Longhand Typing

Gaz was not easy to wake. He lay sprawled across the couch, naked but for a blanket that covered nothing but one thigh. My Friend and I stood there watching. Less than ten minutes until the moment, according to My Friend. They had called in sick, I had not bothered. I worked from home and could afford to log in late, was on good enough standing that I could get away with it.

“Any chance you could cover up that?” My Friend said, indicating towards Gaz’s privates. I obliged, dodging a swiping hand from slapping me away. “I want him to be awake for this, let’s just get him up now. Six and a half minutes.
“Gaz,” I screamed into his ear. He shot up, years of street smarts finally kicking in. How had he lasted so long out there?

“It’s nearly time, Gaz,” I said.

“For what? Who’re you? Where am I?”

“My house, remember?”

“Who?”

“Fionn,” I said.

“My Friend,” My Friend said.

I was going to go into the whole “you’re going to be able to read minds in a few minutes” thing but couldn’t get past the first word. Instead I gave My Friend a look, asking wordlessly for them to take over.

“So Gaz, remember what we talked about last night?” They spoke slowly, measured. “You’re going to be able to read minds in about five minutes.”

“That was serious? Not a dream? You’re not fuckin’ with me? You can just ask me to go. I’ll go no bother. You’re not just gonna take my heart or liver or somethin’? I for sure thought I was dyin’. I thought to myself, I thought, Gaz, I thought to myself, Not a chance you’re wakin’ up in the mornin. That’s what I was thinkin’. But sure look, if it meant I got a good night sleep in fuck knows how long, I thought to myself, why not. ‘Least I got a good night of sleep for once. Know what I mean?” He kept talking, one hand covering his eyes, the other scratching deep under the blanket.

“How long” I mouthed to My Friend. They held up one finger, a fire in their eyes. An excitement I didn’t feel. I braced for disappointment. Whipped out my phone and started recording nonetheless. Just in case. I opened the camera app and began recording. Surreptitiously.

Gaz was in the middle of recounting how he got from Dublin city centre to this small town just outside the city when he stopped, mid-sentence. He continued.

“Then I got the bus. Bus. Bus. Got bus. The, the the. I bus, no. Got the…” His speech slurred until it was an incoherent babble.

“It’s happening, it’s happening,” My Friend almost screamed. I stopped trying to be stealthy with my recording and backed up, almost tripping on the coffee table next to the couch. He seemed to be in pain now. Sound had ceased but he writhed. Motions of each limb incongruous with each other. One leg jerked sharply, an arm wriggled almost comically, smoothly. He rolled off the couch, My Friend attempting futilely to catch him as he fell onto his stomach.

Then nothing. I thought he died, was certain we had just been party to the death of an unhoused man who was at the natural end of his life. He can’t have been younger than seventy. I was running through the pros and cons of calling the Guards versus dumping his body in the alley we found him, painfully aware I had recorded it all, when he slowly pushed himself off the floor. Stood up straight, eyes locked intensely with My Friend. I lowered the phone, drawing the line at recording the man standing completely naked in my sitting room. It somehow felt more invasive than if I had recorded his death.

“Gaz?” My Friend said.

“I knew it. I was right,” He said.”

“About what?” I asked.

“Oh fuck, I get it now. I know now, I didn’t know I would know, but I do.”

Gaz got up and paced back and forth, mumbling faster than I could follow.

“Get what? You were right? Can he read minds?” I said, feeling as absurd as I sounded.

“Piece of shit still doesn’t believe me. Why is he always like this?” Gaz said.

“No, I know how it works. I didn’t before, just knew it would happen. And kinda knew what he would be able to do, but now I get it. I know.”

“If he starts doubtin’ me on this too I swear I’ll kick him in the balls.” Gaz said, standing behind the couch now, head in his hands. He continued speaking, faster than I could follow. I caught the word “another” only for its repetition. Then, he looked at My Friend and said, stuttering, “Please go.”

My Friend nodded tersely and grabbed my arm, pulling me towards the kitchen. Gaz continued to mumble. When we reached the kitchen, My Friend stopped us and turned to speak before Gaz shouted “Go, please, farther.” They nodded to themself as if this was the most obvious request and unlocked the sliding door leading to the garden and brought us to the fence at the very back.

“He can’t help it. He is compelled to speak our thoughts. Well, those seemed to be only my thoughts, but yeah. He can’t help it. When we’re close he is going to feel compelled to say what he hears. Feels? I don’t know how it is from his perspective.”

“So he was saying what you were thinking?” I said, trying to remember what exactly he had said. So it was all real? Did I really believe that? “Did you think you wanted to kick me?”

“Yes. No. Well, yeah I did but not like that.”

“Like what? Not with your foot?” I was a little hurt. They had been doubting me as much as I had them.

“Not literally kick you, come on. You know I’ve been annoyed you didn’t believe me. Yeah I can’t blame you. Well maybe I can a bit because you’ve been ignoring the lights in the sky seen across the world stuff.” They said. We shared a look I couldn’t parse for a few moments until they reached down and ripped up a tuft of grass and started tossing blades aside individually. I found myself feeling bad. I interrogated that feeling, seeking the source or reason. A decision was made in the silence. There was truth to what they said. Enough weird stuff had happened that I wouldn’t get anywhere questioning it. Might as well just go with the flow, see where the river led, maybe follow it upstream to the source.

“It’s fine. Fuck it, forget it. You were right. I believe you. Can even get Gaz to confirm it.” My throat tightened at this offer. What secrets might I inadvertently think of if I did put myself in that position? My Friend knew basically everything about me, there was almost nothing they could learn that would make me nervous. Almost. 

The sun was coming out from behind a cloud. A car door slammed nearby followed by loud, muffled music. “So what now?” I asked.

There was a crash inside, as if in response to my question, loud enough to be heard through the closed door. 

“I have to go check that out. I don’t want him wrecking my whole house.”

“Wait, maybe let me. I can understand what he’s going through. And I have a kinder touch than you.”

“Can’t argue there,” I said. “Alright, go for it.”

They headed towards the house and disappeared inside, closing the door behind them. I took out my phone and opened up social media where there would surely be more insightful and eye-opening commentary on the night’s celestial event. I scrolled, skimmed the titles of news articles about the latest atrocities around the world. A genocide somewhere, a shooting somewhere else. More locally, arsonists burned down a refugee centre. Three dead, including one child. A car crash in the west of the country. Five dead. All young, probably speeding. There were obvious solutions to these problems, I can’t have been the only one to see it, I thought, before closing the app and instead directly searched for posts online about the lights. More importantly, the song. I approached the small chair and table nestled in the shade between my small shed and the house and glanced at the ashtray. A mound of cigarettes bristled out from it, not unlike a hedgehog. After a moment of consideration I pulled a particularly long smoke out and lit it with the tiny lighter that hung from my keychain, inhaled and took the first breath of the day.

There were already communities springing up around the internet about the phenomena. One in particular had gained quite a lot of traction: Seen and Heard. Sorting posts by oldest to newest showed it had originally been a dedicated hub for multi-denominational religious discussion, but as of a few hours ago had been usurped by people discussing the lights. It was all inane nonsense, and not a word from anyone on the song.

It still lingered in my head, bouncing off the walls of my skull. Despite the fact that were I to get a thousand years to recreate it I wouldn’t be able to, its presence was constant, if a little muted. And not a single person mentioned it online. Perhaps someone somewhere did, I couldn’t discount the fact. There was no way to trawl the entirety of the internet. But the urge remained to discuss it with someone who shared in the experience, dissect it. And if it had been a song like I was calling it, then who–or what–was the composer?

A loud shout right beside me startled the cigarette out of my mouth, landing in my beard. The sliding door scraped open as I swiped at my chin. I winced at the smell of burnt hair. My Friend almost fell out of the house, holding a hand to their face. Tears were in their eyes.

“I can’t, I just can’t. It’s impossible. He won’t listen. No, he can’t listen. If I’m near him he just spouts off everything he hears from inside my head. Then he gets worked up about the things he’s hearing, that he can’t control what he’s saying. A constant fucking loop of misery. I don’t know how we’re going to deal with this. Maybe this was a bad idea. I don’t know how I’m supposed to talk to the man if he can’t engage with me in any reasonable fucking way.” They sighed, yanked at their ponytail as if they could drag themself out of the situation they had created for themself.

“Want me to try?” I asked, approaching slowly and resting a hand on their back. I spoke gentler than I felt.

“Work away, like it’ll do any good. What’s that smell?”
“Nothing. Just wait here. I’ll serenade him into submission or something. I got this, guarantee it.”

Before I entered, My Friend said, “And make him put on some clothes. I don’t need to see that thing swinging about.”

I peaked my head into the kitchen, called out to Gaz. No response. There was faint crying coming from what sounded like the sitting room. 

“Hello?” I said as I turned the corner. The curtain was half torn off, the carpet draped over the overturned coffee table. Glass from an unknown source crunched underfoot as I followed the weeping to behind the couch, now on the opposite side of the room.

“Gaz?” I said as I peaked over the skewed cushions, preparing for an attack.

He lay on his back, arms covering his face. The jungle of hair on his limbs and chest was thicker than the thinning threads on my head. He recoiled, shuffled back with his feet into a sitting position against the wall. He peered at me in a gap between forearms. I tried to temper my thoughts and attempted not to think too untoward things about him, or his past. Prepared for the onslaught of my own thoughts and readied myself for the lesson in introspection I was about to receive.

He said nothing. Arms gradually pulled away from his face. Shock? Horror? Elation? All of the above?

“You,” he said. “You’re quiet. I can’t hear you.”