The Numbers

This is a short story I began writing in 2018, and only got round to completing this year. It's inspired by a time in my life when I felt truly lost, and bewildered by a series of terse and conflicting social pressures about growing up; the expectations of what I should be doing with my life versus the reality of where I was. It was during this time that I really did hear The Numbers on my radio alarm one morning. Some time later, as I began writing, when summoning these feelings to the forefront I began to realise that this story was not going to be some socially conscious drama. Rather, it had all the elements of a horror. What came out is as follows.

~

I began running with determination, yet with every step I took the corridor stretched out longer, longer. The ceiling began sloping on a downward trajectory, and the floor beneath gave no leeway. A solitary, dull light outlining the doorframes permeated the dull, faded walls. The doorway with the brightest light at the far end became ever farther away, illusory, a figment of hopeful imagination. All the while my back was exposed, vulnerable, to that creeping presence which lurked ever closer with alarming reach. Eventually, in a panic, I lunged for the nearest available door which bore LIV in brass numerals, interpreting this as a sign of hope. As soon as I passed through, I felt the cold hand of evil reaching out to grab me on the shoulder.

~

As the radio clicked into life, golden rays of sunlight burst through the curtains, filling the room with a warm glow and a soundtrack of rapid, lisping Spanish voices.

…si, claro, pero le dijo el club que le iba a desmontar el equipo… Barcelona dos, Villa Real zero.

A snug appreciation of the new morning settled into my consciousness. Another night of intense, bizarre dreams left its mark on my mind as those tendrils of feeling let go and floated away like feathers. I was happy, enough. Life was pretty good. I was teaching English as a foreign language in Spain. It was my year out after my year out. I was in the prime of my mid-twenties: lost, confused, but happy enough. I rolled over from the wall to face the room; the springs of my little single bed let out a metallic sigh of tension. The room was bare: blanched walls, a storage unit and wooden sliding doors leading to a cupboard. It was only supposed to be temporary, until I figured out what I wanted to do. A feeling of guilt lingered over my head, telling me I was making a mistake. When will I get a real job? When will I use my degree? For the moment, the negative energy was kept at bay as I basked in that golden morning light.

My mum had wanted me to go into a Profession. All had been going according to some kind of plan, for a time. I did well enough in school to get into a good university to study law. I felt hopelessly outclassed and outsmarted at every turn, in every tutorial and impromptu lunchtime discussion. For four years I grinned and bore it and tried to continue doing so until an internship in a corporate firm pushed me over the edge. Talk of ‘shelf companies’, ‘guarantors’, and grilling on new tax legislation left me cold. So, I slipped away into another life. Coming to Spain was my first real rebellion.

…ha sido testigo de una nueva victoria de su equipo ante el –

All at once the voices on the radio stopped, as though a transistor switch had been turned. For a few seconds they were replaced only by a heavy silence, pregnant with pause. It was then I first heard The Numbers. An inhale of breath was followed by a crisp Englishman’s voice, reciting in cut glass R.P.

Nineteen

Thirty-two

Seven

Sixty-four

Twelve

Twenty-eight

The silence that followed lay heavy in the room again. A few seconds passed then that transistor switch was turned once more, and the Spanish voices returned. My confusion kept me glued to my bed, staring at the ceiling. My heart beat steadily as my mind raced trying to make sense of what had just happened. What I didn’t know was how strange my journey to discover the meaning of The Numbers would turn out to be.

~

Otherwise, my day started at usual. I sat on the little Spanish balcony munching spoonfuls of cereal while staring absent-mindedly down the Avenida. The traffic below roused my awareness of the day’s obligations as the sun gradually rose on another hot summer’s morning.

My shift started at 8:30. At the moment it was 7:24. I had practiced my morning routine down to a T so I could saunter in to the Academy on the dot. I became vaguely aware that there was something irresponsible about this, but the greater part of me won through sheer rebellion. I sank my coffee in four great gulps, got up from the table and jumped on the treadmill of the day’s routine.

~

On the way to work I listened to music. I knew I should have been listening to my Spanish language learning podcast, but I felt a similar resistance as that which rejected the notion of arriving at work early. I enjoyed this as though it were an indulgence and felt a shot of joy at my own cheekiness. There was a spring in my step that morning.

On the way to the academy, I had to walk through a marketplace, which ran every Friday. The adjustment to a whole different culture was never so potent as it was in these moments: live chickens and birds chirped in cramped cages; people shuffled around in tight packs. There was a raw liveliness in the air which was entirely distinct from the cold formalities of home.

I hadn’t been walking through the market for long when I felt the hot burning sensation of paranoia running up my spinal cord, flooding my brain with cortisol. My vision sharpened and I became hyper aware of my surroundings as I brushed past a man in a long trench coat wearing an old-fashioned brimmed hat. I had the unshakable feeling that someone was watching me, and it was only by looking up that I confirmed it was so. Cold, austere blue eyes pierced into mine as I looked up into the face under the hat. I instinctively leapt back, but found I was too jammed into the crowd of the marketplace. People behind me, including an elderly couple, stumbled forwards, and started shouting, just audible above the music that continued blaring into my ears.

Ostia! Mira lo que haces, idiota!

I had gained just enough of a gap in the crowd to slink out from the thick of it and head in the direction of work, of normality. I took the headphones out my ears, wanting to stay alert as I made haste away from the bustling crowds and noise. I looked back to confirm what I already knew: he was still there, staring right in my direction. Not only that, there were others. Some similarly dressed, others who looked otherwise normal. Faces in the crowd just staring. I ran and didn’t look back. The cobbled streets and tall buildings, sandstone churches and shop fronts blurred together as I ran until I got to the doors of the academy. Today I was five minutes early.

~

The Academy itself was a mixture of ruthless business acumen and marketing genius: trendy design to pull in the students, and ambiguous contracts which left teachers open to exploitation. The front of the building was on the corner of one of the city’s main avenidas. Its glass front was only punctuated by the wooden beams which framed the doors and large windowpanes running from ground to ceiling over two levels. The effect was that the by passer could look in and immediately be hooked by the dynamic nature of the teaching going on within. The girls on the front desk (exclusively girls, who just so happened to be quite good looking) were always busy organising lessons and new students. As an observer, everything about the academy had the whiff of sheen and sophistication, while the inside was shambolic. Regardless, the place went like clockwork, and this year I was yet again part of the machine that was teaching English in Spain.

The teacher’s prep room was on the second floor: a hastily considered afterthought in the overall design. Everyone was forced to stoop when walking for fear of banging their heads off one of the many pipes which lined the narrow ceiling. I was still perturbed from my encounter earlier on, and so found relief in sitting down with a book of Cambridge Grammar to prep my first lesson of the day. Defining and Non-Defining Relative Clauses were sweet relief from the acute panic I felt when seeing those faces in the crowd, and the Numbers which still rang out in my head.

Nineteen

Thirty-two

Seven

Sixty-four

Twelve

Twenty-eight

They fought for dominance, and I had to make a concerted effort to stay focused on the task at hand. I felt far away today, isolated. The usual chit chat permeated the dingy prep room, but I just couldn’t let myself relax.

The truth is I had never felt so at home as I did in this job. I loved teaching, so much so that I felt it came quite naturally. The first time I had stood up in front of a class there had been a moment of raw nerves, which was expected given a rational amount of social anxiety when a whole room of faces is staring up at you as the font of knowledge. For some reason I found it easy to stop, breathe, and carry on. The nerves somehow dissipated, I felt trepidation turn to electric energy and I launched into my bungled together lesson plan straight from the pages of the academy’s set curriculum. I found it all quite easy, and even fun. Not only that, I was surrounded by people whose company I enjoyed, whose jokes I actually found funny, and whose friendships I genuinely cherished. This should have been a happy chapter of my life, I kept telling myself. So, why this haunting feeling of –

“There’s the big man! How’s it going?”

Derek sauntered over to my otherwise empty table, unpretentiously dressed as always in jeans and blue shirt. His eyes sparkled and his voice was a sonorous Welsh brogue. Always full of charisma, with a tendency towards being the agent of chaos.

“We’re going for some drinks after work. D’ye fancy it then?”

It was Friday, of course. The end of week jarras were now an essential aspect of the routine. Derek’s open face was not altogether earnest, a slightly raised brow belied a cheeky drive towards oblivion; one I only knew too well from the last time.

“There he’ssss. I dunno actually. I’m off it for a while.”

My voice came out sounding awkward and unsure. The fact of the matter was I valued his friendship, and wanted to be included, but I’d been pushing my own boundaries far too much since getting here. Weekends had almost invariably ended up in decadent bouts of ‘sesh’. A patchwork of memories from the previous weekend reminded me of ending up in a string of dingy bars, spending the last part of the night wrapped around a toilet bowl, and then waking up to a banging hangover. This inspired my conviction.

Derek respected a straight answer. A weak constitution for setting boundaries was all the excuse he needed to induce sessions which had, by now, become legendary among the staff.

“Suit yourself then. You know where we’ll be. Looks like your first class is a no show by the way.”

He gave me a wink then reached into the cabinet behind where I was sitting to grab his progress book for the next class. Instead of relative clauses, it looked like I was going to have to prep for my second class of the day: a low-level early acquisition group who required pantomime and gestures more than most. It felt like a guilty pleasure, but I quite enjoyed it. I took the planning sheet from the file. Normally, the previous teacher would indicate on the progress sheet which revision, exercises and new material they had covered from the core curriculum. My heart rate increased a little as I realised that on the page the exercises which had been indicated by all the other teachers were the same numbers over and over again: the same I had heard that morning.

~

I decided to clear my head by going downstairs to the coffee machine. A boost of caffeine was usually the distraction required; the placebo of energy for when there was none to give. The building’s basement had another set of eight classrooms. These were quite different to the airy, transparent design of upstairs: cut into stone walls and illuminated by bright industrial scale lights suspended from the ceiling by chains. A long, tight corridor ran from the far corner into the management offices wherein the sales team strived to strike up contracts on behalf of the academy. This was both the sales room and the prep room for teachers who were delivering business English lessons and driving to company premises. In my experience, this was by far the cushiest of jobs and so naturally I jumped at the opportunity. I had two business classes later this afternoon. I sauntered towards the coffee machine at the bottom of the staircase.

As I walked downstairs, I felt a distinctly cold draught issuing from somewhere in the back. All of the classrooms were empty, which was not unusual for 08:05 a.m. but still there was something eerie. No one was there, not a soul. As I started punching in my coffee order I noticed, very faintly, a kind of humming static coming from further down the long, tight corridor.

“Hello?”

No answer. I waited for the blue digital bars on the machine’s menu to fill up to the top then grabbed my little brown plastic cup, stirred the over generous portion of sugar with the wooden stick and sank it in one. The warm, bitter taste was like a shot of Spanish courage; I wandered slowly towards the source of the noise.

Standing at the end of the corridor I could see the door of the other prep room was ajar, and the noise seemed to be issuing from within. I took some steps towards it and had no sooner reached halfway down the corridor when I suddenly made out the articulation of the noise: it was the Numbers, being broadcast into the prep room. My heart sank and adrenaline coursed through my veins. This was too bizarre to believe, but it was happening. I increased my pace and noticed that the door to the prep room seemed to get further away, and the walls smaller. I ran faster, they became smaller still. I kept going until eventually I had to duck, then bend over double. Eventually I reached the door, by which time the broadcast was clear as day.

I looked back, and all was dark. The only way was forward, and so I slid the door open and continued to the source of the noise.

~

Eventually, I realised that I could stand upright again. I breathed in, and noticed the quality of the air had become quite markedly different: it was earthy, fresh. The dry heat of Spain was far, far away. The voice rang in my ears, and as it announced each number the numerals flashed in fluorescent lights on some great screen above my head that was concealed in darkness. They had been audible for what must have been going on ten minutes, maybe more, so I was becoming quite familiar with the pattern. They didn’t seem to appear in any particular order, just big ostentatious, colourful displays. As I looked down, I saw there were lights on at the far side of what I realised was some kind of vast underground chamber. When the numbers flashed above, for a split second their brilliant light illuminated the cool rock below which made up the far walls. The further I walked, the more I became aware of running water.

It felt like the more I walked the further away the lights on the far wall became. I started to run, and they got further away still. I looked back over my shoulder and saw that all was utter darkness. I couldn’t be sure how I got here, or how to get out other than to follow the lights up ahead. A panic set in my chest as I understood that there was no other choice than forward. I ran again until the sound of flowing water had become closer and closer, and then stopped when I saw its source. As each number flashed above, it illuminated a vast, impassable river. I couldn’t even see the far side.

“Great, what now?”

As if in response to my question a foghorn blasted from the darkness upstream. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I looked upriver, desperate to see where it had come from. Any other soul here could provide answers. Until now I had been so sure I’d been alone. In time, I saw it. From out of the darkness came what could only be described as an old-fashioned steamboat. The staccato rhythmic sound of its paddle wheel slapping the water soon filled the gaps between the monotony of the numbers broadcast, its masts and pair of red, white and black smokestacks appeared like a beacon of hope. As it got closer, it became clear it wasn’t simply passing by; it was approaching the shore on which I stood watching. It took its time rolling into place, and I realised the ship was slowing down. Eventually it came to rest so that the deck was in perfect distance for me to step aboard. It had come to pick me up.

“WAIT!” A gruff Glaswegian voice bellowed from above. “You huv tae pay yer way. It’s no free.”

A door creaked open, and I heard a shuffling of feet on the wooden deck. Eventually, from out the darkness emerged a tall, pale, wiry figure with long white hair and a tattered old captain’s uniform. He approached the side of the deck to face me.

“Aye, we’ve been expecting you any day noo. Afore ye board, ye huv tae pay. It was once two pieces ae silver, but wi’ inflation it’s aw changed. Whit huv ye goat?”

I rummaged in my pockets and found I had change from the coffee I’d bought earlier on. Two €2 coins flashed in the fluorescent light in my hands.

“They’ll do nicely: silver n’ gold n aw. Welcome aboard. I’ll be your captain. I go by Charon.”

The steamboat chugged into life, the paddlewheel beginning its lively rhythm.

“Why have you been expecting me? I’ve just been wandering and found this place. I’m not actually sure what’s going on.”

Charon looked at me with wizened, weary eyes.

“Ye’ve been booked in for a while now, son. There’s loads ae ye’s noo, aw young folk. Ah’ve never seen ony’in like it. Aw lost souls, no quite deid but gone away inside.”

“What?”

That look again. “Yer name’s here on my list. It’s here for a reason.”

On the short crossing I looked down into the river, regrettably. I saw faces staring up at me from beneath the waters, eyes wide and locked on mine.

“Who are they?”

“They’re the wans who didnae make it. ‘Mon, don’t stare; they want you tae join them.”

I tried desperately not to look for the rest of the journey, but felt their cold, cloying gazes unwavering. What could have been ten minutes felt like hours.

~

Once I reached the far shore, I dismounted and waved goodbye to Charon. I saw I was now within walking distance of the passageways with the bright lights above. They looked quaint and small from the far shore, but in reality they were huge cave mouths with a foreboding darkness within. There were ten passageways in total. There was a faint smell of sulphur wafting from the depths within; as it hit my nostrils I felt an acute unease. Once again I looked back over my shoulder, and saw that there was truly no discernible way back.

The Numbers were displayed in the bright lights above each cave mouth, though in no particular order. There also seemed to just be a random assortment of symbols and letters. The broadcast was still playing bright and clearly. In that moment I realised they were my guide: they had brought me here in order to guide me to some deeper meaning, or truth. Someone, or some thing, was trying to help me. I consciously listened to the broadcast for the first time in what felt like hours.

Nineteen

Thirty-two

Seven

Sixty-four

Twelve

Twenty-eight

My instinct told me to follow the broadcast and choose the first number. The other numbers were a random assortment, with no discernible order. I took courage, located the light which displayed ‘19’, and walked into the passageway. As soon as I crossed the threshold the broadcast stopped. I was urged on only by a sense of moving forward, of seeking greater knowledge than the wilderness of my present circumstances, looking for answers.

In the tunnel I could swear I heard footsteps behind me, slow and subtle yet there. Tap tap tap tap. I turned around, but to no avail. My pace quickened.

When light appeared at the end of the tunnel, I noticed it was peculiarly yellow. As I got closer and my eyes adjusted, the emerging image was one I could hardly believe, so far it was from my present surroundings. I saw there was a news desk with a presenter sitting shuffling his papers. The camera crew were all poised and ready, the microphone boom hanging steadily over the shot of the camera. It was a BBC news broadcast which was about to start. A countdown was underway on the screen behind the presenter’s head, and as I took my final steps towards the opening of the passageway the loud news theme started to play in all its pompous drama.

“Good evening.” It was the same voice that had been reading out The Numbers broadcast.

The presenter was the perfect professional: looking right into the camera with all the composure and that gravely earnest tone expected of such a role. It was as though this was a scene from decades gone by: the BBC symbol in the style of the early 1980s, the presenter with grey, combed hair, clunky rectangular glasses, and a faded blue suit.

“Tonight: the cost of living and inflation skyrocket as the value of the pound hits an all-time low. Property demand by first time buyers has dropped as the average price of property coming on to the market is up 0.9%. Calls for resignation of the Chancellor of the Exchequer after the latest budget has been revealed.”

I walked among the camera crew, and no one seemed to notice me; it was as though I was there in some alternate reality: I could listen, but I couldn’t touch, talk, or interact with any figures.

“900,000 lost souls expected to arrive in the coming days as misery increases en masse.”

At this my ears pricked up. The previous headlines were things I was vaguely aware of: those tidbits of information which trickle down through society through word of mouth or a glimpse look at the headlines, but this was different. I stopped in my tracks and looked at the presenter.

“Chambers to be flooded with the souls of the undead as capacity reaches breaking point. In sport: Chelsea smash Arsenal 5-2 to clear the top of the Premier League as the season draws to a close. In cricket Australia beat England four wickets to one.”

He then carefully folded his papers on to the desk, looked up from the camera directly into my eyes.

“He is behind you.”

Near frozen to the ground, I turned around and saw that, among the camera crew, there was a shadowy figure moving through the crowd and coming in my direction. I could not make out who or what it was, but I felt the presence of threat. Instinctively I panicked and did not desire to wait there to find out just who this was. I ran to the far end of the studio, behind the backdrop of the presenter’s desk and saw there were about ten doors all lit up by numbers on top. I searched frantically for ‘32’, the next number in the broadcast, and when I saw it lunged for the handle and disappeared into the other side without looking back.

~

Snow danced on the blustery wind, as I looked down and saw I was standing on a stony platform somewhere in the mountains. My breath came out in near frozen condensation, white and pure. A vast chasm stretched out below the platform, and I could see that other passageways had been built into the mountainsides. A narrow, thin stone walkway was all that separated my side of the mountain from another farther away by about a hundred feet. I felt so alone in that moment, like giving up. I tried to turn back to the door I had just walked through, aware that something had been following me but equally afraid of going on. There was a cave mouth which I had walked out of, but no doorway. However I had arrived here, any chance of returning was gone. The only way was onwards.

I took some tentative steps across the narrow stone bridge, there being just enough space for one foot ahead of the other. The blustery wind didn’t help allay my fear of falling, and I saw that there was a long way to go.

“One step at a time.” I said to myself, to keep steady.

Each tentative step was equalled by a shot of body-wracking nerves. I counted out loud to help me concentrate.

“Two, Three, Four…”

I turned around and saw that the shadowy figure had appeared at the near end of the bridge: watching, waiting. A jolt of fear run up into my brain, and my stomach tightened at the sight. I focused on the urgency of now.

“Five, Six…”

As I raised my foot, ready to take the seventh step to about a quarter point of the bridge I felt its presence lurking behind me, breathing in my ear. Losing all composure, I ran and didn’t look back until I reached the far side. It stayed at the halfway point, the keystone of the bridge, and watched me retreat.

I saw that, ahead of me, there was seven little cave mouths which offered shelter from the snow, and hopefully from my tormentor. There were no numbers to indicate which one led to the right path, but there was a slight, dancing illumination emanating from the interior of cave mouth to the right of centre. In this weather I took my chances on what seemed the only opportunity to find some source of warmth, and so I walked inside.

As I stumbled down the down the dark passageway, running my hand along the cold stone walls, the dancing light got brighter. When I turned in its labyrinthine passageways it got brighter still. Eventually, at the end of the cave’s interior walkway, I found its source: a birthday cake sat on a small wooden table with seven lit candles. A peculiar familiarity struck me: I had seen this cake before; this was my seventh birthday cake. Seeing no other choice, I closed my eyes and made a wish. I wished sincerely that I could get back home safe and sound, away from this strange world of underground chasms and newsrooms and bad memories. I blew out the candles. There was an immediate, brilliant and blinding white light.

~

Vivid memories flooded into my mind. The words “Happy birthday!” resonated all around me.

I looked around in confusion as familiar faces from the past beamed down at me. My mum was there, as was my wee brother. Some of my childhood friends were there too. The birthday cake with seven lit candles sat before me at the top of a long table. As I was about to blow out the candles the front doorbell went, and my mum went rigid, the colour draining from her face.

“I’ll go, you carry on. It’ll be your grandmother.”

She emphasised the word ‘grandmother’ to show her unguarded disdain for my dad’s mum, using the full formal term to prevent any cosy feelings which might be summoned by the shorter ‘gran’ or ‘granny’. While she went to the door I sat frozen, unable to relax while my mum, my primary care-giver, was so unhinged by the mere presence of another. While all of the other guests chatted among themselves, excited and full of energy, I remembered the vicarious nature of potent rage and bitterness.

At the door there were murmured voices. To the untrained ear this could have been nothing, but I tuned in and knew this was an argument. The steely tones, the haughty self-righteous defensiveness. An all likelihood my mum was telling her to leave her gift and then go away, and my gran was asking to be let in to see me. I was at the centre of an argument I didn’t want, and the guilt and shame was unbearable. Eventually a door slammed and my mum came back, slightly flustered and smiling too widely.

“Right! Come on then, haven’t you blown out the candles yet?!”

Right on cue, I inhaled and blew at the candles in one great puff. Again, the blinding light enveloped my world.

~

When I could bear to look again, and eyes adjusted to my new surroundings, I knew perfectly well where I was: my childhood bedroom. It was laid out exactly as I remembered it. The wooden bunk beds situated against the length of the room with Power Rangers themed covers; they looked as sturdy as I recalled. The tall mahogany wardrobe against the wall close to the door. I had once tried to climb its shelves when it had crashed down on top of me leaving me trapped underneath. The little yellow television in the corner I had received for my birthday one year, and of course my pride and joy: The Nintendo 64 sitting plugged in and ready to go.

I almost wept with a painfully nostalgic joy. This was a sanctuary from the world: a place I could escape from my mum’s often fraught emotional state, from the boring and the mundane aspects of life. It was a palace of my imagination. Hours and hours spent reading in my top bunk, with my little desk lamp clipped on to the wooden boarding. The number of heroes and villains, cliff hangers and plot twists that had kept me reading into the night, frantically turning the pages were beyond my knowing, but they somehow still lived in my head. Now, it seemed, I was in my own story and yet I couldn’t find a way out. My own trials were life’s way of pushing my limits, I was sure. I just had no conviction as to what was right or wrong anymore. The Numbers offered a guide, but what was my purpose in following them? Those stories of old had impressed upon my young mind such solid values and direction, and yet here I was adrift: falling through dreamscapes, running from nightmares. For a moment I felt completely despondent. My whole life had just been following: the right grades, the right university, the right degree. Right, perhaps, but for whom? For the first time I realised: there was a lesson to be learned here.

Instinctively I turned around to look at the Nintendo, and I saw the little red digits on the front of the console: 64. This was my next step. Super Mario 64 was already plugged in, so I switched on the console and started playing. Immediately I found I was immersed in the game itself: as I examined my body I saw I was composed of pixelated 3D graphics. I jumped, and noticed I could stay in the air longer than usual. I could punch, run and climb. The question was how to advance to the next stage.

I ran into Peach’s Castle, greeted by the faux-royal 64-bit music so reminiscent of childhood. I racked my brain to think about where I could locate some kind of portal related to the number 12. All of the paintings in the Castle were portals to different ‘worlds’ or levels; all I had to do was jump through the appropriate painting. I closed my eyes and willed into my mind the game menu from which I discerned the numbers of each level: I would have to locate level 12, known as ‘Dire Dire Rocks’, one of the water levels. As I exited the menu, I noticed the atmosphere of the Castle was changed; there was a presence. It was here with me. I turned around, and could see nothing but I could feel it. I wasted no time in running up the carpeted stairs into the east wing. The portrait was as alluring and blue as I remembered; jumping through it felt like falling 1,000 feet until I found I was falling ever more gently, as if gravity had been delayed.

~

My feet landed without a sound. It wasn’t until I tried to breathe that I realised it was as though I was underwater, yet others around me seemed to be moving normally. I was now in a school, my old school. The bell rang, and the pupils were moving in an orderly fashion through its uninspiring corridors and cafeteria where I happened to be in some kind of stasis. The whole building had a tired, forgotten feeling to it. It had been a new build in the 1980s and had not aged well.

I somehow knew, in that moment, that I was late for a class, and started moving in the direction of the English department. My pace was twice as slow as all of the other pupils, and in desperation not to be late and to disappoint I struggled all the harder. The more I pushed the more I felt stuck. Critical voices filled my head:

“Come on slow coach! Hurry up!”

“God, I hate dreamy little boys with no drive.”

“Move it.”

“Wee gimp.”

I wanted to say something back, to shout in my defence, but I found my voice was quite stuck in this weird, singular bubble in which I found myself. All I knew was I had to get to my next class as quickly as possible. It was as though no other pupils saw me; they pushed and shoved each other and me to get ahead. I had to grin and bear it, to accept that in life you just get pushed around. I pushed and strived, but could not make progress through the sheer stream of pupils going in the opposite direction.

Eventually I lost my patience.

“Get OUT my way!”

All at once the bubble burst, and I was freed from my unitary prison. A circle of pupils opened up around me, and I was free to move as quickly as my feet would carry me. I ran out the cafeteria, down the stairs past the library and through the double doors into the English corridor. The old, embossed brass door numbers, unused in my day at school, were still on top of each classroom door. I ran until I saw it: ‘28’, the next and final number in the sequence. Through the plexiglass doorframe I could see a whole class sitting, learning underway. One boy in the front row looked up at me and made an obscene gesture: using his tongue to push into the inside of his cheek while his fist pushed against the opposite cheek. He then pointed at me. I felt frozen to the spot. This really happened. I was in first year and was sent to collect something from this classroom. The bleached blonde hair gelled straight down, the dead look behind the eyes: it was just as I remembered it. I knew I had to go in, but it took all the courage I had; finding myself back in that twelve-year-old version of myself; petrified by the notion that someone might take a disliking to me, or to bully me for sport. This moment had brought those fears to life.

Tentatively, I pushed down on the handle and made to slip into the classroom. I felt something tugging on my shirt sleeve from behind. I looked up, and saw the face of utter horror: blackened eyes, a shrieking grin, staring into my soul. Its long, thin fingers and talon like nails were digging into my wrist. I yanked my shirt sleeve free, sustaining a scratch to my wrist in the process and disappeared through the classroom door to the unknown abyss I knew inevitably waited on the other side.

~

The shadow was right behind me, I could feel its presence. In front of me stretched out a long corridor with doorways all down the sides: a musty old apartment block. Each door had a random variety of numbers displayed in roman numerals. Other than that, there was no discernible difference between each door, equally dull and lit by the flickering of the low corridor light. As I started to run this new variety of numbers passed me by.

LX

CXCVIII

XVIII

LIV

DIV

IX

There really was no order to them, and I began to panic as I felt any semblance of understanding slipping out of my hands. I felt lost, trapped, and vulnerable. The order of numbers in the broadcast had finished, and yet here I was still stuck in this netherworld. As I kept running, I realised the corridor was stretching out ahead of me, and the same numbered doors kept repeating. The shadow was drawing closer: I had to make a choice.

The previous numbers of the broadcast rushed through my head, as I went into overdrive trying to find rhyme or reason. Here I was lost, dejected by the notion I had spent such a long time simply following unquestioningly the ideas of others. Now I had to make a choice, and I felt angry and bitter at the fact there was now no longer anyone taking me by the hand. This realisation caused that previous despondency to bubble over into self-loathing. I cursed out loud at my fate, slipping into the soothing idea that I was a victim of circumstance. I screamed and shouted, kicked and punched the walls. Adrenaline was raging through my blood stream.

All of a sudden I looked up at the dark corridor stretching out before me and a strange sense of déja-vu hit me right between the eyes, seeping into my consciousness and making me feel the hopelessness of repetition.

“I’ve been here before. This is where I was before I woke up this morning. I know it.”

It all suddenly came clear. I realised that I couldn’t remember when I had been out of the loop. That conversation with Derek in the prep room, the no show, the faces in the marketplace: I had been living the same experience for as far as I could remember. This was some kind of test, and I had been failing. The Numbers were a signal: a way of helping me to make sense of all of this, to get out. To break the cycle. As if magic words had been uttered, I saw the solution: in order to get out the other side I had to choose a combination of numbers which add up to a straight line: they must sum 180.

I stopped running and started adding it all up. With some serious effort amid the panic and confusion the light of realisation dawned on me as the corridor light got brighter in turn, illuminating all that was around me. All of the previous numbers had brought me up to 162. The remaining number was 18. The door numbered XVIII in brass looked unassuming, just like the rest of them, but this was my escape, my way out and forward from all of this.

Before making my escape, I turned around to confront my tormentor. I was right: it was right behind me, but it was changed. In the bright light it was barely a shadow, and I saw it was what it really was: an ailing, pale version of myself which looked physically pained by the light.

“That’s right: keep running, I’m coming and I’ll get you eventually. I always do.” it croaked.

The tone was unconvincing. In a moment of frenzied passion, I stood my ground.

“You have no more power over me. I know the way out, and I’m leaving. You are nothing but the sum total of all of my fears. The future is unknown, but it is brighter and better than what you have brought me. I’m leaving, and I don’t intend to ever come back here.”

Its face darkened: its eyes dilated and it bore its sharp teeth then lunged at me. I stepped out of its way. When it turned back around to face me it had my mother’s face.

“You’re a disappointment: always giving up, no commitment. Sheila’s boys have become dentists and own houses. Why can’t you do the same?”

I noticed one of the doors, next to XVIII was lying slightly open. I backed towards it, allowing my tormentor to goad me, to lunge, to attempt to drag me back to darkness, confusion and despair. It began gnashing its teeth and shrieking, lunging for me. I kept jumping backwards and ducking, evading its grasp. Its face changed into Derek.

“Pathetic, honestly. I’ve never met someone who spends so much time wallowing in self-pity. You’re tragic, mate. No other word for it.”

I threw open the door and gazed into the abyss on the other side before turning round to see my face reflected again, devoid of all semblance of humanity; ghoulish and desperate.

“I don’t know how you became so powerful, but whatever purpose you once served I don’t need anymore. I want you to leave now, and never return.”

I indicated to the open door. It stopped in its tracks, shivering and emaciated. What energy it once had was completely depleted. I almost felt pity as I saw its figure walking into the darkness. It looked back at me once, with a look of renewed sorrow and regret before walking into the darkness forever.

I closed the door and looked to the brass numbers on door XVIII. As I approached there was natural light seeping through the hinges, and the gap at the bottom. My heart filled with a renewed energy, a purpose as I grasped the cool circular handle, and turned. Warm daylight washed over me as I stepped across the threshold and into the morning of a new day.

~

As the radio clicked into life, golden rays of sunlight burst through the curtains, filling the room with a warm glow and a soundtrack of rapid, lisping Spanish voices.

…si, claro, pero le dijo el club que le iba a desmontar el equipo… Barcelona dos, Villa Real zero.

I turned over in bed and felt the remnants of some bizarre dream leave my consciousness. Images of an underground river, a newsroom and snowy mountains receded into darkness. A contentment I had not known for a long, long time filled my heart and I found myself beaming. The possibilities of a new day filled my heart with joy and my head with possibilities. Life had begun anew, and all there was is now.

The radio broadcast suddenly cut out, and I lay there waiting in anticipation. Between the static I heard the voice of the universe, and I felt nothing but complete gratitude.

THE END