by Eliza Green
Dr Blake removed her glasses. ‘And do you think he’s dealing again?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’ He thought about the accusation of murder levelled at him by the tea-shop owner in Spelling. He had no idea what the hell Eddie was up to.
‘Are you involved in the same thing? I need to know if you are.’
Jonathan’s eyes widened. ‘Of course not.’
The doctor smiled and relaxed in her chair. ‘Well, there’s your answer. You need to talk to Eddie and find out what’s going on. Maybe there’s a simple explanation.’
‘Yeah, maybe. Talking to him isn’t exactly high on my list of things to do.’
Dr Blake sighed deeply. ‘I wish I could give you the kind of answers you want to hear. The best advice I can offer is to stay away from alcohol. I could smell it on you earlier in the week. It doesn’t solve problems as much as people like to think it does. And again, get some rest. You look like shit. In fact’—Dr Blake stood up—‘take the rest of the day off. I’ve got a case to prepare for Monday and I need you to work tomorrow, so be in early.’ He stood up when she gestured towards the door. ‘Now I need to make an urgent phone call so I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
The thought of going home didn’t appeal to him. What if the black car was there with someone poised to grab him when he passed by? What if the beat-up Nissan Almera was also there, full of thugs from the pawn shop? He guessed they were serious about him not mentioning anything about the business out the back of the shop. Was this just one big test to see who could make him crack first?
Jonathan closed Dr Blake’s door quietly behind him. It wasn’t a test; it couldn’t be. Nobody knew he had the gun except the man who sold it to him. And why would people follow him anyway? He was nobody. If they were after anyone it would be Eddie, the perpetual screw-up.
He threw on his coat and grabbed his briefcase, tucking it under his arm. He waited for the lift. Where should he go? The firing range seemed like the most appealing place, but he decided against it. Whoever was watching and following him didn’t need to know where he went in his spare time. He got in the lift and by the time he got out on the ground floor he’d come to a decision. And it involved alcohol.
Despite Dr Blake’s advice not to drink, Jonathan dropped into one of the bars near London Met University. It was 11.30 in the morning, far too early to be drinking alcohol. But he ordered a drink anyway: it was his life, his problem and his money to spend. He ordered a whiskey, neat. This time, there were no incidents—no strange women screaming at him, no old men hassling him, no one accusing him of hurting anyone. Just a nice casual drink. The pills Dr Blake had given him were in his briefcase, sitting safely under his feet.
The morning turned into the afternoon and still Jonathan sat on at the bar. The barman kept walking by and Jonathan tried talking to him, but he refused to get drawn in. So, Jonathan watched the television instead and complained about the people on screen.
By 4.30 p.m., the barman called time on him. ‘I think you’ve had enough,’ he said as Jonathan swayed dangerously on the stool.
Jonathan’s thoughts were a tangled ball of string, but he hadn’t felt this good since … well, since before he’d met Alice. She was a nice girl and the anxiety-reducing sex was addictive, but he didn’t want to be with her. It was clear to him she wanted more and it wasn’t fair of him to string her along. He removed his phone from his pocket and typed a message.
‘Alice, it’s not working out between us. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m breaking up with you.’ The text was riddled with spelling mistakes, but he didn’t care—she’d get the gist. He sent it, then shoved the phone back in his pocket after missing it a couple of times. He slid off the stool. The barman was still there, but was glaring at him now.
‘Don’t worry, I’m going.’ Jonathan held his hands up defensively.
He grabbed his coat and briefcase. Tapping the side of his case, he said, ‘There’s important stuff in here that’s going to help me, but I’m not telling you what it is.’ He held an unsteady finger up to his lips.
He staggered outside, chuckling to himself. It was unbearably bright and he squinted as he walked towards the station. The pavement seemed to rise and fall beneath him and he walked slowly, stumbling a few times. Holloway Road Tube station came within sight. He swayed slightly as he stood outside the red-bricked entrance. Concentrating on anything was difficult and the dizziness was worse when he closed his eyes. Then he saw something he wished he hadn’t—the black car, the one that had been following him, was there, parked across the road in front of London Met University.
What, now they’re following me during the day?
A sick feeling grew in his stomach and he stumbled inside the station. He slowly made his way down the stone steps, and when he got to the bottom he sat on the last step with his head between his knees.
The sick feeling passed and the thought occurred to him to stop running. ‘Come get me!’ he called out. ‘What are you waiting for? I’m vulnerable—a perfect time to strike.’
He waited a while but no one approached him. He climbed slowly to his feet and, keeping a tight hold on his briefcase, made it to the platform. When the train arrived, he sat down, nestling his briefcase securely beside him. The train rattled and rolled and the movement lulled him to sleep. He woke to the sound of his station being announced over the intercom. His head bobbed from side to side before he woke fully. A familiar tight feeling spread through his chest as the effects of the numbing alcohol receded. He groped around for his case, marginally relaxing when he found it underneath his right arm.
It was a slightly braver Jonathan who made a brief stop on the way home at the off-licence for a six pack of beer. Back home, the more sober he became, the less inviting his apartment seemed to be and the more his agitation increased. He remembered Dr Blake’s suggestion that he call Eddie. He picked up his phone and dialled a number, but not before downing a beer first.
The phone rang several times and a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time eventually answered.
‘I was wondering when you’d get around to calling me,’ Eddie said.
‘I don’t have time to chat. Why are there strange people following me around? What have you done?’
Eddie laughed. ‘What makes you think it’s something I’ve done?’
‘Well, it’s not me. I don’t run in the same circles you do.’
‘Yeah, I’ve picked up a few enemies from my old days.’ Eddie laughed again.
‘Are you up to your old tricks?’ Jonathan said angrily. ‘Mum and Dad don’t need your shit on their doorstep again.’
‘I swear I’m not!’ Eddie sounded affronted. ‘What the hell are you up to these days?’
Jonathan frowned. ‘Nothing.’
‘What about that address you wanted’—Eddie lowered his voice—‘for the gun place? Did you find it okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘What the hell do you need with a gun anyway?’
‘I need it for protection from whatever mess you’re caught up in.’
‘I already told you, I’m clean! They’re old debts.’ Eddie sighed heavily. ‘You coming up to the house on Sunday? Mum’s expecting you.’
‘I don’t know yet. Are you going to sort out this mess I seem to be in?’
Eddie laughed, a little too loudly. ‘If I knew what you were talking about, I would.’ He paused. ‘You still working with that psychiatrist woman?’
‘Psychologist,’ Jonathan replied flatly.
‘I don’t suppose you could get your hands on some drugs? Not for me … for a friend.’
‘She isn’t licensed to prescribe medicine.’
‘Well, she must know someone who is. Don’t they all hang around together?’
The anger stabbed at Jonathan like a thousand tiny needles piercing his skin. Rather than struggle to control it, he hung up. He’d talk to Eddie properly at the weekend—if he decided to go, that was.
It was strange being at home du
ring the day while it was still bright. Most evenings he didn’t make it home until eight when darkness was already setting in. But the alcohol was making him sleepy again. He went into his bedroom and closed the curtains, then positioned his briefcase within easy reach of the bed. It was cold when he crawled into it, and the drastic change in temperature sent a barrage of shivers through him. He tucked the duvet—the same set that had Alice’s lingering perfume on it—as tight as he could around him until no cold air could get in.
Jonathan glanced at the mirror that had shown him the stranger’s image. It was still covered up, protecting him from seeing things he didn’t understand. His conversation with Eddie lingered in his mind but he was too tired to analyse it.
He drifted to sleep soon after.
It was dark when Jonathan woke up. He groped around on the bedside table for his spare watch, a cheap plastic one—a major step down from the gold watch he’d been forced to exchange at the pawn shop for the bullets. He pressed the tiny button on the right-hand side and the face illuminated green: 8.30.
He pulled back the covers and dangled his feet over the edge of the bed. He sloped over to the window, still fully dressed, and drew back the curtains. It was the evening time and the dark street outside his block was quiet. No sign of the car or anyone loitering outside. Good. The Nissan Almera hadn’t reappeared since that first night. Perhaps the thugs from the pawn shop had everything they needed—they knew exactly where he lived. Maybe they were the ones who had left the note in his post box. But it had been the note that prompted him to buy the gun. Shit. He was back to square one.
He probed every corner of his dry mouth with his tongue; it felt as if he had slept with a sponge in his mouth. The excessive thirst at the back of his throat was hard to ignore. The stale alcohol that had tasted so good going down lingered on his breath like something had died.
In the kitchen he rooted around for a clean glass. He filled it with water from the tap. The water’s coolness revived him a little and the dehydration retreated. His pounding headache, however, would take a little longer to shift. Jonathan checked the kitchen drawer for aspirin and found an opened pack. Beside it was an assortment of vitamins Dr Blake had given him over the past few months. He remembered the pills she’d given him that day, the ones in the orange-coloured bottle. He fished around in his pocket for them and studied the label. ‘Swallow two pills whole with water. Do not mix with alcohol’, it said. He quickly put the bottle down, not entirely convinced he was sober enough to try them yet. Instead, he popped two aspirin out of the blister pack, and washed them down with cold water.
Jonathan felt his energy levels taking a nose dive and his movements became sluggish. He was too tired to think straight about anything except going back to bed. A few more hours’ sleep and he reckoned he’d feel much better. He had just opened his bedroom door and was barely inside the room when something caught his eye. His feet rooted to the spot and his hand squeezed the door handle harder. The mirror, the one he thought he had turned towards the wall, was facing outwards. The towel he had draped over it was in a heap on the floor. The darkened bedroom made the mirror look ghostly with its gilded edges and reflective surface catching the light from the open door.
A sharp chill crept up his spine. He moved in closer, keen to dispel his fear and to discover it was only a reflection of the wardrobe, or something else innocuous. But as he drew nearer he saw again the image of a strange man mouthing something at him. The mirror’s image brightened enough for him to see it clearly.
Jonathan concentrated on the stranger standing against a hazy background. He appeared to be taller than Jonathan. The stranger’s eyes were large and unblinking as he kept glancing at Jonathan’s hands, then turned around to speak to someone else.
His heart thumping loudly in his chest was all Jonathan could hear. He wrapped an arm around himself to stop it from bursting right out. He forced himself to edge forward.
‘What do you want from me?’ Jonathan asked the mirror.
It was a straightforward question, but the stranger ignored him and continued to shout at him, silently.
Jonathan’s panic shifted up a gear and he suddenly felt light-headed. He used the edge of the bed to support himself. ‘What the fuck do you want from me? What are you doing in my mirror, in my home?’
The image faded, along with his hopes of an answer.
There was only one thing left to do. He stormed off to the living room, pulled a hammer out of his household toolbox and carried it back to the mirror.
‘If you won’t talk to me, then you won’t see me.’ He swung his arm behind him and struck the mirror. The glass shattered.
Something wet dripped down his arm; a sharp sting followed and he stared down at the piece of glass embedded in his skin. A trail of blood snaked down his arm and was about to drip onto the floor. He dropped the hammer and cupped his hand underneath the blood spill.
‘Shit!’ he said as he ran to the sink. His fingers fumbled to work the piece of glass out of his arm. The blood flowed a little quicker and Jonathan grabbed a tea towel and pressed it to the wound.
‘Double shit.’
He held the tea towel to the wound, then peeled it back. When he inspected the wound, the bleeding had slowed. He released a shaky breath. The cut wasn’t as bad as it had first looked. His overnight bag from his trip to Spelling was still by the front door. He freed the skin repair tool from a knot of clothing inside the bag. The tool made a slight buzzing noise when he turned it on. A bright green light fanned out from the tip. He hovered the light close to the wound, then changed his mind and abruptly turned it off.
He stared down at the wound sealed with ruby jewels of blood, the edges puffy and red. He had a choice: he could repair the cut on his arm, or he could use the pain to remind himself that he was in the real world, not a dream-like state. He’d been unsure of himself for a while now—not just this week, for a few months.
Out in the kitchen, Jonathan used an antiseptic wash to clean the wound. He trembled when the sting from the alcohol worked to disinfect the cut. After removing any remaining shards of glass, he strapped a wedge of gauze to his arm with some tape, items he was now thankful he’d borrowed from the first aid box in work. He sat down with his arm elevated and rested a while.
His brief moment of calm was shattered when he remembered the mirror. Paranoia wasn’t his issue because there had definitely been someone there, talking to him, watching him for God knows how long. He thought about the note in his post box: ‘We’re watching you,’ it had read. Is that what it meant, that someone was literally watching him through the mirror? But the man had vanished before Jonathan could get any answers. So how could he convince Dr Blake that he wasn’t crazy? If it had just been one thing that had happened, he could explain it by saying that he’d imagined it. But how could he account for everything else?
He opened the fridge door and curled his fingers around the cold neck of a beer bottle. He cracked open the lid and took a large, sloppy gulp. If he couldn’t sleep the old-fashioned way, he would drink until he forgot.
Chapter 6
Saturday
The area surrounding London Met University was deserted, and the offices to the rear of the building where he worked were deathly quiet. While most people were busy enjoying their weekends, Jonathan was heading into work. Sometimes Dr Blake worked through the weekends, which meant he did too. But he was grateful for the distraction that day. It was better he be in work than sitting at home worrying.
He arrived at his desk at 9.15 a.m.—an early start for him considering how hung over he was. Dr Blake was already in; her light was on and the door was slightly ajar. He thought about updating her on what had happened last night, but he was pretty sure he was still drunk. Even after a shower that morning, he could smell the beer wafting from his pores. He thought it best to lie low, at least until the smell had disappeared. His first port of call was the coffee machine.
There was a text message on his phone.
It was from Alice. He partially remembered drunk texting her the day before. Judging from the string of expletives she used, it was definitely over between them. Sipping on his coffee, he turned on his computer and entered a search for Genuine Glass mirrors. He jotted down the name of a shop in London that sold them.
Dr Blake didn’t come near him until mid morning, and he was grateful for the time to sober up. She looked disappointed as she stood at his desk, as if she had known he would turn up to work drunk. She peered over her glasses at him.
‘You okay?’ she asked in that same cautious way his psychologist father used to use when he was a teenager and in one of his strops. To this day, he struggled to talk to his father about his issues, probably because he made such a big deal out of small things. Jonathan had been the one with the temper when he and Eddie were growing up. Eddie had been the quiet, good child. It was funny how the roles sometimes reversed in adulthood.
Jonathan looked up at Dr Blake and smiled. ‘Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?’ But his all-teeth smile wasn’t fooling his boss. He allowed the act to melt away. ‘I’m just a bit tired today. I’ll be fine in a while.’
‘How about you grab yourself some coffee? Then when you’re done, I need you to type these up.’ Dr Blake tossed a bunch of notes on his desk.
‘Of course.’ Jonathan watched her leave, then pushed the notes to the side and lay his head down on the table.
The second cup of coffee helped only marginally to clear his foggy mind, but it was enough that he could face the task of typing.
Jonathan sat down at his desk and pulled the notes over to him. They were to do with the Anderson case. Dr Blake’s handwriting was barely legible, but he was able to recognise certain words and work out what it was his boss was trying to say.
He typed the first line: ‘Schizophrenia. Why does a man see what others don’t, to imagine a world that only exists inside his head?’