Touched (3 page)

‘I
dunno. Don’t think I’ll stay down in London. I might go back to Manchester. I have a friend from Uni who’s got a firm up there. He used to pester me to join him. Or I might take a break, write that novel that’s supposed to be in everyone. Who knows?’

And that was it. A few handshakes and hugs later, a few more grimaces of sympathy from people who could see their own future reflected in Dan’s departure and then he found himself out on the street; unemployed, in debt, marriage in ruins, homeless.

And it had started to rain heavily.

*

@fear_me_now Twitter Account

Tweets: 40

Followers: 77

@
fear_me_now: 
Scum. Mental pygmies. I shouldn't have to work with such inferior intellects. Partners? Professionals? I could crush them

Chapter Three

*

@
fear_me_now Twitter Account

Tweets: 70

Followers: 133

@
fear_me_now:
I was out tonight. Watching. Those so called 'professionals' in short tight skirts. Well we all know what kind of pro's they really are

@_______ :
WTF? Are you saying what I think you're saying?

@fear_me_now
:
I take it from your attitude that you are one of these so-called 'ladies'? A 'professional'?

@_______ :
Yeah I'm a lawyer. What of it?

@fear_me_now:
I hope I meet you out one dark, quiet night.

@_______:
What? You threatening me you misogynist pig? Why don't you join the 21
st
century?

@fear_me_now:
Oh I do hope we meet. Until then keep looking over your shoulder. You'll never know when I'll be there.

@______2: Yeah mate, do her the stuck up bitch

Wednesday Night, Six Months Ago

Dan flicked through the channels on the TV in the vague hope of finding something to watch.

It was past midnight and, deep down, he knew he should just go to bed but he could not raise the enthusiasm to even take that step. There was nothing for him there anyway, just the empty pain of memory and the torments of alcohol induced indigestion that he knew would keep him awake for hours. So the slightest flicker of interest in something from the TV would keep him planted on his rented sofa in his rented flat, an easy arms reach away from the wine bottle.

Wine.

Now there was a good thought. Time for another glass. Dan didn’t so much decide as go with the flow. He reached for the bottle. It was empty

He had promised himself tonight that he would stop at half a bottle, save the rest for another night, save his liver from himself. That would have been much better for him. Trouble is he had got watching an episode of ‘Top Gear’ that he had only seen twice before and had reached the half-bottle stage some 40 minutes before.

He decided he would have to do something about his drinking.

In the meantime he would have a whisky.

He weaved slightly when he got up and wandered over to the kitchen, dropping the bottle in the bin. He felt a pang of guilt; when he had lived with Alice everything had been recycled; everything had its own separate bin - glass, plastic, paper, cardboard. Now not doing it was not an act of laziness, nor rebellion. It was another full stop on his life, his previous life. He should move on but try as he might he couldn’t stop the painful memories and the brooding thoughts from starting.

And that led to more drinking and more brooding.

The bottles clanked against the others in the bin. Dan tried to ignore them and opened the cupboard door and took out the whisky bottle. He winced when he saw the level. He tried to think; he'd bought it Saturday morning and today’s Thursday? Well no; it was Wednesday night really.

He was drinking too much. He was having too many mornings where he had woken up with no memory of the night before. There were too many blanks. He should just put the bottle away.

He glanced back into the cupboard. The large plastic bottle of paracetamol was there, sitting there on the shelf quite innocently, a short rattle away.

He had told himself several times to throw it away but it seemed to be too much of a waste for him to take the step.

Every time he saw the bottle though, at times like these, lonely bleak nights with just himself and old TV programmes for company, he found himself imagining taking them, one after another, rehearsing how it would be done, wondering how it would feel.

He had heard about what could go wrong though. If you didn't do it right, you lived and got irreparable liver damage. Life would be even worse.

He shut the cupboard firmly and poured half of what was left in the whisky bottle into the glass and added half as much water from the tap.

Blogpost

I was watching and listening tonight. I often do it, though all too few realise it. That is usually to their cost; it is what gives me the edge over the pathetic morons I work with.

They were chattering self-importantly. It was time to let them talk, let them have their say. The wine had loosened their tongues. In vino
veritas.

I knew they would say what they truly thought, they would let their dirty little secrets slip. It might not be anything important but knowledge is power, it always gives me that that little edge, the crack that can be levered open. So although I could hold court, although I have the power to command I chose to listen. My strength used against their weakness.

And at least I could enjoy the wine properly, could appreciate every nuance. Wine should be savoured,  admired in the glass, one should swirl the deep red liquid to warm it gently, then take a careful sip, inhaling the bouquet as much as the taste. I could not help but sneer as one of the associates sank half of a glass of it at once. What a waste; they might as well be drinking some of that dreadful Beaujolais Nouveau rather than the premier cru that I had bought for them.

They should be grateful they were allowed to share this tiny part of my life, my style, enjoy my exquisite taste. It matters not, this was part of the ritual, part of the strategy; to let them in, let them a little closer, be part of my club, the circle of trust.

Trust? Hah, they are idiots, none of them are really in my league, no one is really going to threaten my domain so why, you might ask, play the game? Is it worth it?

Oh yes, the game is always worth it even if the stakes aren’t as high as they once were. I cannot ever relax, I always have to keep trying, I have to keep my mind exercised.

Sometime I wonder what I am doing here. Manchester is a young, modern, vital city. It has its wealth, it has status but it is not a world city. It isn’t a London or a New York or Paris, cities with ingrained class and wealth and power. It isn’t even a Frankfurt with its technocrat bankers or Dubai with its expatriate mercenary professionals living in an uneasy truce with the Arab family blood, only one layer away from tribal feudalism behind that gross façade of tasteless conspicuous wealth. No this is a second league city.

Second league, second rate.

But that doesn't make me second rate too. No.

Why I am here still makes me angry. It causes the acid to rise in my stomach, to churn and burn and mingle with
smouldering anger. The bastards, the midgets who tried to judge me, they are contemptible; I will crush in my own time, humiliate them.

Yes I can dismiss that thought. It is laughable. Me? Second rate? Hardly. I am the big fish in this dirty little pond. A shark amongst minnows.

I remember looking around at the small fry around me, busy with their self-important little worlds.

If only they knew.  They are scared of me now but if only they really knew. They would shit themselves.

But I would never tell them, they may never know, I will never be found out. I am too clever. 

I looked around. 
Mr Lee was in as usual, holding court like a triad chief. The truth was not too far from that, I know that, I wonder how many others there did? That is why the greasy little Chinaman is held in such thrall. That is typical of the power around here; it is not far removed from violence and pain. Still, it did not mean that it is not worth courting; money and power always is. I caught Lee’s eye and raised a glass. Lee nodded in return. Mutual respect.

Yet in reality it came from only one side. I have no real respect for him! Why should I? He is no better than a criminal.

But the Chinese have a similar saying; “After wine blurts truthful speech". It’s a universal truth.  The Babylonian Talmud contains the passage: "In came wine, out went a secret".  It also says;  "In three things is a man revealed: in his wine goblet, in his purse, and in his wrath." 

His wrath. I like that word. I have always liked it. It is such a round, majestic, powerful word, a word of the Gods.  Gods have wrath.

They have not seen my wrath, how I deal with those who make the mistake of crossing me. My wrath comes in different forms, to each their appropriate treatment.

I just listened tonight. I will speak soon enough.  And they will listen.

They had better listen. Or feel my wrath.

I smiled when I thought of this.

If only they knew.

Thursday Morning

‘God you look like shit. You must have had a good night?’

‘Morning to you as well, Boris,’ Dan muttered, his head pounding again, ‘I think I need coffee.’

‘I think you need several,’ said Boris.

Boris’s real name was Steven but he was always known by his nickname due to his resemblance to the London mayor. He occupied the cluttered desk opposite Dan’s, the papers often spilling over to Dan's side. He was searching through a pile of files, running his fingers through his mop of shockingly blond hair.

‘Thanks Boris. Have you seen my mug?’

‘You don’t need a mug. Just spoon the coffee straight into your mouth.’

‘You’re so funny.’