Day 3 (a.k) – Deciding

Day 3 (a.k) �" Deciding

He had driven home; the picture of panic, hands that gripped the wheel tightly, brow that sweated profusely. The nausea hadn’t subsided, nor had the dizziness; the shock. He had parked outside of his house and remained in the car, hands that gripped the wheel, still. The lady from across the street, who seemed to spend the majority of her time walking two ageing cocker spaniels, passed by- the dogs in tow-stopping to stare for a moment. She had moved on thinking that this must just be another executive who had lost his job, and was in full blown meltdown worrying about the house, car, mortgage and payments; his pride and everything else that that generation worried about. It had been happening a lot lately; she had seen three that month, whilst on her long leisurely tours of the sprawling suburban estate. Half right, she had been, Stuart was in full blown meltdown, but it wasn’t his job that had been lost, it was Harrington’s life, and depending how things progressed, possibly Stuart’s too.

 

Inside now, having summoned the vast amount of strength and composure required to make the short trip up the driveway and through the front door. He had thrown up (several times) drunk a bottle of water, and then thrown up again. A cup of tea had gone the same way before he finally settled on the couch, looking pale, lost and exhausted. A gram of composure settled on the disaster zone that was his brain. ‘What now?’ it asked, that voice of desperation, loyal ally to the lonely, ‘come on Stuart, you can’t just stop, what now?’ He didn’t know “I don’t know” he replied, it felt better to vocalise it, like he wasn’t alone, in his mind. ‘Well you- Well we need to plan for the future.’ We was better, definitely, he was definitely less alone, they were definitely less alone. “There is no future” aloud again “I’m going to f**king prison” and he burst into tears stretching out on the settee and burying his face as far into the crease at the back as possible.  There was no-one to comfort him, the gram of composure which he had personified to generate some company was vanquished as his mind fell back into meltdown mode. He cried himself out, out of energy; out of tears. Only then could his composure return ‘Okay’ it conceded ‘there’s a good chance we’re going to prison, I don’t think we can imagine a less well planned murder-‘ “It wasn’t planned” Stuart cried out, correcting his desperate inner voice, this self-dialogue had become a little disturbing, especially now that his ‘other half’ was accusing him of murder. It was true though. ‘What I’m saying is that; yes you’re right, there’s a good job we will go to prison, but we still need to do everything in our power to minimise that possibility.’ “Alright” he said aloud “but what?” he asked; voice wavering, treading close to the edge again ‘Like stop being such a f**king p***y, it’s done okay, he’s dead, you- we killed him, chances are we’re going down for it, but if you stop all this crying and screaming and sitting in the car for half an hour staring at the windscreen’ his mind paused, as if for effect ‘then we minimise that very big probability’. “Alright” Stuart agreed out loud “What about work? I have to quit” ‘NO, no change, we’ll go back, back to normal, hitting targets, friendly but quiet, no suspicions, no nothing, no panics, no attention.’ He was nodding now, the composure ebbing back, before being flushed away by a fresh wave of panic “I can’t” he cried out starting to sob, “I can’t do it.” The voice cried back in his head, louder this time, refusing to be flushed away ‘You can and you will, we will, and do you know why, because I will be there, who the f**k do you think this voice is Stuart? I am you, we are you, our minds just shattered into pieces right now. We’re everywhere together and when we’re at work you let ME keep us calm’ He sat bolt upright, it was right, he was right. It felt like the voice of reason was him now, the real him, and that sobbing wreck was the other part. He hobbled upstairs, to bed and then a calm took hold of him. Not the kind when panic has faded away or been resolved, when whatever was causing the distress has gone, but the type when the body simply has no energy to go on panicking, no adrenaline, nothing left. He did not feel good or relaxed, he just didn’t have the strength to feel bad: for a while at least.

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Wednesday, day 5 (a.k), Stuart sat at his desk, it was 11am and he had already worked his way through much of his backlog from the previous weeks. Lilian had already passed by and nodded her appreciation. She also seemed genuinely pleased with his apparent improvement, which puzzled him. It was truly an apparent improvement, apparent on the surface, all seemed well, the emergency council which had assumed control ensured that, all external signs of weakness and disarray had been suppressed, it was like some police state; martial law had been established, dissenters were shot or imprisoned. Throw away the key, he thought with something approaching ironic humour. As long as the weak sobbing part of him, that broke down at the first thought of what he had done, at the memory of those struggling shoulders getting weaker and weaker, and then struggling no more. As long as that part was kept locked away, then people at work wouldn’t notice anything, and he wouldn’t end up handing himself in either. He knew that was the least of his worries, the police must be investigating a murder now. He didn’t know too much about police investigations but he had seen the television programs, the fingerprints, DNA testing the forensic chemistry, f**k the guy might even have had CCTV. His chances were slim to none, but he certainly wasn’t about to make them any slimmer.

 

He was far from settled, far from even being able to consider what he would do with his life, in the event that he wasn’t arrested. There was still a good part of him that wanted to hand himself in, that couldn’t bear the guilt but- at present- that part was safely locked away, away in the bastille. There were many parts of his mind with many different views. Right now the voice of composure was in control. Yet all the time there were so many others, notwithstanding  that little sapling, that had grown in his mind, initially feeding off his discontent, demanding change, it had been nourished vigorously by that tiny burst of exhilaration, yet had been wholly forgotten about in the storm of panic and guilt that had followed.  It still stood; it still grew.