#148a

For the moment I have closed the front room door and am doing my best to pretend that John is not laying in there all bashed up and dead. Holed up in the bedroom, with Jaws for company, I relive the nightmare of events and try in some way to find a solution that will not end too badly for me. I will have to call the police (and soon), that's for certain, but before I do I need to work out an alibi. The urgency of the situation is at least forcing me to be rational.
As far as I can make out my options are this:
  1. Phone the police and tell the truth. (Probably 10 – 20 years imprisonment.)
  2. Phone the police and almost tell the truth. (5 – 20 years imprisonment.)
  3. Phone the police and lie outrageously. (1% chance of acquittal. 99% chance of getting 25 years to life.)
  4. Smash the place up and make it look like a burglary gone bad. (The silver hammer for sure)
  5. Don't phone the police. Dump John's body out in the street as if he was a victim of the storm. (Little chance of success, big chance of getting 20 years imprisonment)
  6. Don't phone police. Dump John body in the canal weighed down with bricks and tins of soup. (Good chance of evading the law until they dredge the canal. When they do, life imprisonment) 

From that lot I settle on No.2. Five years in prison (if I'm lucky). But even five years seems a hell of a long time. I'd never survive. I'm not cut out for institutions, and I'm certainly not cut out to be around some of the city's most violent and twisted types. I stopped going to 'Heaven' to escape people like that.

And what if it goes wrong? I hand myself in and nobody cares a damn for my claims of also being a victim – of being beaten and tortured and raped and abused? What then? After all, apart from my mother and one friend, there is no record of what went on between John and I (certainly not in my favour). What if the police and courts go purely on the indisputable facts: I battered to death an unarmed handicap man then locked myself away with his corpse for 'X' amount of days – this coming only a week after I'd been officially cautioned for locking him inside the apartment. Fuck, I'd get 20 years, and that's if they play it straight. The London Met are capable of doing anything to secure the conviction they want. What if they say that traces of my sperm were found in John's arse (post mortem)? God, with a little bit of corruption even my best bet ensures 15years minimum in a top security jail. So, I stop thinking about it there, because in that mentality every option seems hopeless and my rationality disappears in favour of panic and worst case scenarios.

#

Other than pondering over my options and the eventual outcome of my actions, I've also been forced into other modes of balanced thought and behaviour. Namely; keeping unwanted visitors away from the door. That's to say: Mother, Verity and Brian.

Concerning the latter, the herpes ridden little cockmuncher who was largely responsible for at least two of the blows I gave John, well, he's not been around. In consequence of the raging storm there's not been any post for the past two days now, and only if the storm subsides (as predicted) will there even be post tomorrow. In that respect I've been very fortunate. Still, when he does eventually return he will surely be sniffing about after John's arse, but I think I have a solution to that... though not a very pleasant one, I admit.

Mother and Verity were my bigger concerns. They were actually both due here on Sunday and only grace to the weather did they postpone. However, there was then talk of them coming over tomorrow or the day after, so I had to concoct an excuse to prevent that from happening. I told the two of them that John and I had had a massive domestic (the truth) and that my birthday had been such a miserable affair that the last thing I wanted was company or celebrations. Whilst on the phone to mother I very nearly broke down and told her what had really happened. I somehow wanted her, for just this once, to take the nightmare away – to protect me, comfort me, save me... to make everything better. Of course I didn't tell her. Right at the point when I was maybe about to speak, it suddenly dawned on me that mother was probably just ethical enough to have me put away for 25 years.

Keeping Verity at bay was a little more difficult. She wanted details of the domestic and pressed so hard that I broke and told her about John stabbing me in the hand. That only made her want to come over even more. She said: “Oh that's it, storm or no fucking storm, I'm coming over! He's gone too far this time... he's fucking dangerous!” I had to literally cry and beg her not to come. Then she got this weird notion that John was holding me at knife point over the phone and was making me say these things. For one awful moment I thought her arrival was inevitable, but finally I managed to convince her that apart from a very bitter and heart-crushing domestic, there was really nothing that warranted her braving the storm and possibly risking her own life for. Still, I could sense that Verity would be the one I would have to come clean to... that in the next couple of days I would phone her with news that would shock her straight. Maybe I will  have her around for when the police come. I don't want to be taken away alone.

5 comments:

  1. poor tristy! i wish i could help you! maybe you could feed him to marlowe?

    ReplyDelete
  2. Hi Stacy, nice idea but no, I won't do that. Anyway, Marlowe wouldn't eat rotten meat! X

    I think I know what i'm gonna do... and lets just hope the courts are lenient on me. WFJ Part 3.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Tristram you could always do what a good scouser always does after a domestic.. build a patio and put him under it ??

    ReplyDelete
  4. Solution (1) Frame Brian.

    Solution (2) Get rid of the body.
    John seems to have no relatives or friends who'd notice. Except Brian. So

    (2a) Murder Brian.

    Say they ran away together.

    Can Brian have anybody who would care enough to investigate?

    Of course this means you spend the rest of your life as a camp Roskolnikov, riddled by paranoia and guilt and probably ghostly visions.

    But what's the alternative? Bunking up with over-exercised tattooed cons who'll rape you on an hourly basis?

    You'd really HATE that...

    ReplyDelete
  5. I'd be taking that trip to Jamaica (for real this time).

    ReplyDelete

 
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