Aftermath

Excuses raged about inside his head, though as he attempted to speak of them he heard his conscience arguing against them and instead stayed silent.
His trembling hand slowly reached across to the grey device on the table in front of him. He felt the raised shapes on the buttons; squares and triangles.
Shutting the light from his eyes and his head, he concentrated on the reasoning going on inside his skull. Why was he fighting himself, his reasons?
The realisation came that, deep down, he knew he had always been fully aware of what he was doing. His so called reasons could not be thought of as any excuse. He was definitely guilty.
The young man tried to focus his thoughts. There was no light to dazzle his brain, but the low whirring sound from the dictaphone he fondled filled his ears, growing annoying and irritating.
He stopped holding the small rectangular device, laid it down and pressed the button furthest on its right. A short click and the whirring died. The man was alone with his thoughts.
After a period of darkness that was impossible to quantify he screamed. He said aloud: "It honestly wasn't my fault," and he seemed to be trying to convince himself. He put his head in his hands and wept, until he slept.
A buzz awoke him with a start.
The man leapt from his seat - he’d needed that sleep - and again came the short buzz, clearer and sharper now that he was more alert. His eyes snapped towards the closed curtain where daylight fought to find the slightest gap through which to gain entrance into his lamp-lit room.
His glance swung to a digital clock display. Its bold red figures screamed at him that it was now 10.30 in the morning. The buzzer sounded once more and he calmly pulled the cord that turned off his desk-top lamp. He had an idea who might be at the door. It was about time for them to call.
The letterbox on his front door rattled open, a voice filtered through: "Hello Mr James, are you at home? Just like a quick word, sir. Come along."
Silence was easily managed and the letterbox rattled shut. The door was thumped a number of times before footsteps slowly faded away into the morning.
He considered rooting out the binoculars and peeling back the curtains to spy his would-be visitor. Though he was twenty-three floors up, he feared the windows would now be watched around the clock.
Still, he felt pretty safe behind ‘Fort Knox’, the affectionate name for his front door. Not as flimsy as the original doors, his landlord had been pleased to allow him to install it. It took an age to unlock, though.
His attention returned to the miniature machine on his desk. “How technology had advanced,” he marvelled within his head. “How small things have become.” His thoughts drifted between the confession he had recorded and his recent caller.
How many were there? How long before they called again?
It was a strange thing to know you’d never safely set foot beyond your apartment again. Life become a sort of flimsy toy, one that you treasured but knew you couldn’t stitch its head back on, when next it fell off.
He began to wonder why he had assumed he would simply be able to hide from his past deeds, hide from consequence. They would not stop looking for him, they would always look for him.
Over the coming hours, more mental anguish awaited.
He remembered his normal life. He thought about the concept of guilt and tried to sneer. He remembered the darkness he worked in. His little machines. His playthings. The pump of adrenaline. The deafening noise. The screams and suffering. His powerful hands, the catalysts. And then reliving it all on the television when he made it home.
Looking around he saw another remnant of his past, his ordinary briefcase. A useful thing to carry during rush hour for a faceless man, someone who blended in. The sales pitch for this brand had been that the case could withstand the impact of a charging elephant. Its owner had never tested this claim, but he certainly hoped it to be true.
When next his doorbell sounded, he stood up, opened his curtains and unclasped the window.
About twelve hours since the last call and it was dark now.
There were to be no more buzzes. The letterbox opened and the same sharp voice from before sniped: "Open the door now, Pete. No more games, mate. What you did wasn't in play."
There was scratching at the door, and then a series of blows shook it. They would gain entry, eventually.
Sliding a lock, the briefcase popped open hungrily. He flung the pocket recorder into its maw and then shut it tight. He had purpose now. He was impressive when he had purpose.
The man hauled himself up onto his window ledge, briefcase in hand. He was doing the right thing.
There were whispers outside and then a small bang that rocked the door from its hinges.
The man smiled, patted his briefcase comfortingly and stepped out into the cold night air as his apartment exploded in a miasma of sound and light.