Faint strains of classical music filter out from the speakers above the heater; it’s the same piece that’s already been repeated twice. She assumes that it’s meant to be soothing, although the lump of paranoia nestling in her brain shrieks out that it’s deliberate, that They know it makes her nauseas, that They only play it for the ten or so minutes a week she spends in this waiting area. The nausea brought on by large amounts of classical music isn’t, as far as she’s aware, some Clockwork Orange pretence – nor is it youthful disgust for anything produced prior to her birth. She thinks it’s genuine, but she’s not sure.
People feel unsure about pretty much everything in this place; partly due to their natural state of self-doubt but also, she suspects, partly due to their newly advanced self-analysing abilities.
You know where we are, right?
It was a big enough fucking clue [and did anyone detect a note of hostility in that statement?]
There are three of them in there, all desperately avoiding eye-contact. You do not, repeat DO NOT make conversation here; any attempt will be met with nervous retreat as your companions size you up [I know I’m not crazy, and that not everyone who comes here is crazy, but this person might be, therefore they’ll want to discuss their daily medication in slurred, disjointed pronouncements before whipping an axe out from beneath their sweater]. The same rule applies to smiles.
They are anonymous strangers and wish to remain that way.
You feel reluctant to make any movement or sound, even clearing your throat, in case it attracts attention. Whoever arrives first is able to – unobserved – select a magazine out of the rack, thereby providing themselves with a shield from curious eyes, a purpose [I don’t know what you loonies are in here for, but I merely came to read my…whatever this magazine is…in a peaceful environment, then I’ll be off to continue living my fulfilling existence], but the rest would have to walk past everyone else, choose [snatch up] a good [the nearest] magazine and return to their seats. The four metres between entrance and magazine rack might as well be a four-mile journey through a pit of watchful, drooling lions. Forget it.
As always she gets the urge to develop a twitch or erupt into a litany of gibberish, just to see the reaction. But then she’d either have to keep it up until her turn, or resume silence knowing that these people were thinking negative things about her [crazy bitch…crazy bitch…crazy bitch]. It seems like too much effort.
Plus they might report her to Reception.
This is a place for tearful people; despairing people. Not the-definition-of-insane people.
She wonders what would happen if there was an emergency, like that A-Level Psychology study on influences, the one about the fire in Woolworths: the people in the queue saw the smoke, felt the heat, but no one wanted to be the first to leave the queue. So they stayed. So they died.
Whenever she told people about this, they said it was stupid, that they’d have left the shop. But, had they imagined it realistically and objectively, they’d have realised that it’s the natural reaction (must be a joke, a set-up – do I really want to end up on national telly screaming about a fire that isn’t there; no one else is moving, I must be imagining it; I’ve been in this queue for ages, if I’m wrong I’ll be at the back again). It struck her as similar to international disasters on the news – earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes – and how someone always says, “They were given a warning, why didn’t they evacuate?” Yeah, good point, why didn’t they just wrap up a few meagre belongings in a spotty hanky on the end of a stick and flee their homes – forget school, work, friends, memories – run, run from the flames or floods or lava that may or may not occur according to a garbled radio report they barely heard? Where the hell do you go; how do you know it won’t follow you?
[It’s possibly rambling thoughts like the above that have led to her sitting in the waiting room of a counselling service every Wednesday for the last two years].
“Sean, do you want to come through?” asks a kind voice, and she discreetly watches Sean get to his feet – wanting to shout “Ha! Your cover’s blown! We know your name’s Sean!” She doesn’t though, and Sean is led away by his friend; his Friend Who Listens and Does Not Judge.
And then there were two.
She concentrates on the plant pot in the corner, trying to clear her mind in preparation for the session, trying to focus on not tripping over her bag when she gets up; hoping the other person will be called first.
It’s a shame she can’t hide out in the toilet, invisible [or, for the extremely paranoid, being watched by the secret government cameras installed in the cistern], but then how would she know when her turn came?
She glances at the guy sitting opposite; he’s a wise one, brought his own book. Eyes flicker to the spine:
Grisfleur – The Unnoticed Death of Self.
It looks like heavy work, and the battered cover suggests that either he’s not the book’s first owner or he reads it with religious zeal. She can’t make out the blurb, but would guess it’s fiction with a pseudo-intellectual edge. Who knows.
“I’m Matt,” he says suddenly, and she reddens; caught out and in the company of a rule-breaker.
Well, when in Rome…
“Raef. Raefon,” she mutters.
“Is that a real name?” he asks.
“Yeah.” She breaks off, but he’s still looking at her expectantly. “My parents were either cruel or optimistic. It spells ‘no fear’ backwards.”
“But you prefer Raef,” he muses. “And that just spells fear.”
“Right.”
So many months of silent intervals, and yet now it feels alien.
“So what’s Matt short for?” she jokes.
He laughs.
An hour later, she leaves the building and he’s sitting on the outside steps, waiting.
This one too: did I muck up the posting?