Rats and Hallway Lights

Synopsis

Set in the fictional town of Mason Regis, a man beginning drug recovery vows to take revenge on the local rat population. Developing more fantastical ways to rid the neighbourhood of the vermin, he becomes obsessed with the creatures, fantasizing that there is an evil rat overlord who must be found in the surrounding marshlands and punished. The creatures are rife in the seaside town, rampaging through the streets and terrifying the locals. Stefan must battle to gain purchase in the world, his fears, and his belief he is suffering from a form of psychosis he is afraid to address.

Chapter 1

Life is made of fragmented memories. Of hurts and open wounds that fester, taking an age to knit and even longer to heal to one's satisfaction. We are all sacks of skin and bone, creatures of habit. Our bellies stem the flow of discharge that threatens to escape and make others aware of the ulcers that scar our souls.

We consider ourselves top of the food chain, but others do it better. Other creatures exist offensively, navigating a world filled with the detritus only humans discard, building blackened, slime-congested kingdoms brimming with younglings, so many young. It is a crude way to exist, but exist they do. Out of sight, buried, concealed.

***

I find myself with an earworm—one of those irritating words or phrases that swim around your mind at the most inopportune moments.

Normal

Normal

Normal

The repetitive words are set to the sound of an old drum and bass tune. I try to remember what it’s called, tapping my fingers rapidly on my knees as the urge to satiate my addiction becomes urgent.

White noise permeates my thoughts as an office radio is tuned in by another worker. The news headlines centre my scattered thoughts.

“Several people in the Mason Regis area have been seriously injured by ball bearings and airgun pellets. Police have urged locals to stay in their homes after dark….”

“Mr Moorhead?”

My thoughts are interrupted by the council support officer, Ms Diamond, a well-meaning type. She’s got an officious manner but kind eyes hidden behind funky horn-rimmed glasses. There was also an absence of proper focus, as if she had a thousand other things she would rather be doing.

“Huh? Oh, yes.”

I reply.

“As I said, your contract is signed, and I’m pleased to say you can move in today”.

A slap on the office window makes me jump, and my anxiety surges. Alarmed, I raise my fist to my mouth, gripping my first knuckle with my teeth.

"Oi oi. Is she gonna suck you off, Stef?"

It’s a man I know from the street, mostly a pain in the proverbial and consistently high on Spice. His lank, straggly hair and filthy clothes sicken me. I always tried my best to stay clean on the streets and took every opportunity offered for fresh clothes and showers at the night shelter. I shake my head, offering him only a dark look.

He roars with laughter and shouts gruffly.

“She wants your c..."

He’s pulled away before he can finish his sentence. A council officer holds her arms out to keep him at bay, and security takes the hooting big man to the floor with a cacophonous thump.It's like a live-action comedy scene viewed through the slats of the office blinds.

“I'm sorry about him.”

I comment, trying to hold in an embarrassed snigger that creeps up on me.

“He's a decent bloke when sober, but then aren't we all?”

I don’t know why I’m apologising for a bare acquaintance. Someone who can only string a sentence together to beg for money, drooling as he speaks.

I remember what that was like. Not to care what anyone thought, only where your next fix came from. I flush with shame at the memory.

Under my breath, I repeat a catchphrase I’ve learned through my recovery.

“I believe in my path and myself”.

It grounds me momentarily.

Ms Diamond’s face is unreadable. I can’t tell if she’s disgusted by Tank’s behaviour or simply resigned to it.

My focus shifts back to our conversation.

“So that’s it? I’ve got a flat.” I swallow profusely, my mouth as dry as it would have been on a come-down.

I don’t think she realizes what it is to have somewhere to go. Relief is replaced by anxiety. Adjusting to new situations has never come easy to me. Perhaps I just look capable?

“You certainly do.”

She clears her throat and smiles absently.

“With your adaptability….” She continued.

She enunciates the last word as if it has a deeper meaning, something she values. Instead, I hear that I will quickly deal with this change because I’ve lived on the streets. I never chose that way of life, nor was it easy to adapt to my circumstances.

“…I’m sure you’ll settle in nicely,” she said.

Case in point for her, I guess.

“Indeed,” I reply to her absurd comment, rubbing my thumb and forefinger together rapidly. My legs feel restless as a familiar feeling enters my belly like a contingent of soldiers marching to a tenor drum.

The need

The need

The need

She nods sagely as if she has first-hand knowledge of what I’ve been through rather than some half-assed council training.

“A local Christian society has offered a grant for furniture and bedding, and I’ll visit next week to see how you’re doing”.

Her desk phone rings. She gives me a sheepish grin and an incline of her head to indicate that she must answer. I take my leave as she hands over the keys and a small yellow post-it note with my new address scrawled in spidery cursive. I squint to read it briefly before she finally hands me a leaflet from the charity.

Fumbling in my pocket, I screw the post-it note between my fingers and walk the town feeling less like a part of the underworld than I have for a long time. You see, there is a difference between being seen and being one of the invisible who inhabits the crannies of society. As if, though human, we are a kind of vermin.

A puckered and creased Aldi carrier bag contains all I own: a change of clothes, some tobacco, rolling papers, medication, and a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey.

I pull the hood of my coat over my head as I see the sign for Devonshire Place. It’s habitual, as I pretend people can’t see me. Peering at the address, I walk along a row of Edwardian townhouses. Most have seen better days. I imagine these mews once might have housed the uber-rich, now standing spectres of grandeur with rotting mouldings, as if their extremities had been nibbled. Saxon spear iron railings protect a small park where ladies in summer bonnets and grandly dressed gentlemen may have once taken their daily constitutionals, their images now nothing but a snapshot in time on a postcard.

The park is like a hollow crater, surrounded by gnarled evergreens, their roots fighting for the space to grow under a blanket of discarded shopping trollies. Mould climbs the outer walls of the buildings, and long discarded rubbish coats the grounds surrounding them, a blanket of contaminated scum. These pathways would never be ventured down by the homeless. They seek out the light and warmth of a local multistorey or sheltered shop front. Or I had, at least.

As I reach my new address, I take in the darkness surrounding the basement flat, the rank and decaying outer walls, the flood stains, and the broken guttering. The front door looks like it’s been recently repaired with weak plywood after a break-in.

Placing my key in the lock, I hear a yip. A woman along the street dressed in an expensive-looking red winter coat dances a crazed jitterbug away from a glossy black BMW, waving her umbrella while muttering to herself. I look for the cause of her distress and notice a black rat, the size of a Capybara, scampering toward the underbrush. Okay. That’s a slight exaggeration, but it is pretty large. Still, I reach for my head, massaging my temple with chilled forefingers. I feel disorientated momentarily, the frisson of a shudder meandering like a snake through my vertebrae as I feel eyes on me. They bore like heated needles through the back of my head. I turn but see nothing, though I hear a scuffle in the bushes opposite, a void of blackness filled with muffled cheeps and rasps.

“Help me!”

A voice shouts, and a group of drunken, giggling young people round the corner, shoving each other.

Pulling my hood further forward, I shift from one foot to the other as I place my key in the lock of my new home, repositioning my hold on the key as the lock catches without opening. I imagine I should feel elated that this is all mine. Instead, I feel loneliness creep up on me, a fear of isolation penetrating me without my friends or anyone who understands what it’s like to be me.

I step over the threshold into the hall. The only thing visible in the pale street light is a time delay switch. I press the cylindrical button, filling the small entrance with ice-blue light. A refuse bin outside rattles, and the sound of chattering rodents fills the air.

My brain shorts, and a piercing sound fills my ears. The sound is so intense I feel faint. I try to repeat a mantra from rehab.

“I’m alive, and I’m present”.

It doesn’t work.

Beep

“No, no, no”.

I push my palms tightly against my ears to drown out the commotion. I know this is futile because it’s my mind creating the sound from a mixture of panic and memory.

Beep

Beep

Beep

“Daddy!”

I see the look on her face as she lay in the hospital bed, pleading and pained, the stark turquoise strip light flickering above her bed. I was so angry about that light. Why was it never fixed?

I grip my teeth so hard it feels like my cheekbones might snap and feel blindly for the door, slamming it behind me to shut them out. I wonder why the rats torture me. Surely they have taken enough from me already, made me watch as the dreadful disease ravaged her.

I push forward through the door into the main room of the flat. My chest is tight, and my breath comes in short rasps as pustules of sweat congregate on my brow. My eyes dart around the room, taking in everything and nothing at once. I can’t focus until the reverberation in my mind fades.

I don’t want to be here. Being here feels alien. As if some god-like hand has picked me up from one point in time and placed me in another.

There is a bed against the wall, smattered with mould spots, underneath a rattling casement window. As my heart rate slows and the adrenaline wains, exhaustion overspills, and stupefying fatigue replaces the aching need for smack. Walking to the local park and finding a dealer would be easy. It would take away the pain and replace it with detachment. After six weeks on the program, they tried and failed to withdraw the urge. It only succeeded in creating a long-lasting itch, a hungry hankering for the feel of the needle violating my skin like that of a lost and unwanted love.

Instead, I repel the need for warmth and relaxation, opting for a fitful sleep.

…

When the dreams come, they are always overwhelming. Auditory hallucinations often plague me during the day, but night brings a combination of nightmares and lucid dreams. Thanks to my medication, they are always there. The fear, the paranoia, from within, conveys a feeling of threat. The vermin are coming for me. I imagine their acute yellowed incisors keenly grasping my angel’s tiny arm, which swiftly morphs into mine. The filth and foulness injected her vital fluid with what would ultimately kill her. Swarms of the creatures wickedly envelop me with squealing wails of excitement, my body convulsing as I howl in pain.

I hear screams and an irritated banging on the ceiling above.

Forcefully rubbing my palms on my eyes, I return to some form of awareness. It’s dawn, and I hear the vociferous sound of a bin lorry. I cough. My throat is sore and dehydrated.

To garner any semblance of peace, I know what I must do.

The vermin must be eradicated.

One day, one hour, one minute at a time.