Guilty Conscience

Guilty Conscience

Copyright 2019 Laurence Buxton

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Epilogue

About The Author And Other Books

Introduction

There are two versions of the world we all live in.

Take Stratford-upon-Avon, for example. The first version exists largely in the daytime and is much like any small but popular town, in many ways, albeit one with its own quirky character and particular interest. It’s the one that’s the most accessible, the one you’ll all probably have visited at some point: with excitable American teenagers filing out of the RSC; with inquisitive orientals taking pictures of all and sundry, politely asking for directions from locals, and with well-to-do British diners squeezing their frames through the doorways of the eating establishments in Sheep Street, various fish and chip shops or the Maybird shopping centre. It’s the world the conscious largely inhabit.

The second, however, is very different. It takes place mostly in the dark and is largely deserted. Apart from those hardy souls doing night shifts very few people are around – just the occasional, often isolated, individual. On the face of it they should be at home, tucked up in bed, getting sleep before work in the morning. But there is a reason for these people being out and about. It’s their subconsciouses, their guilty consciences – forcing them out into the street whilst their waking selves are asleep, trying to make amends for their errors, before their conscious selves awaken. And it’s not just going on in the Bard’s backyard – this is going on everywhere.

You might know some of those people. You might even be one of them.

Furthermore, as the following tale will tell, the consequences of such behaviour can be unexpected, and change lives – in this case those of two residents of Stratford-upon-Avon – forever…

Prologue

Carl’s story

Monday 7th July, 5.05pm

With a long draw of breath Carl Taylor exited his office on the Birmingham Road, blinking behind his rectangular glasses. More than ever he needed a vape – damn shame he’d given up.

The lanky supervisor shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun from the cloudless sky. He stretched his long musclebound arms and felt his long legs creak as he limbered up. Maybe hitting thirty really was a turning point! Besides it had been a long day – typical Monday. But this weekend hadn’t been typical. It had been different, oh so different.

Part of him felt fortunate to even be in work. To be alive. For whilst the people in here could drive him up the wall at the best of times – saints surely couldn’t have been expected to be as patient as him – he had found out this weekend that there was more to life than the tiny elements of work politics. He still recalled being held prisoner, of his life – and that of Harriet’s – being threatened by that little psycho Pete Dugan.

But then he spotted something which made him fear the nightmare wasn’t quite over yet. A police car pulled up in the car park, raising his eyebrows and giving his heart a skip. Odd time for them to turn up – he’d known them arrive once or twice when the silent alarm went off, but never normally at hometime.

His beaky, inquisitive features were as ever masked by his inscrutable expression, and his short, jet black hair made him seem both raffish and intimidating. Even, in the past, to members of the law. Yet after all he’d been through he felt a prickle of concern – yes, he’d had so many of those this weekend – run through him – he just hoped above all else this wasn’t because of the stuff he’d just gone through. The image of him stood in that barn, threatening that little shit Pete with the knife, burned into his brain more vividly than ever…

Carl Taylor? said the taller of the two policemen, the one who’d been at the wheel.

Carl looked at them. From one to the other – shorter, white-haired, older, who he’d seen before when he’d come to check on the alarm, his name was Phil – and back again, cocking his head. That would be me he intoned, finally. He bluffed. Hi Phil, good to see you again. You made any progress with that wrong ‘un who made that bomb threat yet?

Phil, or PC Green as he was professionally known, frowned and shook his head. It’s not about that…

Oh no?

No he replied and crossed his arms in front of him. He looked ominously grave. If we could have a word, Mr Taylor…

Sure – just wait until the guys have finished…

I’m sorry, sir, but this will need to be down at the station.

He looked surprised. Why? Is it really that big an issue? He tried to seem casual, aware that some of the staff filing out of the front door were doing double-takes or loitering to see what was going on. Has Nathan stolen something from one of the pubs over the weekend? Been tricked into a dare, has he?

It’s you who this concerns directly, Mr Taylor.

A panic rose in him as they surveyed his forearms, the Coventry City tattoos visible because of his short-sleeve shirt – the tatts that used to scare people once. No matter how cool he played this he could tell this was his worst fear coming true. He could feel his heartrate rise – he just hoped they couldn’t pick up on it.

But surely we can take this in the office yeah? I mean this could’ve been at a more convenient time but…

I’m afraid that won’t be possible…

The rest of it was a blur – a mad, panicky blur. As the charge was read to him he lost all control like he’d done in his teens back in Cov: being led toward the car in front of his colleagues had pushed him over the edge. He’d flailed with his arms, and in doing so caught the older policeman full in the face.

Suddenly he was being read his rights. Aware of the gasps of his workers, of the gossip he would be the centre of from this point onwards he wondered how it could have got to this. After everything he’d been through this weekend! As he finally submitted, quelling his instincts to fight and with his attempts to be a better man perhaps doomed forever, his agonised thoughts were of Harriet – poor, damaged Harriet – and that everything had been destroyed – everything…

Chapter 1

Carl’s story

Friday 4th July, 4.59pm

Just three days earlier, of course, team leader Carl’s life had been considerably simpler, if not entirely without complications. He had again been in the office of Potter And Pearsons asset recoveries, as usual, preparing for the weekend.

P&P, as it was known, locally, was a fine office – the kind that impressed people when they found out you worked there, Carl had learnt – coming from where he did it had certainly impressed him. It was in a good location, first of all – based up the far end of the Timothy Bridge Road, just before the roundabout to Bishopton on the left. The main cylindrical bulge, flanked with beige brickwork, made it thrust out from its leafy surroundings with a certain masculine confidence. The building was fronted with glass panels, towering higher than the more anonymous buildings in the business park opposite, and the grounds echoed to the unmistakeable sound of peacocks, which stalk regally around the grounds when they stroll out from the plush, white-walled bed and breakfast opposite next to the bridge. Out of its back windows the canal can be seen, with barges slowly chugging past containing recently retired couples, often preventing their inquisitive dogs from going overboard to a watery grave. It was an idyllic scene, far removed from the hard-nosed business going on inside.

There were lots of empty spaces in the office – even a casual observer from outside or someone coming to visit would spot that by squinting through the dark-tinged windows, hinting at even darker times economically. Yet the building remained the envy of every other business owner up that road. It was just one of many call centres based up here, this one dealing with debt recovery, but because of its grand setting it still got more attention and respect than the company’s rivals could hope for.

On the first floor – there were just two, with the downstairs mostly dealing with finance and accounts – Carl used his six-foot frame to look down on his team, which he could do even whilst seated. He adjusted his glasses and kept his back straight – posture was everything. He saw himself as a benevolent leader, more one for running incentives like virtual horse racing and balloon popping than dishing out bollockings. When he had to though he could make it clear who was the boss: his masculine confidence was a boon in this job, not to mention in his out-of-work activities. Those were something he’d have to worry about shortly, once this lot were gone, though he liked to think the black clothes he wore to impose himself at work had the same effect out of the office, with today – he was wearing his Armani black t-shirt and his coal-coloured Levis – being no exception.

The clock finished the final, particularly interminable minute of the working day. Nathan Curtis, the baby of the team who sat immediately to Carl’s right, tapped the image of the clock on the bottom right of his screen and piped up There it goes! self-consciously. He pushed his floppy brown curtains back across his forehead, from which they immediately fell across his eyes again. His eyebrows raised in his usual display of nerves Nathan hovered nervously by his team leader, who at this stage of the game he was still desperate to impress. The little lad was so new he didn’t yet have a nickname or even an abbreviation of his name – not even Nath. He’d have to earn that, thought Carl with an inward chuckle, though humour wasn’t coming easy to him right now.

Still, no need to be completely cruel. Carl attempted to be patient, giving a brief smile and a half-wave. See you, Nathan! he said. He didn’t want to discourage the lad, but he didn’t want to be late for the deal either…

Yeah! Yeah, it’s… er… it’s gone okay today, innit?

Carl groaned inwardly. The lad was clearly keen to know he’d have his contract extended, though his commission figures didn’t yet point to that. Yeah Nath. It’s gone okay. Very okay indeed.

Yeah. You… um… you up to much this weekend? On the lash?

Usual stuff said Carl noncommittally. You?

Nah. Folks kickin’ off from last week. Man, I was wrecked! Always the same when I get on the Tequilla Slammers…

Despite his growing apprehension at what was to come Carl tried not to chuckle at Nathan’s attempt to sound grown-up. Out of practice…? he teased.

No way! Anyway we’re gonna hit Spoons.

Good for you, bud.

Poor Nathan looked as if was expecting a different response, and the look on his face betrayed he was thinking of a different approach. You, er, you gonna pop along for one?

No can do, sorry bud he said confidently, deciding to rule out any follow-up offer before it came. And got other stuff on. Food shopping Saturday, get the car washed Sunday. But have one for us, yeah? See you Monday…

Nathan looked downbeat, but at a happy weekend-celebrating yelp from behind him – one of the team was playing a phone clip as they got to the stairs – he brightened again. Yep. See you, handsome man!

Carl smiled inwardly. Nathan had given Carl the moniker he liked to hear, though when his team used it about him he preferred it when the younger female members did it, not Nathan, good kid that he was.

But as the new ‘baby of the team’ started to drift off with the rest of his workmates, Carl wasn’t personally thinking in terms of finishing work. Because he hadn’t. He’d finished his day job, maybe, but this was just the start of it. His evening work was the sort you didn’t pay taxes on, so to speak…

*

Carl had always had the gift of the gab, and from his background in telephone debt collecting he knew how to negotiate, too – he’d been one of the team initially, of course. A shame this skill had partially led to him doing a bit of dealing on the side for Pete Duggan, the local supplier, even if his reasons were honourable. Wasn’t for his benefit, that was for sure.

But Pete was a loose cannon at the best of times, as likely to get in a fight with the people he was doing business with as complete a deal – since being in prison and kicking drugs himself he’d actually grown more aggressive than he’d been before. Meanwhile the people who followed him were either too weak, confused or too plain bloody daft for him to trust with getting deals done, providing a vacancy which Carl had subsequently filled.

He, though, had his wits about him. He didn’t do drugs himself anymore though. Even back in his teens it had been something to briefly dabble in, to appear one of the boys. But he knew better than to touch the stuff now. Mug’s game. He still liked the pop from time to time, but not the white stuff – the old Colombian marching powder. He knew what went in it, and what it did to people. There was part of him, for all his cynicism, that felt what he was doing wasn’t the best thing in the world, though he reckoned that people weren’t quite as easily destroyed by it as he heard. Just OTT paper-talk, that, and he’d get out the game, once things got easier financially for his folks.

Lately though he’d started to have worries – more than before. Pete had always had a paranoid streak which seemed to be getting worse, and had become prone to changing agreements on the spur of the moment which made life very awkward. Carl also feared what he might do if he turned up at the office one day. The phone calls he kept making to him whilst he was working here were beginning to make life difficult, and he worried that one day he might take offence at being ignored and show up.

At least it was something he wouldn’t have to worry about ‘til the bank holiday was over he thought finally, regarding the foot-tall meerkat model that Cerys, one of the team’s more sensible members who had sadly moved back to Caerphilly, had picked up from Blackpool pier for him – she said it reminded her of him, for some reason. He smiled briefly.

That was it. As the last of the few stragglers departed –though normally at 5pm on a Friday this lot straggling could still all be out within about two or three minutes flat – he pondered how he would get Pete’s latest deal done without getting into a slanging match or worse.

*

Carl went out onto the fire escape, peering over the cylindrical steel railings to the similarly grey floor below, and drew his phone from his pocket, the picture of his beloved team lifting the FA Cup in ’87 giving him no satisfaction right now. He was all alone. IT and finance had all scarpered too, and the directors were long gone – if they made it through to lunchtime on a Friday they were doing well. Good – could never be too careful.

A twinge of shame crept through him, behaving like a common criminal. Which he’d once wanted to be, as a kid, watching action heist films – always the crim, never the constabulary – but only the type that never got caught. He’d have to make this his last deal. Move on. Get respectable. Because, even if he knew why he was really doing these deals, no-one’d hire him again if it ever got out…

Pete’s familiar, harsh Cork accent, his mouth close to the mouth of the phone, barked Yeah?

Carl fought the usual moment of nervousness and hesitation that he would never admit to, and spoke. Pete? Yeah, it’s me. We still on to do it today, yeah?

Chapter