THE OBSERVER

By Cye Thomas

A COLD SHIVER runs through me as I enter into my new body. For a moment I am slightly disorientated. Though I have arrived at the correct point in time and space, my temporary home feels somehow different to what I had expected. The picture I had created in my head was brighter, more colourful. It looked like an image taken through a professional’s lens. This room is dull, almost grey. It feels like I have stepped into an old black and white film. As my mind slowly adapts to my new surroundings, the room finally springs to life. The murky greys begin to fade from my eyes, the room opens itself to me like a flower opening its petals to the sun. With the new vision comes sound, taste, and touch. I am experiencing my new body as if it were my own. Staring ahead, I realise that I am not alone. There is another man in the room. He is older than me, almost twice the age of the eighteen-year-old skin that I am wearing. He is dressed in a pair of slacks and a purple shirt. His cheap aftershave is hard to ignore. It hangs on his neck, staining the pores just as the colours of an artist’s brush might stain his easel. The cologne is his scent, his mark and he wears it with pride. Looking into his eyes I try to remember my briefing. None of this is real. It does not exist in the present. What I am witnessing is a memory, a moment caught in time. I have stepped through a doorway, allowing my mind to peel each frame like the layers of an onion. Though I feel everything my host body feels, I am not him. My name is not Zach Saunders. I am an observer, nothing else. I have come to study, to watch, to learn.

The man steps closer to me, and as he does, I already know what is about to happen. He is my client, and tonight I am his to use. His lips brush gently against mine. We begin to kiss. Breaking away, my client drops to his knees and unbuttons the zip on my jeans. The action is quick, skilful, his hands releasing me from the fabric holding me in with practiced ease. For a moment I am confused. He is paying me, yet I am the party being pleasured. My heart thumps in my chest. I have never done anything like this before. I never believed that it would get to the point that I would have to. But I am alone and no longer have a choice. Since my parents kicked me out, I have had to do whatever I can to survive. I hear myself moan as his mouth takes me in. The sensation that I feel coursing through my body is like nothing I have ever experienced before. ‘I am not gay,’ I tell myself. ‘This is purely business.’ But even though I try to deny myself, my body begins to tremble. This is the first time I have experienced such pleasure. Though I have had sex before, it was never anything like this. I am consumed by the ecstasy my body is feeling.

Everything my host body feels, I can feel too. Our two minds shudder as we come close to climax. Not wanting the feeling to end, we pull our client’s head closer, scared that he might stop and pull away. Instead he groans and takes us deeper. We explode inside his mouth, releasing our pent-up emotions, our fear, and our lust. As the last tremors subside, he lets us go. Getting up from the floor he grins. The smile is cold, sinister even. There is a look in his eyes, a bad look, something I try to ignore. ‘My turn,’ he says, taking my hand and leading me over to the bed that sits in the middle of the small room. Though I follow him, my heart is thumping in my chest, both because of what has just happened, and what I know is about to occur. I am nervous, afraid of what he will ask me to do, but he has paid me for my services, so I must comply with his demands. If I am to get the money that I so badly need, then I must be brave, however fearful I might be.

My client tells me to strip. Reluctantly I do as he asks. When I am undressed, he nods then tells me to lay face down on the bed. I do as I am instructed. Climbing onto the duvet, I push myself down. As I lay on the cold fabric, I hear him behind me. He is climbing onto the bed, inching closer. He instructs me to close my eyes, and I nervously comply. As he straddles my body I realise that he is still fully clothed. For a moment I am relieved. Perhaps he doesn’t intend to defile me after all. Perhaps he had something else in mind. As the cord tightens around my neck, my relief quickly turns to terror. I thrash and claw at the air, trying to break free of his grip, but my body is working against me. By making me lie on my stomach, he has trapped me like a spider trapping a fly. He is strong, so much stronger than me. He is keeping me pinned to the bed, and I have no chance of getting him off. Though I buck like a bull, the cord around my throat tightens further. It pushes against my Adam’s apple, causing me to gag and retch. I can feel my eyes beginning to bulge as I gasp for precious oxygen. But still my client holds onto me, snarling and cursing as he chokes the last remaining air from my lungs. As my eyes begin to darken and my host’s body begins its last death throes, I know it is time to leave. I will myself away, the vision fading like I have stepped out of a dream.

I enter my new body. For a moment, the space around me remains dark. As the cloud surrounding my mind lifts, I begin to see clearly again. I am on a train. Beyond the window the sky is grey. Autumn has stripped the leaves from the few trees that line the track. In the distance are homes, warehouses and one or two other buildings. I instinctively know that my new host is a man called Errol. He is seventy-nine. Tomorrow is his eightieth birthday. But he is not celebrating. He has nobody to go home to, nobody to love. Gazing down the aisle of the carriage I am sitting in, I stare at the other three passengers that share the train with me. One is a middle-aged man in a business suit, the other a young couple. They ignore me as if I am not there. Ahead of the couple are electric doors leading to the next carriage. As I gaze at them, they suddenly click open. Five youths come streaming through, their language loud and aggressive. They are cursing and yelling, splitting the silence, turning it into something abhorrent. As they make their way up the aisle, my heart begins to beat faster in my chest. Afraid, I avert my eyes and look down, hoping that they won’t see me, won’t single me out. My action has the opposite effect of that desired. Sensing my weakness, the group descend on me like a pack of wolves. I continue to look down at the floor as they gather around my table. The oldest boy slips into the seat opposite me, staring across the obstacle separating us, looking at my face, mentally willing me to look back. ‘What’s the matter, old timer?’ he growls. I refuse to look at him. ‘Oi, I’m talking to you. Don’t ignore me.’ I force myself to meet his eyes, my heart now hammering in my chest like a road drill. At a guess, the boy is only fifteen, his friends even younger, yet the evil oozing from their pores is almost tangible, it hangs around their bodies, an oppressive cloud. They are vile beings, repugnant in every sense.

As if reading my mind, the boy leans forward and knocks my glasses from my face. The action is fast. It catches me off guard. As the glasses fall into the aisle, one of the boy’s friend’s deliberately stands on them. I hear the glass in one of the lenses break beneath his shoe. ‘Why would you do that?’ I cry out. ‘What is wrong with you? Can’t you see that I am an old man?’

The boys laugh like what has happened is the funniest thing they have seen. ‘Shouldn’t have ignored us,’ the oldest boy mutters.

Looking past the boy’s shoulder, I gaze at the other passengers, mentally willing them to come to my aid. Nobody moves. The guy in the suit sinks further into his seat, deliberately looking away, glad the gang’s attention is focused on me and not him. The couple do the same. It is clear that nobody wants to get involved. What has happened to the world? When did it become so ugly? The boy sitting facing me pipes up again. ‘You need to learn some respect, mate.’ He says it like it is I that have wronged him and not the other way round.

‘What do you want?’ I hear myself respond. ‘Those glasses you broke are my only pair. I cannot afford to buy more. Why would you be so cruel to me? What did I ever do to you?’

‘Stop whining, you old fart,’ the boy responds. His lips curl into a sneer as he speaks, any empathy toward me non-existent. His soul is probably as empty as the dark eyes that pierce into mine. ‘I know what you pensioners are like,’ he snarls. ‘You lot have shedloads of money tucked away.’

‘You’re wrong,’ I say quietly.

Leaping forward across the table, he grabs me by the collar, spittle forming at the sides of his mouth. I shouldn’t have argued. I have angered him, made him more dangerous. ‘Let’s see then shall we?’ he growls again. ‘Give me your wallet.’

With trembling hands I reach into my pocket. The boy takes the item from my hand and releases me. ‘Well done,’ he mutters. ‘You just saved yourself a beating.’ Slipping back out of his seat, he joins the rest of his gang. As a pack, they move down the carriageway, heading toward the next set of doors, leaving me and my broken glasses behind. As Errol’s fragile body scoops awkwardly to retrieve the glasses from the floor, I jump out of his head, leaving him alone.

The mist swirls around my eyes. The world disappears. As I arrive inside my new host body, I am already learning. My name is Mary Jansen. I am thirty-five but I feel more like sixty. My days on the market stall are long and hard. But harder still is the evening I will have to endure. When I finish work, I’ll return to the kids and the husband who might as well not be there. Despite his presence in my life, Burt is all but absent. Since losing his position at the factory, he is drinking twice as hard, polluting his mind, becoming a drunken wreck. Even so, I still hold onto that tiny speck of hope. Maybe he’ll find a way to beat his addiction and return to me. He was a good man once, maybe he can be again.

Standing beside my stall, I serve my last customer, my whole body shivering beneath the bitter January sky. Though it has not yet fallen, there is snow in the air. Jenny is a regular, a loyal customer, and despite the weather, she has still managed to make the trip to the market. Today she has purchased a larger selection of fruit and veg than normal. Maybe she is scared that the forecast snow will force her to stay away. As she bids me farewell, I begin to pack up. As I close my stall, a chill runs the length of my body. It is not the frigid temperature that has caused this feeling, it is my body tensing, preparing itself for what it knows is coming.

Packing the last of my unsold stock into the back of my van, I tell myself that tonight things will be different, that everything will be okay. Burt will be sober when I get home. The kids will be playing happily in the front room, enjoying their father’s company, making the most of their remaining time before I make them supper and get them ready for bed. As I drive away, I am still trying to convince myself, refusing to listen to the voice that laughs inside my brain. My flat is only three miles from the market, and as I push my battered old van through the cold murky streets, my mood is already beginning to darken. By the time I have parked up and unloaded, my hands are already beginning to shake. ‘Please, Burt,’ I hear myself whisper. ‘Please don’t let me down.’

Leaving my lock up, I head down into the street, quickly making my way toward my flat. With work done for the day this should be a joyous time, something to look forward to. Instead a black cloud hangs above me, shutting out the light. My kids are my life. They are everything to me, but Burt has turned my home into something nasty. Leaving Bradley and Ella alone with him today has filled every second with dread. But what choice did I have? My mother was not available, and I couldn’t afford help. But have I made a huge mistake? Should I have taken the kids to the market and let them stay with me?

Approaching my front door, relieved to have finally made it home, I realise that something has changed in me. The hours that I have spent on my stall have given me time to think. Though a little piece of me still loves him, I know that it is time for Burt and me to go our separate ways. There is nothing left now. Whatever we had is gone. The realization shocks me. I was not aware of how bad things had become. Mentally I have already made a choice... Whatever happens tonight, whatever apologies he makes, it is time to leave. Tomorrow I will take the kids and start my life again.

For the first time in an age, I can feel myself smiling. Climbing the twelve steps to my front door, I become aware that this is the last time I will see this place. Turning the key in the lock, I push against the doorframe until it squeals. As I enter, a fire is burning inside me that I thought had gone out forever.

The flat is cold. It is in complete darkness, the only sound drifting toward me, the dull hum of the fridge. I cannot hear the kids, nor can I hear Burt. Quickening my pace, sensing that something is wrong, I move toward the front room. Burt is lying on his back on the sofa. He is breathing heavily, the empty whisky bottle lying on the carpet beside him. Moving close, I grab him and shake his body. ‘Where are the kids?’ I hear myself scream. Burt opens his eyes. They are bleary, completely bloodshot. He says something inaudible then closes them again. Rolling away from me, he begins to snore. ‘You useless piece of shit,’ I snarl. ‘You had one job. One, that’s all.’ Burt ignores me. He is too far gone, lost in a drunken stupor.

My heart races in my chest. Moving through the flat, I check the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen, but Bradley and Ella are nowhere to be seen. Fumbling into my coat pocket, I pull out my phone and dial. ‘Are they with you?’ I call out as my mother picks up.

‘Where did you expect them to be?’ my mother answers.

‘I’m coming over,’ I say turning and heading for the door.

‘You do that,’ my mother replies. ‘And you’d best hurry too.’ She sounds angry, much angrier than usual. Like me she has had enough.

Speeding through the streets, I head for my mother’s property, wondering what has occurred whilst I’ve been gone. How long were my children on their own? Did Burt call my mother to take them, or did she realise he was drunk and take it upon herself to rescue them instead? My heart is pounding as I get closer, my mind preparing itself for the angry exchange I know is about to occur.

My mother is pacing the kitchen like a caged tiger when I arrive. The thunderous look she gives me says everything I need to know. ‘Thank you for picking them up,’ I begin to say.

My mother stops me mid-sentence. ‘I didn’t,’ she growls. ‘They were sitting on my doorstep when I got home from the shopping centre. I don’t know how long the poor blighters had been there, but they were only half dressed, shivering in the cold like something out of a Charles Dickens tale. You’ve really done it this time, girly. I can’t get you out of this one. My neighbours spotted me taking them in. They’ve called social services. That drunken husband of yours has probably just lost you your kids.’

My mouth drops. The tears fall freely from my eyes. ‘Where are they?’ I sob.

‘They are upstairs asleep,’ my mother says quietly. ‘But social are already on their way here. I’m sorry. What happens now is out of my hands.’

I leave Mary as she heads toward the stairs, her pain thumping in my heart as if it were my own. As I drift into darkness, I think again about my master, about the words he said to me before I came here. Maybe he was right. Maybe these people are beyond our help. Slipping into another body, I pray that I might yet prove him wrong.

The darkness hangs inside my head like ink, blotting out everything but my thoughts, the only thing I still own. I have become accustomed to it like a blindman becomes accustomed to having no eyes. In a moment, the inevitable flashes of light will signal the quickening of my senses as my vision returns. Then my new host will make itself known to me.

As predicted, my eyes begin to open. As the street becomes clearer, I notice that the snow has already fallen. It crunches beneath the feet of the pedestrians who come and go, passing me by as if I am invisible. I begin to understand my new body, just as I begin to understand where I am. My location is London, my position is just a short walk from the Victoria train station main entrance. Like my last host, I am a woman. My name is Aatifa. I am an Afghan refugee. Though I am roughly the same age as the body I have just vacated, I am much poorer, I am also down on my luck. In my arms I am holding a magazine. As people pass by, I call out its name, hoping that somebody will buy a copy. So far the day has brought me little in the way of sales. I have shifted just a handful, hardly enough to provide me with the funds that I’ll need to pay for a room for the night. As the afternoon turns to evening, and dusk descends upon the snowy streets, I become more fearful. It is getting colder, the evening taking away what little warmth the sun provided. Nobody is buying my magazines. Nobody is interested. Pulling my coat tighter around me, my calls become ever more desperate.

A man in a business suit passes close by. He is close enough to my body to touch me, but still he pretends that I am not there. ‘Please sir,’ I call out to him. ‘I have no room for the night. These magazines are my only source of income. One pound fifty, sir, that’s all I am asking.’

The man stops and looks directly into my eye. ‘It’s people like you that are destroying this country,’ he growls. ‘Go back to your own home. Stop invading my pavement.’ His words are cruel. How can he possibly know what I have seen, what I have endured? Though I want to curse him I hold my tongue. It is not his fault that he is so blind. He has not been educated. He doesn’t know what goes on beyond his front door.

Realizing that time has run out and that I am going to have to sleep rough, I begin to collect up the rest of my stock. As I place the last of the magazines into the trolley, I hear a voice beside me. The voice belongs to a lady. She is old, with mottled skin and a host of wrinkles. She has a friendly face. Her blue eyes dance in their sockets as she addresses me. ‘Here,’ she says, opening her purse and pulling out a number of bank notes.

‘What is that for?’ I ask confused. ‘You can’t possibly want to buy them all?’

‘It’s for you, silly,’ the old lady says. Her arm is outstretched. She is indicating for me to take the money.

‘I can’t,’ I say shaking my head. ‘It’s too much. Though I appreciate your kindness, I can’t allow you to break yourself for me.’ I can see into her purse. She is giving me all the money she has.

The old woman looks at me. ‘I have been watching you,’ she says softly. ‘I have seen you standing in the cold. Do you have a place to stay tonight? I bet you don’t, do you?’

Despite the temperature I can feel my cheeks flush. I am embarrassed, I am a proud woman, and I hate the situation I find myself in.

As if reading my mind, the old lady breaks into a smile. ‘No need to stand on ceremony,’ she mouths. ‘You have two choices. You can take my money and find yourself a place for the night, or you can come home with me instead. Either way, I’ll not have you sleeping on the streets.’

Reluctantly I agree. ‘I’ll come with you,’ I say quietly. ‘But only if you are sure.’

The old lady looks relieved. ‘I live a couple of miles away. But I have a spare Oyster card. It was my husband’s, but he doesn’t need it anymore. That means there is one for each of us.’

Aatifa lapses into silence. So strange that those who have the least are always the ones who are prepared to give the most. ‘Yes, I’ll accept your kindness,’ she finally responds. ‘Thank you.’

As the odd couple head for the bus stop I prepare to depart. But then I see him, the blond-haired child standing quietly in the snow. He is staring at me, his eyes burning like hot coals. The boy is very young, maybe eight or nine years old, yet I sense an intelligence way beyond his years. Turning to face him, my mind disengaging from my host body, I meet his gaze. ‘You can see me,’ I whisper.

The boy nods his head. ‘I can hear you, too.’ His mouth doesn’t move but his words reverberate around my skull.

‘You’re clearly gifted,’ I respond, accepting the link, allowing him full access to my thoughts. ‘How long have you been watching me?’

‘Since you arrived,’ he replies, a sad expression travelling like a cold wave across his face. ‘You are wrong about us, you know. We’re not what you think we are. What you’ve seen is only what you wanted to see. A picture holds many colours, it has many brush strokes. You’ve not allowed yourself to see them all.’

The boy’s answer is profound, his insight that of someone skilled beyond his years. ‘You imply that I am blind, that the madness of your world is only half of the gift.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Then perhaps you’d like to paint for me an alternative picture. If there is something else besides the darkness I witnessed within the souls of man, then where is it? Please, grab your easel and show me.’

The boy steps forward. As his feet brush against the snow, I realise that they have left no mark. He is more gifted than I first suspected. Not only does he possess the ability to converse without tongues, but he can travel too... It is his mind that leads me, and I am ready to accept the challenge. Taking his hand as he stops beside me, I look down at him. ‘Where are we going?’ I enquire.

‘You’ll see,’ the boy responds.

Aatifa and the snowy world around her disappear like someone has dropped the curtain on a stage and is quietly preparing the audience for the next act. As the boy grips my hand tighter, my eyes become one with darkness. When the darkness dissipates I find myself in a park. Above my head the sun is shining brightly. I can feel its warming rays touching my skin. Around me children are playing in the grass, their parents watching closely as they run with all of the energy of their youth. Underneath a tree that is pink with blossom is a teenage couple. They are gazing into one another’s eyes. As I watch on, the young man drops onto his right knee. Producing a ring from his pocket, he asks his blushing girlfriend to marry him. The picture is indeed beautiful, but it is a distraction, nothing more. Shaking my head I gaze down at my travelling companion. ‘This is the proof you wish to show me?’ I sigh. ‘If it is, I admit to being disappointed. The ring is given as a gesture of commitment, but it is also an attempt at ownership. I have seen such gestures before; they are empty and ultimately worthless. Even if the girl agrees to the union that your test subject has asked for, the couple will probably break up just as most do.’

The boy stares into my eyes but says nothing. Instead of answering me, he waves his hand. The vision I have just witnessed fades and I find myself in the living room of a cheap little street house. The two people I have just watched in the park are standing on the carpet inside the front room. Though they are a few years older, I recognise them instantly.

‘Listen,’ the boy beside me commands.

I do as he says, curious as to what is about to happen next. Standing in the corner of the room, I watch quietly as the scene begins to unfold. ‘John,’ the girl who is now a woman says. ‘I need to talk to you. Perhaps you’d like to sit down.’ Her face is pale. She looks tired.

John looks worried. ‘What is it, Jenny?’ he mutters, ‘You’re scaring me.’

The words that spring from Jennifer’s mouth are as beautiful as they are cruel. She is pregnant, she is ready to bring new life into the world. But her joy is tinged with sadness, for she knows that she will not survive to see her child grow. ‘I have cancer,’ she whispers. ‘It is terminal. The doctors will do everything they can to give me time, but if our baby survives the birthing process, you will have to bring him up alone.’

‘It’s a boy?’ the man called John says, tears of sadness forming in his eyes. ‘It’s what we always wanted, what we’d dreamed of.’

Jennifer holds him in her arms. ‘I know,’ she croaks. ‘But now our dream must be yours alone. Promise me you’ll bring our son up to be a good man, to respect those around him. Make sure he never forgets me, that he knows that I am always at his side even if he can’t see me.’

‘I will,’ John whispers. ‘You have my word.’ His heart beats loudly in his chest as he fights to hold back the dam that threatens to break upon his eyes... Though he is close to breaking, he tries not to show it.

Jennifer brushes away the tears that are now forming in her own eyes. ‘Be strong for me, John. I’m relying on you. The days will be dark at first, but Aaron will take away the hurt. He will love you as you love him, and in both your hearts I will continue to live.’

As John holds her tightly in his arms, the boy waves his hand again.

The mist clears, and I find myself beside a riverbank. Like before in the park, the sun is beating down, warming the world, breathing new life. The sound of the water breaking across the reeds and pebbles lying beneath the surface fill the air and I feel the tension slowly leave my body. Unlike the horrors that I had witnessed on the first part of my journey, this picture is one of hope. For the first time in a long while I smile. ‘The child,’ I whisper, as I gaze upon the boy that stands at the edge of the riverbank, ‘It is Aaron?’

My companion nods.

Without having to ask the question, I already know that Jennifer is dead. Stepping nearer to the water I observe the child’s father closely. He is teaching his child to fish. Even from my perch just a few short metres away, I can feel the love that emanates from his heart. It is almost tangible, a force greater than anything I have witnessed so far. As Aaron gets his first bite of a fish, he screams excitedly. Turning to face his dad his eyes glow brightly. As I look into his face I finally understand.

Turning my head to look down upon the boy that has brought me here, I realise that he has gone from my side. As I look for him, I notice that the boy with the rod is staring. As his eyes lock onto mine he winks at me then turns back to his father.

For a moment I do not move. The connection has rattled me. The visions I have seen, the judgements I was about to make, they all seem ridiculous now. Turning on my heels, I move away from the water.

The Earth falls away. The familiar darkness that has accompanied me on my travels washes through my skull. When the mist departs I am back on board my ship. As my eyes focus on the main deck, I can see my master staring at me. His red hair flows freely onto a skin that is almost the same colour blue as the planet I have left behind me. His eyes bore into mine, his mind probing my skull. Everything that I have seen on my journey, he now sees too. It plays back like a movie on repeat. When he finally communicates, he doesn’t use his mouth. ‘You have travelled. You have seen that which you wanted to see. But what did you learn, I wonder?’

‘The boy,’ I reply. ‘You knew, didn’t you? Did you create him that you might teach me the error of my ways?’

My master smiles at me but doesn’t answer.

‘It doesn’t matter if you did or if you didn’t,’ I sigh. ‘He appeared to me, that’s what is important now. Without him I would not have opened my eyes. My blindness would have condemned me. The people of Earth would have paid the price.’

‘But you do see, and you are wiser for it.’

‘It is as you suggested,’ I reply telepathically. ‘Though the human’s world is dark, there is also light. That a child had to show me that truth disturbs me greatly.’

‘Children are often much wiser than those that try to teach them. A child’s heart is pure. It has not been blackened by the darkness that infects the rest of us. Perhaps it is they that should be the teachers, not us.’

‘So what now?’ I ask.

‘We let them live. The humans will do what they do. They will love and they will hate in equal measure. Yes, there will be occasional periods of darkness, but I believe that the good in man’s hearts will eventually rise above the bad. The human race will endure. It will do as it has always done. There are enough good people left to make it so.’

This time it is me that smiles. ‘Then we are done here, master?’

‘Yes, I believe we are.’