sound.
Danger. I could feel a physical instinctual push to run; direct orders from above. Hear the klaxon horn screaming evacuation: head to the nearest exit. Get out of here now . I ground to a halt, heels smoking, and stood rooted to the spot.
Statue-like on the street, I seemed to trigger a spell, throwing a hush about the place for several seconds. In these moments it seemed to me that late-night buses glided without violent hiss or roar, cab doors didn’t slam and pub-goers either drew on cigarettes or downed drinks because the rabble of conversation ceased momentarily.
I can describe it best as one great inhalation; the calm before the storm.
I wait for someone to move in the purple light but no one ever does. I’m not fooled. Shop-door shadows are thick, impenetrable and not giving up their fugitive without a fight. I don’t know how to explain it but I knew I was being watched. The hidden stare raked over me, leaving me stripped down and exposed. Vulnerable.
There was a presence of someone, electrical pulse waves: charged and emotional. Dangerous and threatening; yet, somehow, I was connecting to this anger and desperation. Someone was trying to reach me.
I swear, I felt tuned in and emotionally wired. Defiant, I stood my ground, shaking and almost hyperventilating at this point. Nothing stirred except my ribcage surging and deflating, my breathing laboured. It felt as though I was suffering the effects of high altitude.
“Harrison?” I whispered. Fearful, hopeful.
Stillness was suddenly broken as a late-night bus turned onto the top of the street and roared towards me, lights blazing. It forced a reaction, shook me alert and I abruptly turned on my heel in the direction of home. I walked fast, didn’t run. My hands were shaking so much it took several attempts activate the main door locking system.
I bolted to the stairs, grabbing the banister to haul myself faster to the top, thankful I just needed a thumbprint to throw myself through the door. Once inside, I slid down the wall to the floor and sat in shadows and orange laser beams thrown in from street lighting.
This marked the start of the watching or haunting, although I didn’t know who or what it was. It was a surreal, tense time. However, whenever I look back and tap into that feeling of fear, I realise that dying didn’t faze me. It was the waiting that was killing me.
Chapter Nine
Faithful & True
The morning sun took the edge off last night’s fears, fractionally. I’d even managed some sleep, a record two hours and 40 minutes. Washing down four paracetamol with coffee, I went over and over what happened on the walk home from Ribbons; an exhausting process retracing each step in my head—trying to figure out who was watching me and why. No answers, but I did concede I had to drink less and sleep more, considerably more, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to hold down my job, the one thing that focused me. Correction, work saved me.
People walked to work without guile, and I decided to lock down the incident. I didn’t want to get familiar with this feeling of fear; waltzing with agoraphobia. No wonder one spins out of control. Had to pull back. I thought about Elvis James and made a note to call him.
Meanwhile, the freak heatwave sucked the life out of the Old Town. Road surfaces blistered, shade was short lived, forcing stray dogs to lie flattened on pavements panting while the rest of the world trundled about its business, people’s lifeblood batteries drained.
God help me, I thought, walking down the street towards the office, wading through 8am sunshine as thick as volcanic lava. I could feel my ankles puff up and my pulse pump harder to increase blood flow.
Surely, the sheer weight of heat would have people crawling on pavements, demented from exhaustion. I thought about global melting and sea levels rising, feeling a sudden irrational fear of being washed down Holyrood Road, surrendering to a current stronger than
Danger. I could feel a physical instinctual push to run; direct orders from above. Hear the klaxon horn screaming evacuation: head to the nearest exit. Get out of here now . I ground to a halt, heels smoking, and stood rooted to the spot.
Statue-like on the street, I seemed to trigger a spell, throwing a hush about the place for several seconds. In these moments it seemed to me that late-night buses glided without violent hiss or roar, cab doors didn’t slam and pub-goers either drew on cigarettes or downed drinks because the rabble of conversation ceased momentarily.
I can describe it best as one great inhalation; the calm before the storm.
I wait for someone to move in the purple light but no one ever does. I’m not fooled. Shop-door shadows are thick, impenetrable and not giving up their fugitive without a fight. I don’t know how to explain it but I knew I was being watched. The hidden stare raked over me, leaving me stripped down and exposed. Vulnerable.
There was a presence of someone, electrical pulse waves: charged and emotional. Dangerous and threatening; yet, somehow, I was connecting to this anger and desperation. Someone was trying to reach me.
I swear, I felt tuned in and emotionally wired. Defiant, I stood my ground, shaking and almost hyperventilating at this point. Nothing stirred except my ribcage surging and deflating, my breathing laboured. It felt as though I was suffering the effects of high altitude.
“Harrison?” I whispered. Fearful, hopeful.
Stillness was suddenly broken as a late-night bus turned onto the top of the street and roared towards me, lights blazing. It forced a reaction, shook me alert and I abruptly turned on my heel in the direction of home. I walked fast, didn’t run. My hands were shaking so much it took several attempts activate the main door locking system.
I bolted to the stairs, grabbing the banister to haul myself faster to the top, thankful I just needed a thumbprint to throw myself through the door. Once inside, I slid down the wall to the floor and sat in shadows and orange laser beams thrown in from street lighting.
This marked the start of the watching or haunting, although I didn’t know who or what it was. It was a surreal, tense time. However, whenever I look back and tap into that feeling of fear, I realise that dying didn’t faze me. It was the waiting that was killing me.
Chapter Nine
Faithful & True
The morning sun took the edge off last night’s fears, fractionally. I’d even managed some sleep, a record two hours and 40 minutes. Washing down four paracetamol with coffee, I went over and over what happened on the walk home from Ribbons; an exhausting process retracing each step in my head—trying to figure out who was watching me and why. No answers, but I did concede I had to drink less and sleep more, considerably more, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to hold down my job, the one thing that focused me. Correction, work saved me.
People walked to work without guile, and I decided to lock down the incident. I didn’t want to get familiar with this feeling of fear; waltzing with agoraphobia. No wonder one spins out of control. Had to pull back. I thought about Elvis James and made a note to call him.
Meanwhile, the freak heatwave sucked the life out of the Old Town. Road surfaces blistered, shade was short lived, forcing stray dogs to lie flattened on pavements panting while the rest of the world trundled about its business, people’s lifeblood batteries drained.
God help me, I thought, walking down the street towards the office, wading through 8am sunshine as thick as volcanic lava. I could feel my ankles puff up and my pulse pump harder to increase blood flow.
Surely, the sheer weight of heat would have people crawling on pavements, demented from exhaustion. I thought about global melting and sea levels rising, feeling a sudden irrational fear of being washed down Holyrood Road, surrendering to a current stronger than
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