by Eliza Green
The man followed cautiously, as did the most curious of onlookers. ‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ he said.
Jonathan shook his head and used the gun to gesture at the man. ‘Well, two days ago you were in my mirror, and now you’re fucking here.’
The actions that had seemed so strange in the mirror played out clearly now. Jonathan could finally hear what the mirror man had been mouthing at him.
‘I need help here! He’s got a gun.’ The man’s gaze flicked to the gun in Jonathan’s left hand.
Jonathan smiled cynically. ‘Who are you talking to? Are you working with them—the people in the black car?’ He waved the gun at the crowd, which was keeping its distance. ‘Are these people working with you too? Why are you doing this to me?’
An ear-splitting sound, followed by another, rang out. Jonathan covered his ears with his hands, the hot gun burning his face. The acrid smell of burning metal shocked him and he dropped his hands to his side. There was screaming and panic all around him. He didn’t want to believe it, but he knew what had happened. He searched the crowd, hoping it wasn’t true, but the truth was right in front of him.
He went rigid when he spotted the man from the tea shop in Spelling. He was cradling someone in his arms. ‘She’s been shot! My wife’s been shot. Please, someone call an ambulance.’
The crowd tightened up and surged towards Jonathan. He raised the gun and waved it around. ‘Stay away!’ The throng retreated a little.
‘Somebody tell me the fuck what happened?’ He pointed the gun uneasily at the front of the crowd.
A second victim was close by. The air was tinged with the metallic smell of blood. His hands shook. Don’t let it be her. Please don’t let it be her.
‘Stand back. Let me see her. I need to see.’ He gestured with the gun and the crowd parted.
Jonathan’s heart sank as he recognised the woman from the pub. She caught sight of him staring at her and screamed the same way she had in the pub. A wet, sticky pool of blood had formed on the floor and it continued to flow from her wounded stomach.
An elderly man stepped forward. ‘You shot them both! Why did you do that?’
Jonathan raised the gun and he backed away. ‘I didn’t mean to shoot anyone.’ He stared at the weapon. He had the safety catch on, didn’t he? Was it an accident? Of course it was. But that didn’t change the fact that he’d shot two people.
‘My God, what have I done?’
His instinct was to drop the weapon, yet it was the only thing keeping people back. He searched for the man who had been in his mirror, but there was no sign of him.
A commotion at the other end of the station caught his attention and he watched in horror as several police officers in riot gear surged forward. When they got near, he tightened his grip on the gun and waved it around just enough to slow their advance.
‘Are they okay?’ Jonathan said, staring at the injured people on the ground. ‘Tell me they’re okay!’
The officers’ guns were raised, but the crowd was interfering with their ability to get a clean shot.
‘You fucking killed her!’ The tea-shop owner was standing now, shaking with rage in the same way that had prompted him to pour hot tea on Jonathan’s leg. While there was no teapot in his hand, the scene was all too familiar.
Instead of feeling safe, Jonathan realised he was trapped against the wall. The police had moved the crowd back and were clearing a path to him.
‘Drop the gun, now,’ the officer at the front called out.
‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean to do it.’
‘I said, drop it. We can talk when you do,’ the officer said.
‘I want to speak to Dr Julia Blake. She works at the London Met.’
‘We’ve already spoken to her,’ the officer replied. ‘She told us you’re unstable. We’re bringing you in.’
Unstable?
The police came closer and Jonathan slid down the wall to get out of their line of sight. If he was going to do something, he had to do it now. He wasn’t tough like Eddie. The thought of spending time in jail terrified him. He’d rather be …
Jonathan raised the gun one last time, placed the hot barrel against the side of his head and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 8
Monday
Dressed in a navy-blue trouser suit, Dr Julia Blake followed a woman down a white, sterile corridor. She carried her black briefcase in one hand. A few strands had escaped from her ponytail and she tried to tidy them with her other hand. Her low-heeled shoes clacked loudly on the concrete floor, but not as loudly as her heart was beating in her chest.
Julia had a vague idea where she was and who had ordered her there. The woman she followed had called to her house that morning and shown her to a waiting car. She had been blindfolded for the duration—for security reasons, the woman had explained. Julia didn’t question where she was going. All she knew was that it was because of Jonathan Farrell, and she planned to cooperate with their enquiries. She was in too deep to give herself up now.
When she had received a phone call the day before from someone enquiring about Farrell’s state of mind, she knew she had pushed things too far. It had only been an experiment. Seeing a news report on the events at King’s Cross sent her into a temporary state of shock. A few hours later when she snapped out of it, the realisation of what she had done prompted her to re-examine every piece of information she held on Farrell and compile her version of what had been going on.
The woman ushered her into an unoccupied interview room with a table and four chairs, and told her to wait. Julia sat down on one of the cold, metal chairs while all manner of thoughts rushed through her mind. How much did they know about her involvement with Jonathan? Would they call into question her own state of mind? Would they ask when her conscience had become derailed, when her mind had become unhinged? That’s how some people might see it, but there was a deeper purpose driving her: ambition, acceptance—respect.
She pulled out a bound yellow file from her briefcase and untied the string. The file she held on Jonathan was impeccably neat, every second page colour-coded. With extreme care, she laid out each page in front of her.
The door opened suddenly, making her jump. Two men dressed in dark suits entered the room. One was Scandinavian-looking with blond hair, while the other was dark haired and dark skinned. Julia stood up and shook their hands when they offered them, then sat back down and concentrated on putting on the best performance of her life.
‘Dr Blake, we want to thank you for coming in this morning,’ the blond man said, shuffling his chair forward. He placed a report he was holding on the table. The noise of the chair echoed eerily around the sparse concrete room.
Julia nodded and cleared her throat. ‘Yes, of course. What happened yesterday was an awful tragedy.’ In an effort to disguise her shaking hands, she lifted her briefcase from her lap and placed it on the floor beside her.
The dark-skinned man leaned forward. His eyes searched hers. ‘Please tell us exactly what you told our colleague when she called you yesterday.’
Julia straightened her glasses and cleared her throat a second time. ‘I told her that Jonathan Farrell is a patient of mine, that he’s a paranoid schizophrenic with mild dissociative identity disorder.’
‘And that they should proceed with extreme caution?’
‘Well … yes, but only when I heard he had a gun.’
The blond-haired man leaned back in his chair. ‘How long has Mr Farrell been a patient of yours?’
‘Almost three months. Before that he was my assistant.’ Julia leaned forward and flicked through her notes with a forced confidence.
‘And when did he start presenting with symptoms? He was delusional, I believe,’ the dark-skinned man asked.
‘When he started to mention Eddie,’ she said, her eyes fixed on her notes.
‘And Eddie is?’
‘A figment of his imagination.’ Julia looked up, trying to ignore the butterflies in her
stomach. ‘He thinks he has an identical twin brother, but in truth he’s an only child.’
‘In your own words, can you tell us what happened this week?’ the blond man asked.
Julia flicked rapidly through her notes, briefly looking up at the pair in front of her. She frowned as she searched for the best place to start. There was plenty to draw on in the forged file.
‘Take your time. We want you to get the sequence of events just right.’
She glanced at the two-way mirror customary in all interview rooms.
‘Don’t worry about them, they’re just here to observe. Pretend they’re not here.’ The dark-skinned man waved his hand dismissively. ‘When did Mr Farrell’s problems first start?’
‘I’m sorry.’ She removed her glasses, setting them down carefully on the table. ‘Before I do, please tell me why the UK’s domestic counter intelligence and security agency is interested in my patient?’ Her heart hammered so hard in her chest, her breath caught in her throat.
Neither of the men said anything.
‘Gentlemen, if you want me to cooperate, then please be truthful. Jonathan Farrell is’—she cleared her throat again—‘was a disturbed young man, but he wasn’t involved in anything that would interest you. If anything, this is a matter for the police. Why am I here, in your offices?’
‘Dr Blake, we’re not MI5,’ the blond replied. ‘We’re an independent agency with a specific remit. Think of us as a new police force.’
‘A new what?’
‘All you need to know is that Jonathan Farrell’s activities fall under our jurisdiction,’ the dark-skinned man said. ‘Now, please answer the question. When did the problem behaviour start?’
What did that mean, their jurisdiction? Julia looked down at her notes and found the purposively scanty account of the trip to Spelling. Dr Fenway, the psychiatrist there, had helped to fill in some gaps that she hadn’t included. She swallowed.
‘Gentlemen, I need to start at the beginning. When I first noticed a change in Jonathan’s behaviour, I took him on as a patient and he ceased to be my assistant. But he kept coming in to work, so I allowed him to take the desk outside my office so I could keep an eye on him.’
‘Why?’ the blond man frowned, folding his arms.
‘He was calmer when he lived in this other world, in the world he had created.’
‘Then what?’
‘Well, he told me he was taking a trip to Spelling, in North Hampshire. Something happened to him there that triggered deeper, more damaging levels of paranoia.’ She told them about the tea-shop owner and the frosty reception that Jonathan had received in the village. ‘I can’t say if any of it really happened to him. I only have his version of events. Dr Fenway, the psychiatrist there, did call me, but he didn’t mention anything about an incident.’
The blond-haired man scanned his report. He frowned as he said, ‘When did he buy the gun, Dr Blake?’
Julia bit her lip. ‘Um, I don’t know.’
‘Could it have been when you followed him home in your car?’
Julia faltered for a moment. ‘I … he didn’t know it was me.’
‘But the dent in the side of your car says otherwise.’
‘How did you know—? Okay, I admit it wasn’t one of my brightest ideas. I was keeping an eye on him. I was worried. I tried to talk to him, but I never got the chance. He would see me and hightail it out of there.’
‘But you weren’t worried enough to tell the police? What about the images he was seeing in the mirror? Did he tell you about those?’
Julia searched through her notes again. ‘Well … yes. But he never mentioned buying a gun.’ She pretended to be flustered. In truth, she was terrified. ‘Am I being accused of something?’
‘Dr Blake, Jonathan Farrell killed two people yesterday, and then himself. He was a danger to society.’
She blew out a disbelieving breath. ‘He was never a danger to society. That much I know.’
‘But you agree he killed two people?’
‘I’m not disputing those facts. He was not well and I was helping him. Contrary to popular belief, not all schizophrenics are a risk to society. Plenty of them with mild symptoms manage their condition with medication. Jonathan was a functioning adult. For the most part, he could distinguish fact from fiction.’
The blond-haired man stared at her. After a brief silence, he asked, ‘Dr Blake, do you ever operate outside of your remit?’
Julia frowned. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Do you go further than you should to help your patients?’
She held her breath for a moment, then released it as quietly as she could. ‘Mr … I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Fine. I take my work very seriously and that includes my patients’ safety. I do not, nor have I ever, stepped outside of my professional remit and I’m offended that you would suggest such a thing.’
‘Have you ever prescribed anything for Mr Farrell?’
Julia smiled. ‘You know I haven’t. I’m a psychologist in the UK, sir. I’m not licensed to prescribe medicine.’
The blond man smiled briefly and his expression softened. ‘I apologise, Dr Blake. We’re merely trying to establish what happened to Jonathan Farrell and whether everything possible was done to prevent the incident yesterday.’
Julia suddenly felt compelled to tidy her papers. The fake yellow file she had created on Farrell could either implicate her in his death or exonerate her. But she had been careful to cover her tracks.
The rest of the interview happened in slow motion. Julia told them everything she needed them to know: that she didn’t believe Farrell was a danger to society, only to himself, that he had self-harmed in the past—there was even a fresh cut on his arm. She wasn’t sure if it was enough to clear her of any involvement. Only time would tell. She left the yellow file and its contents with one of the men, still confused about the organisation they worked for and what their real remit was.
‘Thank you for your time, Dr Blake,’ the blond-haired man said, standing up. She stood up too. ‘We’ll be in touch if we need to clarify anything.’
Julia shook his hand. His grip was firm, his hand cold.
The same woman who brought her to the room escorted her from it. Julia turned her head as she left the room and caught the eye of the blond-haired man. His expression was stony and she couldn’t figure out if he was on to her or not.
But she had been under pressure to do what she did; her career depended on it. And when all this attention died down and she’d extracted the lessons to be learned from this experiment, she knew she would do it all again in a heartbeat.
Chapter 9
Jonathan woke to the sound of persistent buzzing above him. He blinked a couple of times, but a bright, piercing light forced his eyes closed. He tried to shield his eyes with his left arm, but a sharp, unforgiving pain ripped through his shoulder. He stiffened in abject fear and squeezed his eyes shut.
Something blocked out the light. He opened his eyes to see a face above him. He focused on the whites of a man’s eyes.
‘Good, you’re awake,’ the dark-skinned man said. ‘How are you feeling?’
Jonathan tried to sit up but his shoulder throbbed.
‘Easy now. You’ve had a little accident.’ The man hooked his arms underneath Jonathan’s and pulled him up to sit on what appeared to be a white hospital bed.
‘Where am I?’ Jonathan stared down at his arm wrapped in a white sling. All around the bed were machines and an IV drip was attached to his arm. ‘What happened to … my arm?’
‘You were shot.’ A second man, with blond hair, stepped out from the shadows. ‘The wound was a mess. We did our best to repair it quickly and with the tools at our disposal, but you’ll still have some pain there for a few days, at least until it heals fully.’
Jonathan touched the side of his head, remembering the feel of the gun barrel resting against it. ‘But how
? I … I should be dead.’
‘You had flicked the safety catch on without realising it. Then you passed out when one of our men shot you. Don’t worry, the amnesia is temporary and your memories will come back to you. In the meantime, tell us what you can about Dr Julia Blake.’
Jonathan licked his lips. His mouth was dry like sand. ‘Could I have some water please?’
The dark-skinned man lifted a plastic cup and filled it with water from a jug on a nearby table. He handed it to Jonathan, who drank thirstily from it.
‘She’s my boss. Has something happened to her?’
His memories drifted back in pieces and he recalled the smell of gun oil and the heat from the barrel. He gasped.
‘I killed someone—two women!’
The blond-haired man nodded. ‘Twenty-four hours ago. But Simon doesn’t believe it was your fault. You were acting under diminished capacity.’
‘Under what?’
‘Simon believes you were not responsible for your actions, that you were mentally impaired at the time.’
Jonathan jumped off the bed. The IV needle in his arm strained. His legs wobbled dangerously as they hit the cold tiled floor. One of the men grabbed him before he collapsed in a heap.
‘I’m not crazy?’ Jonathan said, leaning into him. ‘I’ve been feeling off for a while but things happened to me this past week that I … I can’t explain.’
‘What did Dr Blake say when you told her about your issues this week?’
‘I think she thought I was imagining everything. She was treating me like one of her patients.’ His legs felt like jelly and his shoulder throbbed with pain.
‘Did she ever give you any medicine to take?’
Jonathan thought about the pills in the orange container, the ones she said were experimental. He nodded.
‘Did she give you a prescription for them?’
‘No. Is that important?’
‘It would prove she stepped outside her remit to treat you.’
‘I wasn’t her patient. I was her assistant.’ Jonathan frowned. ‘Why, what did she say about me?’
