CHAPTER ONE

BROKEN GLASS By Dennis Michael

I got arrested for the recent murder of a man who had been dead for ten years. As I sit here contemplating the next shock that this beloved life will chuck up at yours truly, I turn my attention to my watch and quickly compare the time with that of the clock tower at the magistrate’s court. I’m lucky that my watch wasn’t taken off me; pity the same cannot be said of my mobile phone which has now found a new resting place as so-called evidence at the police station. They should have taken my charger too as I am thinking that my poor mobile phone will probably be out of charge real soon. Funny thing to be thinking of at this present moment in time as I haven’t properly digested the predicament that I’m in. Suffice to say that being a psychiatric professional, I have seen my fair share of disputes about what exactly passes as ‘normal human behaviour’ and I can honestly say that the way that I am behaving now is contrary to my normal parameters. Did I kill someone and then totally forget about it? It’s not the kind of thing that one does and forgets about. I close my eyes, trying to recall the past three days...hell, even recalling the past day is proving to be painfully absurd. I don’t know how long I’ve had my eyes closed for, but I’m awoken from my reverie by someone vigorously shaking my right arm.

‘You are free to go now’ a voice says to me and I open my eyes to look up at Francis who is trying to help me with this madness that I find myself encapsulated in. Francis is from a firm of solicitors and I cannot understand where the hell he came from as I certainly didn’t hire him simply because my pockets are nowhere near deep enough to hire a brief. This is one of the quagmires that I must contend with as my life starts to unwind in the most spectacular of ways. Still sitting down, I look at Francis. He places on the floor a black briefcase that he is carrying and is trying to dial a number on his mobile phone and silly enough I am thinking that at least he has his phone with him unlike yours truly. He is rocking a dark blue suit with a white shirt complemented by a red tie, and silver cufflinks are visible as he brings his phone to his right ear and starts talking into his phone. He is wearing glasses with round tortoise-shell frames and he has blue eyes; he has fine features and has the air of a distinguished man who has lent his name to realms of legislature. He turns to face the wall of glass that separates the inside of the room that we are in from the outside world and steps onto the greying carpet with his shiny black shoes and rests his left palm on the glass. I rest my weary eyes onto my beige pants and place my hands on my knees, at the same time wondering why the hell I am wearing beige pants as I don’t like beige as a colour. My shoes are not shiny as his and with blue socks showing just above my ankles, I appear seriously mis-matched in the fashion stakes, considering that I am wearing a grey shirt and black jacket. But no matter; fashion and appearances are the least of my worries. The last time I wore a tie is so long ago that I can hardly remember, and I know for damn sure that I now definitely don’t own one. I rummage in my coat pockets to try and locate my keys and I realise that the good old police have safely kept them, when I suddenly hear loud shouting coming from behind me. I turn around in time to see this young guy trying to swing a punch at an old gentleman in a grey suit; he misses and his momentum propels him forward where he trips on a chair and lands heavily on the floor, and en route to the floor he manages to hit his head on a wooden table. As he lies in a crumpled heap on the floor, there are shouts as a posse of men in uniform surround him, some kneeling in a valiant effort to restrain him while others are trying to usher the intended victim of the swung punch away from the room.

‘Let’s get out of here’ Francis, still on his dog and bone shouts at me, picks up his black briefcase and starts walking to a door marked OUT. I hastily get to my feet and follow his lead and steal a backward glance at the commotion behind us, where the young would-be assailant has sustained a cut to his temple and there is blood seeping on to the greying carpet. I step into a hallway lined with pictures of old greying men on both sides and Francis steers us into a side room and as he shuts the door behind him, he disconnects his phone call and says, ‘that was awkward’. Awkward does not begin to describe what I am feeling right now after what seems like a roller coaster of surreal events that began when I got a knock on my front door. The side room that he has ushered me into is sparsely furnished; there is a huge walnut desk bedecked with old magazines that is sitting at the far end of the room with a black swivel chair right behind it. There are two old scruffy chairs facing the desk, sitting on the same greying carpet that seems to be everywhere in this building. Funnily enough, I think about the gentleman in the grey suit who almost got decked, the pictures of the old greying men in the hallway and then the greying carpet and I think to myself – it sure is one hell of a grey day, not to mention the grey shirt that I am sporting. The walls are adorned with old photographs of different people receiving awards of some sort and as I eye a water cooler to the left, I suddenly feel thirsty and realise that I haven’t had anything to eat or drink for quite a while.

Francis places his briefcase on the walnut desk, puts his phone in his pocket and motions for me to take a pew on one of the scruffy chairs whilst he remains standing. ‘There seems to be a discrepancy in the sequence of events that is being presented’ he starts, and I couldn’t agree with him more. He starts pacing the room and informs me that my uncle will not be pleased with the turn of events, and him having to intervene because of the way that things have panned out. This has got me straight into shock and disbelief.

‘Uncle?’ I ask him. ‘What uncle, and while we are at it, do you mind telling me who you are, how you know me, what the hell is going on and where the hell you came from??’

Francis turns his blue eyes at me with a look of utter disbelief and says, ‘come now, Chris. This is not the time to start playing mind games. The fact that your uncle has seen it fit to send me here should not escape your mind as to the severity of this situation’.

He has now got me really going, as first, my name is not Chris and I have never been known by that name.

‘Excuse me?’ I say. ‘Did you just call me Chris?’ I ask him.

‘That is one of the things that we have to unravel’ he says as he continues trying to wear out the carpet with his pacing.

I stand up and face him and he comes to a halt, giving the greying carpet some temporary respite.

‘My name is not Chris’ I tell him.

This seems to be getting weird now and I have the feeling that it seems like a case of very mistaken identity.

Francis turns his left wrist and claps his blue eyes on a relatively expensive looking timepiece and with a sigh says, ‘Chris, things need to get sorted out really quickly. I am waiting for Boris to bring the car to the front door and then we can go and see your uncle where hopefully we can get more clarity’.

I feel as if I am stuck in a nightmare that seems to be getting worse by the minute. My name is not Chris, I don’t have an uncle and am certainly not in the mood to get into a car with a dude named Boris.

‘There seems to be a massive misunderstanding and I think you have the wrong client. I haven’t killed anyone, and I DO NOT have an uncle’ I seem to be shouting at Francis, whoever the hell he is.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Where the hell could they be now?’ Francis asks himself as he looks at his expensive watch one more time. I can tell that he is a man who is not accustomed to waiting for things like a car to pick him up.

I embark on a mission, giving wearing the grey carpet a go.

‘By the way I have your phone and your keys’ Francis says in my direction and he pats the side of his black briefcase. ‘As your brief they gave them to me’.

I stop wearing the carpet out and say to him ‘can I have my phone and keys’.

‘As soon as we get to your uncle’s house then you can have you phone and keys’ he replies. He gets up and walks over to the door as if half-expecting someone to walk in at any moment.

I sit down wearily, still puzzled at how things have panned out. What the hell is going on and why is this happening? I feel as if I have been drugged or as if I am in a nightmarish situation that is weirdly persistent.

The door suddenly opens, and two men walk in. They are both black and one of them is quite muscular, with bulging biceps easily visible under his white long-sleeved shirt. He is wearing dark glasses and has got a flat cap on, black jeans with black trainers and to cap it all he is holding a gun. I freeze as I clap my eyes on the gun then notice the other man leaning in to whisper something to Francis. This man is of a smaller build, short and is dressed all in black with a flat cap and dark glasses too and the only distinguishing feature from the other man is that he is not totting a gun.

Francis looks in my direction and motions for me to leave the room with him. I am terrified and it is showing in my face as I slowly stand up.

‘Wh... what?’ I manage to stammer.

‘Boris is waiting in the car so let’s go Chris’ Francis says and starts walking out.

I hastily follow him, swerving to avoid the guy with the gun and catch up with Francis mid-stride as he opens the door to the outside of the building.

‘Who...what...who are these people’ I once again stammer as I follow Francis down a short flight of stairs.

The weather is fantastic, the sun is shining in the magnificent blue sky and the place is milling with people going about their daily business. It is lunch time and I can see people sitting on a bench across the building munching on their food and sipping their soft drinks and once again hunger pangs hit me.

Francis comes to a half at the bottom of the stairs and starts scrutinising the parking area and a frown creases his brow. He clearly cannot see Boris or the car that is supposed to pick us up and deliver us to ‘my uncle’s’ house.

‘Funny that’ he says more to himself than to me. He looks behind for the two black guys that had come into the room and they are nowhere to be seen. He furtively starts looking from side to side, reaches into his pocket and retrieves his mobile phone.

‘I don’t like the look of this’ he mutters and starts dialling, and once gain his silver cufflinks are visible as he waits for the connection to be made with whoever he is trying to contact.

By now I’m on autopilot and just going through the motions. I cannot see the two black guys and I am grateful that the one with the gun is not there. Francis does not appear to be getting any joy with his phone call. He disconnects and dials again...and again. Suddenly I hear a shot ring out and Francis drops down to the ground. He is yelling at the top of his voice, ‘CHRIS, GET ON THE GROUND!’

I am stunned and just stand there looking at Francis on the floor crawling towards the edge of the stairs.

‘CHRIS!!! GET THE FUCK DOWN!!’ he yells at me and I dive to the ground and crawl after him as another gunshot rings out.

This is utter and sheer madness!!! Someone is firing a gun in the middle of the day outside the magistrate’s court in a busy city!! By this time Francis and I are hidden at the edge of the stairs and the crowd that was eating their lunch has quite rightly given it legs in a valiant effort to save their lives and get away from the gunshots wherever they are coming from. I can hear screams amid the helter-skelter and I can see people running into cafes, restaurants and places where they can find safety.

‘What the hell is going on??’ I manage to ask Francis. I am breathing heavily and sweating profusely.

I look at Francis and realise that there is blood coming out of his nose. What the hell?? Francis has been hit!

‘Francis can you hear me?’ I ask him whilst looking over my shoulder at whatever could be happening behind us. Francis can barely speak. He feebly hands me his mobile phone and gestures at his briefcase and manages to utter ‘run Chris’ as blood sputters from his mouth.

I look at Francis and shake him by the shoulders. ‘What are you saying! Who are those people and why would they want to kill you??’

Francis seems to be slipping into unconsciousness. He is trying to say something, but the words fail him, and they don’t come out right. Once again, I steal a furtive look behind me, and I can hear footsteps slowly descending the stairs. I take one last look at Francis, pick up the briefcase and leg it down the car park area as fast as my legs can carry me. I dare not look behind as I have no idea what the hell is going on and if whoever shot Francis will shoot me too. I round the first left corner at the car park, and I don’t stop. I carry on running towards the end of a narrow-cobbled street and take a right turn and emerge onto a busy road. I can hear police sirens approaching from my right on the road that I have just joined and I instinctively slow down.

If the police see someone carrying a briefcase and running away so fast from a scene where shots have just been fired, there is no doubt what their next course of action will be. I amble slowly towards a pedestrian crossing and wait for the green man like I had been taught all those years ago. And oh my, it sure seems like a lifetime ago when my life was normal............

Dennis

@denmaikol

Manchester

Dennis has not written a story.