At first Verity didn't believe me, then she did, then she didn't again. When I showed her John's broken glasses, his Super Dong ankle chain, the uprooted Flamingo plant and finally the bloody square of carpet her lips parted slightly and her eyes kinda lost focus and were staring through the objects. I sat opposite watching her. My own face felt expressionless, as if it was suspended in time, waiting a response. What would she do? Faint? Start screaming? Phone the police? Order a pizza?

For three full minutes we remained there like that. In many ways she looked crazier than me. Then she finally spoke:

  “Ok, Trist, you've killed him, yeah?.. accidentally? So why aren't you arrested? Why haven't you been questioned? When was the autopsy? What were the results? Where is anything that actually states he's dead? Will there be a funeral? Can I view him? I'd like to. No, It doesn't make sense... it just doesn't.”

For a moment I nearly backed down. I thought of saying it was all an outrageous lie and he had in fact run off with The Postboy. But that wouldn't make sense either. So I took a deep breath, glanced at the window box outside on the kitchen sill, then risked the biggest gamble of my life.

I told Verity everything. How after killing John I had become scared for my freedom, had panicked, and momentarily lost all self-control and any kind of a grip on reason. I explained how after four days John had started to display the first signs of decomposition and it was then too late to call the police. I went through how I had prepared, stripped down to my Y-fronts and wife-beater vest and had used the carpet knife to open John's torso from neck to groin. I related the smells, the horrendous snipping of the nose hair scissors as they cut through veins, tendons and arteries. I told her how the stab and slash of the kitchen knife had traumatised me, and how sick I was when I hacked the limbs off. And even worse, how when I removed the head the inside of the neck fell out, and the impossible amount of things which came out off his stomach. I tried to convey the horror of having the limbless, headless torso of a man laying on the living room floor – a man I loved.

But it wasn't my intention to go into such shocking detail, it just sort of all spilled out. I was trying to grab a hold of something, anything, in order to show the horror of what happened. By the time I had finished Verity was frantically pacing the kitchen and hot water was running her vomit down the sink. Every few minutes she'd cup her mouth again and make a fresh dash across the room, gagging and retching anew. At one moment, I remember her turning around, her eyes all watery and a milky web of vomit in the corner of her mouth. And then I felt sick too.

Then there were times when it looked like she had swallowed my confession, battled through the initial wave of shock and was about to speak. But then she'd freak out again and would start rushing around the apartment, flapping her hands in front of her face as if she was drying her nails, going from room to room, turning on the light and looking around. She was searching something real, something that either said my confession was brutally honest or a pathetic and extremely desperate play for attention.

When she did finally regain her voice all she said was: “I must go. I have to go.”
  “Won't you stay with me for a while?” I asked “Won't you go through this mess with me?”
  “No... I have to go... I can't.. I. No.”
  “Are you going to tell the police?” I asked
  “You should!” She replied, “You should! Me, I must just go... no... I... no...oh no...”

And then she fumbled with the lock on the door and was gone into the night, staggering down the road as if she was drunk. I watched her go and wondered if it was the end... if she would tell the police and have them come and take me away. And then something cold and wet touched my hand. Then it was warm. And then “Wooof!!!” It was Marlowe, and I'd never been so pleased to have anything touch me in my life.


  1. More than ever I want to see John's secret diaries.

    A man who could cut the supposed love of his life 'from neck to groin' and go through all the rest must have some secrets we don't know about.

    I mean poor Verity threw up at the very THOUGHT of it.

    Face it Tristy:that's a normal reaction.

    You're not normal.

    Ahh, Marlowe.

    I've been expecting him...

  2. finally the anklet is mentioned. I've been wondering about that.
    Hopefully Marlowe doesn't consider you HIS bitch.

    That was the name of my first pet, it was a cat. The things it taught me have shaped me for life. My second pet was named 'Kilo.'

  4. Abigail: I just didn't want to go to jail. And I closed my eyes while I was doing it, so it wasn't like I enjoyed it. It was a means to an end... saving my own bacon.

    Marlowe, yes, he's back.... X

    @ Jim: Yes, that trashy little token of love 'Super Dong'. Let's hope it's not a future problem, but I don't think so. Me, Marlowes bitch... that probably is my fate, dominated by a Borber Collie. X

    Lee Deville: Another one Waiting for Marlowe. My fist per was Snowy the Gerbil (came to an unfortunate end), then 'Rabbit' who was a rabbit, and then 'Bollock' my first pet goldfish who I disected just before it died.I love animals. Oh, yes and there was also that blue and yellow sea-slug, the first thing that ended wrapped in cling-film and buried in the window box... X


Tristram's Birthday: Sunday 3rd October

Tristram's Birthday: Sunday 3rd October
Cheap jam sponge or something a little more exciting? How will Mr Spencer celebrate his 32nd year in hell?

Trolley Dash August 2010

Trolley Dash August 2010
Did Tristram accidently pick up a REAL bargain?

Brian the Postboy's gift to John: an ankle bracelet inscribed 'Super Dong'

Brian the Postboy's gift to John: an ankle bracelet inscribed 'Super Dong'
Scrap metal or has John been 'tagged'. Is Tristram Spencer really the only fated man in town?

The Dangerous Dandy by Barbara Cartland

The Dangerous Dandy by Barbara Cartland
Will Tristram finally be brought to account for his love of Babs? And: is 25 years hard labour enough?

An Influx of Pigeons

An Influx of Pigeons
Is there still some hope for the fated Mr Spencer?
Waiting for John. Citrus Pink Blogger Theme Design By LawnyDesignz Powered by Blogger