perception of the mind (sh adaptation)

A Retreat in Time • Part Two

"In this world, full often, our joys are only the tender shadows which our sorrows cast."
-Henry Beecher, 1813-1887

***

Over the year, Lawrence Smith began delivering substances he wasn't meant to and to people he wasn't meant to.

It was all over the place.

Questions had been asked, suspicious glances had been stolen by his daughter, yet no inquiry the young woman could consult would manage to break her father. He would always reply with the same response;

"I've got to meet a friend before I leave for the show tonight,"

"Okay," she sighed, smiling gently and turning the kitchen lights off.

"I'm sorry. But hopefully," he began, pulling his jacket on and opening the door. "I'd get a good scheduled deal by the end of it. Somewhere big, I hope."

*

He tread across the street to the address James had given him.

Lawrence had the thick plastic bags tucked safely into his jacket. He had set out earlier than usual as he truly did have a show later on in the night and hoped to get it out of the way. With a cigarette in hand, he exhaled the round of nicotine that numbed his lungs and stress. He watched the smoke roll off his lips and melt into the night sky. Feeling a vibration in his pocket, he held the cigarette in his mouth and fumbled to slip out his phone.

My favourite dear.. Your doppelganger is looking deliciously excited. Don't miss this one!

JM

A frown creased Lawrence's forehead. He wondered who he was currently about to deliver to. But before he had time to think about it, he had already reached the doorstep.

He leaned forward and knocked strictly, stepping away and taking a deep breath. "Erm... Moran?" his voice was like the lowest chord, almost rumbling through the quiet neighbourhood.

When the man at the door nodded, like any other client, Lawrence edged to enter the terraced house. "No need." he shook his head. "I'll take it here."

The musician hesitated as he glanced down at the client's open hands. He sighed. He pulled out the bag and pushed the weight into his hands. "Is that alright?"

Lawrence was sure the man didn't even glance at it long enough to make a conclusion. "Yes." And without warning, the door closed as quickly as it had opened. Lawrence stood outside the porch, feeling the gentle breeze tickle his ears. He let go of the cigarette, pressing his shoe against it before clearing his throat and making his way back where he came from.

The familiar sound of a car rolling past made him center himself back on the pavement before he noticed that the car slowed down as he did. He turned around, squinting as the headlights blinded him. He tried to take in the face of the driver. His face slowly fell.

*

"I'm glad you could make it, Mr Smith." he stood in the middle of the warehouse that contained one round-table with three chairs. Next to it was a small desk that held a that was television playing.

"I didn't get much of a choice Mr Bratchett."

Jake forced out a dreary laugh. He was a well-built man, unnaturally white teeth and overly gelled blond hair that was slicked back. He even looked like a businessman. He had power, so much of it that it was unbeknownst to any of his employees when he might just turn around and use it against them. But there was something about eyes that told Lawrence all he needed to know about people. Jake's deep, gritty black eyes almost seemed to be burning with rage. No matter how wide and charming his smiles came across, how loud his laughs could get, Jake could always be given away by his eyes. They said it all.