DAY 15

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None of the work’s WhatsApp group can ask what it was. They all want to know. Several glimpsed something pink and terrible. It was moving. It won’t be brought up at work tomorrow, but the entire office will know that Steve sent more than a typo somewhere it wasn’t meant to be and recalled it, minus a part of his soul. Whatever he has in his diary will require intense focus so he can press his face up against his monitor and disappear at lunch. Everyone will leave him alone. As if this time isn’t strange enough.

It’s cheap to buy houses in a less than gentrified part of town. A walk down the high street is enough to understand why.

WER SICK BUT STILL HUMAN

Is the message sprayed across a permanently closed pub’s metal window coverings, full of tiny holes. The local corner shop could double up as a boxing ring. That’s how often Rian has seen noses popped, faces raked with fake nails in here. People are skint and afraid, jumping into deep, murky puddles of addiction and escapism. He just about makes enough to tread water, but now there are rumours of a Tesco opening across the bridge and it’s costing him sleep. He is increasingly convinced that this government’s agenda is better served by working people on their knees. A small girl in a white t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms comes in with a scribbled shopping list.

“You got a mask, young lady?” Asks Rian. She shakes her head. Her wide, innocent eyes stir a yearning to know she’s alright in him. He can’t know, but the chances are, she won’t be. It just depends how bad things end up for her. He might be wrong. He hopes he’s wrong. He’s been wrong before, but he knows who her parents are. Seven lads pour into the store, making a lot of noise. Rian sighs and his anxiety spikes. The little girl stays quiet somewhere behind the crisps.

(Day 9 continued) Bonbon the cat is friendly and brushes against Awadil’s knee. He scoops him up and at first has no idea what to do with him. Before he even realises, he is marching back the way he came, firmly stroking the cat to calm his nerves. At the poultry company, he tries the door and it opens with a squeal. It is very heavy and requires his shoulder to get it open enough to enter. It closes behind him with a soft hiss.

The bloodied lady jumps when she sees him, then a look of total confusion crumples her face, now uncovered from the mask she wore in the street, when she sees the cat. Awadil throws Bonbon down on the floor, but the cat heads straight for the many chickens, each as desperate as the next, crammed into their cages under flickering tube lights. He swings a paw at the heads which poke out, here and there, like a game of whack-a-mole.

“What are you doing?” She asks him in a soft voice, nervously gauging the distance between Awadil and the door. Something in his body language, his bulging, wild eyes suggest she would be wise to make a break for it… and yet… the cat has begun to clean his paws. The fear the lady feels is not so much for her own wellbeing, but strangely, this strange intruder. He does not appear to be carrying a weapon. Finally, he speaks, constrained words are strained out of his throat like garlic through a press.

“The cat… kill it.”