We have heard people say that alarm bells went off in their heads. Some little something gave them a warning, and the brain reacted. Some little something seemed suspicious. Some little something appeared out of the ordinary. Our minds are wired to pick up these signals, consciously or unconsciously.

I recall opening the fridge a month or so ago — to have a choc bar ice cream — and experiencing this split-second intuitive feeling, almost like a prescient knowledge, that this goal was not likely to be realised. In that instant it appeared to be something registering on an unconscious level.

I am, I must confess, mildly obsessed with the placement of things. Everything in the house is allocated its place and I like to find them just there. The pots and pans in the cupboard, for example, are arranged in an hierarchy dictated by use. Likewise with the items in the fridge. My son — who is twenty-five but occasionally regresses to the sixteen-year-old stage — knows me well by now. Not that it has stopped him from being himself.

So when I open the fridge for an ice cream and feel this instinctive prickle at the back of my neck I look quickly at the side rail — where the glossy, satiny dark chocolate packet containing the six ice cream bars has been left, and sure enough I see it there. But do I notice its hollowness? No! Do I notice that the packet has been turned around? No. It had been placed with the brand name facing out. This is when the prickle of insight assumes a concreteness. I swallow disappointedly and reach a hand out – two fingers actually. I squeeze the packet, then riffle it for confirmation. It is empty.

My ‘sixteen-year-old’ will grow up overnight, become his 25-year-old self again in the morning. He will, on his return from work, replace the packet. There will be six fresh ice cream bars in the fridge again in 24 hours. He will do all that, responsibly which will be his endeavour to balance out the irresponsibility of leaving an empty packet in the fridge.

But something will never be the same. Denial in a moment of intense desire leaves one feeling hollow. I want an ice cream now and I cannot have one.

But it’s the insight of it all, that moment of foreboding and forewarning that I experience a mere two days later. I am driving with a good friend to the mall. It is early on a normal working day. The barrier on the underground parking lot opens to let the car through even as an announcement could be heard blaring on the public address which is echoing wildly in the cavernous level below.

Just training

Two security guards appear to be busy on their walkie-talkies. As I disembark, the alarm bells start going off — not in my head this time, but literally. A siren begins to do its whoop, whoop.

I hesitate at first but then head to one of the guards and enquire what is going on. “Nothing, nothing,” he says, ushering me on, “Go on in.”

Go on in? This sounds like an emergency. This is not how I am normally greeted on arrival at the mall. I look at the man perplexed. “Training,” he shouts over the hooters. “Just training.”

I take him at his word and head on up. First to level one, then two. Sirens are going off everywhere, a programmed voice is saying, “Evacuate, evacuate.”

People ought to be concerned but everybody appears to be going about their business as usual. Another day at the office. Did they all ask the guard too? Was one general announcement made? What about those who missed the announcement? Something is not consistent here and I make up my mind I will write about it.

Because, in this day of living with constant threat and danger, what kind of signal am I to expect and react to when a real emergency is afoot?

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.