The day after yesterday

As I walk into the room the smell of petrol flushes through my nostrils. Beside the door a petrol can lies on its side with its contents drooling into the carpet. A wooden desk sits in the centre of the room, with a high backed chair facing away from me. A writing lamp glows warmly onto a stack of papers, a telephone, nothing out of the ordinary there. Smoke rises lazily from an ash tray on the desk. Mild panic to think of the petrol on the floor. But still, I was brought here and the desire to know why is a powerful thing. A mirror on the wall reflects the light from the lamp. Something else is visible there. The fumes distort my vision. A few steps forward, I squint to see more. The chair faces the mirror. Something is on the chair, a dark shapeless matter. I reach forward to the lamp and swing the bulb upward. As light washes across the room I am hit from all sides at once. A bile like nothing else rises in my throat, an ice like dread. Primal fear. All encompassing. Then nothing.

#

The day before today. The shrill tone of a phone message shook me out of a daydream. I was sat in my car, it was the last day of work. What was I thinking of? That doesn’t seem important now. The message was terse and confusing. I stared at the words. “Where is it?” The phone number was displayed next to the message, I did not recognise it. Maybe it was a mistake. As I pulled away I wondered what it could mean. I drove up the service road. The car parks around the offices were mostly empty – people with places to go long since gone. I pulled up to the main road. At the junction a bag sat on the floor, the type of bag that you would take to the gym. It was gold with a black logo. Just a bag, no person around, the offices deserted. Maybe the security staff left it? My car indicator ticked. The display in the dashboard blinked like an annoying insect. I looked at the bag, wondering if I should pull over and look inside. It’s not my business, I thought. Maybe someone lost it. Maybe it’s something dangerous. Maybe I should look. Maybe not. I pulled away, still looking at the bag. The oncoming bus smashed through my car like it was not there.

#

Shick. Shick. Shick. The noise plays across my consciousness. Shick, shick, shick. My eyes are closed. I can see through the morning light, out of my bedroom window. Shick, shick. Below is my neighbour, in his garden. Shick. His cat is chasing flies in the chilly air. Shick, shick. The hedge trimmer cuts through the hedgerow, its shiny steel blades clean and sharp. The hedge is uneven, imperfect. Shick. I’m drifting, falling through the window. Shick, shick. My hand in the hedgerow. Shick, shick. The noise is that of slicing, through bone, through flesh. I wake up.

#

I awoke into whiteness. Bright lights stung my eyes. Looking straight up I saw rows of neon and clean painted ceilings. My body ached. I turned my head and winced with the pain lancing through my neck and spine. Beside me a person in white clothing looked away from me. A nurse or doctor I supposed. I am sure they saw me move but they did not look away from the chart they held. Beyond the half drawn curtains were more beds, some with blinking machines beside then. My segmented area had nothing but the aloof maybe doctor maybe nurse. Eventually they looked toward me. I could not read anything in their face. I was very lucky. It was incredible but there were no injuries. Barely a scratch. Prescription pain killers for the whiplash. Home tonight. In the cabinet beside my bed a shrill ping caught my attention. I looked at my phone. The message read: “You have it. I want it.”.

“How long was I out” I asked? “Not really sure what you mean?” was the reply. “Were you away or something? “Yes”, I despaired. I turned over in the bed. But I was not in the bed. Not in the hospital. I looked up. I was stood in a newsagent, in mid purchase. The shop keeper looked at me with a sort of confused indifference. I released the note which was taught between our hands. The shopkeeper said ”Right you are mate. Nice day for it” as he passed my change. The hospital was…I could not remember. I put out my hand to take the change and noticed the bandage wrapped tightly around my palm and fingers. My fingers. I stared at the man before me, not sure whether to trust what I was seeing. “Anything else was there?”. I didn’t answer and turned on my heel to leave.

Outside. The clear skies left a chill in the air. My car was parked on the roadside. Across the way an iron railing called halt to the tarmac and welcomed in green playing fields. Beyond was every Sunday I have known. Children playing on some sort of swinging rope bound creature. A dog sent a flock of geese flying, running, screaming to the safety of the river. Was it Sunday? I got into my car and turned the ignition. Beside me, on the worn beige passenger seat, was a golden bag with a black logo.

I looked at the bag. The zip was done up tight. I tried the weight of it. Felt like nothing much. My head was still muggy from the accident. The past day felt unreal. I was in an accident, but there I was sat in my car. The same car that had just yesterday been so easily smashed aside. I looked again at my hand. A small red patch had appeared on my palm. I unzipped the bag.

Inside the bag was a piece of paper with an address written in red ink and my severed finger.

#

I am awake. I am unable to see. Falling out of bed. Tripping over things which should not be there. The bag. A cold chill as I remember what was. I feel my way across the room in the darkness. I pick it up. Only one thing left to do. I leave the room, the house. Into the yawning night.

I am wandering lost. I follow a path decided by another. Inexorable. Towards that room. The room which I am afraid to enter. The room which contains an answer I dearly want.

#

I reeled in shock as I stared at the bag. I had no memory of the accident. I could not think clearly. The car engine hummed gently. I pulled off and drove home. Past the playing fields. Past rows of shops and people in their own worlds. Past the greys and greens. The landscape passed me by unseen and I could not understand what had happened nor how the bag had come to me. I arrived at the familiar. The overgrown hedges. The paint peeling from the windows and doors. Inside the house I heard that strange quiet that is only noticed when every sense is hyper aware. I walked upstairs and put the bag gently on the floor. I looked once more at my hand. The blood was dripping slowly onto the floor. Gingerly, I teased the tape away. Blood spewed forth and I looked at the stump where my finger once was. Was there something else there? Something tiny and moving. I passed out.

#

I am arrived. The door before me creaks and groans. The walls are a ruddy brown from the lamplight. The uneven surface of paintings barely seen. The smell of petrol. The desk and the mirror and the chair and me. I swing the lamp upward.