by Neha Yazmin
Chapter 7. Recurring
The gallery was adorned with the world’s most renowned artists’ work, but Mukti was fixated on a simple black and white painting. Thick black vertical lines running in parallel down the white canvas. It was her exact height. At times, it mirrored her shape. Visual illusions…
A familiar-looking security guard––he reminded her of one of her lecturers from Uni––informed her that she was no longer welcome. Realising she was the last person there, she left the gallery.
It was dark outside. She hadn’t realised how late it was.
The streets were unfamiliar, foreign. Paris? Hadn’t she read somewhere that the city’s pavements were emblazoned with bronze medallions marking North and South?
Like these medallions beneath her feet?
But in the dark it didn’t matter.
Everything looked the same in the dark.
Heading South, Mukti stuck to the main road. But there was no point.
She was lost.
Why did she decide to walk home every night?
She had to keep moving, though. A shadow was following her.
Slowly. Fluidly.
Mukti ran, and the streets, the brick walls, the cobbled pavements, they all led her deeper into the night.
Too quickly, she came to a halt. A dead-end.
The shadow towered over her. The walls pushed themselves against her and she went limp. Numb.
She had to hold on to herself somehow. She closed her eyes and shut herself off. All her walls heaved down.
When she opened her eyes, blood was dripping down them. Someone had slit their wrists over her eyes! The blood combined with her tears, smeared across her irises. The black night peeked through the spaces between the bright-red bloodspots in her eyes.
It was over now.
Or was it?
The blood was too bright. Luminous.
More defined shapes manifested in the dark, as her large, messy tears rolled away. Were they red lights or… digits?
Zero, seven, zero, zero…
As Mukti’s eyes adjusted further, the red numbers of the digital clock became clearer. Seven am. Time to get ready for work.
Living in Dalston meant that you met your fair share of… eccentrics––or some would say, nutters. But the short, dark-skinned, heavyset Bangladeshi man that hobbled onto her bus at the Geoffrey Museum stop and limped his way to the empty seat next to her, wasn’t from her local area.
“You’re Bengali, right?” he asked her in the dialect spoken in Sylhet, the district in Bangladesh that she was from.
Reluctantly, Mukti nodded.
“Where in London do you live?”
“Not far from here,” she replied in a detached voice. Please go away.
“I live in Pitfield Street.”
Nodding again, she turned to gaze out the window. The man was making her anxious. Luckily, the bus was packed. She was safe. Just about.
“Can I tell you something?” the stranger asked as they left Shoreditch High Street behind them. He didn’t continue until Mukti grudgingly faced him. “I have a gift,” he whispered, leaning in close.
Seriously contemplating an escape, Mukti’s heart raced. Shifting in her seat so her back was to the window, she increased the space between them.
“I can see things,” he said, even quieter. “Not the future, not the past, but the present.”
Intensity in his voice, conviction in his words, Mukti gathered at once that this man was not well. What he said didn’t make sense. But they did to him.
And that made him dangerous.
She had to get away. But how, without making him nervous? What if he followed her?
“I can read peoples’ hearts,” he told her. “I can read yours––”
“The next stop is mine,” she lied, trying to get up.
Thankfully, they were approaching Liverpool Street Station––busy, crammed with people. Safe. And a number of buses she could take to London Bridge.
“Wait,” the man pleaded, not letting her out. “Let me tell you what I see in you.”
She swallowed.
“You’re a good person,” he said thoughtfully. “But you’ve been hurt. A lot. Your heart is cold, like ice.”
The words shook the strength out of her legs and she dropped to her seat. When he spoke of her frozen heart, she knew this wasn’t the typical reading one heard on a 149 bus. Or maybe this was exactly what he told everyone to grab their attention?
And it’s human nature to believe our individual suffering is a lot.
“What I tell you now, you cannot tell anyone,” he whispered. “Not even someone you trust with all your life––though there’s no one in your life of that description.”
How could he know that?
Then again, how many people trusted anyone with their life?
“If you repeat what I tell you, they won’t come true.”
“You said you can’t see the future,” Mukti uttered mechanically.
“Normally, I can’t… But in you… I saw immediately… You’re in pain, but it’ll get better. And… I see… greatness in you––”
Mukti’s laughter brought his words to an abrupt halt.
“Don’t laugh,” he warned. “And don’t repeat this to anyone. You’re destined for greatness, I can see it.”
“I’m destined to get off at this stop,” she chuckled, getting to her feet.
They were near Bank Station now, and she didn’t mind walking the rest of the way to her office. She had plenty of time. And she’d definitely heed the whacko’s advice––she wouldn’t repeat his words to anyone, not even herself.
Henrik’s a nice guy, Mukti thought as he prattled away about his weekend. He was friendly, warm, chatty. It helped when she didn’t have much to say. She’d decided to remain the concise sort of person she’d been for the last few years.
However, she’d have to attend more than one social event with her colleagues––the welcome drinks for the newcomers at the end of her first week couldn’t be a one-off––and also try to make friends. But, seen as all her energy went into maintaining the determined-hard-working-focused-professional façade, she didn’t have the strength to forge real relationships.
Thankfully, Mukti had impressed her supervisor, Kate, the senior person on the table she shared with Henrik and three other members of permanent staff, Kelly, Paul and Alan. If she continued to gain Kate’s approval, a strict perfectionist that didn’t seem to be a favourite amongst the staff despite her high position in the company––Paul and Alan had already badmouthed her in front of the newbies––then Mukti thought she’d manage to secure a permanent contract.
Kelly was cool, and Mukti was glad that the lively little brunette was in her team.
Having a window seat was a pleasant surprise at first. It had the best view from this section of the office: The Monument appeared to be close enough to touch. She could see the sky and sun. The light flowed in here in such a way that there was no glare on her computer screen and her blinds could always stay rolled up.
Later, she discovered that sitting directly under the air-con vents by the windows was a nightmare, freezing cold air constantly blasting down on her head. Why’s the air conditioning on at full blast in winter, anyway?
Kate sat opposite her and could see the rest of the company which Mukti had her back to, all sitting on tables of six against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Kelly sat next to Kate, Henrik’s seat was next to Mukti’s, with Paul and Alan at the end.
Everyone spoke very little when Kate was at her desk. But as soon as she left for a meeting or lunch, like she had now, Paul and Alan complained about the criticisms she’d made about their work and Kelly, Henrik and Mukti spoke about whatever issue Kelly had on her mind. Mukti just nodded and smiled along.
“So, what did you bring for lunch, Mukti?” Henrik asked after he and Kelly were done reminiscing about their weekends––the typical Monday afternoon conversation.
&nbs
p; “Pasta.”
“I have pasta today, too.” He smiled widely, his light grey-blue eyes unnecessarily elated.
“I have soup again,” Kelly chipped in. “I’m going for lunch as soon as Kate gets back. Don’t know how you guys hold on until two o’clock.”
“Makes the afternoon go quickly,” Paul and Alan replied together. Though they were usually on the same wavelength, the two men couldn’t look more different. Paul was chubby, chunky and had curly hair that grew taller on his head by the day. Alan was skinny, his mousy-blonde hair thinning out quickly, though he was only twenty-five, same age as Paul.
“It’s not easy,” Henrik murmured. “I’m starving. Maybe I’ll take lunch at half-one too. How about you, Mukti?”
“I was hoping to eat outside,” Mukti mumbled.
She needed a break from nodding, smiling, ooh-ing and ah-ing at the lunch room talk. Mukti missed the seclusion that had become her constant companion in recent years.
“I’d like some fresh air, see the sights before it snows again and restricts us inside.”