No Remorse

by Tom Priestley

The insistent blare of the alarm dragged Jim from sleep, a jarring reminder of the grim routine that awaited him. His flat, a cramped and overpriced hovel, offered little solace. A matchbox kitchen-living room combo, a temperamental shower, and a landlord poised to hike the rent all for the privilege of living in this depressing space. He lit a cigarette, ignoring the “no smoking” clause in his lease, the frost clinging to the windowpane a stark reminder of the cold he was too apathetic to face. A quick glance at his phone confirmed his suspicions. Sharon had vanished again. Her disappearances were a recurring theme, sometimes lasting weeks, other times punctuated by radio silence and the gnawing suspicion that she was with someone else. “Society lady et al,” he muttered, the phrase dripping with sarcasm.  

He poured himself a bowl of generic cereal, a pale imitation of a real breakfast, and choked it down with a mug of instant coffee. Each drag of his cigarette was a small act of rebellion, the smoke mingling with the stale air of the flat. He stubbed it out in the murky water of the clogged sink, a mental note to buy drain cleaner joining the growing list of things he needed to do. The shower, predictably, remained stubbornly unresponsive. No breakfast, no shower, no Sharon. Just another Monday. “Get yourself some dishwasher tabs,” he muttered, a useless reminder as he ate his meagre breakfast and downed his coffee.  

The bathroom confirmed the inevitable; the shower was still on strike. No decent breakfast, no shower, and no Sharon. “Fuck,” he breathed. He splashed some water on his face from the tap, not even bothering to check the temperature. It would have to do. Everything in his life was a compromise, a makeshift solution to a problem he couldn’t fix. He dried his face, lit another cigarette, and decided there was no point in lingering. He unplugged everything in the flat, a symbolic severing of ties, and headed down the stairs and out into the biting cold.  

The moment his foot hit the pavement, he was on his back, the victim of a patch of black ice lurking just outside his door. It felt like a personal insult, a deliberate attempt to sabotage his already miserable day. “Shit! What else?” he thought, the voice in his head a harsh drill sergeant. “Get up!” it barked, and Jim, ever obedient to the internal critic, did as he was told. He surveyed the treacherous path ahead, a miniature ice rink masquerading as a sidewalk. It seemed passable, if he was careful. He started to trudge, each step tentative, the dark thought flicking through his mind: maybe if I break my neck, all my problems with be solved.   

Finding a momentary patch of clear pavement, Jim risked a glance at his phone. Still nothing from Sharon. Next time she messages, I won’t reply, he thought, a flicker of defiance in his otherwise bleak outlook. Then, the sinking realisation: he needed cash. This neighbourhood wasn’t known for its friendly ATMs. He approached the nearest one cautiously, peering over his shoulder. A woman was already there, seemingly armed with an arsenal of cards, each transaction agonisingly slow. “Fuck sake,” Jim muttered. He considered the ATM up the street, but remembered its recent encounter with a vandal’s fist. Out of commission. Finally, the woman finished her financial manoeuvers and scurried off. Jim quickly inserted his card, only to be met with a mechanical groan and a sudden, ominous shutdown. “No, no, no, fucking no!” he roared, pounding the keypad in frustration. “Fuck!” The machine was dead, his card entombed within its unyielding plastic jaws. No cash.  

The walk to work loomed, a 40-minute trudge made even more unbearable by his empty pockets. And then, the dreaded phone call to the bank, the endless hold music, the patronising tone of the operator, the three-day wait for a new card, which, knowing his luck, would probably get lost in the mail. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, Jim started walking. He’d be late for work, but frankly, he couldn’t care less. Let them give him a telling-off. His day was already a write-off. The thought of ringing his mum for a loan gnawed at him. Not exactly the pinnacle of independence for a 37-year-old, but desperation trumped pride. He’d also neglected his monthly grocery shopping, relying on haphazard purchases after work. Now, with no cash and a three-day wait for his card, he was facing the very real prospect of running out of food. “Fucking idiot,” he berated himself.  

He needed to shake off the morning’s misfortunes and steel himself for work. But before he could gather his thoughts, a pack of obnoxious schoolchildren descended upon him, chanting “Nonce” and hurling an empty bottle of pop. Don’t retaliate, he told himself, knowing it wasn’t worth the hassle. He walked past them, head down, trying to ignore their taunts. Finally, he reached his workplace, a monument to soul-crushing monotony where he’d spend the next twelve hours chained to a desk, fielding customer complaints.  

“You are late” Agnes at the front desk droned. Jim sighed.  

“Don’t start,” he replied, in no mood for confrontation. He just wanted a moment of peace after his disastrous morning. He made a quick cup of tea and settled at his desk, but his respite was short-lived. Poppy, his newly assigned team leader and self-proclaimed “mental health advisor” appeared.  

“Good morning, Jim! How are we this morning” she chirped.  

“Not particularly good,” he mumbled.  

“That’s great! How are we coping mentally?” she continued, oblivious to his sarcasm.  

“I think I’m on the verge of killing myself,” he deadpanned.  

“As long as it doesn’t affect your work,” she replied, completely missing the point.  

“Yeah,” he said, defeated. It was pointless. She never listened.  

“Just wanted to let you know we’re having to cut shifts in the coming weeks. It will be updated on your rota. We can’t afford to pay these as holidays, so you’ll no doubt be skint for a while. Is that okay?” Poppy asked, not waiting for an answer, and flitted off to deliver the same cheerful news to the other, more vocal, staff members.  

No money, and now no shifts to earn any. Days like this made a man want to snap, to lash out. A flicker of anger ignited in Jim. He imagined storming into the office of the higher-ups, demanding holiday pay. But the flicker died as quickly as it came. He knew he wouldn’t. Instead, he went for a smoke, the nicotine a temporary anaesthetic for his pain. He checked his phone. Still no word from Sharon. She could be sweet when she wanted to, he thought, a sliver of hope clinging to the wreckage of his day. He could have used a dose of Sharon’s sweetness right now. He considered calling her, but the thought of having to ask his mum for even more money than he’d planned stopped him. His mum hadn’t answered anyway. Fuck. His patience was remarkable. Most people would have snapped by now. 

Instead, he went back to work. Six o’clock arrived faster than he expected. He grabbed his coat and headed home, head down, hands in his pockets. All he wanted was to get back to his flat, to sleep, maybe find something to eat – surely there was something in the fridge or cupboards. As he crossed the street, nearing the corner, a strung-out junkie stumbled towards him, deliberately bumping into him, throwing him off balance.  

“Watch it!” Jim exclaimed. The junkie grabbed him, a glint of metal flashing in his hand. A knife pressed against Jim’s throat.  

“Gimme your money!” the junkie hissed.  

“I haven’t got any money,” Jim replied weakly, the fear coiling in his stomach. It was hard to tell who was more panicked.  

“Gimme your phone then!” the junkie snarled.  

“I don’t have one,” Jim said.  

“Bullshit!” the junkie spat, raising the knife, ready to strike. But something snapped in Jim. He grabbed the junkie’s wrists, a surge of adrenaline coursing through him. In a swift movement, he twisted the junkie’s hands, the knife now pointing towards its owner. Sure as you are born, he lifted the junkie’s arms, manoeuvering the knife with practised ease. The blade plunged backward, piercing the junkie’s throat and erupting through his chin. A spurt of blood arced out, coating Jim’s face and clothes. The junkie gurgled, his eyes wide with shock and terror, before collapsing to the pavement in a convulsive heap.  

Jim stood there, covered in blood, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He noticed people across the street staring, pointing. Someone at the bus stop was frantically on their phone, yelling into the receiver. “Help! Help! Someone’s been stabbed!” Some onlookers might have collapsed in shock. Others might have fled in terror. Jim did neither. He simply stood there, indifferent to the carnage he had wrought.  

And then, he began to laugh. It started as a small, almost childlike giggle, a nervous release of pent-up tension. But it quickly escalated into something darker, a hysterical burst of pure, unadulterated joy. He threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the cold night air, until the police arrived, sirens wailing.