Trollheart

They don't sleep, or at least, they never seem to. Nor do they talk to, or even seem to really interact with each other. Just as I am seemingly beneath their notice, they seem to be beneath each other's notice. I can't even tell which is the original man who arrived, if he is even still here. They have all melded now into one giant, shapeless entity, and the phrase hive mind flits briefly through my brain, (Here is some music...) and I think yes, that is what they're like: a bunch of drones, all working to (presumably) the one purpose, all of one mind, and quite possibly each unaware, or uncaring of, the existence of the others.

And yet, for all that they do not speak (or at least, have never done so in my presence), they do make sounds. I lie awake and listen to them, their deep, sibilant hissing, that unnerving scratching that goes on till well after dawn. I once had mice make their nest in this house and I remember lying awake and listening to them scratching, clawing, nibbling at my walls. They sounded just like that. In the end, I had to put down poison.

For a mad, giggling moment when insanity seems to beckon me, its promise of sweet oblivion and no longer having to care, no longer having to work anything out or worry about anything, seems so seductive, I wonder if I should buy some more poison. Will it clear my infestation? But cockroaches do not succumb to poison: they are one of the hardiest creatures on the Earth, and will probably be one of the last, when we are all gone. They would laugh at poison, if cockroaches can laugh. And these are not cockroaches. These are men, or seem to be, and yet, I feel certain that they, too, would laugh at my pitiful attempts to destroy them.

Cockroaches...

Not that I have ever heard them laugh. Or speak. Or evidence any sort of emotion, or even acknowledge my presence. More than once, I have come up against one of them trying to get past (with who knows how many hundreds or thousands of them constantly crawling through the house this is inevitable) and though there has been no communication of any sort, and neither of us has turned or moved out of the way, somehow, I have never bumped into one of them, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, none of them have ever bumped into me. I have never looked one of them in the face. I fear what I might glimpse behind those ubiquitous mirror shades, and though I would not consider myself a coward, I feel even the bravest man would rather not see beyond those darkened lenses. Thankfully for me, though it may be odd, they have never once removed their shades. Perhaps they can't. Perhaps they're blind, afflicted by the light in some way. Perhaps...

Perhaps they're vampires.

No, no, that's ludicrous. Vampires do not exist. And anyway, I've seen them out in the garden. Not relaxing of course – they never seem to take any leisure time – but measuring, charting, checking things in the garden while the admittedly weak but still present sun beats down. Vampires burn in the sun. They can't be vampires. Also, vampires don't exist. Here is some music ...

I almost came close to speaking to them when they first entered the garden. I love my garden. It is my sanctuary, my refuge from – from .... where do I work? Do I work? I can't remember. I think there's a place I go during the day, tasks I perform, but if so I do them in an almost sleepwalking state and never remember afterwards what I have done or where I have gone. Perhaps I go nowhere, and I simply dream this other life. Or perhaps this other life, this life with the hundreds of mirror-shaded, unspeaking men and a house that is no longer mine is the dream, and I will at some point wake up. I hope so. But something tells me that no, this is the reality, and if there is a dream, well, I don't remember my dreams.

But every man has his limit, and I reached mine when they went out into the garden and heedlessly trampled my prize lupins and sunflowers. I had spent years cultivating them; they were my children, and nobody was going to hurt my children. Yet, when I opened my mouth to speak, one of them, as if registering my presence for the first time turned his head just the tiniest fraction and looked at me. His hand (gloved, I now remember: they all wear white gloves with black fingers) rising just to brush off the sides of his shades, and I remember running, back into what I somehow stupidly thought of as the protection, the shelter of the house. Silly really, when you consider that it is now completely and irrevocably infested by the cockroaches. Still, at least I didn't have to look these ones in the eyes. Have they eyes?

Here is some music...

When I checked on the damage later, once I had mustered up the courage, I found that every flower, every stalk that had been touched and crushed underfoot was scorched, burned to a cinder. But it didn't stop there. As if some strange malaise had infected my garden, everything green – my bushes, shrubs and trees, the grass, the hedge, even the little ornamental pot plants I had placed at some point just outside my back door – all died, as if shrivelling up at the touch of a destructive hand, a hand that reached out and drained the life from everything. My prized garden, for so long my refuge, my sanctum, the one source of light in an otherwise blighted existence, was destroyed in a day, laid low, erased as if it had never been. My children, murdered by an unseen hand, their lives snuffed out so cruelly and so casually, without thought or consideration, were taken from me, cremated and given to the cold winter winds.

That was bad enough (and believe me, it was bad: I actually cried physical tears about it. Mock me if you want, I don't care) but after a very short period of mourning (shut up) I came to a rather stunning realisation. Nobody else's garden had been affected. I'm surrounded by houses, both adjacent to and opposite mine, and they all have front and back gardens, and not a blade of grass, not a flower, not a leaf on a tree was touched by the mysterious cancer that had ravaged my garden. You can see the demarcation line quite clearly, where my garden wall ends and my neighbour's begins. His is lush and verdant, a lawn with many colourful flowers and plants, and two apple trees, one in the front and one behind his house. Neither have been in the least infected. And on the other side, the same. It's like my garden has been singled out, and stands now naked and shorn, like a man in sackcloth and ashes cowering amidst the ranks of the wealthy and uncaring. Almost a judgement upon me, a punishment for daring to try to stand up to the faceless men? Or simply a by-product of their contact with the ground, spreading a disease that raced through all my greenery, killing it all by the time the sun rose the next morning, yet spreading no further, as if to say to my neighbours you're all right. We have no quarrel with you.

Once I realised that simple but stark fact, I felt – and I continue to feel – more alone than I ever have done.


III: Neighbourhood Watch

In times of trouble, you turn to your neighbours, don't you? The people you see every day, the people you go to work with, the people whose children play with yours (if you have children. Do I have children? Here is some music...) and the people who, in leaner times, band together and can be relied upon. My own memory is faulty, but surely that can't be true of everyone else who lives here? Perhaps someone remembers these cockroach-men arriving, perhaps someone even knows why they are here, what they are doing?

Perhaps someone has spoken to them. I don't know in all honesty whether the men have ventured beyond my house – with so many to keep track of, if I wanted to, which I don't, it would be fallacy to say they never did – but if they have, could they have chanced upon one of my neighbours? Could they, in fact, fail to do otherwise, unless they had gone out in the dead of night? Surely someone saw them and can tell me more about them? If nothing else, I can at least discuss with the likes of Peter Farrell or Janet Grissom my unease about them, and perhaps we can mull over theories.

Men in Black.

Yes, Janet is a real UFO nut, a conspiracy theorist. She'd have plenty of ideas as to who these people were. Most if not all would be crackpot, few would be likely to hold water, but at least we could discuss them. It seems so long since I have actually spoken to another living being. If nothing else, I can convince myself I'm not going crazy.

Those are my thoughts as I step out into the chilly but bracing afternoon air, choosing a time when there would be people around. As it happens, it isn't Janet I bump into, but the big bus driver Keith Mallet, whom I know casually. I think. He may be a friend. I seem to remember sharing a drink with him on occasion, and there is something about him, some interest we share ... I can't dredge the details up from my sluggish memory, but he sparks them into life as he approaches, a broad smile on his big round face.

“Rob!” he grins. He suddenly stifles a yawn. “Oh, excuse me. Up watching the Boss on TV last night. Did you see it?”

All I can do is muster a weak smile in response. I can't for the life of me guess what he's referring to.

“Always gives good value, does Springsteen,” he goes on, all but ignoring my confused smile. Then I remember.

Bruce Springsteen.

__________________
Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018