The Lonely Fan’s Guide to H.G. Wells by Louise Hurrell

The Time Machine (1895)

From my bed I stared at the bookcase, the sci-fi classics furred with dust. I tried to remember the last time I cleaned the shelves – the last time I cleaned anything, in fact – but the effort was too great and my mind gave up, let the thought go. Instead, I gazed at the titles on the cracked spines.

I had curled up with them beneath my duvet, carried them onto every bus or train. Committed to memory my favourite phrases and characters and plot points, so when it came to writing my own novels, I had blueprints to follow. My head was bursting with ideas then.

But that was years ago. Another lifetime. Like cleaning, I couldn’t remember the last time I wrote, the last time I sat at my laptop and typed. The last time I planned the last time I researched, the last time I even left my flat…everything stretched beyond my fingertips and my nails clawed and scratched at the emptiness.

To fill the space, I reached out and unlocked my phone, hit the Instagram icon. The first photo was Ann, grinning on a snow white beach. I flicked through her pictures. Another one at night, proffering a cocktail to the camera. Her and her boyfriend lounging by the aquamarine pool. Happiness radiating from her tanned skin and pearly teeth. I hearted then scrolled. Veronica, dressed in white, also smiling, this time outside a church with her new husband. I stared at the picture. As university students we used to share everything, gossiping about classmates and moaning about coursework as we sipped warm rosé wine. I told her my plans to be an author, my love of writers like Ursula K. Le Guin and H.G Wells. She explained which field of law she wanted to practice, how she wanted to help people in need. We swapped dreams of our futures, our holidays and jobs and kids and weddings. No detail was spared.

 I hadn’t known she was getting married.

The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896)

I shut Instagram and clicked on YouTube, watched one video, then another, then let the algorithm play whatever it wanted. A psychology video started; the presenter gave a toothless smile and said in a calm tone that she was happy to see me. The plain walls behind her were meant to convey a soothing neutrality, free of chaos and clutter. All I saw was a reflection of my own life; a display of nothingness. People always pictured the abyss as a black hole, consuming everything it touches. Now, I knew it was actually an empty room, the ghosts of failures where furniture should have stood and light sharp enough to bring the space into cruel focus. The presenter hoped I would enjoy today’s topic and reminded me this video is for entertainment purposes only. Well, I needed some entertainment. It had been a week since I lost my job, two months since the announcement that the shop would shut due to rising costs. Two months of job applications and speculative CVs, two months of silence. 

My stomach grumbled. I checked the clock. 12:30pm. I needed to eat something,

Why? What was the point? It would just be a waste of food…

I paused. Maybe I could go to the shops? Treat myself.

But what had I done to deserve one?

The YouTuber was discussing setting small goals. What was smaller than walking, buying a sandwich?  It would only take ten minutes at most. Plus, it was nice outside. My limbs moaned as I fought with gravity and forced myself up.    

The Invisible Man (1897)

Outside I kept my head down, avoided eye contact. Not that I needed to. People passed through me, eyes fixed on some invisible destination. Occasionally we bumped shoulders, but no one said anything. Some chatted with their friends and I listened to their shrieks of laughter as I walked by, hoping they didn’t see me, weren’t laughing at me. I wanted to be a part of the laughter, not the cause of it. Only when no one was around did I risk looking up. The sky was a soft buttery blue. The trees lining the street hung heavy with leaves, great green wads of cash; I imagined shaking the branches and money fluttering to the ground. What would I do if I scooped it all up, spent it? I would start anew somewhere else. Get a new flat in a new city and look for a new job, one that was steady, that paid good money. Go out more regularly. Try new hobbies and make new friends. Go out on dates. A fresh slate, the beginning of a new chapter.

Or maybe I wouldn’t start anything new. Maybe I would build a time machine and go back, live my life again. Make smarter decisions. Choose my words more carefully. Erase embarrassing mistakes. Keep in touch with my friends. Be bolder, cleverer, funnier, kinder. Better. The past pulsed like a planet before my eyes, vibrant and full of life and utterly out of reach. I crossed the road without looking.

 As soon as the shop’s air con hit my face, I felt myself shrink. An elderly woman pushed a shopping trolley; somewhere in the bowels of an aisle a child screamed. In front of the sandwiches stood a group of soldiers, kitted out in khaki. I hovered nearby, pretending to be engrossed in some display, not wishing to disturb them.

The War of the Worlds (1898)     

More and more people came in and I regretted my idea. Shoals of schoolchildren weaved around me, men in fluorescent vests thrust their arm across my face to snatch the last wraps. I grabbed the nearest things I could and retreated. A group of students stood huddled next to the drinks, laughing over something on a phone. My heart sunk. That had been me once, yapping away with Ann and Veronica during lunch, giggling over nothing. Safe and content in the knowledge that the future and all its possibilities were ours, no doors yet closed or opportunities lost. Still young, still confident we could achieve whatever we wanted. One of them glanced up and I realised I’d been staring at them. I quickly whipped out my phone and pretended I was texting. But who? I hadn’t spoken to my friends in years. Nothing terrible had happened, there was no event I could pin the blame on. We merely drifted apart, them to pastures new, me utterly out to sea. I longed to speak to them now. Did they think the same?

 I thought of their smiling pictures. No, they had forgotten me entirely. I looked up at the students again, anger coursing through me. I hated them and their futures. I shoved the food onto the nearest shelf and rushed for the door, headed for the road. The roar of traffic grew louder but I didn’t care.

My head throbbed; my jaw tightened and hands curled. I wanted to scream, make my presence known, but I also didn’t want to cause a scene. Then I’d be even more alone. I wished I could beat time, fight with it, scratch and scrap. But I knew no matter how hard I punched, how deeply I clawed, the silence would still be there, wrapping around me tighter and tighter like clingfilm until I couldn’t move or speak or breathe and my bulk became one with the silence and people would still pass through me and there would be no escape no point of doing anything no no point at all –

When the Sleeper Wakes (1899)

‘Excuse me?’

At first, I never registered that he was actually talking to me. It’s only when I felt a small tap on my shoulder that I turned around. He couldn’t quite mask the concern on his face. 

‘Are you alright?’

 I hadn’t realised I’d been crying. Suddenly I became acutely aware of how I must look to everyone. Some sad solitary figure, face pale with limp hair drooped around the shoulders, clothes faded, striding straight into traffic. He must be able to smell the stench of loneliness off me. 

‘Yes,’ I said, unconvincingly. My voice sounded hoarse. The man guided me across the road, chatting away about something. All I heard was the blood in my ears and the embarrassment leaping in my veins. This was humiliating. I paused and buried my face in my hands.

‘I’m sorry,’ I croaked into my palm.

‘Don’t be sorry,’ he said, ‘You’ll be alright’.

I wished I had his confidence. I looked up and saw him typing on his phone. I recognised his face; he lived in the flat below. I sometimes saw him from my window. He held parties every other weekend; the music and shouts drifting up to me. He held the screen up and showed the number of a helpline. I stared at the digits, not really understanding what he expected me to do. He started scribbling the number on a scrap piece of paper he found in his pocket.

‘Here,’ he said, handing it to me, ‘When you get home, phone them. They can help you; I promise. Ok?’

I stood silently.

‘Ok?’

‘Ok,’ I took the paper. I wanted to thank him, but the words wouldn’t come. Not that he seemed to mind, he continued walking, cheerily chatting away about the weather, about the football and politics and cinema and he was having a party next week if I fancied popping along for a bit?

‘I wouldn’t want to intrude – ‘

‘You’d not be intruding,’ he replied. At his front door he called, ‘Take care of yourself!’

Back in my flat, I stared at the number. Would it help? He said it would, but I didn’t know. Yet what other options did I have?  I couldn’t go on like this; I knew that much. I couldn’t have another meltdown at the shops.

I traced the digits with my finger. It could be a start. A small goal as the YouTube psychologist said. A manageable step. Yes, I could phone the helpline today. And tomorrow, clean. Reread Le Guin or Wells. The following day, maybe write again. And each day would be another step to a different world, a different future. until they come, and I will not be the one to let them in.

Illustration by Laura Darling