This is what happens when I fall asleep in front of the keyboard, weird stuff gets written.
I sit at a table in the corner; over where no-one will bother to look too closely at the meeting. I shouldn?t really have to, people aren?t really what you call observant around here, but in my line of work, it always pays to be just that little bit more careful.
My client walks through the door of the pub and looks around for me, trying to match the face with the voice from the other side of the phone. He keeps looking over his shoulder, like he expects the cops to burst in at any second; I know that they won?t find the bodies for quite a while, but then, my sources are a fair bit better than his. After checking my watch, I decide that we have about six hours. Plenty of time.
I tire of his searching and wave; he sees me and stalks over to my table. He scans the room once more before sitting. We stare at each other for a few moments before I break the silence,
"So, what?ll you have? My shout." My words sound genial on the surface, but there is an undercurrent of menace that I will not and in fact, cannot, knowing what this man has done, conceal.
He looks at me quizzically, as if he?s trying to figure out if I am who he thinks I am. To that I can say no, no matter who he thinks I am, he?s wrong. When he speaks, his voice quivers with guilt,
"Are you Mister Ferryman?" I nod and ask a question of my own, even though I?ve known the answer since before he called my office nine hours ago,
"Mister Johnson?" his nods are almost seizure like in his joy to meet me and he begins babbling,
"Oh thank god. The last coupla? hours have been a goddamn nightmare, I mean, I couldn?t really deal with everything that happened..." I tune out his droning for a moment and try to place his accent, American defiantly, maybe New York, I don?t know, where my clients are from has never been a subject of great concern for me. But now Mr. Johnson starts to get onto the crux of the matter,
"...And then, all I could see were their faces, and one of them still had his bag, ready for school, so I put the gun to my head and pulled the trigger. Would you believe it though, it-it-it misfired, then I thought, you know, maybe god has a purpose for me. So I called you. Thought you could get me out of this." My face pulls into a sneer, not just at Mr. Johnson?s actions, but at just how pathetic he is. Having a client who feels guilt at what they?ve done does make what I have planned easier though. I force a look of professional friendliness onto my face, the effort hurts the muscles slightly, I?m not used to showing much emotion. The look calms him down a bit though and shuts him up long enough for me to reply,
"God is too busy to be concerned with you Mister Johnson and you are lucky that I am not. Now, you told my secretary that you wanted to get out, what exactly is it that you mean by that?"
My question obviously strikes at him, for his next words are shouted in a fury born of panic,
"You know goddamn well what I mean, now you get me the hell out of here before the cops find me!" his shouting raises the attention of the shadowy figures hidden in the darkness of the other tables. I shoot them a glare and they return to their drinks. They know me, even if they don?t know why I?m here today. Most of them have called upon my services in the past.
"Mister Johnson," I say, still calm, "we have plenty of time, now will you please tell me what exactly you mean by out of here.?
He begins to chew at his fingernails. I am reminded of a rat with a cracker.
"Get me away, away from the kids, away from their faces, away from what I?ve done. Just get me away!"
I stand and smooth out the wrinkles in my coat. Mr. Johnson looks terrified that I am just going to abandon him without another word, but my work here is not yet done.
"I?m afraid I can?t help you Mister Johnson, but before I go, perhaps I can give you a bit of advice, you see, In my line of work..."
Mr. Johnson screams, terror mixing with desperation and guilt in his voice,
"I DON?T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!"
I allow the echoes to die down before I continue, my voice icy, "You have plenty of time Mister Johnson. Now, in my line of work, I come across lots of people in your situation and when I first started out, I would give them what they wanted, I would take them away from what they did and allow them to continue on their way, always in the state that you?re in now, Guilty and terrified of what?s coming next. Then I thought, if the victims are still died, the killer is still haunted and I?m not really helping anyone what is the point of my job in the first place?" Mr. Johnson flinches at the words victim and killer, "So, what I have been telling people in your situation for a long time, Mister Johnson, is that you cannot get away from what you?ve done until you accept it. Look those faces in the eye until you can understand their loss and know what you?ve done was wrong beyond the mere concept of ?the cops are coming to punish me'." I allow a measure of my disgust to leak through in my imitation, "Mister Jonson, what you have to do is embrace the fact that, whatever?s coming next," I lean across the table and give a genuine smile, not for his benefit, but rather for the thought of Mr. Johnson endureing what was to come once he left my care, "you deserve it and then, the faces will go away and you can get away from what you?ve done."
My little speech, honed to perfection after Mr. Johnson?s many predecessors, obviously shocks my client and all he can manage is a frightened squeak,
"Why, why should I?" he asks, now treating me as one of his many enemies.
"Because, Mister Johnson, your pistol did not, in fact, misfire." I do not wait for this fact to sink in before I turn and walk towards the door. I lay my hand on the knob just before he says,
"Do I... Do I have enough time though?"
I don?t bother to turn around as I reply, and I?m not even sure if he hears me,
"Plenty of time mister Johnson," I chuckle, "plenty of time."
I lock the door behind me.
