Echoes

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He blew open the wooden door and screamed at the top of his squeaky voice, ‘THERE IS A FUCKING MONSTER OUTSIDE. HE’S GREEN AND HAS CLAWS AND A TAIL AND TEETH–HUGE TEETH–AND HE…IS…KILLING PEOPLE. ANYBODY, ANYTHING. YOU HAVE TO LEAVE, YOU HAVE TO ESCAPE. NOW!!’

Tap. Tap. Plonk. Print. Zuuuoooom. File. File. Shuffle. Shuffle. Bleep. Bleep.

‘DID YOU HEAR ME? I KNOW IT SOUNDS STRANGE. IT’S MAD, I KNOW. I CAN HARDLY BELIEVE IT MYSELF, BUT PLEASE, IT’S BIG AND IT’S SCARY. PLEASE.’

Plonk. Plonk, blip. Blip. Flick. Flick. Tap. Tap. Tap. Stare. Stare. Stare.

Albert clawed his hand desperately through his hair, as though something were creeping up behind him. He spoke again, his eyes frolicking about, rattling in his skull, fantastically psychotic, as though he were a main part in an excellent sci-fi film, ‘PLEASE!!!!’

‘Go home, Albert. Just go home.’ Mr Hurt gave up.

‘Go home? Go home? But there’s a…’

‘It’s because of ignorant people like you that things like war happen,’ Mr Hurt croaked out.

Albert frowned. Confused. Bit harsh. ‘Fine. Fine,’ he managed and went to leave, turned around again. Tap. Tap. Tap. Mr Hurt and his stupid face turned back to the screen. And then he saw his plant on the desk, now gaffa-taped up, rescued. And he took it with him, turned to the room and its grey contents and said, ‘And it’s because of negative people like you that nobody believes in a story anymore, and for that, Mr Hurt, I will never forgive you.’

And he plunged down the stairs, hurtling forward, catapulted himself out of the door and then changed his flurry into a casual stroll, whistling as he popped into a paper shop, then into Costa, and got that coffee he was after. He watched the road, the mums with pushchairs, gossiping, trotting past, the man on his mobile in a rush, the schoolboys laughing with their bags of chips, the cute girl with the beret. Albert picked up his pen and began scribbling down all the ideas he possibly could, excited, he spewed out phrases so wickedly; he could barely get a grip on the pen and he scrawled…

And then the monster got into Limps. He ripped off Mr Hurt’s head, and then squeezed his torso until his guts poured out of the open gash where the neck was meant to be, like a tube of toothpaste and everybody was sorry then.

…even if it was true, if the monster was there, if it did claw its way into the office and begin slashing throats and crunching bones, Albert wouldn’t have minded, he wouldn’t have tried to escape. It would be the most interesting thing that had happened to him. Ever.

Skin It Helps to Keep Your Insides in, Woah, My Skin, So Glad You Were Invented…) (#ulink_f7e544ad-941e-5b01-86b5-8492bca748dc)