Derailed Conscience

by Eliza Green

  Jonathan banged his bottle down on the table. Within seconds, Alice was standing at the door of his bedroom.

  ‘What’s all the noise out here?’ she said sleepily.

  ‘Nothing. Go back to bed.’

  ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘Why are you drinking at this hour? What time is it?’ She rubbed her eyes.

  ‘Alice, I’ll be in shortly.’ He said it so sharply that he knew he’d pay for it in the morning. She huffed and stomped back to bed.

  But Alice wasn’t his main concern right now; he was more worried about his state of mind.

  Maybe he was crazy. Maybe this was a sign he was losing it. At twenty-five? A bit young to be going senile, but it had been known to happen. In one of his textbooks, he had read about the link between senility in men and their exposure to harmful chemicals at work. But he wasn’t working in some lab at risk of breathing in chemical fumes. True, he had been forgetting things lately, but surely if he’d murdered someone he’d remember doing it? He thought of disassociation, where a person removes themselves emotionally from the crime and doesn’t remember what happened or who did it. So was that what was happening here? He refused to believe it. Then there was the business with the tea-shop owner recognising him one minute, then not the next. Perhaps he had been having an episode of some kind?

  Then he thought of Eddie, his identical twin who had a chequered past. Was it a simple case of mistaken identity? Were some of his ‘buddies’ looking for him? Something nagged at Jonathan that it was more than that.

  A trip to his parent’s house didn’t seem like such a bad idea. He could find out what Eddie had been up to.

  His hands were shaking when he gathered up the empty beer bottles and placed them in the recycle bin. Tomorrow, things would change. He would take control of his own life and he knew exactly how to do it. Mistaken identity or not, things were getting out of control and people like the sort that Eddie hung out with weren’t big on explanations. He needed protection.

  Jonathan grabbed his phone from the kitchen counter and scrolled through his list of contacts. He opened up a new message and typed:

  Hey, it’s me. I need you to do me a favour. Send me the address. You know the one.

  Chapter 4

  Thursday

  Several hours later, Jonathan woke from an uneasy sleep and reached over to his bedside table where he had left his phone. There was a message waiting for him.

  72 Old Broughton Road. Don’t ask me for anything like this again. You’re not me. See you Sunday?

  Jonathan typed a reply.

  Who do I ask for? He hit send and got out of bed.

  ‘Come on, time to get up.’ He gently shook Alice awake.

  She groaned. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘6 a.m. I have to head out early. I’ll walk you to the station.’

  Alice didn’t move until Jonathan pulled back the covers.

  ‘Okay! Okay! I’m up,’ she said. She put on her clothes from the night before. ‘It would be much better if I kept some things here. Then I wouldn’t have to do the walk of shame.’

  She had a point. What she was wearing was not typical attire for the Tube at 6 a.m. on a weekday. But he couldn’t bear the thought of her leaving anything at his place. He fancied her, they had a good time together, but she wasn’t a long-term prospect. Having a steady girlfriend was the last thing on his mind.

  Alice changed lines at Finsbury Park to catch the Victoria line to work and Jonathan stayed on as far as South Kensington. At 7 a.m., he exited the Tube station with his leather briefcase in hand and searched for the address he had been texted. Eventually, he found Old Broughton Road. A row of terraced houses stood on each side like weary soldiers returning from war, about to collapse in a heap. He walked along the cracked pavement with tufts of weeds growing where the concrete had split apart long ago, ignoring the houses that looked residential. He noticed the houses numbered 68 to 76 had been converted into a group of shops. He stopped outside number 72, staring up at the rickety old building. A large sign hanging from chains swung crookedly above the building number. The sign read: Pawn Shop.

  A sudden queasiness rose from the pit of his stomach. Jonathan glanced around him. Except for a few people walking their dogs, he was alone on the street. He looked back at the pawn shop. It was fairly ordinary-looking, so why was he nervous about someone seeing him go inside? Maybe it was because of what he knew was in the back.

  He checked his phone. There were no new messages. He cursed Eddie for forcing him to wing it.

  Jonathan had to push hard against the pawn shop’s weather-beaten door that was wedged into a cracked frame. A bell rang overhead. Inside, the small shop felt claustrophobic with its display cabinets crammed full of trinkets that had been pawned for quick cash. It looked like a museum of heirlooms and precious memories rather than a shop.

  A rough-looking man with thick shoulders and small dark-blue eyes glared at him from where he sat behind the counter.

  ‘We’re not open yet,’ he snapped.

  Is that how you speak to all your customers? Jonathan swallowed hard. ‘Um, I was looking to buy something.’ He wished Eddie had given him a reference name.

  ‘You don’t look like no friggin’ customer that comes in here.’ The man waved his hand around. ‘You got eyes. Take a look, then get your scrawny arse out of my shop.’

  Jonathan did as the man asked. All he could see was jewellery, pocket and wrist watches and old memorabilia that meant more to the original owner than to the pawn-shop owner.

  ‘I don’t think you understand.’ Jonathan’s voice was barely a whisper now. ‘I’m looking to buy something else. I was given this address.’

  The man glared at him. ‘Who sent you?’

  Jonathan checked the message on his phone. He really didn’t want to give up Eddie.

  ‘I don’t know. He just sent this.’ He held up his phone and showed the owner the message from a blocked number.

  The man grabbed it from him and squinted at the message. ‘When did you get this?’

  ‘Just this morning.’

  ‘Fucking old way to send messages. We use better technology now—no chance of being traced.’ He deleted the message and ran the phone over a black box sitting on the counter.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Scrambling the message. What do you think?’

  ‘Please don’t …’ It was a half-hearted request; Jonathan didn’t like the look he was getting.

  The man handed him back his phone. He then pressed something beneath the counter and a hidden door popped open. ‘They’re expecting you.’ His lips were curled into a nasty smile.

  Jonathan put his phone away and walked along a dark, narrow corridor, his skin prickling in the confined space. He realised it would be difficult to escape from this place, should it come to that.

  What was he even doing here? Did he even need a gun? During the short walk a host of feelings rose to the surface, most of them conflicting; mostly he wanted to get out of there. But then the corridor opened out into a back room and any ideas of escaping vanished. Guns of all sorts were laid out on several tables in front of him, sorted into magazine size and barrel. But it was difficult to concentrate with three sets of guns trained at his head. Instinctively, he put his hands up.

  ‘What did ya say your name was?’ a burly bald man said. He lowered his arm until his gun was pointing at Jonathan’s genitals.

  ‘Jonathan.’ He swallowed loudly, his mouth dry and scratchy. ‘I’m just here to buy a gun.’

  ‘Well, we have two fine ones pointed at your head and one at your nuts. Which one do ya want first?’

  Jonathan’s voice was low and scratchy. ‘Erm, none of these.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I want one of my own.’

  ‘Who gave ya this address?’

  Should I say? Ah screw it. ‘Eddie Farrell.’

  ‘And how do ya two know each other?’

  ‘He owed me
a favour, that’s all.’ He didn’t want to say he was related, not unless it was absolutely necessary.

  The bald man let his arm drop and looked at the other two, who kept their weapons trained on Jonathan. ‘I hear he’s the big name around town at the moment. Owes a few fellas some money.’ He turned back to Jonathan. ‘And what did ya do for Eddie to get owed such a big favour?’

  ‘He … he’s an old school friend. Helped him out with some stuff.’

  The bald man smiled. ‘Stuff, you say? Well, you’re lucky my contacts can vouch for him. How about ya tell this Eddie to come see me himself? Seems rude that he sends you to my place and I ain’t had the pleasure of meeting him yet.’

  Jonathan shifted his weight from one leg to the other. ‘Well, actually I’m not here for him. I need something for myself … protection.’

  The burly bald man showed his teeth. ‘Got yourself in some trouble, then? What you after?’

  Jonathan thought about the black car and the note and his skin bristled. ‘I … I don’t know. I have money. I … I just want a gun.’

  ‘Come on. What ya really after—military grade weapon, starter pistol?’ said the burly man. ‘We have explosive military rifles.’ He swapped his hand gun for a long weapon on one of the tables. He pointed it at Jonathan’s head. Jonathan ducked and the burly man laughed.

  ‘Your cheapest gun,’ Jonathan said shakily, and slowly pulled his wallet from his pocket. He showed him money. ‘That’s all I’ve got.’

  The bald man picked up an antique revolver. ‘That’s about all that’ll buy ya. You want bullets with that?’

  Jonathan frowned. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then it’ll cost ya extra.’

  He patted his jeans. ‘I don’t have any more on me.’

  The man pointed to Jonathan’s wrist. ‘Then give me that.’

  Jonathan looked down at the gold watch his father had given him for his twenty-first birthday. It had been a double celebration: Jonathan had told him he was going to study psychology. He shook his head as he unclipped it and barely had time to hand it over before the burly man grabbed it. ‘How many will that get me?’

  The man examined the watch closely, then weighed it in his hand. ‘Three.’

  ‘Three? That’s all? It’s worth much more than that.’

  ‘Well, maybe ya should have pawned it before coming in here. You would have got more money for it!’ The man laughed and handed him his goods. ‘Oh, and if you breathe a word about this place to anyone, we’ll be after ya. My boys will be watching to make sure you behave, got it?’

  Jonathan nodded. He grabbed the three bullets and shoved them in his pocket, then carefully placed the gun in his leather briefcase before walking through the narrow corridor and back into the pawn shop again.

  The bald man followed him and handed the pawn-shop owner the gold watch.

  The pawn-shop owner smiled as he turned the watch over in his hand. ‘Very nice. Come back anytime, Blondie.’

  Jonathan couldn’t get out of the shop fast enough. As soon as he stopped feeling like he was being watched, he fished the bullets out of his pocket, wrapped them in a clean handkerchief and placed them beside the gun in his briefcase.

  The gun was just a precaution. He didn’t plan on loading it or firing it. Hell, he wasn’t too thrilled about having it at all. From what he could tell, the gun was an old piece of crap that probably didn’t even work. But he needed it to scare off anyone who might be looking for him.

  Eager to get out of the area, he ran all the way to the Tube station. Sweaty and out of breath, he caught the Piccadilly line to work.

  By 8 a.m., Jonathan was sitting rigidly at his desk, his briefcase tucked securely between his feet. There was no sign of Dr Blake, so he turned on his computer and checked his email. But the words on the screen made little sense to him. All he could think about was the gun.

  What the hell had he been thinking? Was he just paranoid or did he have a genuine reason to have it? He wasn’t sure anymore. If everything that was going on had anything to do with Eddie’s extracurricular activities, his dear twin brother was going to wish he had never been born.

  So far he had suffered the accusations of a tea-shop owner and a down-and-out on the Tube, then a black car had followed him—nothing to be scared about really, he scoffed. But the stranger in his mirror at home was what had him really rattled. Who was the man and what was he trying to say?

  Dr Blake drifted past, distracted and carrying one too many bags again. Jonathan caught her eye, but she quickly looked away. ‘I need a few hours to go through some files,’ she said.

  ‘Okay,’ he replied. He watched her disappear into her office.

  He didn’t see her again until lunchtime when she opened her door. She was carrying her handbag. She seemed more cheerful and relaxed.

  ‘Jonathan, how are you feeling?’ she said, turning the key in her door.

  He looked up at her, barely making her out through the double vision. She turned to face him and he noticed her brow crease. ‘I can help with the insomnia, if that’s what this is?’ There was an edge to her voice.

  Jonathan shook his head and forced a smile. He wasn’t in the mood for another hypnotherapy session. ‘Thanks, Dr Blake. I just need a good night’s sleep, that’s all.’

  She readjusted the glasses on her oval face, then tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear. ‘Okay, but come find me if you need to talk. Don’t wait until it’s too late. Do you hear me?’ Her voice was stern, almost a warning in itself.

  It was like Eddie was in his head, talking to him. She probably sees right through your act. Knows you have the gun. ‘I won’t,’ he said, forcing a smile.

  ‘Okay. I’m off to lunch. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  As soon as she was gone, he began a search on his computer.

  The day dragged on. Five o’clock couldn’t come around quick enough. He had a new address to check out, a place he had found and printed off directions to. It was always a risk checking for that kind of stuff at work, but he knew how to mask his IP address. First he needed to make a quick stop at home.

  Dressed in dark jeans and a black top, and wearing a scarf that hid some of his face, Jonathan set out to find the address he had printed out. The instructions weren’t exactly clear—for good reason, he imagined. But he managed to work it out. Similar to gun shops, these places weren’t advertised in the UK. He carried his briefcase containing the gun and three bullets, gripping the leather strap tightly. He had stopped by an ATM and taken out whatever spare cash he had. Shuffling the money as he counted it, he realised he’d no idea how much this activity cost.

  When he arrived at the grey-brick crematorium building, he smiled. It was a good cover: nobody would question the activities at an ordinary-looking place of mourning. Inside, he mentioned Eddie’s name and handed a wad of cash over to the manager at the reception desk.

  ‘I need to practise.’ Jonathan flashed his antique revolver at him.

  The manager gave him a funny look, but ushered him past the desk and through what looked like a private consultation room with two well-worn black sofas and a tea and coffee machine nestled in one corner.

  ‘And you say this Eddie gave you this address?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Eddie Farrell?’

  Jonathan was getting frustrated. ‘Yeah. Is there a problem?’

  The manager shrugged. ‘Nope. Your money’s good here.’

  Jonathan tried to hide his relief as the manager showed him through a door at the back of the room. It opened out onto a firing range. The combined smell of metal and oil filled his nostrils. The noise rattled around inside his ears and he tried to muffle it by covering them.

  ‘The range is soundproof,’ the manager yelled over the deafening noise. ‘Can’t hear anything past these ultra-soundproof walls.’ He patted the thick stone.

  Impressed, yet fearful, Jonathan studied his surroundings. There were ten shooting l
anes in all; eight of them were in use. Judging by the whizzing noise of bullets leaving chambers, the guns being used were far more powerful than the one he had.

  ‘Can I buy more bullets here?’ Jonathan asked.

  The manager didn’t look at him as he cracked a smile. ‘They don’t make revolvers anymore. You’re lucky you got any bullets at all.’

  He led Jonathan over to the back wall and gestured to the elaborate guns on display inside an uncovered metal cabinet. ‘We use modern ones here. You’ve got laser guns, regular guns with explosive bullets, self-guiding rounds and heat-seeking bullets.’ He pointed to a second box with a glass front containing what looked like serious weaponry inside. ‘This is the military shit. These babies take armour-piercing rounds, can be activated via palm recognition and have electronic triggers—in case your finger cramps. Of course, we can’t have customers firing these in here. The bullets can pierce thick concrete. They’re also tagged, so if we can’t account for them at the end of the day, well, that’s a whole heap of shit for me.’ He pointed at the military hardware. ‘But, if you’re so inclined, these are for sale. If you plan on shooting here today, you’ll need to rent something else.’

  Jonathan stared at the magnificent collection of metal on display. ‘I need to practise with something similar to what I bought.’

  The manager shook his head and sniggered, grabbing the smallest gun he could find. ‘We usually give these to the ladies to try. Take lane eight.’ He handed Jonathan a box of bullets and a set of earplugs.

  Jonathan positioned himself in front of the table for lane eight and stuck the earplugs in his ears. The manager showed him how to open the chamber and put six bullets into it. He snapped it shut.

  ‘Pull the firing pin back, like this. Now, all you need to do is aim for the paper target on the back wall and release the trigger.’