There’s Something Wrong with Richie

Richie is one of the nicest blokes I know. Every morning, without fail, he stops for a proper chat. Not a “you alright?” lobbed over his shoulder like a damp, defeated parcel, but a full conversation — grounded, steady, like he’s got both feet firmly planted in the world. He’s a Cockney geezer, thick accent, words sloshing together like paint in a tray. Ex painter and decorator, funnily enough. Usually, we’re talking about cutting in, dodgy landlords, or how no one sands between coats anymore. But this morning — there’s something not quite right. His eyes are glazed. Not tired. Not hungover. Not even here. Just… vacant. Like the lights are on but nobody’s home. Or worse — someone is home. And it isn’t him. He stands closer than usual. Too close. Close enough that I can smell his tea — strong, two sugars — and something faintly conspiratorial. “The ending times are coming,” he whispers. I blink. “Bit heavy for before first break, Rich.” “It ain’t long now.” He jabs a finger into the space between us, like he’s pressing a button only he can see. “Everyone will see.” There’s something funny about it. Not laugh-out-loud funny. More like humour with a limp — it gets there eventually, but something's wrong with it. “See what?” I ask, leaning in closer. I’m curious. Always have been. My own beliefs aren’t exactly… mainstream. Richie glances around, suddenly cagey. Like the room’s grown ears. “It’s all layers, innit,” he says. “Like when you paint over damp. Looks sound for a bit, but underneath — bubblin’. Rotting. Pressing back. Waiting.” “Standard landlord finish,” I nod. A flicker of a smile. Then gone. “They’ve papered over everything. Governments, frequencies, the lot. You think this is solid? Proper solid? Proper real?” he asks, tapping the sorting frame. He leans closer. “It ain’t solid. It’s suggestion.” “Suggestion’s doing a very convincing job,” I say. “Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the trick. Get enough people to agree on the lie. It starts holdin’ shape.” He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Look at the edges.” I pull back. “Edges of what?” “Everything.” His eyes widen. “See how everyone’s vibrating… not moving — vibrating. We ain’t bodies. We’re frequency. Trapped in ‘em. Like radios stuck on one station. Same song. No switch off.” “And who’s tuning us?” I ask. He grins. “Exactly.” There’s a pause. “You alright, Rich?” “The more people believe the lies,” he mutters, drifting now, voice thinning like a dying signal, “the longer we stay locked in. That’s the system. Not laws. Not rules. Belief.” Right. Bit much for a Tuesday. Still… something lands. A tiny seed — already sprouting. I can almost feel it taking root somewhere just behind the eyes. I pick up a letter. Hold it up. Look at the edges. They’re — …vibrating. I blink hard. They stop. I think they stop. Don’t they? There’s a floor meeting mid-morning. Always a bad sign. We gather like condemned men. A slow shuffle of hi-vis and shared resignation. The boss stands there, face set, hands clasped. Wearing his bad-news face like it’s part of the uniform. I brace myself. Instead — “Talent show this Friday!” Silence. “Everyone’s invited!” he beams. I glance over at Richie. He’s already writing his name down. No pause. No doubt. Straight in. Of course he is. “Stage is going up as we speak!” I stare at the board. Richie – confirmed. Permanent marker. No going back. I wonder what his talent is. Painting? Cutting in without tape? Filling a crack so well it gaslights the wall? Reciting Cockney rhyming slang at dangerous speeds? Or making people question their entire existence before 9am. After work, I head for a swim. Clear the head. Or at least drown out the part of it that’s started… sprouting. But something feels… off. The sky, for one. Too still. Not a cloud moving. Not even a suggestion of wind. It looks painted. Flat. Like a backdrop waiting for someone to walk in front of it and prove it’s fake. A bird hangs in the air longer than it should. Just a fraction too long. I stop walking. It corrects itself. Snaps back into flight like it’s remembered it’s being watched. There’s a bloke outside the swimming pool. Same one as always. Trench coat, wild hair, eyes like he’s seen behind the curtain and didn’t like what he found. “The end is near!” he shouts, thrusting a pamphlet at me. I think of Richie. For a split second, I almost read it. Instead, I scrunch it up and lob it in the bin. Some things you don’t engage with. Not where people can see you. The pool is chaos. Bodies everywhere. Too many. Not swimming so much as orbiting each other badly. I can’t even get into my usual lane. People cutting across, splashing, drifting like they’ve forgotten how lanes work. I bump into someone. They glare at me like I've violated a rule that exists purely in their own head. After three lengths — three — I give up. The water feels wrong. Thick. Like swimming through static. In the changing rooms, I catch my reflection. For a second — it lags. Just a fraction. I move. It follows… late. I stare. We stare. It fixes itself. Snaps back into sync like nothing happened. Course it does. Mirrors don't glitch, people do. Afterwards, I stop at the shop. I have no idea why — dreams don’t bother with logic — but I’m carrying armfuls of hangers. Empty. Light. Clanking together like mocking skeletons. I don’t remember picking them up. All I want is a lemon Fanta. I’m parched. I grab one from the fridge. “Nice dresses,” a voice says behind me. Richie. I turn. “Going anywhere nice?” I look down. The hangers — a dozen dresses. Bright. Flowing. Different colours, different styles. Red. Black. Or both. They shift slightly when I look directly at them. Settle when I don't. One of them moves. Just a little. Like it’s breathing. Definitely not mine. “That’s… odd,” I laugh. Too quickly. Too thin. “They weren’t there a minute ago.” He tilts his head. Studying me, not the dresses. “Believe me now?” I swallow. “Something’s definitely a little… off.” He grins. Not a nice grin. Not even a human one, really. More like an expression wearing a face. Friday arrives. The stage is up. A banner stretched across it: ROYAL MAIL TALENT SHOW — just in case we’d missed the cultural significance. We gather around. The boss —small man, big energy — soaks it all in like he’s hosting the BAFTAs. Chest out. Lapping up the attention like a cat in cream. “Mally, you’re up!” Mally steps forward. Depot royalty. Self-proclaimed comedian. He clears his throat. “Why did the postie break up with his girlfriend?” Silence. “… too many letters… not enough delivery.” Nothing. Not a ripple. Somewhere, a cough dies of embarrassment. Poor Mally. Next up: a rock tribute act — First Class Mailden. They’re loud. Enthusiastic. Profoundly tone deaf. Then Owen. Eyes closed, strumming his guitar like he’s summoning something. Wailing into the depot. Less of a performance, more a public unravelling. And then — Richie. He steps into the spotlight. Everything feels… quieter. Pressed down. Contained. He doesn’t speak straight away. Just looks out at us. Really looks. Then — He raises his hand. And points. Not at the crowd. At the air. “At the edges,” he says softly. Something ripples. I see it. Not imagine it. See it. The outline of the stage shivers. The banner flickers like a bad signal. People… blur. Just for a second. Like unfinished downloads, not fully rendered. My chest tightens. Richie smiles. “You’re starting to notice, ain’t ya?” No one else reacts. They’re clapping. Clapping. Too early. Too late. Slightly out of sync. Like this is part of the act. Like this is normal. I look around. Everyone’s faces… slightly off. Expressions a fraction delayed. Movements not quite syncing. Mouths smiling before jokes land. Eyes catching up after. Reflections pretending to be people. I turn back to Richie. “What is this?” I whisper. He leans into the mic. “This,” he says, The lights flicker. “is just one way of seeing it.” For a moment — Everything drops. No sound. No movement. Just… nothing. Absence. Like the idea of sound has been removed. And then — It’s back. Applause. Laughter. The boss wiping a tear from his eye. “Brilliant stuff, Richie!” I stand there, heart hammering. No one else noticed. No one. Or everyone did — and this is the version they’ve chosen. Richie steps off stage, walking past me. He pauses. Without looking at me, he mutters — “Told you. Edges.” Then he’s gone. Later, I pick up a letter. Just a normal one. I hold it up. Look at the edges. They’re vibrating. Maybe they always were. Maybe they never weren’t. Maybe solid was just the story we agreed on. Or maybe — once you believe it… there’s no going back.