Conscience

 

CWs: violence (non-graphic), mentions of death

 

The boy showed up at my doorstep with exactly one gun.

 

Not even a machine gun. Just a plain old handheld pistol, the same make and model issued to every policeman across the country. It’s been a while since they’ve dared to step onto the section of the city that unofficially belonged to me, so I was a little rusty when it came to their equipment and their people. But the gun on his hip was familiar, even if the boy was not.

 

He looked no more than twenty, fresh-faced, brown-curled, blue-eyed, and terrified. Another one of those interns that they used as cannon fodder. How boring. How predictable. They’ve been trying the same old trick ever since they found out that I’ve got a conscience. I didn’t know it was possible to be more immoral than me, myself, and I, but here I am, watching another innocent kid climbing the three stout steps to my door, collateral damage wearing a bulletproof vest. 

 

He hesitated before ringing the doorbell. How polite.

 

With multiple clicks, Layla opened our door with a smile that was all teeth and sharp edges. “Good morning, how may I help you?”

 

“I’m looking for, um,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, unfolding it hurriedly with fumbling fingers “Sorry, um.” He squinted at the paper. “Jesse? Is Jesse here?”

 

“Jesse’s not home.”

 

“Oh.” He faltered. “Um. When will um, Jesse be back?”

 

“I am as clueless as you are.”

 

“Okay, can I, uh.” The policeman looked rather embarrassed. “Is it alright, uh, if I come in, and uh, wait for Jesse to come back? I um, I have orders to search the house. I’ve got a warrant too, if you want to see…” He started fumbling through his pockets again.

 

Layla crossed her arms and I realised, with some exasperation, that she was reaching for the dagger in the sheath strapped just underneath her armpit, because dear Layla did not understand the art of preparing one’s canvas before painting on it. Before she could stick a knife in him, I hopped off the roof of my house and rolled smoothly across the lawn, popping up neatly beside the stairs on which they both stood. At my appearance, the boy looked aghast, surprised, and maybe a little awed, which did wonders for my ego. 

 

Layla looked annoyed. “I’ve got the situation handled,” she said. But what she really was saying was keep yourself out of this before you start sympathising with the poor little lamb and fall head over heels into the trap the police have laid out for you.

 

I ignored the subtext. “I know you’ve got it, Lay. I just didn’t want you to kill him on the staircase.” I ambled up my stairs, patting the dark green bannister affectionately. “These just got repainted last week.”

 

Layla rolled her eyes. “If you don’t want me to kill him on the stairs, where do you want me to kill him?”

 

I shrugged. “On a tiled floor at least. Bathroom, perhaps?”

 

“He’ll have to come in for that.”

 

“Aha!” I finger gunned her. “You are unsurprisingly correct. I knew I hired you for your intelligence.” I turned to the boy with a polite smile. “Would you like to have some tea with us?”

 

He opened his mouth and just stood there, looking unsure. I resolutely fight against any pity and sympathy threatening to wind its way up my throat, because a pawn was a pawn even if that pawn looked no older than twenty and was blinking in fear with innocent blue eyes.

 

Layla clicked her tongue impatiently. “It’s rude to leave an invitation hanging.”

 

“Oh, sorry—“ he cut himself off, as if realising that being impolite was the least of his concerns at the moment. He teetered on the edge of the top stair, and I half expected him to turn around and run off right then and there, which would make things a lot easier for all three of us. But he doesn’t. Because evidently, his superiors had poured so much propaganda into his head that he’s lost all sense of self-preservation. “Um, yeah, I’d love to have some tea with you.”

 

Layla stilled for a moment before settling easily back into her shark smile. “You don’t seem scared of our blatant threat of murder. Is it because you’re fighting for the greater good?” He flinched. Without another word, she turned and walked back into the house.

 

I gestured towards the door (painted the same dark green as the staircase bannister, of course. I’m not a savage) and inclined my head towards the boy. “After you.” 

 

He nods awkwardly and steps into the house with soft and careful footsteps, shoulders curled in, head bowed. I clicked the door shut behind me and watched him flinch at the sudden darkness. Against my will, tendrils of pity climbed up my throat and slithered around my mouth, forcing me to speak. 

 

“The light switch is to your right.”

 

He hesitated, and then reached to his right, scrabbling clumsily for the switch until he found it and lit up the corridor with a little flick of his wrist. 

 

I watched smugly as he took in the sight of my work.

 

Wallpaper, cream diamond patterns set against an elegant maroon, covering the entirety of the narrow space, including the ceilings. Six sconces, three on each side, merrily radiating their warm orange lights through delicately fashioned metal enclosures. Dark mahogany wood that almost seemed to glow from within, framing beautifully rich still-lifes of flowers and fruits.

 

He turned to me with panickedly confused eyes. “I thought you were a criminal.”

 

I examined the back of one glove-clad hand. “I am.”

 

“But you have….” He gestured helplessly. “Art. In your house.”

 

“Just because I dabble in a few unlawful endeavours doesn’t mean I can’t have good taste in interior design. That seems like rather faulty reasoning, don’t you think?”

 

“Oh.” He said. 

 

I set off down the hallway, and he followed without another word.

 

By the time we reached the downstairs sitting room (styled in art deco, as all good sitting rooms are), Layla was nowhere to be seen. Likely setting up in the bathroom she was going to murder our guest in. I sighed, walking through my tastefully organised room filled with leather couches in different shades of blue and geometrically-patterned gold-and-black rugs, and into the kitchen.

 

Glancing back, I realised that our guest was still standing around looking unsure, which seemed to be a talent of his. I took pity on him again. 

 

“Have a seat wherever you’d like.”

 

Once the tea has been made, the napkins have been folded, and the cookies have been arranged, I head back inside the sitting room with the tea tray to find our guest perched on the edge of a bright cerulean armchair at an angle that I was willing to bet was perfectly ninety degrees.

 

I sighed. “Can you at least lounge a little? You’re ruining the aesthetics of my sitting room.”

 

“Um, sorry.” He said, leaning back a little. Ninety-one degrees.

 

“Christ, you’d think you’ve never relaxed a day in your life. Here,” I set the tea tray down on the glass coffee table and went over to him. Gently, I pushed him backwards until his shoulders hit the back of the armchair, ignoring his flinch at my touch. “See, that wasn’t so hard. Now sit back all the way. And take your jacket off.” 

 

He slid off his shapeless black rain jacket and bunched it up into a horrific ball.

 

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “No, not like that— it’s fine, it’s fine. Throw it over the back of the couch. No, no, don’t place it. Throw. With flourish.” I demonstrated, shrugging out of my waistcoat and tossing it with a flippancy I didn’t feel. “Now undo the first two buttons on your shirt—” I glanced at his bulletproof vest and the t-shirt collar peeking out underneath. “Nevermind.” I unbuttoned my own instead. “Put one knee over the other. Don’t look so timid. Give me some drama.” I gestured empathetically with my gloved hands. “Flair.”

 

Looking as if he was fighting it, he broke out into a smile.

 

I lost my train of thoughts momentarily. An artist knew a muse when they saw one, and that smile was worthy of acrylics. Young. Innocent. Full of life. Not ready to die.

 

Before I could say or do something I’d regret, I turned away. Walked over to the navy couch across from him and sat down, pushing the tea tray across the glass coffee table like a shield. Silently, I poured us both a cup of tea and gestured to the cookies. 

 

He stared, that beautiful smile already fading on his lips. Something seemed to shatter in his blue eyes. “Am I going to die?”

 

I stilled. Opened my mouth, and tried to phrase the question as gently as possible. “Why did you come to my house?”

 

The words tumbled out without further prompt. “You’ve been off the radar for months now. No one knows what you’re doing. And that’s not good. So they said— they said that it was time again, time again to get someone to check up on you, and it had to be—” He took a deep breath. “—it had to be an intern because you have a weak spot for sad youngsters, because you were a sad youngster yourself and that’s why you started committing all those crimes to begin with, and they said that it was a disadvantage that we had to exploit—” He took another deep breath, more panicked than the last. “—and so they picked the saddest looking young person and they said that I’m gonna be okay, because anyone with a conscience would—”

 

He stopped. Gasped for breath. “I’m so sorry.” He said, into the silence that followed. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s completely alright.” I said. “It’s not your fault that they made you into a martyr.”

 

And then I shot him. With his own gun. The one that I took when I was fixing his posture. It said too much about his inexperience, how he didn’t even notice that I had taken his only weapon, how the weight of it didn’t mar his mind. My aim was impeccable and I tried to convince myself that he died quickly. Even if the blood kept oozing out of the gaping wound on his forehead, slowly, sickeningly, pitifully.

 

Layla appeared out of nowhere. “I thought you were worried about blood stains.”

 

“I panicked.” I said. Swallowed hard. “How many of these teenagers have I killed, Lay?”

 

She cast me a warning glance. “They send them here knowing full well they die.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Deep breaths. Deep breaths. I forced a little lightness into my voice. “One of these days, they’re going to pick the right one and my conscience won’t let me kill them, and they’ll leave with all the incriminating evidence they need. My career as the greatest criminal of all time is doomed, Lay! Doomed. How tragic.”

 

“Which is why you should just let me stab them on the doorstep.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. I can always repaint.” I blinked back what felt like tears in my eyes. “Can you pass me that cup of tea? Thanks. Yeah, I’m fine. I know. I hate my conscience too.”