Rebecca Gransden - Sea of Glass

The can impacted with a forceful slapping sound. The companion cried out gutturally, holding his alpha tones through the agony, clasping his face, trying not to be a squirmer.

Muzzy light haloed the builder.

With fists coming out of the darkness, stained in his own blood, the companion yanked the builder from the stage, dragging him by his clothes, messing up his day, striking him with knuckles, coughing incensed breath in his face, teaching him the class. The builder struggled within the onslaught, never a chance of breaking free of it, but wrestling and wrestling against. The companion dragged the construction worker around the vacant pit, their faces sometimes coming into the dull light, bleak stills of the encounter, getting rusty and redder. The woman stood at her seat watching them both, horrified black eyes powerless. She turned to Kattar and lifted her shuddering finger to her lips.

Desperation in the cries meant it would be over soon. Kattar looked for an EXIT in the black, to escape from any attention the quiet aftermath may bring him. He floated backwards, stealthily feeling his way into the darkness of the theatre, moving towards deep shadow opposite to where he’d entered the place. Rounded fittings came out of nowhere until he arrived at a sleek section of wall. Some exploratory pads revealed a doorknob. He twisted it and the glossy black door creakily opened. He hurt himself pirouetting around the wood as fast as he could, to get through to somewhere else, to get away.

Corridor coloured in strychnine lay ahead, tousled ceilings pressing heavy, neutron negative walls covered in images of frozen hirsute conquistadors. Armour plates of grimed steel railed into the dark distance, battering ram in faux for reassurance. Lights out.

Swirly patterns spiralled in the rich crimsons and melted oranges of the carpet, illusory movements as Kattar swept his vision up the corridor. Ebony frames held portraits of the suited, ties uptight, brushstroke irises pinpointed to meet your gaze specifically. He plodded his feet forward, to somewhere unclean, this place he’d never been assigned. The depth he was an imposter for.

He came across a man in the dark. The man sat on the floor, back resting against the left wall, unmoving, eyes bulging on a pallid face, laughter lines jeering in agony, he looked like a tattletale. Black suit, navy tie undone, striped shirt faded and damp with sweat. Underneath his dress he atrophied, spindly legs in outsized trousers, inside his jacket his torso was as if a juvenile had cancered Christmas.

“I’ll be your saviour,” he said, his voice choirboy and nice. “I’ll tell you the best way to run.”

Kattar used the wall to keep himself upright, the corridor was a mentalist, using quack tricks to make him swim, the half light creating dimensions that said unreal. “What do you mean? I’m wanting the exit please.” Kattar felt his voice leave his larynx disassociated from the words, not recognising them as his cadence, the way he would’ve spoken them if all was right and not in disjunct.

“He walks these halls,” the man said. A gleaming track of spittle ran down his chin and the suited man wiped it away, eyes darting in a searching fit, his body feverish, wired and stuttering. Ageing vinegar soaked the musty corridor, dust freewheeling in the stagnancy. The man winced, a contraction doubling him over. “I’ve got stitch,” he said, “I can’t get up. Every time I try, I’ve got stitch.” Corpuscular bobbles on the carpet suspended fibrous reds. What light there was was in the air, and it tinkled faintly.

“If I keep going the exit will come.”

“I can’t find it, because I can’t get up. If you go back into the darkness he won’t find you. You may get a licking but what he’ll do is worse.”

“But I can’t get out that way.”

He laughed, a cracked gurgle from deep down. “You’re crazy if you think there’s a way out of here.”

“You’re the one who’s crazy.” Kattar went to move away from the suited man. “Good luck, fella.”

“Wait.” The man thrust out a rigid arm and wrapped bony fingers around Kattar’s swinging wrist. “I’ve been crawling around this place. I can’t remember for how long. I know how to hide from him. Maybe if we team up we could find a way, you and me. You’ll not make it on your own, you don’t know the signs, what gives him away.”

“Who do you mean?”

Expression drained from the suited man’s face. “Mr Wayfarer.” He loosened his grip as Kattar delayed his motion to leave.

The suited man slumped into the wall, expelling a light tremble, his breaths steadier and transforming into cathartic sighs. “I’m so tired. He’s going to catch me, I know it. He’s come close recently, because I’m exhausted. He takes people, he takes them right in front of you. They don’t leave with him. He takes them then and there.”

Kattar looked the man over. “Listen, I’m sorry but I can’t carry you around. If you can stand you can come with me.”

The suited man grimaced. “Yeah, I understand. I’d probably slow you down anyway.”

“When I find the way out, I’ll send help for you.”

“Sure you will.”

“You have my word.”

“Do I?” He laughed. “Who gives their word anymore, let alone means it?”

“I do.”

“You’re a regular quester, ain’t ya. One of those crusader types. Is your word your bond? This place will see what that is worth.”

“What choice do you have?”

The suited man lowered his gaze. “I suppose I’ll believe you then. My faith is as good placed in that direction as any other.” He nodded, his head weary, eyelids drowsy.

Kattar lowered to rest on one knee. “How do I know him when I see him?”

“Most times if you see him it’s too late. But I’ve seen him, because I know how to hide in the walls. Life has hidden recesses and crevices for scurriers like me. He walks these halls, never stops, never sleeps, one slow pace unending. I’m not sure he’s conscious, not in a way you or I would understand. He’s bald and he doesn’t have a proper face, just pink skin and an open hole for a mouth. He always sounds far away, even when he’s close, and noises inhabit the hole; like voices heard whispering about you out of earshot, or the awful breeze in the treetop leaves at night. The only way to avoid him is to use your instinct. I’ve honed mine, it’s only fatigue that’s interfering with it. I’m going to try to last as long as I can, simply because I can’t face him, don’t want to go out like that, like what I’ve seen him do.”

“You better tell me what this Mr Wayfarer does, so I can prepare myself.”

The suited man wheezed a dismissive cackle. “There’s nothing you can do to protect yourself against Mr Wayfarer. He’s got your number. He’s got everyone’s. Besides if I tell you you’ll definitely go back to the darkness and my one shot at getting out of here will be kaput.”

“I’ve already told you that I’m heading for the exit no matter what.”

“Not if you knew, lad. Not if you knew.” The man shook a contorted finger at Kattar’s face. Kattar backed away, eyeing the thinness of the man as the man’s piercingly black pupils gazed up full of want.

Kattar turned away from the suited man, towards the way onwards, the corridor in gloom, a panelled dark wood door hazy at the carpet runner’s end.

“You’ll not come back,” the suited man said, calling out as Kattar left him, “Nobody ever does who doesn’t ask my name. Means you don’t really give a shit, you see.”

Kattar picked up the pace because in his heart he knew the suited man had the truth. “Fucking wacko,” he said, under his breath.