Bag of Weasels. Chapter 19

I'd got the frights.
I didn't want in.
I didn't want to get sucked in, and go wallowing into something monstrous that would take me to places downright scary; I generally did my best to keep well clear of the twisty side of life. Otherwise, it meant letting go of my signposts for getting by, my routines and habits of shifting, stopping and shifting again, any old way, skating over the deep confusions, over anything that worried me, anything that nagged at lost memories and thoughts hiding in the outback.
You see, I've got a history, and a tendency to get a thing in my head - a tiny seed ' which I'll then feed and nurture til it puffs up big and grows tentacles, taking up space til it oozes out into the world as a sprawling monster of behind-my-back muttering, plans-in-plans devised to twist me tight then me spin me out through the streets, chasing and being chased.
And, what's more, to protect me, back in the wards I'd been warned about bad company. Before I'd met Ralph, I'd confided in some ripped up skinny soul about my patterns and the fear of false plans. He'd told me to tell it to the devils he saw at my shoulder, the ones giggling at my discomfort. I didn't like his answer and so I screamed. I was taken aside and warned to tell only the ones there to help me, the ones that watched over me, who took me to rooms and played games with me.
They told me to stay away from sickness, or I may get sick too. So I kept my head out, but now, the snippets I was hearing were getting to be enough to do the job, and I could picture the lines spreading out from the circle, and wrapping round power houses, churches and holes, feeding in more of the lost and wary. I didn't want to get lost in something. I didn't know which way to go.
No-one would believe me.
Conspiracies are evil; they made me the man I am today.
And to make things worse, and spread me out more, we'd got ourselves attached to this Banksy, and now she was meddling, as witches do. She was forging links where I feared to tread, links between people, and in every corner she'd made her mark. She got in there, mixing it up, she knew a lot of them already and worked on the rest - where they'd come from, how they came in, trying to get the big picture.
That did not help. I had no sanctuary. I had these scallywags' tales weaving round me, and the ones I made sense of told the now familiar story of minding their own and getting by, dodging the hardcore and sleeping in gaps, til their days were disrupted by one, two, three, events and coincidences, repeated on walls, pages and lips, and fetched to here.
The string-tied scruffbag wool-hat types began pulling out their close-held findings, screwed-up papers and exercise books, and ink-covered tissue and rags, and held open readings in the shelter of the ragged walls, and outside in the rain. As night came down heavy and dropped its rain soaked cloak over us, we all came in, steaming as we packed up closer, interesting smells exciting the dogs that slipped and pushed between us. The recitals grew more fervent, each one greeted by shouts of encouragement, clapping and whistling.
And I was in there and I was part of. I smelled it and I sounded it, and sure as hell I must have looked it.
Where to go?