Chapter 1 � The conscious of a Governmental Murderer

 Chapter 1 – The conscious of a Governmental Murderer

He was right. Attacks of the conscious were not good for forwarding your career. Especially if you were in my line of work. The pay was good, sure, and thanks to such a huge salary I could go home to my house in the upper-class suburbs of London, talk to my kids about their day at their prestigious schools, and go to sleep beside a wife who has everything she ever dreamed of.

But even so...

I mean some of them are real nasty pieces of work. But when someone like Edward Greener comes along… it’s more difficult, you know? Often they talk about God or their loved ones, completely oblivious to the fact that in a few minutes they’ll be just another lump of meat on its way to the incinerator.

People like Mr. Greener really are sorry for what they’ve done. They try their best, ‘reform’ themselves, but in the end it’s all for nothing. Once the crime’s been done, that’s it: they’ve landed themselves with a one-way ticket to death row.

Not that they know that.

Sometimes they guess, of course. They know that there is no way in hell that they’d be let out after some of the atrocities they’d committed. They scream and kick and cry so much so that several beefy wardens have to help me strap them down. As Mike said, there’d be riot if they knew what was really coming to them.

Even scarier than those who fight, even more disturbing, are those that don’t. They’re led in, quiet as mice, and they look at me and they know. They sit. Sometimes they even start strapping themselves in. While I mess around with buttons and levers, I’m watched all the while by sad, hopeless eyes. A beep, a jerk, and then I’m mouthing sorry to a corpse.

I keep telling myself that these people are criminals, and deserve what they get, even when they’re a boy of 15 or an old man of 75. They all pass before my life-stealing hands. Every day.

It’s their deaths that pay my bills.

No, I just can’t be so callous about it all. They’re still people, after all. But if it weren’t for them, I’d be freezing on the streets without a penny to my name.

See? As I’m so often told, attacks of the conscious are not good. They can mess you up.

My keys jangled as I slotted them into the lock, pausing for a moment before turning. The house was quiet, even though the lights were on. That probably meant the kids were out. It was nearly five, so Molly would be cooking dinner. With a sigh I opened the front door, letting warm light spill out across the dark driveway.

Sure enough, the radio was on in the kitchen as I kicked off my shoes and hung up my coat, blaring out ridiculous jingles before it launched into the weather forecast.

“And now, onto your weather for today with David Beech!”

“Thank you, Alan. Sorry to dash your hopes of a respite from this horrid winter weather, ladies and gents, because tonight we’ll see heavy showers and wind up to 6 knots sweeping across the capital, with a chilly temperature of 8 degrees Celsius, getting colder towards tomorrow morning. I’m afraid tomorrow won’t be much better, with gales, rain, and perhaps even a little snow in the north, and over the next week or so there’ll be a sharp cold stab…”

“Oh, James? Is that you?” Molly popped her head around the door, blinking. When she saw it was indeed her husband, she broke into a sunny smile. “There you are! I was about to call to see where you were!” She wiped her hands on a tea towel before sauntering over and giving me a kiss. “Dinner will be ready soon. It’s just you and me tonight- Joseph and Keira are sleeping at their friends’ houses.”

I nodded tiredly. Joseph, now 14, and Keira, soon to be 12, took after their mother like nobodies’ business. They both shared her porcelain skin, thick dark hair and bright sapphire eyes. There was none of my sandy-brown mop or caramel colored eyes. Well, Molly said they looked like caramel. I’m afraid I didn’t quite see the resemblance. But anyway, neither did they have my sharp features and high cheekbones, but instead had taken their mother’s softer, gentler appearance.

In my opinion, they’d both be heartbreakers when they grew up.

“Tough day at work, sweetie?” Molly was watching me with sympathy, a sad smile on her beautiful face. She’s always been able to read me like a book, and the best thing about it was that it was that she understood. She understood that my work got to me sometimes, and that the reason we didn’t tell the kids about my profession was because I was afraid they’d shout from the rooftops that I was a Governmental murderer.

Because that’s what it felt like sometimes.

Now, though, she slipped her arms around my waist, pulled me close and rubbed my back as I breathed in the smell of her cherry-scented shampoo.

She knew what I needed: a few moments of calm where I didn’t have to worry about anyone, anything, or whose death I would bring about tomorrow.

I sighed again, and felt her hug me tighter. “Come on, Jim. It’s Friday, so you can forget about everything for the next two days, yeah?”

I love Molly. I really do. When I’m reeling about, helpless and vulnerable, she has the power to set me back on my feet with a few simple words.

“Besides,” I felt her grin into my chest, “I’ve made your favorite: pork chops and roast potatoes.”

I snorted in amusement. “Which, from the interesting smells wafting this way, is probably burning.” Molly gave a mortified squeak and dived back into the kitchen to save the dinner.

Shaking my head, a smile now returned to my face, I went to set the table.

----------

Long after we had eaten a truly delicious meal, spent a peaceful evening in each other’s arms and Molly had finally fallen asleep beside me, I lay staring up at the ceiling in near darkness.

The green LED display on the alarm clock cast unearthly glowing shadows across the room. The bold numbers briefly captured each moment before flowing on, and time slipped away as quietly as it had come.

I couldn’t sleep. The bliss of unconsciousness was being as slippery as a fish tonight. Thoughts tumbled through my sleep-deprived brain like a localized tornado until I was sick and dizzy with them. But, no matter the amount of times I tried to think of other things or how I counted sheep and sung myself lullabies they just wouldn’t go away. Most of what I thought was ridiculous, the products of an imagination that even a five-year-old child would be proud of.

What if one of the criminals I had put to sleep came back from the dead, seeking revenge? What if my children found out, and disowned me in disgust and horror? What if I was forced to kill one of my own family?

If you learn one thing from this, dear reader, it is that morals and what ifs are not good for your health. Forget right and wrong, sleep is more important.

The clock flashed twenty to three, taunting me.

Everything was quiet but for Molly’s deep, even breathing. The occasional car went past outside, purring by and then leaving me in silence once again. I had nothing to distract me from my thoughts. Eventually, after several torturous minutes, I quietly climbed out of bed. Molly mumbled something as my warmth disappeared from beside her, but didn’t wake. She always had been a pretty heavy sleeper.

Padding across the thick hall carpet and into my study, I didn’t bother with the light. Despite the lack of handy LED displays, I made my way across the room without falling over everything, moving with a confidence born of familiarity. Slipping into my swivel chair, I flicked my computer on. As the screen sputtered into life, I swung absently from side to side. Molly, bless her, had brought this chair for me last year when she got so irritated with the squeaky whines emitted from my old one every time I moved that she threw it out one day while I was at work and brought a new one. Not that I was complaining; this one was padded leather, comfortable, and great to swing on.

Even though I couldn’t see the rest of the room with my eyes, I saw it with my mind. The desk in front of me, with my computer and pots of pencils on top, shelves upon shelves of books on the adjacent wall that were a testimony to my great love of reading, a comfortable armchair and all sorts of things you usually find in a study. The walls were a soft duck-egg blue with cream-skirting boards and ceiling. This room had once been the nursery before both Joseph and Keira had outgrown it, and even now the outlines of cartoon-style alphabets and cavorting clowns could be seen beneath the paint. Hanging on the walls were several pictures drawn by the kids alongside framed certificates. Some were Molly’s, but a fair few were my own.

I had an incredibly good education. My parents, god rest their souls, had the good fortune to be the very best friends of the headmaster of St. Martin’s Bells boarding school, who, as a favor to the late Louis and Jennifer Kite, took up the task of educating me.

I thrilled at the chance and ate up all the knowledge I could get my hands on before moving onto college. Later, after I had met Molly, I declined a scholarship at Cambridge in favor of a more local university and snagged myself a diploma in Biotechnology and Genetics. Okay, a job as morbid and unusual as mine may seem a bit of a strange profession for someone with my qualifications, and to be quite honest, I don’t really know how I got here either. It’s not really something people aspire to be, unless you’re incredibly morose and perhaps want to see yourself up there among London’s most wanted, listed as a sociopath with murderous tendencies. For me, it just sort of…happened.

I blinked, eyes focusing on the screen in front of me that sat ready and waiting, humming quietly.

I pulled up an Internet page and quickly tapped in the password to my email account.

Wow, 14 messages. I was popular today.

Unfortunately, ten of those were junk; one was from Joseph, sent while he was at school asking a question about something that he had obviously found the answer as the next said not to worry; a terse reminder from work about the rules on mobile phones and the last, and only half-interesting one, was from Gary Harris, a friend of mine from University, asking to meet up sometime.

I replied, suggesting next weekend at the pub, deleted all the junk and then sat staring at the screen, tapping the mouse absently.

Maybe when the kids came back tomorrow, we could go to the fair or something. Have a nice family day out. Lately, we hadn’t really done much in the way of family outings, perhaps because I was coming home more tired and stressed about my job.

You see, I hadn’t always thought this death penalty thing was a bad idea. When I first got the job I saw everyone as a scary murderer who deserved what they got, and it wasn’t so bad. I could almost kid myself that it was okay, good even.

But then people started getting banged up for more and more ridiculous things. For instance, I had a boy of eighteen in the chair the other day, charged with stealing a television. Admittedly, it was from the house of some celebrity or other, and he had forced an entry but it was just a TV.

He didn’t even hurt anybody.

That sort of thing is definitely not an isolated incident. Sure, they all committed crimes, but really, stealing a TV? That’s just pathetic. He was young, had his whole life ahead of him, but because of one pushy celebrity, he lost his life.

Jeeze, if something like that ever happened to Joseph –not that it would – I would flip. Not at him, but at the government for being so petty and paranoid. Not everyone is a terrorist or hard-core criminal, you know!

To be quite honest, I think the government is stupid. The Prime Minister’s crazy, one step away from being a dictator. Most of the MPs are corrupt, as are the police force, for that matter.

What a sorry state we’re in.

Despite this, and also something that I find amazing, is that people, meaning the populace of Britain in general, do not realize. They go around their happy little lives and ignore everything that goes on above them. Statistics say that everyone’s happier than they have been in years.

I snorted to myself in my dark study. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.

With a sigh I got up and turned the computer off. I wouldn’t be in a fit state to do anything tomorrow if I didn’t sleep.

As I slipped back into bed, Molly opened a sleepy eye. “Where have you been?”

“Just getting a drink.”

She murmured something else and then was asleep once more. I smiled gently and kissed her forehead before closing my eyes as well.

----------

 “Jim, wake up, sweetie. Gary’s on the phone.” I fumbled groggily with the handset as Molly passed it to me, suppressing a yawn as I brought it to the side of my head.

“Och, James, whit are youse daein emailing me in the middle of the mirk, youse bloody wee insomniac!”

Gary Harris’ powerful Scottish accent roared good-naturedly in my ear. I winced. “Good morning, Gary.”

“Naur guid efternuin, Jim ma laddie. Anyway, aboot this email; the pub fine, but neist weekend Evelyn and A are takkin ah wee trip tae see the lass’s kin up naur Manchester, and that means spending the hail bloody weekend up thare. Sae, instied, hou aboot this evenin? A’m certaint Molly will luit youse oot tae play.”

I winked sleepily at Molly, who was watching me with amusement from the bathroom doorway. She could probably hear Gary from all the way over there.

“Sure, tonight’s fine. What time?”

“Och, A’ll sweeng by and pick youse up aboot aicht. The Ryle Stag?”

“Sounds good.”

“Och, A naur forgat! Evelyn made some wee Brownies for youse and Molly. A’ll bring them around whan A pick youse up.”

“Thanks, Gary. Evelyn’s cooking is always a treat.”

“A ken, a ken! Anyway, A best be aff afore the cook stairts beating ma wi her ladel! See youse this evenin, Jim!”

Molly crawled up beside me as I hung up. “So you’re going out tonight?”

“Do you mind?”

“Of course not! It’ll do you good. Besides,” she gently brushed my hair back from my forehead, smiling, “If Evelyn’s sending over some of her famous Brownies, I’m happy!”

I snorted. “You and your chocolate.”

“I’m a woman! It’s natural!” She squealed as I pulled her down into my arms, peppering her face and neck with little kisses. “James! Let go! Jim!” She beat my arms playfully and I just grinned, winding them tighter around her slender frame, her breath pleasantly ticklish across my cheek.

“Jim, if you want any breakfast, you’d better let me go!” She laughed, and I released her.

By the time I’d showered, dressed and eaten, it was nearing midday. At precisely twelve, the doorbell rang and Molly let in a bright-eyed and bubbly Keira who nearly knocked me off my chair as she rushed in to hug her father.

I barely caught a word of her speedy chatter as she flung down her bag and fixed herself a sandwich. “Sarahtookmetoseehernewponydaddyohshewassolovelyandsweetandkindandwehadpizzaandlotsasweetsandandand-“

“Keira, don’t speak with your mouth full.” Molly said mildly. “And slow down – I don’t think your father’s brain is quite up to speed this morning.” I swiped at her as she passed but missed, and she laughed.

“Dad!” Keira plunked herself down alongside me, sandwich in one hand while she played with a lock of hair with the other.

I set my coffee down and looked at her. When she used such a sweet, honeyed tone it could only be because she wanted something. Before she could open her mouth again, I said: “No, you are not getting a pony like Sarah.”

Blue eyes blinked at me in surprise. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

“I know you want something.”

“Whatever makes you think that?” She gave me a bright little smile, as if to say ‘I’ve got you wrapped around my little finger’. “How do you know I wasn’t going to offer to cook dinner tonight or something?”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Alright, alright, I do want something.”

“Is it going to drain my wallet?”

“No.”

“Am I going to have to chauffer you anywhere?”

“No.”

“Well, what is it then?”

“Can I dye my hair?”

Now it was my turn to blink in surprise.

“YouseeSarahgothersdonewithsomehomedyekitanditlooksfantasticandi’lldoitmyselfanditcostshardlyanything-“

I held up my hands in a ‘slow down’ gesture. “Don’t ask me! Ask your mother!”

“Ask me what?”

“Can I dye my hair, mum? BecauseSarahhaditdoneanditlooksgreatanditdoesn’t-“

Molly looked at me, and I shrugged. Then she sighed.

“We’ll see, Keira, sweetie. In the meantime, when Joseph gets back, would you like to go out somewhere? To the fair, maybe?

“Aw yes! Can we go to that one near where Chelsea lives? Last time we went there, it was brilliant!”

“Sure. Go get ready and we can be off as soon as your brother gets back.”

I grinned weakly as she thundered upstairs to her room, remembering the last time we went. All the candyfloss made me feel quite ill.

“You can take them on the rides this time.” I said, shaking my finger at Molly. She just winked, and then went to open the door as our son came home.

Author's Note

See http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Dusky/310077/ for translations of the scottish accent.

Reviews

[Tina Kline]

This chapter only increased my interest in the story. Keira was easy to read and understand
her fast talking (how you strung the words together to give that feeling worked). Having a translation
of Gary's Scottish-ness provided at the end of the story would have been a big
help so I could understand everything he was saying while I read.

Tina

[Frances O'Neill]

I'm Scottish, too! So, forget the translation! Would you believe, I think I understood every word? I

even understood the stringing words of Keira!

The story has gotten off to a good start, so far, can't wait to see where it's going!