Chapter Seven Pole Position #3
She receives a chorus of nodding heads, some more certain than others.
We may be feeling more confident, but those are some bloody high poles.
‘That’s great!’ she says, punching the air. ‘You should all be ready to take on the last challenge before lunch . . . “The Truth”.’
Everybody is looking up at the height of those poles with no small degree of trepidation. Delta acknowledges those looks by holding out her hands in a mollifying gesture. ‘Don’t worry! The poles are perfectly safe. You honestly have nothing to worry about.’
You might say that, Delta, but I’m pretty sure you’re about to make me stand on the top of a big wooden pole, so I’ll do a little bit of worrying, if it’s all the same to you.
‘The truth can be a complicated thing,’ Delta informs us.
‘And the way we can best understand that complication is through the simplicity of externalised experience. By placing ourselves in a challenging environment designed to focus the mind, our internal thoughts can become more focused – thus allowing ourselves a better understanding of our own personal truths. It is up these poles that this may be accomplished. In our isolation, we may achieve objectivity.’
She gestures up to the top of the poles.
I’m starting to think this is why the waiver sheet was so long.
I don’t see any patches of blood on the ground around us, but they could have been washed away by the rain.
But then Delta goes over to a large wooden bin that I had previously not noticed, and produces a safety harness.
My heart slows a little.
She then goes on to explain that each of us will put on one of the harnesses around our waist, which clip onto a metal ring in the centre of the wooden platforms.
‘This is about sitting with ourselves, so that we might interrogate our internal biases and confirmations,’ she tells us. ‘As I say . . . it is safe, but challenging.’
I am challenged by how unconvinced I am by the whole thing at this point, and I’m afraid my internalised personalised truth may be that I think this is a load of old dangerous bullshit.
However, Delta is at great pains to assure us that we’re not in that much actual danger of falling off the poles. She doesn’t say we’re in no danger, though, but I guess that’s the point.
The next ten minutes are all about putting on the harnesses and climbing up to our respective platforms. I am the fifth one to go up, leaving only Leo on the ground.
I’m very sweaty and nervous by the time Delta locks me in place, despite the safety harness and assurances.
This is dreadfully high up. Bone-breakingly high up, in fact.
I look over at Jack, who’s sat cross-legged and grinning. Mostly because we’re surrounded by trees, and can’t see more than a few metres in any direction.
Leo isn’t grinning as he’s clipped into place. Not one bit.
‘It’s not that bad once you’ve been up here a few minutes,’ Jack tells him.
And he’s kind of right. My legs still feel very wobbly, and my palms are still slick, but I do feel a little calmer after a couple of minutes. It probably helps that the sun is poking through the treetops above us, and a warm, pleasant breeze is blowing.
It also helps to not look down too much.
Unfortunately, this is quite hard when Delta starts talking again, requiring our attention. She stands in the centre of the six poles, and it feels like we’re some kind of ethereal host of gods, passing judgement on a mortal below us.
The Gods of Sweat and Anxiety, perhaps.
Delta then gives a short spiel about how we will spend an indeterminate period of time at the top of the poles, during which we should fully embrace the isolation of our situation, and think about what truths we think we know.
. . . yeah, this is a lot woollier than the obstacle course.
But the course of my life for the next several minutes is set. I am to sit here at the top of this pole, on what feels like a platform just a little bit too small to feel comfortable . . . and reflect on my internal truths.
But what are those, exactly?
Well, there’s certainly the fact that my job is in the shitter. That’s both an internal and external truth. I know that every time I look at my bank account.
And it’s definitely the truth that there’s a space between my girlfriend and me that’s widening every single day. It’s the reason I’m up this pole . . . and possibly up a creek without a paddle.
Oh, and it’s the truth I can’t get a good night’s sleep. Which is another reason I’m in pole position right now.
Along with the fact I can’t understand why I’m suffering so much grief from that stupid car crash.
That’s about it, though.
What about the fact you’re terrified of going to see a doctor? That’s the truth, isn’t it? If you’re being honest with yourself, while you’re up here on the pole.
I’m not terrified of going to the bloody doctor. It’s just a massive waste of time.
You sure?
Yes. It’s embarrassing. That’s all.
But maybe a doctor would get to the bottom of things quicker than doing all this malarky?
No, they wouldn’t.
They could, though?
No!
Maybe that’s what you’re actually scared of. Getting to the bottom of things. Nobody likes being at the bottom, do they?
‘Bugger off,’ I say out loud, drawing Jack’s attention.
‘You alright?’ he asks.
‘Yep, totally fine,’ I say, trying to ignore my mental dialogue for all I’m worth. If this is what Delta meant by understanding our internal personal truths, then I don’t want a bit of it.
‘Where’s she gone?’ the fat lad says, looking down at the ground.
We all slightly lean over our platforms to discover that Delta has disappeared.
When did that bloody happen?
‘I’m sure she’ll be back in a minute,’ Leo says, sounding as confident as it’s possible to be, when you’re hooked to the top of a long pole by a small carabiner. Which is to say, not very much.
‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘I’m sure she will.’
Spoiler: she wasn’t.
In fact, twenty minutes go by before I start to get what I would call ‘proper’ anxious.
‘Has something happened?’ I wonder to my fellow pole sitters.
Jack shrugs. Leo looks as anxious as I feel.
The young woman whose name I think is Rachel looks at me blankly.
Pete the plumber, whose bulk and muscle would have been instrumental in the other team’s victory in the tug of war had he not gassed himself out in thirty seconds, shrugs his shoulders. ‘I’m hungry,’ says the fat lad.
‘I reckon it’s all part of it,’ Jack says.
‘You do?’
‘Yep. I certainly hope so, anyway.’ There’s now a look of dismay on Jack’s face that he’s trying very hard to cover, but is obvious nonetheless. Does agoraphobia mix with acrophobia, by any chance? Is he sliding from one to the other the longer we stay up here?
‘It’s probably okay,’ Leo agrees. ‘She talked a lot about facing the truth while isolated, and I guess this is probably part of that. She did say it would be challenging.’
‘Well, the truth is my arsehole is starting to pucker from being all the way bloody up here,’ Jack intones, looking down at the ground.
‘I don’t like it,’ says Possibly Rachel. ‘Delta!’ she calls out, which makes me jump. I’m more nervy than I thought I was.
The height isn’t bothering me all that much anymore. Been up here long enough now for that to settle a bit. But the idea of being stuck up here with no way down is a whole other problem. There’s no way I could unclip myself and get down around this platform without falling off.
Perhaps Leo is right. Perhaps this is deliberate.
Needless to say, Delta does not respond to Possibly Rachel. The little wooden copse we’re in remains relatively silent, other than the buzzing of a few bees and the sound of the gentle breeze in the tree branches.
Funny how oppressive silence can become extremely quickly, isn’t it?
A further ten minutes pass.
That’s now a good half an hour stuck at the top of a pole.
Fat lad was only slightly ahead of the game, because I’m hungry too now. It’s very definitely lunchtime – back down there in the world not at the top of the pole.
‘Delta!’ Possibly Rachel calls out again. For the fourth time.
This time Jack joins in. ‘Delta!’ he shouts in a louder, more strained tone. There is an edge of panic to him now. The space around us has probably widened in his mind quite considerably.
‘I’m sure everything is okay,’ I say, trying to believe it. ‘Like Leo says, this is all part of the game.’
Another ten minutes pass.
And then I hear something in the distance that ratchets the fear up to proportions most epic.
‘Christ, is that a police siren?’ Pete the plumber asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, my mouth very dry. ‘I think it is.’
‘Delta! Bryan!’ Jack shouts once more – and this time we all join in.
Still nothing.
No response.
Other than another siren joining the first.
In my head I try to triangulate the sound with where I remember the farmhouse being.
Gulp.
‘I want to get down,’ says the fat lad.
‘Don’t try it,’ I warn. ‘There’s no way you can get underneath that platform and not fall off. The poles are all way too smooth as well. You’ll plummet like Batman in the TV series – without the cool ending.’
‘We’re stuck,’ Possibly Rachel says. ‘Oh, my God, we’re actually stuck!’
‘It’ll be okay,’ I say, desperate for everyone not to start panicking. ‘Someone will come and find us.’
‘What if one of them was an axe murderer?’ Possibly Rachel then says, eyes bulging.
‘What?’
‘One of the other clients. Maybe they were here because they wanted to stop killing, but the urge was too strong, knowing we were all isolated out here on this farm.’
‘Unlikely,’ I say in a dry tone.
‘But it could happen!’ she replies, adamant.
‘Maybe give the Netflix true crime stuff a rest,’ Jack tells her. ‘This is a bad enough situation without getting into the realms of fantasy.’
‘Then what are those sirens about?’ Possibly Rachel asks him, pointing in their rough direction.
Jack doesn’t have an answer for this. None of us does.