Insane - Who Are You To Judge? (Gripping Psychological Thriller)

Chapter 6 - Harry

There isn't a fibre in Harry's body that wants to get out of bed today. He would love nothing more than to stay in bed cuddling a bottle of whisky in one hand and a pack of fags in the other, watching mind-numbing TV and laughing at reality shows where he feels like their lives might actually be more pathetic than his.

But Harry can't do that. He has to go to work. He has to stand his simple colleagues for a further eight agonizing hours, because today might actually be the day that he takes them down. Today might be the day he has been waiting for, for fifteen years.

After all, that's the reason Harry went into the police force in the first place.

Harry hears Martha switch the shower off. He waits until he thinks she has finished drying herself down and is about to come out of the bathroom before he shoots up from the bed and opens the door for her.

Martha, startled by his abrupt appearance in the doorway, jumps back slightly and lets out a soft gasp.

"Good morning, darling," she greets him with a warm smile and a peach glow in her cheeks from the humidity of the small room.

Harry pecks her on the cheek and hurries a response; "morning, babe. I've just got to jump in the shower quick otherwise I'll be late to the station."

"Okay, well I'll be gone by the time you're out then so...I suppose I'll see you when you get back tonight?" Martha asks with a hopeful sparkle in her eye, although the delight in her tone has dulled as she was hoping to spend time with Harry this morning. At least for a short while.

But that's exactly what Harry wants to avoid. He wants to avoid having to play the part of the perfect husband for any longer than he has to.

It isn't like Harry is a monster. Of course he cares for Martha and wants to spend time with his wife, but he wants to avoid Martha's prying questions. Martha always believes she is helping and being supportive by talking to him about what happened. She is so empathetic, it's as if she experienced it with him.

She didn't, though. She can never fully understand what happened.

"Of course," Harry reassures her, "but I'll be a bit late tonight. I've got some things to take care of at the station." When he sees her expression drop again, he adds, "I won't be that much later. And I promise, this will be the last time I am late this week."

Pushing her shoulder against his as she paces past him, she sighs, "That's what you said yesterday and last week."

Harry knows he should go after her and make a few more false promises to reassure her that he's trying and yet he shrugs it off and slides across the floor tiles into the shower.

The station's appearance would make you think it was designed in the 1800s, without a single modification. The only feature that seems as though it is from the 21st century is the one glass window in the top right-hand corner that allows just the smallest amount of natural light to shine through it. All the other windows are made of thick, clouded glass which have become completely immersed in mould, ensuring no sunlight would even attempt to pass through. The frames are broad and painted a common white which is peeling off on every edge.

The dulled red bricks can barely hold the place up, every corner is chipped and the cement would surely crumble if there was the slightest change to the pressure it frailly supports.

As you walk towards it, the building looks like some kind of slaughterhouse or some old, broken down hotel that is undoubtedly haunted and that no one in their right mind would ever want to enter. Despite this, the building is supposed to be a place of refuge and safety.

Harry stops and stares at the station for a moment to gather enough energy to go in and start the day with his...lovely colleagues.

Grant is the first to catch sight of him.

"Hey, hey, hey, look who it is!" Grant marches up to him, "it's the little rugrat." He stares at Harry and pouts, "why so glum? Did Mum pour too much milk on your cereal and it went all soggy?" His mocking tone makes Harry's skin itch, but he shrugs it off and laughs at Grant's 'funny joke'.

"Little rugrat."

"Hey, rugrat."

"Whatsup, lil' ruggy?"

As Harry walks through the station more and more of his colleagues chime in. They all wink, click and smirk as he passes.

Harry smiles back and brushes it off. He thinks to himself that one day they'll accept him.

He reaches the locker room and finally he sees a friendly face and calls, "What's up, man?"

Walking over to the locker where Harry's standing, James returns the greeting.

James was out of the station all of yesterday, so they catch up on each other's current events. Harry asks James about his kids and James tells him all about the weekend from hell, where the kids wouldn't stop tantruming and his wife was being all uptight with him because he hadn't washed the dishes on Friday night and it was his turn. James asks Harry about Martha and how she's doing and he replies with well you know, just the same old Martha.

"Oh, mate, did you watch that Knicks-Lakers game yesterday? That was a great game."

Harry is quick to respond, "ah yeah, of course I did! I watched it live actually, man, that was intense."

Puzzled, James hesitates; "it was on at one in the morning. What were you doing up so early?"

Harry's heart skips and he moans, "Oh Martha is obsessed with one of the shows out there – America's Got Talent is it? She made me stay up with her so she wouldn't fall asleep, and I couldn't stomach that crap so I watched the game instead."

They share a long, awkward stare before James shrugs and complains, "Wives, eh? Got to keep 'em happy."

Just as they are finishing the 'weekend' talk, another detective walks past, scruffs up Harry's hair and yells Rugrat!

"You've only been in the CID for nine months. They'll stop treating you like a kid eventually," James assures him.

Harry chuckles a sigh in response as if to agree, although they both know that that isn't going to be happening anytime soon.

"We've got a briefing now and a new crime scene from the Grimm Reaper."

The two start walking towards the meeting room. A sharp jolt shoots through Harry's body.

"Really? How do we know it's them?"

James shrugs, "well we don't exactly. I guess that's what we're going to be told now."

"But," he continues, "From what I read in the notes when I snagged a quick peek earlier, it fits his MO. Not many others out there who do it like him."