the-eye-of-the-beholder

OLLY HALTON
The Eye of the Beholder

Copyright © 2019 by Olly Halton
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,
scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the
publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or
distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters
and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s
imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Olly Halton asserts the moral right to be identified as the
author of this work.
First edition
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Contents
Chapter 1 1
Chapter 2 6

1
Chapter 1
The room reeks of sex and cigarettes. The news hums quietly
on my phone, rested on my thigh, where a short stump of a man
reports on the fact that no one has been stabbed in weeks. Not
all that surprising when people fear their own eyes snitching
on them. But I am not watching it. I’m off my face, the ceiling
fan contorting above my head and the walls peeling at my glare.
Connor had come round last night, brandishing a smile and
a package of drugs. We smoked through the night, I curled up
beneath his arm, cigarette hanging from my lips and my eye
piece blinking and fizzing like static television. One day it’ll
probably explode and kill me - it wouldn’t surprise me. I don’t
think I’d care. It was my own creation forced upon me, my own
dog collar. Or at least it would have been, had I stayed in school.
Stayed and not descended to the depths of LSD pathways and
tobacco toxicity. It’s Connor’s fault really - something I know
but am somewhat fearful to admit. Maybe it’s because I love
him. Maybe it’s because I’m an idiot.
Eventually, I force myself up from the floor that I’ve made my
bed and strut to the bathroom, past the dirty clothes that litter
1

THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
the floor, the holes in the wallpaper that my landlord can’t be
arsed to fix and the frayed carpets that will make me fall out
of a window, probably any day now. In the mirror is a horrific
sight – my eyes are guarded by moats of black from where I
have not slept in days; my hair straggles about my head; and
oddly enough, I’m sweating like crazy. I need a drink, and a
snack.
Connor pokes his head round into the bathroom. He remains
in silence for a second, and then asks if I want any more drug
packages since he still has four leftover boxes stuffed at the base
of his rucksack.
I sigh, glare at him and splash water into my face, caressing it
around my eyes like I’m nursing a wound. “No, Con. I don’t. ”
I pause, my face paling.
“Your loss,” he says with a shrug. He picks up the remote
from the table and switches the TV on. It buzzes into life in the
lounge and the short, stumpy man’s voice carries through the
flat.
“The government have thanked the engineering students of
Oxbridge for their outstanding commitment to the creation of
the eye piece network.”
I stroke a hand across my cheek and sigh. “I could have helped
develop the eye pieces. You know that; I could have.”
“I know,” he adds. “But, you’re not stuck-up like any of the
Oxbridge lot – you wouldn’t have blended in.”
The man’s voice continues to drone behind us, whispering
the names of the peers whom I knew so well, reminding me
of their continued commitment and how my name would not
be uttered in any form of connection to the project. Perhaps
they’d mention me as an in memoriam, distinguishing my for
my effort at dropping out, or that I’d yelled at them the most
2

CHAPTER 1
doing it. Maybe, it would simply be how I called their work too
little too late the night my mother was found in the alley by our
house – a knife protruding from her belly like a sixth limb.
Suddenly, I feel something in my throat, a bulging presence
like a cluster of hair in my windpipe. It rises like water in a
sunken vessel and creeps up the back of my tongue. In seconds,
it floods my mouth. I try to speak, to alert Connor, but it’s too
late. My lips part and my head dives for the sink. Among the
putrid vomit that spews over the sink and colours it a tinted
yellow, is blood - lots and Lots of blood. The dregs of it shake
from my tongue and I can see Connor’s disturbed face in the
corner of the mirror. The purple glint of his eyepiece holds
dulled beneath a furrowed brow.
“What was that?”
“I don’t know, it’s probably something you gave me.” I hastily
wipe my ruby-stained lips on my pyjama sleeve and shoot him
a glare.
“Did you bleed?” His tone is accusatory. There is no concern
or interest laced in his words, instead a hidden Ferocity. I
almost protested, attempting to profess sarcasm instead of any
appropriate and contemplated response. But, as I part my lips
and inhale, he cuts me off. “You’re just like the others,” he
grumbles through gritted teeth, turning on his heels.
He marches with haste out of the doorway and closes himself
into our bedroom.
A wave of shock placates me, my jaw loosening with an
inability to grasp what has just been said. Like the others. What’s
that supposed to mean? I watched him leave, cursing each step
with tongues of fire and an angry roar building from my belly.
Air rushes into my lungs, my chest raises and I can see every
profanity I know tattooing itself across my brain, ready for
3

THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
release.
At that moment, there is a rasp at the door. Curiosity prevails
over me, weakening the anger.
“Open up. This is the police. Open up,” they bark through
the door.
I reach for the cold, hard knob, my fingers twisting around
it. The door continues to shake crazily as the policemen’s fists
crash into the wood. My heart is rising in my throat, blocking
off my air, as blood surges to my fingertips. It holds there and
they become heavy.
“Open up now!”
I open the door.
The two men before me now are stern-faced, tall and broad
at their shoulders. They take deep heaving breaths as our eyes
meet, reminding me of strong ox. They’re clad in full black and
white uniforms, caps beading forward in judgement.
One produces his credentials, a bound leather wallet that he
waves quickly across my eye-line and stuffs back into his pocket.
His companion remains picturesque with his arms forward and
his jaws snapped shut.
The first maintains eye contact with me for a little longer and
swallows a mouthful of air: “are you Abigail Ellen?” The words
are punishing, as if miniature darts are laced into his saliva.
My heart races at the thought of answering and my palms
quickly turn sticky. I begin to stutter incoherent nonsense that
simply sounds like I’m a savage attempting to learn to speak in
a seconds’ deadline.
“Are you Abigail Ellen?” He repeats himself, harsher now.
“Yes,” I finally manage to push forward.
“Miss, we’re going to need you to accompany us down to the
station now. As of this moment, you are now under arrest on
4

CHAPTER 1
suspicion of murder.”
He continues, entering into the Miranda rights of my right
to remain silent and my right to representation by a lawyer.
But all I hear is the pulse in my brain, thundering against my
temples like spots about to burst.
5

2
Chapter 2
It is all done in haste. The officers frogmarch me out of the
apartment and into their car. Connor demands to know what’s
happening, shaking a finger at the officers and flailing. He backs
off like a wounded puppy when one of the officers points to
their socket, where their eyepiece flares in its dull purple glint.
He gulps down any resistance and heads back to the apartment
block door, flashing me one last look of goodbye, before he
disappears back inside.
Next thing I know, I’m in a white box: white walls, white
floor, white door and a white ceiling with bright white lights
beaming the eyes of God upon my eyes and burning my retinas.
I’m sat on a white chair, a white table in front of me. The
other apparent thing of this spotless room is how cold it is. I
understand now how Luke felt captured in the Wampa cave on
Hoth. I ball my hands into fists, burrowing them into my chest,
like a mother protecting her young.
An officer enters, takes a seat opposite me and whips out a
folder.
“Miss Ellen, I’m going to now ask you a few questions, if
6

CHAPTER 2
that’s alright?” Their tone sounds like one that someone would
associate with customer service.
I nod and they hand me a set of images, each gorier than the
last. The images depict a man, clad in rags and covered in blood.
7