We Two Are One

The Back Steps

Oswald walked up the steep, direct way from the harbourside, the gulls mewing overhead, the grey sky promising rain, which at least might warm the air. The here path was narrow and stepped, going up between the walls of houses on the right and a more open view over the backs of houses and garages to his left.

Someone stood at the top of the steps just where the path came onto Cliff Street. It was hard to make out from here whether it was a man or a woman then as Oswald mounted the steps, breathing harder, the figure resolved itself as a man wearing a black raincoat with a black Homburg hat—rather dressy and old-fashioned looking but this was Whitby after all, where people went in for theatrical styles.

Oswald took a few steps. The main waited above. The path was narrow, as they approached each other, someone would have to step aside and wait. The man waited, not descending. Oswald realised this guy, for he did appear male, was only being polite, but it would have made more sense if he'd backed off into Cliff Street to let Oswald by.

Nevermind, still lots of steps to climb. He might move yet. Oswald glanced left over his shoulder. He was puffing. He needed to cut out the beer and chips. Next time he glanced up, the man was still there. He hadn 't budged. This was awkward. There would have be a greeting. When they got close enough, Oswald would nod and say 'how do?' or 'alreet?' as the locals did. The bloke would back away and let him pass. Surely, he would.

But with each step that looked less likely. He didn't look he was going to budge. He simply stood there. And then Oswald thought: is he looking at me? Disquiet grew. Was he going to attack him? In broad daylight?

It was like the bloke was waiting, not wanting to allow him to squeeze past as if he wanted a word with Oswald. But a word about what?

Oswald suddenly stopped, making out he was catching his breath, one hand resting on the wall, and studied this strange figure.

The man was staring at him. From under the bloke's hat brim, blinking lively eyes looked out. But not the eyes of a normal man.

What was that?

They eyes flickered. They were lit up. They were like robot eyes, eyes drawn in pixels, painted in tiny dots, animated by circuits. What a weird thought. It couldn't be right.

Oswald stopped. His sweat broke out. His breath wouldn't stay even. His heart mounted up like a tympani in his chest. He blinked and looked again. The man was waiting with his bright eyes and his face was wrong too. The texture wasn't right

And then Oswald realised: the man's face was made of paper.

He kept climbing. What else could he do? It wouldn't be normal to stop and Oswald was desperate to keep things normal. He was sweating, his heart racing.

The waited above him, about twenty steps away. The screen-like eyes blinked through the cut outs in the paper face. And then, because he couldn't keep things normal when they so obviously weren't, Oswald, gasped, turned and ran down the steps, taking them three at a time, risking a fall, clattering, stomping, gaasping out of breath, until at the bottom he turned and stared up the steep steps to Cliff Street. The man had vanished.

He stood at the bottom, back against a wall, breath slowing, mind steadying. He must have just imagined all of that. What had he eaten? Had someone spiked his tea? What had Tizer said—ergot fungus on bread but he hadn't eaten any bread and anyway, so what the hell had just happened? He ran his hand through his damp hair, front to back. He did that when he was nervous. That was his tell.

A woman passed by the entrance to the path. She turned in to come up the path She was climbing up, coming past him. He cleared his mouth. Should he warn her about the man?

She would think he was crazy. He didn't meet her eyes but instead stared at his scuffed shoes.

The woman shied away from him. He must look odd. She must think he was crazy or drunk. Then she stopped."Are you all right, love?"

"Er, yeah." He ran his hand through his hair again. "Thanks." But his mouth was dry and his words came out half-choked.

She looked concerned. "Are you sure? I can call an ambulance, if you need one."

She was a nice lady. He forced a smile, lifted his hand palm out front like a Star Trek landing party member coming in peace.

She gave a sympathetic smile. "All right then, dear. You look after yourself. Maybe go and see a doctor, eh?" And she turned and stepped up the narrow way up the cliff.

He watched her go, watched past her, but there was no one there the top—no one with a paper face and computer eyes.

Oswald laughed. It was the only sensible response—either that or lose his shit again. He'd probably just seen it wrong. He was on edge because of the Aoife phone call. The bloke hadn't come down after him anyway. Oswald laughed again. He was probably as freaked out as me. Thought I was a nutter and turned and sensibly retired the way he came. Or it was a trick of the light. Or maybe I'm ill. He touched his forehead. Was there a fever there? He was warm and clammy, but he'd just been running. His heart was settling. Did he feel spaced out? Did he feel queasy. He wasn't sure.

Okay, time to get back to work. Back among those old familiar books. Oswald looked up the steps and turned and went the long way round.