Justice Everard Williams Short Story

Justice

Everard Williams sat in the car and pondered the disassembly of his life. He stared out the window at the Spotted Dick, the English wannabe pub in this small northern town, before returning to the frayed photo in his hand.
Undoing thirty-nine years of living—growing, building, accumulating—had proven to be a surprisingly easy, almost therapeutic, task. It had taken almost a year to the day he had put the plan into motion, a year to the day that the court case had ended. The case was dismissed on a technicality, the magistrate ruling that the police had violated the defendant’s rights when they first apprehended him.
Justice had not been well-served on that day.
Their home was the first to go. The century house that he and Elizabeth

A reasonable closing date, and yes, they would buy the appliances, the window coverings, and a few of the choice antique pieces. He had allowed his memories to go with them.
The owner of a small, used furniture store had offered to remove all of the books, records, pictures, and assorted bric-a-brac, along with the remaining furniture and small appliances. To his relief, Everard had felt little attachment to the possessions as they were carried

The funds would be neatly disposed of in the event of his death: bequests to various causes; a trust fund for his nephew out West; enough left over to cover any funeral costs and disbursements.
He had kept aside a small amount for the essentials: the ’94 Toyota to replace the late-model car he had sold privately; a small room at a boarding house in Toronto’s west end. . . .
And the weapon.
Acquiring the revolver had been surprisingly easy, even for someone who had no idea where to find such a thing. But when word gets out on certain streets that you have five grand to spend on a pocket companion, then the thing finds you. He reached inside his coat and ran his hand along the barrel. It was strangely comforting.
He had spent the past year ensuring that everything and everyone would be properly looked after. All of the credit cards, insurance policies, email accounts, magazine subscriptions, almost everything had been cancelled.
He smiled to himself. Once an office clerk, always an office clerk. His co-workers had said they understood when he had turned in his resignation. He needed time off, a change. It must be so difficult to continue to live normally after such a loss. He accepted their best wishes and promised to stay in touch. That was nine months