention.

  “Yes?” I answered, trying my best to seem like I’d just been daydreaming. I was clawing myself back, hell-bent on not letting them see my fear.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “About what?”

  “The medication?”

  “Oh. No. Sorry.”

  “I said that I would like to try clozapine. This new medication should help with your symptoms, but it does come with a few side effects.”

  “What kind of side effects?” I asked, suddenly feeling another rush of anxiety.

  “Well, along with the usual side effects you felt with the previous medication, it can reduce white blood cell production, and so you’re more likely to become sick. You’ll need to come in for more regular testing to ensure you don’t become ill.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe for Isabelle to be taking this medication? What if she were to get sick?”

  You would probably cut my throat, wouldn’t you?

  “It does come with a small amount of risk, but in my professional opinion, I believe that the pros outweigh the cons. And besides, if anything were to happen, we would take her off it and try something else. What do you think, Isabelle? Do you agree?”

  I looked over at my dad, watching his facial expressions closely. I wanted to see whether he seemed genuinely concerned for my health or whether it was all for show.

  It looked like my dad, but it didn’t feel like my dad anymore. There was something different about him. I didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t him.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You can start taking the pills next week. You should see improvements within one to two weeks. But this can vary from person to person.”

  “Okay.”

  “Great. I’ll see you at your next appointment.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Andrews.”

  “My pleasure as always, Isabelle.”

  * * * * *

  The heating in the car had broken, and so I shoved my hands into my coat pockets, hoping to save them from frostbite.

  Another perk of living in the north.

  It was quiet on the drive back home; it always was after my doctors’ appointments. I think it was because my dad was torn up about the fact that I even had to go to the doctors. He hated the fact that I was suffering, and so I think he found it hard to speak after the appointment. He didn’t know what to say to make me feel better, and to be honest, I don’t think there was anything he could say. But he didn’t seem as concerned this time. He was aloof and wasn’t his usual bumbling self.

  Cold winds lashed at the car, finding their way through the crack of space above the faulty passenger window. As my hands dove deeper into my pockets, they came across the coarse fur of the sheep that had died last week on the farm. The image of the dead ewe’s body came like a flash of lightning in my head, striking my mind with malicious intent. I pulled the fur out slowly, as if it would explode in my hands if I handled it too roughly. There were still flecks of mud trapped in the ringlets of fur, making it the colour of a house sparrow egg.

  Once I’d seen the fur, it didn’t take long for my mind to cloud over.

  It always began the same way. My face would feel hot and tingly, and the feeling would spread through my body like a rampant forest fire. And then it felt like my head was being squeezed, as if someone were trying to crush it into a diamond.

  I tried to control my breathing, hoping that it would calm the rest of my body down, but it had no effect.

  Hundreds of uncontrollable thoughts surged through my head, popping in and out of sight at high speed. It felt like my mind was full of pins and needles.

  “Oh, look,” my dad said.

  “What?” I asked, looking up from the tuft of sheep fur in my hands, my mind still reeling.

  “It’s Mr. Thomas walking his dog.”

  Mr. Thomas was another farmer in the area. Dad had known him for years, longer than I had been alive. Mr. Thomas always made me shiver whenever I looked at him. He looked like death warmed up in the microwave. His skin was white as a sheet, but his nose was red and bumpy. There was also a very distinct, musty
smell that surrounded him, probably due to the jacket that probably hadn’t been washed since it was made.

  He also owned this scabby mutt called Henry. I didn’t like Henry, and Henry didn’t like me. He was nowhere near as gorgeous as Pickle was. He always barked at Pickle whenever she got too close, and he wouldn’t stop yammering until Mr. Thomas gave him a little tap with his hand.

  My dad pulled up alongside him, sending Henry into a full-on rage.

  Pickle barked back through the crack in the window, giving as good as she was getting.

  “Henry, be quiet!” Mr. Thomas yelled, giving Henry that patented tap on the side.

  “Mr. Thomas, how are you?” Dad asked, petting Pickle to calm her down.

  “Oh . . . not too bad. Still walking, so it can’t be all bad.”

  “True, true. How have you faired with all these storms? Been horrible, hasn’t it?”

  “Awful!”

  “I had to put down a ewe last week. Had got herself injured. Silly thing fell down a small ravine. Couldn’t do anything for her.”

  “I had the same thing with a pair of chickens on the farm. Something got into the coop and raised hell. Took a big chunk out of two of them. Had to kill ’em both. Had them for dinner that night.”

  Mr. Thomas had killed something, too. And he ate it.

  “Terrible, isn’t it? But it’s like I said to Isabelle: if they’re sick, you have to put them out of their misery.”

  “That’s right . . . that’s right. How have you been, Isabelle?”

  Why was he asking how I was?

  He never asked how I was.

  And why did he ask me right after talking about putting down animals?

  Did he know I was taking new medication?

  Had my dad told him that I might get sick because of my new medication?

  “Isabelle, Mr. Thomas asked you a question.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I best be off; I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Thomas. Stay well.”

  “Bye,” I added in quietly, not wanting my dad to scold me for being rude.

  The four-by-four sputtered back to life, its wheels churning over the uneven road.

  “You should be nicer to Mr. Thomas. He’s all on his own on that farm.”

  Of course you would side with him . . .

  “He’s not my friend. He’s your friend.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I’m not . . . That doesn’t matter.”

  “You’re not what? You’re not mean to my friends? You can’t be mean to something that isn’t there.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You might not have said it, but you were thinking it.”

  “I’m not playing these games with you, Isabelle. You were rude to Mr. Thomas. I want you to go to his farm tomorrow and ask if he needs any help.”

  “But, Dad!”

  “You will go to his farm tomorrow and ask if he needs any help. End of discussion.”

  “Fine.”

  I turned away from my dad and turned my attention to the countryside flashing past in a blur of mossy greens and dark browns.

  Something inside my dad had changed. He hadn’t been the same lately, not since lightning struck the tree. And then he had killed the ewe that same afternoon, without even calling a vet.

  Had something happened to him after the lighting struck?

  What if something had replaced him?

  Had something happened to everyone?

  Had something made its way down as the storm passed over?

  Or maybe even before that, had they killed that first ewe?

  Did they come down whenever a storm passed overhead?

  If something had, it was only a matter of time until they got hold of me or got rid of me.

  Were they waiting for me to take my medication and then get sick?

  Dad would probably slit my throat like he’d slit the ewe’s throat.

  I couldn’t let that happen. I’d have to pretend to take my medication—at least until I knew the things, whatever they were, had gone.

  * * * * *

  The next morning I was greeted with a wall of frigid air as I left the house. It was hard enough leaving the warmth of my room to assist Dad with farming, but having to leave to help Mr. Thomas caused my stomach to do cartwheels.

  I trudged along the waterlogged path towards Mr. Thomas’s, barely able to keep upright as the mud took away any purchase there may have been. I wanted desperately to turn back, to hide in my room, but I knew that wasn’t an option. Once my dad saw an injustice or something that might reflect badly on him, he wouldn’t rest until it was fixed.

  Birds high above me fought against the wind’s onslaught, barely able to keep their wings rigid. I was having the same problem. My hair whipped across my face, occasionally hitting my eyes, causing them to water even more than they already were.

  Mr. Thomas lived in the valley next to ours, and so there was never a moment of protection against the wind and rain. I clambered up a cobbled path that led to the top of the hill and then basically slid all the way down the other side. Once I’d got to the bottom, I could see Mr. Thomas’s house and barn just a way down the road.

  As I made my way down his saturated driveway, fighting to stay upright, I could see movement in one of the outhouses. A shadow was moving back and forth in front of the door. My gut told me that it was time to turn around and face my dad, however angry he would be. But my curiosity told me otherwise. The shadow might be one of them moving around, searching for something in Mr. Thomas’s outhouse. It could lead me to another part of the puzzle.

  Once I got to the concrete part of the drive, I slowed my pace, walking in slow and methodical strides, making sure not to make any loud noises. The shadow continued to move back and forth, its pace quickening with each passing.

  After crossing the driveway, I threw my body up against the wall of the outhouse, making sure to keep as flat as possible. I scuttled my way along like a crab, my heartbeat quickening as I approached the door.

  With one fell swoop, his axe dropped to the wooden table, slicing through the neck of the chicken with ease. Thick, dark blood ran down the sides of the table, colliding with the floor and splattering against the table legs. I stood in horror as I watched Mr. Thomas scrape the chicken’s head off the table and into a bucket. The image of my dad killing the ewe materialised in my mind, causing an overwhelming feeling of nausea. Before he could see me, I bolted away from the outhouse, making my way as quickly and as far as I could away from it. I’d nearly made it to the end of the concrete before Mr. Thomas came outside. His croaky voice reached out to me, appearing warm but feeling cold.

  “Isabelle? Isabelle, is that you? I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

  I turned around, knowing that there was no escape for me now.

  “Hi, Mr. Thomas. My dad made . . . my dad wanted me to ask you if you needed any help. You know, because of the storm.”

  “Oh, well that was nice of him, and you, of course. I do need help.”

  “Okay, great. I’d be happy to,” I replied in an obviously sarcastic tone.

  “Great! Let’s get going!”

  Right over his head.

  * * * * *

  “Would you like to come in for a drink and a snack?”

  I’d been helping him for a few hours and I was tired and hungry, but the thought of going into his house made my skin crawl.

  “Erm . . .”

  I looked longingly at the gate, wanting more than anything to make a break for it and hope to never see him again. But Dad would become irate if he found out I’d run away from Mr. Thomas just after being offered a drink and a snack. So, after taking a deep breath, I accepted his offer, following him into the house with my teeth gritted and my body tense.

  He led me into the kitchen, tracking in mud the whole way there. Henry was sitting in the corner, baring his teeth as soon as I walked in.

&n
bsp; “Henry, don’t be mean. Isabelle is our guest.”

  It didn’t make any difference. He continued to growl as we ate, slobber dripping down the tufts of grey fur under his chin. Mr. Thomas had the stereotypical kitchen of someone who lived on their own. Plates were piled up on the counter, and the stove was caked in grease and tiny bits of food. If that wasn’t enough to send someone running for the hills, then the smell of smoke and body odour would.

  After five very awkward minutes of putrid small talk, I couldn’t take any more.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Thomas, but I should be getting home. Dad will worry if I don’t get home before it gets dark.”

  “Oh, are you sure? You want some chicken for the road?”

  “No. Thank you. It’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t want to spoil my appetite for dinner.”

  “Okay. Thank you for helping me today.”

  “No problem. Bye.”

  I made it to the end of the lane before vomiting. I couldn’t be sure, but I think he’d poisoned the chicken. I couldn’t digest it; it might have killed me.

  Once I got home, I told dad that I’d had dinner with Mr. Thomas, and so I didn’t need to eat with him that night. It seemed to please him that I’d been kind to Mr. Thomas, and so I was off the hook for my earlier rudeness. After dad left the kitchen, I grabbed the thermometer from the first aid kit, and then lay in bed with a hot water bottle. I needed to keep vigilant, just in case my temperature went up. If it did, I could be pretty certain that Mr. Thomas did something to the chicken.

  I stayed like that for the rest of the night, watching the thermometer, noticing how my temperature rose and fell in incremental ways. It was the closest I’d felt to my body in a long time. I had felt detached from my body, so it was nice to see it working, to see it changing. I watched it until I fell asleep, full of fear and horrid thoughts.

  Five

  Questions and Answers

  A violent coughing fit woke me up the next morning.

  It lasted for well over a minute, leaving me light-headed and wheezy. I’d been fine the day before, but now it felt like my body was being attacked.

  Had my dad sneaked into my room early this morning and fed me a pill?