Am I still safe?

Steve was having a bad morning and it was going to get a lot worse.

It had taken him ages to find her on Punterlink: the perfect girlfriend experience; she looked the part in her photos and was even named after one of his more glamorous girlfriends, Sandy, and he had been looking forward to seeing her all week.

To be fair, she didn’t disappoint physically. She opened the door and he caught sight of the red bra and panties he’d asked her to wear. She then stepped aside and shut the door behind him. He walked into her studio flat and saw the worn out double bed with the contrasting fresh towel adorning it. The stale scent of baby oil, musk and desperation hung in the air and he desperately wanted to open a window, but it was too cold outside for that.

He turned round and watched her glide past in her open silk dressing gown; she was everything he had hoped and more: _____ with a beautiful shapely figure, flowing sandy hair and beautiful full red lips. He handed over the money and things just went downhill from there.

It wasn’t much of a girlfriend experience; she was cold, aloof and in a bit of a hurry to get him finished. It was like being fucked by a machine. It was actually more of an ex-girlfriend experience: over very quickly and tinged with regret and self-loathing. Actually for £200 it was more like an ex-wife experience: he’d been taken advantage of and fucked over. He was then stewarded to the door quicker than a fart in a blizzard.

Ten floors up. Standing outside the flat whose door had just been ceremoniously slammed in his face, Steve pondered what he was going to do next. It was only 11am, the rest of the day to waste; he felt used and depressed. There was no way he was going to take the stairs – ten floors down- so he stabbed at the lift button with his sausage-like finger.

Three minutes more than he wanted to spend in that corridor and the lift finally arrived with a dull metallic drone. There was one man there already so Steve made sure he stood in the opposite corner to him. He didn’t want to talk to anyone; he felt too embarrassed by the whole experience, not to mention poor and demoralised.

The man in front of him was a bit of an enigma: his whole outfit was ill-fitting; the trousers showed far too much ankle, the jacket was baggy and hung oddly from his shoulders and his shows looked threadbare. His hair would have been one cut short of concentration camp victim if not for the violent clumps of ginger hair that seemed to erupt from his pitted scalp. What made it worse was that the man was talking:

“They're holding 'wellbeing MOT's' on the fourth floor... probably dealing with health & body issues... and it wasn't so long ago they were having workshops on stress.... These days it's either Mind or Body that people seem to be concerned about -the 'soul' (for want of a better word) is totally ignored. And who can blame them -on one hand you have the dogma and sheer banality of religion and then on the other you have the 'Ripleys believe it or not' / Heinz 57 varieties of 'spirituality'. -Both of which obfuscate the whole picture.” The voice was a nasal monotone and for a few seconds Steve was unsure whether he should actually reply.

“What makes me laugh is that those that follow either religion or spirituality believe that they will be better people and more 'enlightened'.” Steve was stunned. That was another voice entirely, a deeper timbre with more inflexion with an actor-like quality: clear annunciation with a little bit of tremolo thrown in for good measure. But it was just Steve and this guy in the lift, he was sure. He took another look around but it was just the two of them. The first voice answered back.

“Yes, but none of these diversions represent the individual -they eclipse the individual and prevent them from actually understanding their own truth.”  This was taking things to a new level; it couldn’t get any worse, surely.

The lift shuddered and then stopped moving, the lights dimmed in sympathy and then died altogether. Ten seconds later the emergency lights kicked in and Steve was rueing the day he had decided on following his lusts. The guy was still talking though in his nasally voice; was this some kind of elaborate prank or hidden camera show? Was he a ventriloquist practicing his act? Or was it more likely that this guy was a complete nutter and now Steve was stuck with him. Occam’s razor favoured the latter of these explanations.

“There was an advert on Facebook which said 'Welcome to Native Spirits'.” The first voice explained. “As interesting as it is to read their wisdom, what does it actually have to do with me? Certainly I can take on board some of the ideas and learn from their example.”

“But you’re not a native Indian.” Interrupted the second voice. This was getting confusing to Steve so he named the first voice Larry and the second voice Mo. Larry replied to Mo’s comment:

“No… I’m not and I can only really learn on a comparative level; it serves no purpose to live like them or try to incorporate their philosophy for my own... but too many people do.”

“Ironically you can swap and change the 'American' Indians for any major movement.” Larry interjected.

“Excuse me.” Steve interjected. “Does anyone… I mean, do you know where the emergency button is here? How can we tell anyone that we’re stuck here?” He was unsure whether it was a good idea to antagonise the man but Steve was getting concerned now. No one knew he was here; he hadn’t had the foresight to bring his mobile phone with him (it was still charging on his desk at home) and he didn’t relish the thought of being trapped any longer than necessary with a nutcase.

“I shouldn’t worry.” Replied the man in a completely different voice. This was a far friendlier tone; completely at odds to his appearance. There was compassion and a jovial edge to it and Steve felt the first nigglings of dissonance enter his head. Reality seemed to slowly unpeel around him like the lift carpet. What was going on? The man continued, unaware of Steve’s uncertainty. “It sticks sometimes; it’ll be fine in a couple of minutes.”

“So I’m perfectly safe here then?” Steve asked, trying to find a tactful way of discerning this blokes mental state. “I get claustrophobic at times.”

“Makes us wonder why you bothered taking the lift then.” Larry replied, sneering.

“It was either that or take the stairs.” Steve said, automatically.

The man turned around and faced Steve now. “Pardon?” The man replied in his own voice, Steve could see his lips more. The man had a pocked marked, character filled face (lots of worry lines and almost hollow eyes because of the bags that hung droopily).

“I’m sorry. I thought you spoke to me.” Steve said sheepishly.

“No. I just said that the lift sticks sometimes.” He replied.

“So you didn’t make a retort about my claustrophobia then.”

“No.” The man looked at him strangely now, as if it was Steve that was hearing things and acting strangely…. And maybe he was.

“Do you mind if I ask you your name? My name’s Steve.”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“It would put my mind at rest; I’m very nervous at the moment. You don’t have to if you don’t want to..”

“My name is Paul.” The man said.

“Mine’s Mo.”

“Mine’s Larry”. Paul looked at Steve askance as sweat broke out on his brow; he’d gone as off-colour as the walls of the lift.

“Tell me you heard that.” Steve replied.

“What?” Paul asked, “All I did was say my name – as you asked me to, I might add.”

“But then you said call me Mo and Larry… In two different voices.”

“No – I didn’t!”

“To be fair… he didn’t.” Mo said.

“Shut up.” Steve snapped.

“How dare you.” Paul replied.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Steve said, getting confused by what was now happening.

“Well, who else were you talking to?” Paul asked. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Am I still safe?” Steve asked, unsure of his own safety or sanity.

“The question is, am I safe?” Paul muttered, turning his back on Steve. “Nutter.” He said under his breath.

“I’m sorry; I’ve just had a really bad morning.” Steve explained.

“They do say it only takes one bad day…” Larry replied.

“Noooo.” Steve groaned. This was becoming too much. He was damn sure that it was one massive wind up but without confronting Paul –if that really was his name- he couldn’t be sure; and he really didn’t want to do that. Steve didn’t like confrontations at the best of times.

All of a sudden Larry started his monologue again: “The alternative is far more difficult -trying to understand who we are and why we do what we do, especially when the rest of society is doing its best to push / pull / pervert / cajole / threaten / entice and squash you in other directions. Other people are no good as role models as they're subject to the same problems as the rest of us -the only difference is that they're trying to masquerade as something different... I mean, the further that we seem to 'advance'..”

“Whatever that actually means.” Mo interrupted.

“Indeed.” Larry agreed. “The further we seem to advance the more estranged we become.”

“You know what?” Mo continued. “I know that to be true. In myself, there's this definite schism between who I am in myself and who I appear to be when I'm in company and that's become more apparent the more I've learnt about myself (if that makes sense) and that's a 'cost ' that I'm happy to bear because there's a definite pay off for me –finding out about myself. But other people seem more than happy drifting off into this realm of illusion and fantasy never realising that there's anything else other than mind... or body...”

“I can’t take much more of this…” Steve exclaimed.

“You and me both.” Paul muttered.

“You can’t hear what I hear.” Steve snapped back.

“What I hear is bad enough as it is.” Paul retorted.

“I can hear voices – two people.. Two men, and then there’s you. Are you telling me that you can’t hear them?”

“Hearing your voice is bad enough… you’re not making me feel any calmer.” It was obvious Paul was trying his best not to provoke him, but Steve was trying to remain calm despite his whole world crumbling around him.

“Just let go.” Mo cajoled.

“You know you want to –no one would miss him.” Larry agreed.

“What do you mean no one would miss him?” Steve was shocked. Paul turned his head around in dismay, wondering just what the hell was going on.

“It’s been a bad day.” Larry confided. “No one would blame you if you vented a little steam.”

“Ideally you should’ve killed the bitch… she deserves it after all.” Mo agreed.

“Yes; but you could always kill her afterwards.” Larry sympathised. Steve banged his head against the wall of the lift in dismay and desperation.

“I’m not going to vent off steam.. I’m not going to kill the bitch.” Steve shouted.

Suddenly the lift shuddered back into life, the lights taking them both by surprise and Paul struck the elevator panel trying to select the closest floor. Steve whimpered in the corner almost ignorant of Paul’s hasty retreat. The door closed behind him and carried its way warily downwards. At least there would be no more voices, Steve thought. With Paul gone there would be no more voices.

“That’s what you think.”