hyperconsequence/Second Chances

He slammed his foot on the accelerator before even closing the door, which swings shut as the forward motion pushing him into the seat. A deafening crack from behind sounds as the rear window explodes from a bullet passing through the glass and planting itself into the rear seat.

Flicking his head around involuntarily, he saw the shattered glass strewn over the parcel shelf, leather seats and the dead man, tightly seat belted in. Turning back around, it isn’t for a moment he realises what he saw, and checks the rear view mirror to confirm his fears.

“Oh crap” he mutters, pulling the car screeching out of the alley way on to a busier road, cutting through the traffic, dodging people crossing the road disregarding traffic lights. Not that upholding the safest mode of driving seems so important, but when a recently deceased is sitting just centimetres behind you and the goons, who no doubt put him in that state, just minutes behind you – road manners are not item number one on the menu.

The driver keeps speeding forward not really sure where to go or what to do next, but realising the first step is to get as far away from the trigger happy twins before becoming the next bullet point on their list, figuratively and literally.

Standing in the alleyway, Logan watched the car screetch off into the distance.

“Dammit!” – his first day as a henchman, and the goody had escaped. Logan scratched his head, and pondered his next move. Either, he could call Mr Big, let him know what had happened, and face the wrath of the criminal mastermind, or… he could just go home and watch some telly. Logan opted for the latter.

Being a henchman was a good job. Solid hours, good benefits, great union representation. It was hard to get insurance, and chances of seeing retirement were usually slim, but it was enjoyable and rewarding. Logan reached the train station, and hopped on the next train towards his flat. If he hurried, he could just make the end of Eastenders.

Logan arrived at his flat soaking wet. It had managed to start raining the instant he’d stepped out of the train, and stopped the instant he’d arrived home. Someone was watching over him, with a grudge.

Opening his front door, the usual pile of junkmail, estate agent letters, pizza menus, bible class invites and political flyers got pushed to one side, to join the paper mountain growing in his hall. One day he’d clear it up, and find an inheritance cheque from a long-forgotten aunt leaving him over fourty-million quid, but not today. Today was like any other day, throwing himself into the sofa, grabbing a can of diet coke from the floor, and turning on the sofa – just to watch the final credits of Eastenders.

As Logan cracked the can he sensed something wasn’t right. The copy of today’s Telegraph on his coffee table confirmed it. He’d not been home for two days. He had company. Curbing his instinct to jump up and grab the nearest heavy blunt object, Logan took stock. Whoever else was in the flat would be watching him. He’d have more of an advantage if they didn’t know he’d cottoned on.

Grabbing the remote he scanned the channels feigning interest in the box, as his mind buzzed trying to work out who’d broken in. He couldn’t think of anyone he knew who read the Telegraph. Come to think of it, he couldn’t really think of anyone who took an interest in newspapers, aside from the tits on page three.

Scanning the room desperately, his eyes fell on the wall mirror. In it’s reflection the open kitchen door. Then he found what he’d been looking for, a pair of feet clearly visible behind it. Turning his attention back to the TV he smiled to himself. Schoolboy error.

Draining the last of the coke, Logan crushed the can in his hand and said to himself “time for another”. Getting up off the sofa he casually walked towards the kitchen. Five paces from the door, he burst into a run, shoulder barging it with the all force his stocky 5 foot 9 frame could muster.

His quarry cried out in pain, crushed between brick and solid oak. And then silence. Logan stepped back, and then from behind the door a man slumped out. Grey haired and frail looking, the man must have been about 50, immaculately dressed in a Harris Tweed suit and clutching a Tazer.

“Papa!?” Logan shouted.

Bending down to reach over the tiny body he’d violently incapacitated, he cradled his father’s head, eyes starting to fill with tears. The latest victim of Logan’s badly judged decision groaned and then passed out.

Dragging his now limp body into the front room and resting it on the sofa, Logan ran back into the kitchen to get a glass of water and cold towel. Logan rested against the fridge for a moment.

He’d not seen Papa since those men took him away that Thursday afternoon almost twenty years ago. Logan was seven when it happened. All short trousers and scabby knees. He’d seen the men watching the house from his bedroom earlier that day, the bald one had even joked with him as he caught him spying through a gap in the curtains. But it all turned ugly when Papa got home.

Running down the stairs to greet him, Logan clearly remembered the sound of wood splintering and his mother screaming. When he got to the foot of the stairs, he could see the two men setting about his father with pickaxe handles. After a while, he stopped fighting, and then the men stopped hitting him. They dragged papa off to the waiting Hearse. In retrospect Logan had to admit that was a nice touch.

That was the last time he saw Papa.

Shaking himself out of the reminisce, he grabbed the water and towel and went back into the living room.