Beetles

The sun comes out, but it is still cold enough to be February. They have turned the heating off because it’s summer now. It reminds her of childhood, and revising for exams wrapped in coat, gloves, scarf and blankets, sitting as close as possible, without burning, to the electric heater her mother would sneak into the room.

She walks across the site from her office block to the main building. The hallucinations are becoming more commonplace, and it is reality that seems increasingly strange these days.

Every morning she can’t believe that he is still sitting there at the breakfast table, as monosyllabic as ever; as small-eyed and indigestible.

Pass the butter and spread it thinly on the toast. No small talk, nothing but the rustle of newspaper pages being turned, and her army of helpers whispering in the background, plotting what tonight’s mode of operation would be.

She had enjoyed their manifestation two nights ago. An army of shiny black beetles, their legs ticking against the laminate flooring of the living room and hallway, translated to a susurration as they climbed the carpeted stairs and made their way to the bedroom.

All that was required of her was absolute stillness in the half dark of the night. The sulphur yellow of the street light shining through the curtains turning the darkness of the room an amber-brown, instead of the blackness she wanted. She would lie still and silent, trying not to laugh, as they came into the room and carried out their end.

That night, they had swarmed into the room and up onto the bed. She had been forced to place her hand over her mouth in order not to giggle. Her toes had curled with anticipation, and she felt adrenalin’s wriggle in her belly. The laugh brewed and threatened to erupt, but her hand kept it back.

Front after front of shiny black warrior had surged over the bed, their hard as nails legs digging into his face, leaving it pocked and shredded in places. Then they had disappeared over the pillow and past the bedhead, through the wall. She had listened to the chatter of their mandibles as they proceeded; excited by their march, by the knowledge that they were engaged in important work, their jaws working ceaselessly.

After they had disappeared (she calculated that it had taken fifteen minutes at most for the operation to be completed), he had been left with a face like a sponge, riddled with holes. No gasp of breath remained in his lungs. The passage of the beetles had smothered the life out of him. She had let him lie there, a carcass, a nothing, and had fallen asleep.

And in the morning, there he was, seated at the breakfast table as she stumbled blearily downstairs, stuffy with the last dregs of sleep not yet shaken out of her system. It was a disappointment and a frustration.

The turn of the pages of the newspaper. Whisper of wood pulp edge against the table. Crackle of paper as he straightened out the next page of news.

She poured herself some tea, filled up the mug with milk so that the liquid mixture resembled the colour of the American Tan tights her mother used to make her wear to school. She had always wanted to wear Mink. She stared at the yellow paint on the wall and thought about the difference between liquid and fluid. Was mercury a fluid, not a liquid? She couldn’t remember. Could only recall the molten appearance of the cold metal flowing across a Petri dish. Wondering what it would feel like in her mouth.

Mercury led to thoughts of those metallic sugar balls her dad would put on top of the trifle at Christmas, and the year she and her brother had climbed up onto stools so that they towered over the freshly applied whipped cream, and flung those metallic balls, and jellied diamonds, and every other conceivable cake decoration they could find that would make an impact. Flung them down so that they were buried down in the jelly layer at the bottom of the trifle, small cream explosions erupting at their entry points.

Not so long ago that. Nothing said, just silent reproof. A thing that made them giggle like naughty children all the more.

She has reached her destination in this sprawling building that houses the engine of the organisation. She seats herself at her desk and stares at the computer screen, flexing her fingers, ready to commence work.

It’s warmer here, though it shouldn’t be. It will be a quiet day, she thinks, as she takes up her pile of email printouts. All the enquiries of the past three weeks. Still catching up. One of her helpers whispers behind her, and she smiles at its suggestion. But really, she can’t do what it suggests. It wouldn’t be right.

She thinks of the papers burning, though. The yellow, red and orange of the flames. The faces of the others looking through the flames from the opposite side; looking at her, mouths moving, asking questions. Why, why, why? Asking her the impossible.

“What are you smiling at?” Karl asks, coming unexpectedly into the room.

“Oh, just an idea I had to burn everything,” she replies, smiling sweetly.

He laughs, and “Good plan!” he says. He is American.

She sees a group of her helpers behind him. They are clothed in the shells of beetles again. She shakes her head at them. Karl is okay. Better with a beard than without. They scuttle into a corner, because Karl is turning round to look at the place where she is looking, shaking her head, mouthing no. There is nothing there that he can see, and he turns his head back to face her. He is frowning slightly.

“Who were you saying no to, just then?” he asks, looking puzzled.

“Oh, some kids were looking in through the door,” she says. “I was telling them they couldn’t come in.”

He looks at her as though she is mad. Maybe she is.

Under the table in the corner, she can hear them whispering together. Their mandibles are clicking slightly again. They can’t help it, but it adds to the irritation of the whispers. She’d like to open her head and tip their voices out.

Karl has gone, and she has no idea whether he said anything more to her, or whether she replied. She has been too busy trying to overhear what her beetle friends are saying in the corner under the table. They are big for beetles, but still small. They have hung around in this guise for a couple of days now. She doesn’t know whether that’s because she likes them looking like that, or because they are more comfortable like that. Perhaps they actually are beetles.

She tries to ignore them, and gets on with her work.

People come and go throughout the day. It isn’t as quiet as she was expecting. The beetles are still under the table, but they have stopped whispering. Every so often she has to get up and walk halfway across the room to peer under the table, making sure they are still there.

She wonders what to make for dinner. He will eat whatever is put in front of him. They will talk about nothing, or maybe they will just say nothing; be silent. Maybe the beetles will pick him up in his chair and carry him away from the table, out of the house, and away from her. Talking, or not talking, to her the whole time. She closes her eyes and imagines how he would look; sitting on a dining chair, being carried by a mass of shiny black beetles, talking to her as if nothing was going on.

She is sleepy. She leaves her eyes closed, and when she opens them again, she realises that she has been asleep, and that the day has ended. She packs up her things, and walks up the stairs and out into the sunshine.

© J R Hargreaves May 2006