Paranoia: A Short Story

Yeah, this is a short story I wrote for Creative Writing class. It's not too brilliant, so if you plagiarize it you won't really get a good mark. It's quite long, so I'll publish it in multiple posts, if you guys say you want more.


This was the first time he had carried a loaded gun outside of a firing range, the first time he had ever held the power to kill. The cab driver lingered in his mind. He had looked surprised, and he guessed that he might have been innocent. But Richard wasn’t taking any chances. His hand was shaking as he gripped the cold steel in his jacket pocket. Squeezing tighter, he tried to focus, his lined face set in a grimace of concentration, eyebrows slightly lowered. His eyes shifted restlessly. It was an acquired habit, the endless scanning of alleyways, windows, doorways and passersby. Every shadow held secrets, and the tired after-work faces only covered plans and schemes for his downfall. Staying alert really was second nature.
And shooting the cab driver, was that second nature? Yeah, he guessed it was.
As he walked along, the steady pace lulled him into a half-daydream, though his eyes never ceased their search. He thought back to what had led to the loaded weapon in his pocket.

* * *

Richard was the new manager of Alsace Banking. It had taken two years of hard work and planning and now he finally held a position to be proud of. Fresh from university with a Bachelor's in Accounting, he had managed to find a job as a junior accountant at the bank. He hadn't let this end-of-the-foodchain job dampen his spirits, though, and with perseverance and a ruthless work ethic, he climbed the fabled ladder. Of course, a climb like that often required stepping on peoples' fingers. 'Killing off competition' they called it. Richard didn’t care, since they were obviously not trying. He wasn't going to remain stuck in some thankless job for the rest of his life. If others wanted to, he really didn't mind.

So when the manager's position came to him, he took it without a qualm. He knew some of his co-workers had been struggling for years trying to reach it. Well, they just didn't cut it, he laughed to himself in his new office. Of course, his climb didn't finish there. He had higher goals.

Yes, he had goals. All that had been stopped in his second month, when he noticed the drawer.

Richard was meticulous in his neatness. In fact, it had become a little joke inside the bank. He took it as a compliment, though he would never admit this to anyone. He wasn't about to be made an object of fun, a man to be laughed at. He just continued being tidy, knowing that this was one of the skills which had helped him rise above the others. Let them laugh. He could afford it.

But this was very different from some inside joke. He had just come back from lunch and was sitting down at his desk when he realized someone had been in his office. His desk drawer was slightly open. For a minute he just stood there, going back in his mind to when he had last used that drawer. Yes, he had definitely closed it. He always did so, it went against his grain to do otherwise. A sweat broke out on his forehead, and he wiped it off uneasily. He had files here which were his responsibility. But he also had something else.

Ever since he was boy, Richard had been plagued by a bad memory. He wouldn't remember things his mother told him, and at school he couldn't remember math formulas given him the day before. The teacher had shown him little tricks to help him in memorizing lessons. And he had won through in the end, reaching the top of his class every year, showing them that he could do it. But the problem never really went away.

So he began writing things down.

He never told anyone about the little notebook he carried since high school, each day neatly separated into tidy sections, recording everything and anything he needed to remember, from groceries to appointments, filling page after page, notebook after notebook, never realising that this was only worsening the problem. It ingrained the need to write things down into his very being, and his short-term memory never improved, shrinking from disuse. But he never expected to have any problems.

Until now.

Richard looked up, and saw that the door was open. He rose and closed it with a false calm, his hand trembling as it left the handle. Suddenly boneless, the manager's body slumped down, and leaned for a moment on the hard wooden surface. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm down. It's gone, his mind clamoured, you're fired, and you might even... He bit down on his tongue, the pain destroying all thought. "Shut up, damn you," he whispered hoarsely. The sounds of the offices around him drifted through the wooden door, secretaries typing, the low murmur of people discussing a loan deal, the lower undertone of computers. His hands unclenched, and taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes.

He strode across the room to his large desk, the carpet muffling his footfalls. The leather chair creaked quietly as he settled into it. Taking hold of the drawer, he opened it. It rolled out smoothly, noiselessly. The folders seemed to be okay, untouched. But he wasn't really worried about them. He looked under the folders, didn't see it, pulled them out and threw them on the mahogany desk. Gone. His brain couldn't seem to comprehend it. His eyes scanned the empty drawer feverishly, unseeing, panicked. He heard himself whispering "damn damn damn" over and over again, and made himself stop. If someone saw him like this, it would end very quickly. He grasped the desk with both hands, the fingers going white. White... like a corpse, his mind told him irrationally. "Shut the hell up!", he yelled suddenly. Then he realized he had said it out loud.

Grabbing the chair, he sat down, pulled a file at random from a stack, and started to 'work' on it. There was a knock at the door. His secretary came in, a cautious look on her face. "Did you call, Mr Delino?" she asked, trying to hide her curiosity under a businesslike attitude. The manager looked up with a calculated look which depicted mixed surprise and irritation. "No", he said, "I think that was Mr Rogers next door." To his relief the secretary’s openly worried face smoothed out, and she said, "Oh, sorry for disturbing you then." He mumbled something unintelligible, bent his head back to the file on the desk, and listened to the door close.

Remaining calm was important. People who panicked only seemed more guilty. Not that this was a case of guilt. Just carelessness. But he wasn't careless, that was the problem. And carelessness in this case could mean the end of a successful career. He piled the folders together, flicked through them, saw nothing missing or out of place, and put them in the locked drawer. He placed the key in the drawer above it, then silently reproved himself. Smart move, buddy, his mental torturer laughed, put the key right next to the lock! He picked it up again, putting it in the inner pocket of his suit.

His hand brushed against the notebook in there.

A smile broke uneasily on his face, his eyes remaining fixed vaguely on nothing in particular. He pulled it out with the hand holding the key, and placed them both on the desk.

It was there the entire time. His fingers drummed on the desk. So, nothing would happen. Damn, all that... damn. He placed his elbows on the desk, resting his closed eyes in the cool palms of his hands. Sighing, he just gave his mind free rein.

His imagination lingered on the close call he had just had. The notebook held all of his passwords, his login details, and various important account details and names. Important? his mind queried, that's a bit of an understatement, isn't it? The smile on his face disappeared. Yeah, it was a little more than important. More like vital. If it had been stolen... but it hadn't.

So who went through your drawers?

His breath caught in his throat. Thought seemed to grind to a halt, and he just looked blindly at the darkness behind his closed eyes. His fingers began to grip his forehead, kneading it. He felt a headache coming, sensed its steady approach. It was like an earthquake which you heard before you felt, a deep, subterranian roar.

There was knock on his door. He took his palms from his eyes as someone entered.

“Hey, Richard, having a nap?”

God, he just hated that droning voice. Maybe because he hated the person it belonged to? Or maybe it was the other way around, hating the person because of the voice. Either way, Jones annoyed him deeply, a novice accountant with connections in Alsace Banking, a rich kid who didn't have to work, and who knew it.

“Ha ha, Jones, very funny,” he said without the trace of a smile. “So, what have you... come here for?” he asked, stammering. He had almost asked what have you been going through my drawers for?, for suddenly he was sure it had been Jones rummaging around, looking for his notes. His hand instinctively palmed the notebook and hid it in the top drawer.
“Oh, I just wanted to get the final approval for that business plan, you know, the one for the Italian restaurant?”

The manager frowned. “You know that it's fine, I've told you twice.” Richard felt himself losing grip on his temper. This spoiled brat was teasing him! The rich little bastard knew that he had panicked for a second there, knew that he had a notebook hidden somewhere. His eyes betrayed him, looking innocent on the surface, but actually roving around the office, looking pointedly at the desk, running over the wall safe.

“Yeah, well I was just...”, the novice began, grinning.

“Get out of here, you bastard”, Richard whispered. The rage was building, and he couldn't stop it.

Jones' smile faltered.

“Yeah, you heard me, you scheming brat. I know what you did, know what you're planning.” He just couldn't stop. His teeth clenched tighter and tighter, the creaking pressure only infuriating him further.
“Mr Deloni, I'm sorry...?”

“I said get out of this office right now!” he said, his voice low and threatening.

Jones turned and left without a word, slamming the door behind him. Richard half-leapt to his feet, ready to go out there and give him a yelling-at, just like the kid he was, but then caught himself. He sat down heavily, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. He could hear the brat outside, whining on in his droning voice. He was probably telling everyone how Deloni had lost it, that he was cracking, that he wasn't playing with a full deck, that, in short, he was crazy. He covered his eyes with his palm, massaging his temples. The headache exploded, a sullen beat pounding right in the front of his head. This was going to be one hell of a day. One hell of a day.

His thoughts centred on the notebook, and wondering how Jones came to know of it. He had never told anyone about it, not directly, anyway. Sure, he took it to meetings, but everyone wrote during meetings. His secretary never really saw him with it. He wasn't married... What was it you overheard the other day, Richard? his torturer asked. Yeah, what was it? Mr Rogers talking during lunchbreak about how the manager seemed to have a memory problem. And what did Jones say? How does a guy like that remember important things, like appointments? Yeah, as if appointments was what he meant.

A hammer pounded away inside his skull as the phone began to ring.

 

* * *

“A holiday?” Richard repeated, dazed.

“Yes,” came the cool answer, “It's just that I thought you might like a break from such a stressful job, maybe just two weeks?”

Richard sighed. “Is this because... of Jones?” he asked. Jones' uncle, the top dog in Alsace Banking wasn't particualrly well-known for his generosity.

“I won't lie to you, Mr Deloni”, the voice said. God perish the thought, Richard smiled to himself wearily, a dishonest banker. He went on explaining how he received a call from his nephew, and while he knew that Richard was an experienced and useful asset blah blah blah and his nephew might have exaggerated a bit (no, for once the little brat might've been telling the truth) he thought a holiday wasn't such a bad idea.
Thinking it over, the manager didn't really see any way he could refuse, and thought it might be a good time to secure certain passwords and files. For all he knew, Jones' might be indirectly using his uncle to get some confidential files already, maybe planning on fleeing the country with a fat bank account like in the movies (as if that would work), or just trying to get old Richard in the deep end. The more he thought about it, the more the latter seemed to hold water. After all, Richard was Jones' boss, how that must strike a nerve!

“Mr Deloni?”

He jumped. “Uh, sure, sure thing, sir. I think that the stress might have caused some, uh, unpleasantness. But it really was just a small thing sir, as I'm sure...”
“Yes, yes, of course,” the old man said, obviously not listening to a word. He told Richard not to worry about a thing, a hotel-room was being arranged, and he was to have no business interruptions for two weeks. After some small talk they both hung up.
Richard sat unmoving in his chair for a minute, then, remembering his notebook in the top drawer, he hurriedly put it in his suit pocket and began preparing the bank's affairs for when he would be gone.

* * *

The Orkay Hotel rose straight from the sidewalk, the architect obviously more concerned with size and area than aesthetic beauty. Richard didn't really mind, though, since the flight to Miami had put him in a good mood. He had had the entire row of seats to himself, and he realised that, for the first time in what seemed like years, he didn't feel watched. It amazed him, the fact that he had never noticed it before. Looking back, ever since he had become manager everyone had kept their distance, both physically and socially. The look in their eyes he had mistaken for respect (and a little hatred, yes, he admitted that) was quite the opposite, being rather a certain slyness, a kind of fear.

Richard sighed as he left the Boeing. He was worried that the relief he had experienced on the aircraft would remain locked in there, left in the air-conditioned cabin for others with less responsibility to enjoy. Fortunately, though, it didn't. He felt that he might actually like this holiday.

As he entered the hotel, he was smiling a little. It was a nice hotel, with the cliché porter dressed in red, the typically unobtrusive desk to the right, behind which sat a cliché blonde receptionist in a cliché suit. The smile widened on the manager's face. His boss seemed to have either a dry sense of humour or just a terrible taste in hotels. Of course, he wouldn't stay at a cheap hotel like the Orkay in the first place. Heck, he probably owns better hotels, Richard thought to himself, his smile growing wider.

The receptionist was looking at him expectantly, and Richard walked casually over, the creamy-pink carpet pleasantly soft under his Oxfords. He wiped the smile from his face, but it was difficult, because everything here was so typical, so amusingly cliché. He stated his name, signed a sheet, and was given the key to room F10. The porter was at his side. To Richard it was like watching an excellent piece of choreography, every character moving smoothly into their assigned position on the stage of life. He let him carry his suitcase into the lift, and tipping him lightly, he entered his room.

It was a corner suite on the seventh floor, and he could see the beach from the plate-glass windows, albeit only a glimpse between two other tall buildings, and Richard's idea of how cheap his boss was lessened slightly. A double bed, a nice bathroom, and thick carpet increased his cordial mood.

Unpacking some necessities, he took a hot shower and changed into some more comfortable clothing. He wasn't used to not wearing a suit, and the plain white shirt and jeans seemed foreign. How could people wear these every day? His mind went to work on this pointless question, and he realised he didn't often think about anything but his work. This holiday really wasn't a bad idea at all.

Leaving the hotel, he was at a loss for what to do. He didn't usually have much spare time, or rather, he didn't allow himself to have spare time, and now he had two weeks to fill with something other than work. It was around noon, so lunch seemed in order.

It was spring, and the Miami heat, while not as excrutiatingly scorching as the Florida summer, was still pounding down relentlessy, and the sidewalk reflected little pinpoints of white light like fiery stars. Fortunately, Richard had been to Miami before, and had remembered to bring his sunglasses. As he walked he tried to stay in the shadows of the buildings, where the temperature dropped a merciful few degrees.

He found a small cafe which looked cool inside, the air-conditioning no doubt working at full blast, and turned to enter. With a jolt he stopped, and then hurriedly walked on, struggling not to run.

What was that man doing here? Richard couldn't place his name, but he remembered the face from among his old colleagues when he had just begun at Alsace. They had been rivals for promotion (rivals, his mind repeated, rivals are forever rivals), and after Richard moved up, he had seldom seen him. Yes, you didn't see him, but he definitely saw you. "What a stupid thought", Richard muttered under his breath. He stopped in the shade of a tree, and turned as if to go back to the cafe. He had walked two blocks without realising it. His body was drenched in sweat, his shirt sticking damply to his back.

He decided to look elsewhere for lunch, even though his appetite had largely disappeared. Coincidence, he told himself, just coincidence. Alsace Banking had a branch here, and some of their New York clients had offices and lawyers here in Miami. There were a hundred and one reasons why that man (what was his name?) could be here.

Sure, and of course he doesn't hold a grudge.

Shut up, he thought, guys don't hold grudges, especially professional bankers. And you believe that? No, not really, he admitted to himself. Does he know about your notebook. Richard? Does he know that you write vital account information and passwords... "Don't!" he muttered. ... and I'm sure he knows about the massive repercussions, should that notebook be... "It won't be" ... lost, or even, God forbid, money somehow disappeared...

Richard collapsed against a cold cement wall, shocked. Until now he had been worried that the notebook would be handed to his superiors, and that his "memory problem" would be brought forward as an impediment to his managerial position, or even worse, a real danger to bank security. But that was small fry compared with embezzlement, or the severe complications of explaining how certain accounts were suddenly rendered inaccessible.

So kill him. Yeah, and add murder to the count. Hell, he wasn't even sure of anything yet. Paranoid, that's what they called guys like him. And so what, you'll blame all this on your nonexistant imagination? You know you were never very creative, Richard. You couldn't even create excuses when late for school. True, too true. So what was this, coincidence? Or just the frayed nerves of working too much? Or was it...?

C'mon, buddy, say it. You know it's... "Real," he said dully as he sat against the wall. A passerby looked at him with mild interest, then walked on. There were enough crazies in the world to make it almost normal. "Yeah, I'm just another nut", the manager smiled grimly as he sat on a sweltering sidewalk in Miami, the sweat pouring over his pained features, his aquiline nose already going red, and his cheeks following close behind.
He got up, and wiped his face with a sweaty palm. This damned sun wasn't helping him to think, and he needed another shower now. He walked back to the hotel, circling the restaurant by another street. The Orkay was very cool inside, and he regained his composure a little. A cold shower brought back the rest. He lay on his bed to think.

Neatness was at the center of Richard's being, and he ordered his jumbled thoughts into a logical system to work with his current problem. He couldn't remember exactly when it had reached the status of a problem, but it fit the situation like a glove. Firstly, the notebook. It had to be hidden, and the contents somehow transferred to a secure location. The hotel had a safe, but that was the first place someone would look. Chances were they knew someone who worked at the hotel, or they would just bribe them. His room was equally unsafe. Since he knew noone in Miami, at least no-one he could trust, it would have to stay on his person at all times.

The second problem was where to secure the information. He hadn't brought his laptop, he had been specifically told not to, and New York was over a thousand miles away. He would have to wait two weeks, as he just couldn't see any other way to do it. Being at the top, there was noone to hand the information to for safe-keeping. And turning up suddenly at the office was very eccentric, and eccentricity wasn't a good trait in a manager.

You're at the top? What about your boss? his mind queried, laughing. You left him out... because? Richard frowned. Well? "Okay, okay", Richard muttered angrily, "I don't trust him... him and his damned nephew". Ever thought that this might be his idea? "What? Why the hell would he do this to me? I'm a good worker, an honest manager..." Ha ha, yes, honest to a fault, aren't you? What about that time he asked you to change... "That was a misunderstanding" ...the salaries of the junior accountants, maybe up it a bit, and cut back on... "Okay, sure, he asked for a favour, but I told him no." Sure you did, and that's the problem, Richard. Maybe old Jones might fill his... expectations a little better? And he might get a few extra billions into his account and who'd be the scapegoat? "Me... He'd change the figures and let me rot. I never trusted him, the fat..." Okay, so let's figure out how to do this.

Suddenly the phone rang on the table by his head, the shrill sound piercing his thoughts like lightning. He sat up and answered it. "Sir, there's a man here to see you, a Mr Svenskya?" The name rang a bell, but he couldn't attach it to a face. "Okay, I'll come down. Thank you". He hung up, sat motionless for a moment, thinking, and then, having locked his room, he took the lift down to the ground floor.