I’m standing on the 24th floor of an office block, staring unemotionally into far-down neon lights that flash frequently, and the moving red and white lights of the late-night traffic on the roads. It’s past midnight but the display of non-stop city lights would make you think otherwise. My head and hair are full of sweat, and I desperately want to wipe it and itch the hot areas but I don’t want to put down the silver automatic half-grasped in my right hand. I’ve let it lazily slip to the tips of my fingers, but it’s always there just in case. My hostage is tied upped on a chair, but there’s no need to take risks.
My name is Kayle Johnson and I’m in a horrid mess.
Any spectator could probably have told you that from the surplus of dried blood staining my clothes and the panicked look in my eyes that I could see in the reflection of the tall windows. The man sitting forcibly on the chair behind me is struggling to get rid of his of gag, but I’m in no mood to assist him. I have a small sense of sympathy for the wrong guy who appeared at the wrong time, but not enough to let him go. No, it was past that time.
The flashing lights are blue and red, the flashing lights of the cops who have come to investigate the broken glass and unconscious security guard on the bottom floor. They’re probably coming up the stairs now. If they come in I’ll shoot them, if they don’t I’ll let them be.
The man in the chair is making some sort of pathetic whelping noise now, and I have half a mind to turn round and hit him in the face, but the events of the night have tired me and I have no energy for aggression. The gun is my threat and that requires little thought or skill. I just have to point it at a passer-by and I have a power, strength over them, and they can’t do anything. People can’t push you around when you have a sidearm.
I turn round to find the man has managed with his teeth and jaw action to rip the gag off. I mustn’t have tightened it enough.
“Let me go, man, I’ve got a wife and children for godssakes!” he squeals, adopting some sort of protective posture as if he assumes I’m going to attack him or something. I can see the fear in him, I can smell the fear in him, and it makes me feel superior.
“Why should that mean I let you go?” I ask, knowing he won’t answer. I should put his gag back on but I hate silence and would prefer a conversation. “Does that mean because you have a wife and children that you have some sort of moral superiority over say, someone like me, who doesn’t? Your life somehow becomes more important because you have a family?”
He shakes his head. Well, as much as he can, seeing as some of the rope wraps round his neck. “I don’t mean that, no. I just don’t want you to hurt me!” he cries again, tears forming at the base of his eyes. You’d think he’d show some backbone, but no. I’ve realised people react in two ways to such dangerous situations. They either stay cool and collected or they fall to bits. There’s no grey area. Which good, because I’ve always hated grey areas. They just make the world a lot more complicated.
I put the gun to his bald, sweaty head. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel good. To have the decision to kill someone or let them live makes me feel…powerful. It makes me feel like…God. I’m judging him, I’m deciding whether to end his life and there’s no one else bigger than me to stop him.
His eyes are staring upwards, attempting to look down the barrel of the projectile weapon that can kill him. He can’t even speak he’s so frozen with fear. I smile, before laughing insanely. I laugh for a long time, before letting the gun go.
“I wish I’d taken someone hostage that has some backbone, you’re no fun. I’d like to argue with someone,” I say, but he doesn’t respond, as I lean back on a filing cabinet. The light is flickering on the ceiling and I want to shoot it but I know the gunshot will only alert the cops searching the building. They’re ruining my fun.
“So, you live here?” I ask, just to break the silence that has formed since my laughter. I don’t know why I ask, because some sort of phatic interaction seems so stupid amongst the backdrop of hostage-taking, but I want someone to talk to. I want to feel normal.
The man looks at me strangely. Maybe he’s wondering whether I’m testing him or something, and I’ll shoot him if he gives me a wrong answer. Or maybe he just doesn’t think people who commit crimes can be normal people. Like I’m some sort of creature of evil.
“Yeh. Well, no,” he says, suddenly, as if he’s not accurate enough I’ll shoot him, because he’s stares at the gun in my hand with a face etched in fear. “I live outta the city centre.”
“With your wife and kids? Or did you make them up in case I let you go?” I remark sarcastically.
“No, no. They’re real,” he says, but without annoyance, because he knows that any irritation displayed from him might anger him and I’m the one with the gun. I’m the one with the power. His light blue shirt has darkened with sweat around his armpits, and his black tie is crumpled and creased lying on his fat beer belly. His trousers are too short for him and I can seem some of his horrible dark hairs protruding from just above his pulled up black socks.
“What’s your wife’s name?” I don’t really care, but I despise silence.
“Jeanette,” he answers quickly. He seems to have calmed down a little. As long as he doesn’t forget who is in the power here. I might just have to lure him into a false sense of security before I remind him brutally, lest he forget.
“Nice name,” I say, with a small smile on my face. “I used to know a Jeanette from high school. Lovely gal. Do you know what happened to her?”
“What?” he asks, fearfully, because he probably expects me to say I raped her or something. I fulfil his nightmare.
“I killed her,” and I start laughing, loud and without sincerity, because I don’t really find it funny. But it scares him like hell all the same. “I’m joking. No, she dumped me and I didn’t see her much after that.”
He’s silent again. “What’s your name?”
“Why do you want to know my name?” he responds. So a little confidence has seeped back into his system. It’s probably time soon to bring it crashing down again.
“Maybe I like killing people once I know their name.”
“You’re not going to kill me. You’d have done it already if you were going to kill me.”
“Is that so?” I say, with a small laugh. I’m still leaning against the filing cabinet, and I momentarily look over at the windows that show the dark sky gleaming a slight purple in the moonlight. There’s a strange tranquillity – from this angle I can’t see the bright city and I feel calm for the first time in a long while. And I hate it.
I throw myself up and stand properly, walk over briskly and kick the man’s knee hard. The chair braces but eventually starts to topple backwards, landing with a crash on the floor, the man still tied to it, his head hitting smashing against the carpet.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I say angrily, because I am angry. I like being angry, it makes me feel alive. I point the gun straight towards the middle of his eyes. “I am in charge here. If I want to kill you, I will kill you. Don’t think you’re safe here. Anytime this trigger looks appealing to me I will point it straight at your fucking head and pull it, and the last thing you will see is my beautiful fucking face. Comprende?”
He nods. I pull the chair up, not moving my face, which is now inches from his. I laugh again and turn away to look back at the windows. “So what’s your name?”
“Jerry.”
“Do you know any jokes, Jerry?”
“Jokes?”
“Yes, a fucking joke. You know, where people laugh. Thingy does so and so, humourous, funny, comedy, you know? A joke,” I say. I’m having fun now, because he’s scared again and the power is back in my corner. “Tell me a joke, Jerry.”
“Errm..err…” he hesitates, because I know people’s minds are never clear in these sort of situations and it’s humourous to watch him struggle to think of something. He’s sweating more now, and his mouth is half-moving but no sound is coming out. “No, I can’t think of any jokes, sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough, Jerry. Tell me a joke or I’ll shoot you,” I say, turning round to point the barrel of the automatic at his right leg. It’ll be sort of amusing to watch him squirm. I’m not going to shoot him because the cops will here, but he doesn’t know that.
“Well…well…there’s this blonde, yeh? And this brunette,” he starts. I know he’s improvising because his eyes are constantly flicking upwards to the creative part of his brain and he’s desperately trying to think of something. “And they’re on a desert island, and yeh…”
“Stop blathering, Jerry,” I say and pull the trigger. He throws his head to the side as if it will help him, but it doesn’t matter because I haven’t taken the safety off and there’s just a small click that resonates from the weapon. “Scared ya, didn’t I Jerry?”
to be continued..
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