by Eliza Green
He laughed once without humour. He wouldn’t have called himself a schizophrenic, but maybe he should rethink that. His hallucinations felt real enough.
The next line read, ‘Dissociative Identity Disorder. How does the patient decide which personality to listen to? Does he have a choice? Does he have control?’
Jonathan thought about the woman in the pub screaming at him, and the tea-shop owner and his accusation. He didn’t need to be working with a clinical psychologist to know that they should get help from someone like Dr Blake.
He spent the next hour typing up the notes. By the time he was finished he was beginning to feel a little better. He sent the typed notes electronically to Dr Blake and gathered up the rough set he had started with. He knocked on her door.
‘Come.’
Dr Blake had her headset on; she often listened to conferences on tape. She stopped the recording and looked up.
Jonathan handed her the original set of notes. ‘I’ve finished them. The typed version is in your inbox.’
Dr Blake looked at him eagerly. ‘Well, what did you think?’
Jonathan frowned. ‘About what?’
‘Anderson—the schizophrenic and dissociative identity case.’ She waved the notes at him. ‘In here.’
Tentatively he took a seat. He knew where Dr Blake was going with this. ‘Well, it was interesting. Maybe I could sit in on one of your patient’s sessions?’
Dr Blake chuckled a little. ‘You know I can’t let you do that. Doctor–patient confidentiality.’
Jonathan rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. ‘Then why are you asking me about Anderson?’
She rested her chin on her elevated hand. ‘I just thought you might find this area of psychology quite interesting. That’s all.’
‘Yes … I mean, of course I do.’
Her brows knotted together. ‘I’ve noticed you haven’t been yourself for a while. Are you still interested in becoming a clinical psychologist? I’ll understand if you’ve changed your mind. It’s very different on paper. Your father is a psychologist, right? Is he putting pressure on you to become one?’
Jonathan leaned forward in his chair. ‘No! And yes I’m still interested. I … I’m just going through some things.’ He thought about how disappointed his father would be if he quit.
‘Are you still worried about what happened in Spelling?’
‘And the rest, if I’m being honest.’
Dr Blake rested her folded arms on her desk. ‘Well, it all sounds too much like one of my cases.’
Jonathan’s eyes widened. ‘Me?’
Dr Blake smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Not you. The man in Spelling. If you were to analyse his behaviour, what would you say was the matter with him?’
Jonathan frowned deeply and sighed. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. ‘I don’t know—that he had a split-personality disorder, that he was bipolar?’
‘Think more simply about it. What causes this?’
‘Em, depression, anxiety, stress?’
‘Yes, all those things can be a factor. It’s always good to keep our mental health in check, to talk about the things that are bothering us. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Jonathan said. Something else occurred to him as he stood up. ‘I’d like to take an early lunch, if that’s okay. I have something I need to do.’
Dr Blake released a quiet breath and leaned back in her chair. ‘Yes, I think that would be wise. Take as long as you need.’
Jonathan snatched up his coat and briefcase and headed for the lift. Carrying a gun around with him still felt unnatural, even if it wasn’t loaded. But having it made him feel safer, even if the thought of firing it scared the crap out of him. He needed a lot more practice before he felt confident enough to use it.
Everywhere he went he imagined eyes on him all the time. Everything around him seemed perpetually out of focus. He carried his erratic and irrational thoughts around like a heavy bag of stones. A few hours’ sleep would help lighten the load. But the incident with the mirror was freaking him out and even if it wasn’t, there was no chance he would sleep anyway. There was only one other place for him to go.
The shooting range was busy and Jonathan had no patience to wait around.
‘It’s going to be at least an hour,’ the manager said. He smiled knowingly. ‘You should have booked ahead.’
Jonathan wasn’t in the mood for games. There was no option to book a place that was off the grid. ‘Look, I don’t have the time to wait around. Can’t you make an exception?’ He gripped his hands together to stop them from shaking.
The manager laughed in his face. ‘If I did that, I’d only have a few customers. Sorry, can’t do it, mate. Come back later, around three. Something should have opened up by then.’
Jonathan walked outside. What the hell am I supposed to do now? He thought of somewhere else and glanced briefly at his watch. If he hurried, he might have time to check it out. He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and checked the directions to the shop. A Tube ride to Bakerloo would get him there.
The shop looked tiny from the outside, almost like a curiosity shop. Maybe the kinds of goods they sold were still speciality items, not quite mainstream. He pushed against the door and the overhead bell tinkled. Inside the shop was small too, although larger than the pawn shop had been. A female sales assistant and a man wearing a business suit were talking. When Jonathan closed the door, the business man turned around, looking surprised. Perhaps the shop didn’t get too many visitors, Jonathan thought. This man might be her only customer that day. The business man turned back to the shop assistant and carried on their conversation.
‘Do I have to do anything else with it?’ he asked.
‘No. The mirror will know what to do,’ the assistant with a posh London accent said.
The man frowned and rubbed his chin. ‘But how? I still don’t get how this thing works.’
‘You wear these on your forehead,’ the sales assistant explained calmly.
She held an open box in one hand and removed what looked like sticky dots, the kind used for attaching probes to the sides of people’s heads. Jonathan pretended to browse the shelves as he listened in.
‘The mirror picks up your thoughts and shows you what’s on your mind,’ she went on.
‘And you say it can show me my dreams?’
‘Yes, if you wear the dots at night. Genuine Glass has a thin sheet of graphene embedded in it. Graphene is pure carbon and comes in a very thin, almost transparent sheet, one atom thick. The sheet contains microprocessors with the capacity to store information. When you waken you can simply play back the images in the mirror. It’s called Genuine Glass because it’s unable to show you anything other than the truth. In test scenarios, we found that people were most familiar with their mirrored reflection, so it was a natural extension to watch other images through the same device.’ She smiled. ‘Not everyone likes what they see, which is why we are a specialist shop.’
The businessman removed his platinum card and studied it for a moment. ‘I have Express points. Can I use those here?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, we don’t accept those. Do you still want to purchase the mirror?’
The man nodded reluctantly, but held on to his card. Jonathan watched him through the reflection of a smaller mirror.
‘A lot of business men are buying these,’ the sales assistant said. ‘Genuine Glass can really help to reduce stress and solve problems, all through dream analysis. We’ve found in tests that it gives people an advantage over their competitors.’
Jonathan heard the desperation creep into the shop assistant’s voice as if she was worried she might lose the sale—and her commission. The man hesitated, then handed her the card.
Jonathan heard the beep of several buttons being pressed, followed by the swipe of a card. ‘That will be ten thousand pounds.’ She looked up at the man. ‘Don’t worry, sir, you won’t regret it. It’s an amazing piece of technology
.’
The man smiled. ‘It’s not for me, it’s for the wife.’ He looked in Jonathan’s direction forcing him to turn around. ‘What the wife wants, the wife gets, right?’
Jonathan shrugged. ‘Sure.’
‘I’ll have that delivered to your address by morning,’ the sales assistant said.
Jonathan waited for the man to leave before approaching the counter. With the shop empty, it was the perfect time.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked. He noticed her posh accent slipping a little.
‘I hope so.’ He looked around him. ‘Can you tell me more about what you sell here?’
‘Depends on what you’re looking for. Sometimes these products find you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘These products aren’t for everyone. They can be destructive in the wrong hands.’
Jonathan thumbed in the direction of the door. ‘Well, he didn’t seem to want one, but you persuaded him.’
‘That’s because he needed it,’ the sales assistant said. ‘He doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll use it and discover something about himself.’
‘Like what?’
‘It will show him his deepest fear. The mirror picked him for a reason.’
Jonathan was confused. ‘So say a mirror shows you something—for argument’s sake, a strange man who seems afraid of you. What might that mean?’
She folded her arms. ‘Mirrors are designed to show you your true image. In the case of Genuine Glass dream mirrors, they wake you up to who you really are.’
‘What if you don’t like what it’s telling you?’
She smiled. ‘Sometimes you don’t have a choice.’
‘Is that all you sell here—dream mirrors?’
‘Well, there is another type, not yet on the market, which shows you your future.’
Jonathan frowned. ‘How does that work?’
‘I don’t know. They aren’t giving them out as prototypes to test yet.’
The phone rang and the sales assistant turned away to answer it. She picked up the handset and asked the caller to hold. Looking back at Jonathan, she asked, ‘Is there anything else?’
He shook his head and left the shop feeling more confused than before he went in. Nothing the assistant had said really helped him understand how a high-specification mirror got in his apartment, or what the man in the mirror wanted from him.
His stomach churned as he typed a text message to Dr Blake.
‘Not feeling well. I need to go home. Sorry.’
Her reply read: ‘Feel better. See you on Monday. We’ll chat then.’
Jonathan shoved the phone in his pocket knowing full well what the chat on Monday would be about: his lack of commitment this week, his strange behaviour. Dr Blake had only been marginally helpful on that score.
The journey home was uneventful but Jonathan’s head felt like it might explode. To make things worse, the black car with the dent in the side was waiting for him when he got home. While the Nissan Almera and the pawn-shop thugs hadn’t returned, the black car’s occupant clearly wanted something more.
Clutching his briefcase tightly to his chest, Jonathan hid in the shadows of the wall. He thought about taking a detour to get into his apartment block from the back, but there was no easy way in. He glanced at the car and considered making a run for it. It was the only way. It was parked further back from the entrance to his block. He fished his keys out of his pocket.
He ran as hard as he could. His eyes never left the black car, but his panic escalated when he saw one of the car’s doors opening. He closed his eyes briefly as he shot past, then opened them. Tunnel vision took over. All he could see was the front door to his apartment block. He heard someone calling his name. His speed increased. He skidded to a halt outside the front door and jammed the key in the lock. It turned easily and he leapt inside. Already out of breath, he took the stairs two at a time and darted inside his apartment.
His chest was tight and his breathing ragged as he double-locked his door, then backed away from it. He looked outside the window. The black car was still there, its sole occupant probably roaming outside, trying to find a way in. Jonathan’s chest hurt from the burst of exercise and the tears that he had held back for so long dripped from his lashes. He dropped to the sofa, grabbed a cushion and screamed loudly into it.
For a brief moment, his panic subsided, but then it returned like the slippery, cold thing it was to remind him that nothing had changed. He winced when the wound on his arm throbbed. The tears continued to stream down his face. He went into his bedroom. The mirror was still smashed into tiny pieces. At least that was one problem solved.
It was time. He could feel it.
He opened his briefcase and removed the gun. He took out the three bullets and popped each one into the empty chambers, then snapped it shut. That night, he slept sitting upright in a chair facing the front door, the tightly gripped gun pointing straight at it.
Chapter 7
Sunday
The shrill ring of the telephone jolted Jonathan out of his sleep. He sat bolt upright, having forgotten about the gun he was still holding on to. It slipped from his hand onto the floor. He froze, staring at the metal object, then glanced from the telephone to the gun, unsure which one to deal with first. He got up and ran to the phone.
‘Hello?’
His greeting activated a life-size hologram.
‘Jonathan, dear, it’s your mother.’ Her tone was sharp with a hefty dose of disapproval thrown in.
He rubbed his bloodshot eyes. ‘Hello. What is it?’
‘Change of plan for today.’
Eddie? He assumed that was why his mother was calling. Jonathan wondered what activity his brother needed to do that forced him to cancel.
She rambled on for a while and he nodded politely, waiting for her to get to her point. ‘—anyway, I want to change it to lunch today. Does that suit you?’
It wasn’t a question, more of a demand. If he said no, he wouldn’t hear the end of it. Jonathan pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to stop his thoughts from drifting.
‘I’m not sure today works for me. I’ve got a lot on.’
The holograph of his mother watched him silently, but he could hear all the unspoken things. She turned around and mumbled to his father. ‘He says he doesn’t want to come.’
It hadn’t been what he’d said, and she knew it.
‘I said today doesn’t suit.’
His father replied, ‘Leave him be. He’ll come up next weekend instead.’
‘It’s not good enough. He’s always busy and I want him to come up today. How often do we get to sit down together as a family?’
Jonathan could feel the familiar bristle of annoyance sweep through him. ‘Alright Mum! I’ll be there, if that makes you happy.’
Her tone was curt. ‘Do what you want, Jonathan. I’m not stopping you.’
He groaned inwardly. ‘What time?’
‘One-ish? That’ll give me plenty of time to get organised. I’m doing lamb, your favourite.’
Lamb was Eddie’s favourite.
‘Do you want me to bring anything?’
‘No. Just yourself.’
‘Fine, see you then.’ He pressed a button to end the call and her holograph disappeared.
Upsetting his mother was the last thing he wanted to do, but she was also the least of his worries. If only she knew what he had been going through, not just this week, but for a while now.
The thought of dressing up for lunch was about as appealing as a cold shower on an even colder day. His neck hurt and his head was fuzzy. He wanted everything to go back to normal, but normal didn’t exist when you owned a gun to make you feel safe.
Jonathan bent down and picked it up from the floor, flicked on the safety catch and jammed it into the waistband of his jeans. His eyes roamed around the apartment; it no longer felt like a sanctuary, but a prison. A few hours away might be just what he needed.
He arrived at Lond
on King’s Cross station to catch the train to Leeds where his parents lived. The station was busy and he struggled to walk at a normal pace through the dense crowd. Paranoia swirled around him like a tornado and carried him along on a journey of its own choosing. No matter how hard he tried to break free of it, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being followed.
The open-plan area in the centre of the station was congested and he felt vulnerable being out in the open. People glanced briefly at him as he passed. He smoothed down his blond hair and tried to steady his erratically beating heart. But the glances still came and the feeling that something wasn’t right became stronger.
He felt for the gun in his waistband. At least it was loaded. At least he had brought sensible protection with him this time.
He took a tentative step towards the giant timetable suspended below the ceiling. The numbers and letters blurred into a series of nothings and he blinked to clear his vision. His head ached and his body was stiff and tense. He rubbed his eyes, then looked again.
Slowly, he brought his watery gaze down from the board to settle on a figure standing in front of him. The man had taken up a defensive stance. At first Jonathan didn’t think anything of it. But when he recognised the man, he glanced behind him to confirm what he already suspected: that he was centre stage and being watched closely by a sizeable number of people.
‘What the fuck are you all looking at?’ he muttered. But the people around him weren’t the ones that concerned him most. The man standing in front of him was the man he had seen in his mirror.
‘Hey mate, everything’s going to be all right,’ the man said. ‘Put the gun down.’ He held his hands out defensively in front of him, just as he had done in the mirror.
Jonathan frowned and then looked down at his own arm. He was pointing the gun straight out in front of him.
‘How the fuck did you get here? Tell me!’ Jonathan said, waving the gun at the man. He started to back away from the crowd before they could hem him in. To feel more secure, he ran towards the nearest wall and backed up against it.
