26 - Digging A Hole (Again)

I’ve got a wicked fucking hangover and I’m trying to waiting for the Alka Seltzer to dissolve when “La Cucaracha” screams out of my phone and into my ears. Dougie set it up and now I can’t work out how to change it. As I stumble across to where my jacket’s lying, I knock over one of the beer cans from last night. Stale lager and cigarette ends spill across the kitchen table and I try to set up temporary breakwaters using an old copy of Time Out and a slice of bread. This unforseen disaster should be taking up all my attention, but that bastard song is still chirping away, so I have to deal with the phone or my head will explode.

It’s work. Bollocks. I can’t answer it, but I can’t not answer it, so I press the button and bring the squawking thing up to my ear.

“Hi Jeff,” I say, wincing pre-emptively.

“Chas, what the hell is going on?”

“Uh… I suppose I’m running a little late,” I say, still trying to mop up the beer-and-fag waves washing across my tabletop. I’ve found it’s easier to lie when you’re concentrating on something else. It gives you less time to think, so the deception flows naturally.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Jeff says, before lowering his tone urgently. “You know that I don’t want to be a ballbuster. I’ve been flexible with you with regards to your… timekeeping.”

He means drinking, but he can’t just come out and say that. 

“But I asked you to have the Havelock plot dug before you left yesterday and the funeral’s at twelve, so I don’t know what we’re supposed to do. You really let me down, Chas.”

“Hang on…” I say, having finally stemmed the tide from the spilt can. “I did do the Havelock plot. I stayed until seven to do it, because I knew-“

(that I was going on the piss last night)

-“that it needed to be done.”

“Chas…”

“I’m telling you, Jeff. I dug the plot, alright? I did it.”

And I did. I know I did. I remember finishing it off, putting away the tools in the shed and locking the door. That much is clear. The blackouts came later. 

“Look, all I know is that there’s supposed to be a hole in the ground and there isn’t one. I’ve got the funeral director on his way and the service is starting in a couple of hours-“

“I’ll have it dug by then,” I interject. “I swear I will. I mean, I’ve already dug it once, how hard can it be?”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Jeff knows that he should probably fire me right now, but he’s in a jam and he’s certainly not going to dig the hole himself, so what choice does he have.

“You can really do it in time?” he asks eventually. “You promise?”

“Jeff, I swear on my life. I’m leaving now.”

“Alright. Get it done and we’ll talk.”

“Right.”

Every second counts, but I take a two minute shower to wash off the layer of boozy sweat that’s seeping though my pores. There will be more to come, but I need to get the first layer of muck off my skin. Also, my head is pounding and the water seems to help. I’m still damp when I leave the house, but that’s nothing compared to the brain aneurism I get when the bright sunshine first hits my eyes. Fucking horrible. I squint my way through to the minicab office and splash out fifteen quid on a taxi to work. It’s an extravagance, but a necessary one and probably nothing compared to what I spent last night. When I’m feeling a bit more brave, I might go through the receipts in my wallet and try and piece together what I spent and where. More likely, I’ll just throw them away and try to keep the figleaf of denial in place for just a little while longer.

After ten minutes in the cab and half a bottle of Lucozade Sport, I’m starting to feel a little better. By the time I pull up to the cemetery gate, I feel certain that Jeff will tell me that he mixed up the plot numbers and that he’s sorry for the misunderstanding. In fact, so confident am I of this that I make sure to get a receipt from the cabbie, so I can claim back the fare. 

But when he comes out to meet me, Jeff’s face is like thunder. The apologetic smiles are nowhere to be seen and it’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever seen the placid cemetery manager look angry. It’s difficult to tell whether his fury comes from this supposed incident or the backlog of shit I’ve put him through over the past few months. Jeff’s a nice bloke. Too nice, probably, for someone like me not to take advantage of him. Today, though, he’s almost shaking with rage. The one thing I have in my favour is that I’m trying to put it right. I know that he’s in a jam and if I can get him out of it then maybe, just maybe, I might still have a job. And the weird thing is that I do still want the job. I like being outdoors and graveyards don’t come with a lot of hassles. Digging holes and tending the shrubbery is a nice, low-stress earner for a screw-up like me. I don’t want to go back to signing on and I sure as fuck don’t want to go back to telesales.

“Jeff, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what happened. I can’t understand how this could have happened.”

“Really, Chas? Because I’ve got a pretty good idea of how it happened. You got drunk and fucked off without doing the job.”

“Jeff, I swear…”

What? That I didn’t get drunk at work? That would be a lie and not one that I would be able to pass off. Yeah, I had a drink at lunchtime, but it was only a couple of pints. I wasn’t drunk. And I came back to finish the plot. I know I did.

But as we approach the plot, I can see that not everything is as I left it. There’s the new headstone for Arthur Havelock, but there’s no hole in the ground.

I don’t know what to say.

“Jeff… I dug the hole. I swear I did.”

He just shakes his head in disgust, presuming that I’m trying to maintain a pointless lie in the face of incontrovertible evidence.

“Look,” I say, “the earth’s been turned and there’s no grass. Someone’s filled it in.”

“Why on earth would someone do that?”

“I don’t know. As a joke or something?”

“You’ve got just over an hour and a half. Get on with it.”

There’s nothing more I can say, so I just nod and grab a spade. On a day as hot as today, I’d usually take it easy, but I don’t have the luxury of goofing off. I unzip the top of my overalls and start digging. As I do so, I try to understand the thought processes of someone who would break into a cemetery at night and fill in a grave. My best guess is students or, more likely, a rugby club. The hot weather and bright evenings encourage alfresco drinking and even though this usually means tramps with cans, it can lead to other, more boisterous types. 

Grumbling about rugger-buggers serves as a distraction from how unspeakably rotten I feel inside. My guts are quaking and the sweat on my brow is about 40 proof. I swig from a bottle of water, but if I’m honest I could really do with a beer or a nip of vodka, just to take the shakes away and muzzle the dog that bit me. There’s an offie ten minutes away, but I can’t run the risk of sneaking off there. This is supposed to be me coming through in a pinch, not nipping off for a six pack. Body and mind are wailing, but this is just one of those times that you have to get through. The one consolation is that because the grave has been recently re-filled, I don’t have to break ground and it’s a bit easier to shovel it out and pile it on the wheelbarrow. It’s the one piece of evidence that shows that I actually dug the hole in the first place, but it takes a certain affinity with the dirt to be able to appreciate the distinction. Jeff’s an administrator, so maybe it’s expecting too much of him to understand the qualities of soil. Still, it keeps me from thinking that I’ve completely lost my marbles.

In the hour that follows, I work harder than I have done in years. Digging in this hot weather with a fuck-off hangover is torture, but it’s also cathartic. Maybe if I had to endure this sort of horror every time I got pissed, I wouldn’t drink so much. That’s a delusion, to be sure, but I appreciate the motivation it gives me and I spent a little while attacking the ground with vigour as I think about my new dour and virtuous lifestyle. So enamoured am I with my protestant work ethic that I almost don’t notice when my spade hits something hard in the ground. At first, I think it’s just a loose root or branch, but when I lean down to haul it out I realise that it has fingernails.

All feelings of moral righteousness go out of the window and I scramble to get out of the ground and away from the arm. My stomach, already under siege, cramps and spasms in disgust at the dead limb in the ground. It would be the most natural thing in the world to vomit now, but I don’t have much to bring up and just spit a line of bile into my wheelbarrow and try to get a sense of what’s happening. That’s a dead body in the ground and I’m guessing that it’s not Arthur Havelock. Even though I work around dead people all day, that hasn’t prepared me for being that close to one. I tend to think of myself as a landscaper more than a cryptkeeper. The truth is that I’m freaking the fuck out. At least, I think I am. It’s only after a couple of moments that I have a thought that chills me to my core.

What if I put him there?

I spent most of last night in blackout. I remember leaving work and going to The Crown and then somewhere else, maybe The Buckley Tavern, but there’s big chunks of last night that are missing. That’s not usual for me, but on this night more than any other total recall would be a godsend. Is it possible that somewhere between one of those pubs, my flat and any number of other places along the way, I could have killed someone, brought them to this empty plot, thrown them in and covered the grave with soil? It seems too ridiculous for words and yet I can see it in my mind, not as memory but as if it were being filmed by a Crimewatch reconstruction film-crew. The fact that I can see myself in my mind’s eye is the only thing that makes me think that I probably didn’t do it. Probably. I’m, like, 95% sure I’m not a murderer. I do stupid things when I’m drunk, but they tend to put myself in jeopardy, not other people. Everybody’s different when they drink like me. Some people weep, some fight, others strip their clothes off and run around naked. I’m boring. I tend to mind my own business. 

Maybe it’s not good enough to say that you don’t remember not killing someone, but that it doesn’t seem in character. At the moment, that’s all I’ve got and it’ll have to do.

Yeah, yeah, the sick part of my brain says, keep talking, killer.

I tell that part of my mind to shut up and take another look into the hole, thinking that maybe the hand in the ground might be some sort of alcoholic vision brought about by the DTs. I don’t know whether it’s a relief to see the hand still there. It proves that the situation is real, but it doesn’t prove that I’m not crazy.

Maybe I should just run. I know it would make me look guilty, but maybe it would be better if I just downed tools and legged it. Not noble, but I gave up on that a long time ago.

I feel my brain folding in on itself and as the horror of reality comes crashing in, my stomach finally relents and spews out a bit of sick. Not the prettiest of reactions, but somehow it snaps me back to reality.

There’s a body here. People will need to know. Jeff first, then the funeral directors and the Havelock family. Then, presumably, the police. I’m almost certain that my sense of guilt comes from being a hopeless drunk who can’t piece together what happened last night. I don’t think it’s anything more than that, but if it is, maybe I’m about to get what I deserve. 

I put down my spade and start walking towards Jeff’s office. Before I know it, my stride has turned into a jog and then a full-pelt sprint. Whether I’m running towards something or away, I really don’t know. 

All I know is I can’t stay here. 

25 - In Conversation With Albert Bassom

Excerpt from The Journal of Murder Vol. 72, Issue 2

After establishing himself as one of the foremost proponents of the classical school of poisoners, Bassom shifted direction in 1972, eschewing his previous methods and embracing what he termed the “New Brutalism”. This excursion was marked by the savage beating of Claude Bastopoule, whose body was found in Montmartre on 4th October 1972. In this excerpt from an interview held at the Annual Symposium on Premeditated Death, he talks to Peter Cohen about his dissatisfaction with traditional ideas of class, the ennui of contemporary murder and his attempts to redefine the notion of premeditation.

Peter Cohen: Up until this point you had always been known for a strong sense of artistry in your work. It wasn’t uncommon to have your murders described by critics as beautiful or touching and I think I’m right in saying that there was a very strong sense of history involved.

Albert Bassom: No-one knew more about ancient poisons than me!

PC: Well, exactly. I always felt that you were a… custodian, I suppose, of the grand tradition. I’m curious as to what led to you discarding this notion.

AB: I don’t know if there was any one moment that made me think “Oh, I need to change everything”, but there was certainly a growing sense of unease about the very notion of there being a “grand tradition”. I suppose you have to place it in the context of the time. After the student riots in Paris I think a lot of artists, writers, even murderers, were forced to evaluate the political implications of their work in a way that we had not before. It wasn’t just the Marxists who were doing it. Even those on the right or the centre, they too had to think about the implications of what we were doing. At that time it felt like the world was changing and that the old models simply wouldn’t work any more. Everything was political. Everything. Why should murder be any different? It could not. The displeasure I felt was coming through in all sorts of ways. The two pieces I did before Bastopoule were very tired. I wasn’t happy with them at all, even though to the critics raved about them. They said that they were the very embodiment of the classical tradition - perfectly constructed murders with undetectable poisons and perfect alibis - but to me, they were nothing but shit - empty gestures with no meaning. The press they were hailing them as masterpieces, but I felt dead inside, as dead as the victims.

PC: There was no satisfaction?

AB: There was no excitement! All around me, people were struggling, fighting, bleeding for something and here I was, fiddling around with chemical compounds and wealthy dowagers. I felt completely out of step with the times. I could feel a rage building up inside of me and for the first time, I thought I should explore this rage rather than control it. In my whole career, it had always been about concealing the intention, hiding the emotion so that you can avoid detection. This began, I think, because of self-preservation, but along the way it became an indulgence. I grew tired of thinking of murder as an intellectual exercise and I wanted to explore the primal savagery at it’s heart. For all the analysis and criticism writers like you generate, this is still an act of violence. Dressing it up as if it were poetry or ballet or architecture seemed fundamentally dishonest.

PC: It’s ironic, though, that this came about as a result of what you describe as a political awakening. Do you think there’s an inherent tension in making a conscious decision to act without thinking?

AB: Oh, certainly. But that tension speaks to the core of us, I think. We are all stretched between our desires and our thoughts. That is the essence of existence. But recognition of that fact doesn’t make it any less valid. And, just to go back to what you said for a moment, I take issue with the idea that politics is somehow the realm of the intellectual. It’s a venal, bloody business about domination and power, the subjugation of one life into another. So, you see, it’s a very natural fit with the business of what we do, no? 

PC: Oh, certainly. But when one thinks of political murder, one thinks of Brutus and Caesar, or Che Guevara-

AB: The classical model again. You see, it’s the notion that politics is the realm of the statesman, of these faraway gods who rarely deign to involve themselves with the petty concerns of mortals. The same thing had happened with murder. The intellectualisation of the craft made it removed from the reality. Those of us who were involved somehow thought that there was a distinction between what we did by choice and what the common man did through rage. This elitism is what first led to the establishment of the societies, journals and so forth of which we’re all familiar and by whose patronage we are sitting here today. And this is not to say that these things don’t have their place and value, but for me, at that time, I felt that what had started as a means of elevating and expanding human knowledge of death was, in fact, inhibiting it. There was such a snobbishness about murder amongst the intellectuals and I was having these crazy arguments with people. They would say things like: “Well, hitting someone over the head with a blunt object isn’t really murder” and I would get really angry. I would have these long rows, but I could tell that it wasn’t getting me anywhere. As time went on, I spent less and less time with those people. I just couldn’t take it any more. I was getting very depressed. I would start planning a new piece and I would walk away within twenty minutes. 

PC: What sort of things were you working on?

AB: I had thought my next development would be in acids. It’s difficult to recall the details, but I think I was looking for a way to slowly corrode someone from the inside. Which is an interesting idea, I suppose, but at the time it seemed to be just an extension of the same old chemistry homework I had been doing for the past twenty years. I think… actually, I’m fairly sure it was the hippies who gave me the idea for that one. It was a play on words, I suppose. Acid meaning LSD and acid meaning corrosive materials. It wasn’t very well worked out. Again, it was that intellectual exercise: playing with words, creating puns, that sort of thing.

PC: What did you think of the hippies? Were you an advocate of free love?

AB: The hippies didn’t interest me greatly. It all seemed to be about drugs and bad music.

PC: You weren’t an advocate of free love, then?

AB: No, not at all. I think there’s always a price for love. There’s always a price for everything. 

PC: So how would you describe your political allegiances at this time?

AB: I don’t think I would be able to, either now or then. I wasn’t particularly interested in factions and ideologies so much as overall sense of chaos and upheaval. I went to a few meetings of some groups and they didn’t interest me much. It seemed to be the same sort of abstract bickering I had seen in conferences such as this one. It wasn’t so much that I was drawn to any movement, but repelled from what I had already known. I didn’t want to go to rallies and hear speeches. I had heard enough oratory for a lifetime. I rejected eloquence and everything that came with it. It was only when I attended court to pay a parking fine that I found what I had been searching for. I watched the prisoners being brought through and entering their pleas and I saw the real nature of murder that I had been seeking. Here were the people who killed not through some intellectual or artistic pretension, but for other, more pertinent reasons. Money, love, sex, envy, frustration, greed… it was all so much more real. After that, I would sit in the gallery of the courthouse and listen to the trials. The expert testimony didn’t interest me, but the voices of the people on trial were fascinating to me. After all the meandering and the blah-blah-blah of the intellectuals, I found myself confronted with the authentic voice of fatal violence. Time and time again, I heard these people testify and give their reasons for killing another human being and do you know what the most frequent answer they gave was?

PC: I don’t know.

AB: Exactly! They would say: “I don’t know”. Time and time again, no matter what the circumstances, they would say that they didn’t know why they did it, they just did. And this to me, as someone who had spent years thinking about the conscious thought behind every aspect of murder, this was like a revelation. I thought then, I must explore this for myself.

PC: And this is what led you to Claude Bastopoule?

AB: Not directly. I did not run out of the courthouse to kill. While I had the inclination to do something less measured, I was aware of the fact that these men that had inspired me were in the court. For all their vitality and passion, they were idiots who could not evade capture. The question then was how to fuse what I knew with what I did not know. I had to unlearn the fripperies, but retain the core notion of killing and getting away with it. I decided then that I must start from scratch. No more poisons. No more high society murders. No more artifice and no more bullshit. The work from then on must be direct and it must be truthful. I had to cast off the mantle of artistry and instead focus on the brutality of the deed. To do anything else would be rank hypocrisy.

PC: How would one go about preparing for something like that? Did you have a plan of action, or did that run against the principle of the exercise?

AB: I had no plans. What I prepared instead were contingencies. I knew that I did not want to poison more grandmothers, but I formed no other picture of the sort of person I might murder. Instead, I went through a process of readiness, where I felt I could be ready to act impulsively when the opportunity arose. It was a very difficult thing, to work against one’s training like that. After decades of being careful and measured, trying to operate on my natural urges was not without it’s challenges. At every point, I questioned myself. With every decision, I had to ask whether it was my brutal self that was making the decision, or if it was a result of a lifetime of programming. Often, I didn’t come up with an answer, which to me, as someone who was always so controlled and measured, was a scary feeling. But with that fear came power and freedom.

PC: Did you have any notion of how your next murder would take place, or did you leave everything to chance?

AB: I knew that I would not use poisons. I had spent decades perfecting the undetectable, untraceable murder and could extemporise at length about how poisons were the purest form of murder, because the human body is made of organic matter and so on and so forth. I had grown tired of my own philosophy, so I turned to the most primal methods I could imagine. At first I thought it would have to be with my bare hands, because really that was the only pure way. I trained for a while, in wrestling and kickboxing, but I was never really that good at it. If I had been younger, I might have been able to pursue it, but by that point I didn’t really have a full grasp of the skills required. And, you know, I had tried to get myself into some situations to see how I would do, bar fights and the like, but I did not come off well from them. I got beaten up! I would have bruises and cuts and I would have to spend weeks recovering. And, you know, when I was laying in my bed I realised that it was stupid to try and enter a fair fight. Murder is not a competition, it is an act perpetrated on one person by another. If two men enter a boxing ring and fight and then one of the men dies, is that murder? The men are trying to beat each other, but it is a contest of rough equivalents. When it comes to murder, even impulsive murder, one must put the victim at a disadvantage. Now, I didn’t have the physical strength to do this with my hands, so I looked for a weapon. I chose the knife, but I didn’t want to be an expert, so I decided to use my left hand. I didn’t train with it, but I would practice getting it out of my pocket. That was the extent of it. Of course, when the time came, I couldn’t get the knife out of my pocket in time and I had to improvise.

PC: Was there just a moment when you thought “I’m ready”?

AB: No, no. It happened quite by chance, which was wonderful. As I said before, I made contingencies, but I did not plan. How it happened was that I had been visiting friends in Montmartre, just for dinner, you know, and as I left their home I was walking toward the Metro and there was this little park on one of the streets. As I was walking past it, I saw that this man was in there, all by himself. I didn’t know what he was doing, but something made me walk towards him. I had the knife in my pocket - I carried it everywhere at that time - but I didn’t take it out beforehand. As I got closer to the man, I saw that he was just taking a piss, you know, and from the way he was swaying I could tell that he was drunk. I was by this small rockery and I picked up this heavy stone and walked up towards him. I didn’t know if he was going to turn around, if he could hear me, if he knew I was there or anything. For me, who had always been so controlled and calculated, it was a liberating experience. It wasn’t calculated. I just picked up the rock and - BOP - smashed it against the back of the head.

PC: But you did a little more than that, didn’t you?

AB: Well, yes. I had to. A single blow is not brutal. It is not savage. A single blow to the back of the head that a man does not see, this is a kindness and this is not what my journey was about. After the first blow, he went to the floor and I turned him over and I struck him again and again with the rock. It is hard work, to crush a man’s skull this way. It takes persistence and brute force. In that moment, I understood what our ancestors must have felt like. I’m talking here about the neanderthals and the like. Their death dealings were not pretty. They were not elegant in any sense. Tapping into that rage was an experience of pure humanity in an unadulterated form. I found that once I started, I could not stop.

PC: I believe it took some weeks for Bastopoule to be identified?

AB: That’s correct.

PC: What was the reaction like when the news came out about the murder? How was it received? 

AB: By the general media, or within our circles?

PC: Both, I suppose. By the general public, first of all.

AB: Well, the strange thing was that it didn’t get much attention in the press. The man had been drunk and poor, so it wasn’t seen as much of a priority to the police, which I thought was very telling about French society. The fact that it was seen as no big deal brought about the political aspect that I had not intended, but that was part of the chaotic nature of events. One thing happens, sparking another thing and another. Another example - the fact that he was taking a piss at the time meant that he had his penis out. That made the police think that he was a homosexual and that it had been a gay-bash. Just another dead queer, they think, so why bother to investigate? I mean, they did, but their attempts were cursory at best. They never put much effort into it, which I thought spoke very poorly of them. It was disgusting, how little effort they put in. As for my so-called contemporaries, most of them didn’t even want to discuss it. I made a point of going to the club at the Rue Morgue for a little while after just to eavesdrop on gossip, you know, and all these snobs were pooh-poohing it, saying it was just the work of immigrants. I would talk to them, saying “don’t you think there’s something interesting here” and they would just dismiss it. “No,” they said, “this is not what we’re about.” The snobbery involved was ridiculous. 

PC: When did you reveal that you were responsible?

AB: It was at the monthly review. At that time, the club at the Rue Morgue held these little events where people could go up and present their latest works. It was all rather pompous, you know, as these things tend to be. Some people would show slides and talk about how their murders related to the symbols of the Mayans or that they were representations of the collective unconscious. It was all a lot of hogwash. Still, I knew the fellow who arranged these things and I said that I would like to speak at the next event. He seemed a little surprised, because usually we all knew each other’s business - who was killing who and how - because the homicidal intelligentsia was a relatively small crowd and rather inbred, socially speaking. I say to him that I have something new to talk about, but that I cannot give anything away. He says “Ok” and at the end of the month I stand up at the podium. Everyone there is expecting some intricate, detailed plot because I am known for this sort of thing. But I get up in front of this distinguished crowd of murderers - and these were some of the most pre-eminent murderers of the time-

PC: Like who?

AB: Oh, the usual names. De La Croix, Petit Ganache, Henri Larochelle. Gregory Hastings, I think was there. All the major names of the time and I stand up in front of all these pre-eminent murderers and critics and I say: “I killed Claude Bastopoule. I bashed his brains in with a rock.” Well, they didn’t believe me at first. “Impossible”, they said. “There’s no way that Bassom, the elegant, intelligent murderer, could do such a thing.” Eventually, I had to show them a piece of Bastopoule’s skull to convince them. It still had blood and brain matter dried on it, but they didn’t want to believe that I had done it. Larochelle had tears in his eyes when he asked why I had committed such a base crime. I told him that it was because I wanted to be free. He didn’t understand what I was talking about and I was something of an outcast after that. They were talking about forcing me to leave the club at the Rue Morgue, but then Tibor Sienkiewicz wrote an article in the Journal defending my work. That gave me a little bit of credibility, even if the chin-strokers didn’t like it, they had to grudgingly concede that it was valid. If it hadn’t been for Sienkiewicz and that article, I might have lost interest in killing entirely. 

To read more of this transcript, including Bassom’s full lecture on the use of prehistoric tools in a modern setting, please order the The Journal of Murder’s Annual Review, available from your club secretary.

24 - A Brave Face

All you need to do is keep it together. You’ve done alright so far - greeting the mourners, accepting condolences, talking to the crematorium, negotiating with the caterers, deciding on the flowers and managing all the tasks that come with organising a funeral. You’ve spoken to the in-laws and told them thet you’re doing OK and as much as you appreciate their offers of help, you’d prefer to do things on your own for a while. They nod and that “whatever you want, dear”, but you can tell that they’re put out by it. That doesn’t really mean anything, though. All that matters is making it through the funeral. After the long hours of waiting, you thought it would never come. Then, as it approached, you thought it was too soon, but now you’re sitting on an uncomfortable wooden bench, wishing you’d worn thicker tights. Given that the whole building is based around an oven, you would have thought it would be warmer. Probably not what you’re supposed to be thinking about at your husband’s funeral, but anything that distracts you from the vicar’s banal eulogy. It’s peppered with inane trivialities (he was a man who loved sport and the records of Jonny Cash) and misses all the things that really defined him. It’s all so hypocritical, but you’re not supposed to to speak ill of the head, so you just keep your mouth shut. When it’s done you can find a quiet place to be by yourself and let it all out, but that will have to wait. At the moment all eyes are on you, because the number one attraction at this sideshow is Watch-The-Widow. Everyone wants to see you’re going to break down in the middle of the service and it’s up to you not to give them the satisfaction. You wish you had thought to get a veil. Too late to do anything about it now. For the moment, you just keep staring at your shoes.

You manage to keep it all together, up until the very last moment when the curtain close and your mind suddenly conjures up the image of Porky Piug saying “That’s all folks!”. A howl of laughter emerges from your throat and everyone turns and stares, but no-one hears it for what it really is. They expect a shriek of despair, so that’s how they choose to interpret your outburst. Of course they do. They don’t know about the cruelty and the torment. They don’t know about the broken ribs and the cigarette burns on your breasts. Even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to really understand the joy you feel at that man’s death, so you clamp your hand over your mouth and snuffle down your giggles, camouflaging them with fake anguish. It seems to be working, because you feel an arm around your shoulders. You don’t dare look up, but instead commit yourself to selling the lie. They’ll believe it because they want to. Even his parents, long suspicious of the monster they created, won’t bring themselves to admit the truth. No-one will, so long as you play your part. You squeeze a few tears to satisfy the sideway-glancing spectators and their arrival seems to satisfy everyone around you. Their reptile nature doesn’t matter. For the moment, at least, you seem to have got away with it. He is dead and you are free.

23 - Pathology

Transcript of recording. 4^th May 2012

MP: The time is 4:47 pm on 4^th of May 2012. I’m Milton Povey, medical examiner for Maynard County, conducting an autopsy on a caucasian male identified as George Withers. Subject is 170cm in height and weighs 164 pounds. I would estimate his age to be in late forties, early fifties. Hair is brown, eyes brown. There’s a small birthmark on his left patella which looks to me to be in the shape of… let’s see… a horse’s head. Uh… there’s an old scar on his abdomen, most from probably an appendectomy. From the age of the scar tissue, I would say the procedure was conducted at least twenty years ago… Moving on… there’s a series of wounds on the upper chest. I count… seven, each measuring… 3 centimetres across… and with depths from 8 to… 12 centimetres. This suggests a repeated stabbing motion. From the angle of the wounds I can tell that the blade was thrust upwards, suggesting that the assailant was shorter than the victim. Looks like a large blade and there’s tearing of the flesh at the bottom of each wound, suggesting a serrated edge such as a hunting knife. I’m taking pictures of the wounds now.

[Sound of camera]

MP: As you can see, there are small bruises at the top and bottom of wounds “A”, “C” and “F”, the shape and position of which would suggest the knife was buried to the hilt. It looks as if there was some small ornamentation on the handle, which may of use to investigators… Um… there are defensive wounds on both right and left hands, conducive to a struggle. Taking samples from under the fingernails now.

[Humming]

MP: Samples have been collected from the right hand and marked Alpha 1 through six.

[Humming]

MP: And the left are marked Beta 1 to 6. These will be shipped to the lab ASAP for DNA analysis. Ok. Right. Moving on to the internal examination, I’m beginning with the “Y” incision across the chest and down the abdomen. Making the first incision… now. And the second…. And the third. Now to break open the chest cavity. Unfortunately, it seems that someone has walked off with my bone saw and rib-spreader, so I’ll have to make do with my Black and Decker jigsaw and a tyre wrench. 

[Sounds of electric sawing and cracking bones.]

MP: Well… gosh… that’s… I mean…

[Sound of vomiting]

MP: Excuse me. I think the sandwich I had for lunch may have been off. Oh dear. Well… continuing on… There’s the heart. I mean, it’s present and there’s… holes in it… which I assume are from the knife… I mean… there are several lacerations on the cardiac tissue, consistent with the angle and position of the exterior knife wounds. The left lung is punctured and deflated and given the fact that the….six, seven, eighth rib is broken on that side, I would say that this is again a result of the knife wounds. Just checking and I would say that wound “D” is the one that punctured the lung and wounds… “B” and “C” caused the contusions on the heart itself. Well… um… I’m going to start removing the organs now, so they can be weighed and measured. I’ll start by severing the-

[Indeterminate noise]

MP: Hello? Is someone there?

Hello?

[Sound of door opening]

DC Rudolph: Police. Is there anyone else here with you?

MP: Oh, hello officer. I’m still in the middle of an examination. If you wouldn’t mind waiting, it shouldn’t be too long now.

DC Rudolph: Is there anyone else here with you?

MP: No, I gave my assistant the day off. I believe she’s gone to some sort of rock concert. You should see her, tattoos and piercings and all.

DC Rudolph: Put the knife down and back away from the table.

MP: I beg your pardon?

DC Rudolph: Put the knife down and back away from the body.

MP: Officer, I understand that you’re under pressure, but I’ve got a job to do here. I appreciate that your superiors are probably demanding answers, but please believe me when I say that I’m trying to help you. 

DC Rudolph: This is your last warning. Put the knife down and back away from the table.

MP: Very well, but I don’t see what this is going to accomplish.

DC Rudolph: Turn around.

[Sound of handcuffs]

DC Rudolph: I am arresting you for the murder of George Withers. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not say something which you later rely on in court. Do you understand?

MP: This is preposterous. I’m just doing my job.

[Sound of radio]

DC Rudolph: Echo Charlie, this is Echo 4. Arrested a suspect and need  transportation. The address is Flat B, 34 Weltree Gardens, in the basement. There’s a body at the scene. Going to need SOCOs.

[Humming]

MP: Whooooo… are you? Do do. Do do.

DC Rudolph: And maybe a psychiatrist.

22 - Local Man Gets Life

MARIETTA, GA. William Jefferies was found guilty of four counts of second-degree murder at the state court yesterday. His case received nationwide attention after Jefferies was involved in a series of bizarre incidents that saw him attempting to take his own life, but killing others in the process. The first of these failed suicides took place in 2005, when Jefferies threw himself off Chattahoochee River Bridge. Rather than fall in the water, however, Jefferies landed on Reginald Dwight, who was steering a cargo barge under the bridge at the time. The incident was ruled an accident, but Jefferies was ordered to receive  psychological counseling. Two years later, however, Jefferies again attempted to take his own life, this time by driving his car at high speed into a concrete highway median. Again, he failed to take his own life, but his car veered sharply and struck the vehicle of Kenneth and Felicity Trount, who were both killed instantly. It was at this point that investigators began to seek charges against Jefferies. “While we accept Mr Jefferies’ statement that he has no intention of hurting anyone but himself, we feel his arrest is necessary for public safety,” said Cobb County sheriff Michael Peabody at the time.

The arrest and subsequent trial was hard on Jefferies, who tried - and failed - to take his own life again in 2010, this time by asphyxiation by exhaust fumes. A neighbor noticed smoke coming from Jefferies’ garage and pulled him to safety, but neither man was aware of the fact that a homeless man, Wendall Parsons, was sleeping in Jefferies’ garage. Parsons succumbed to the fumes and his name was added to the indictment. Despite proceedings being delayed for his recuperation, Jefferies ended up pleading no contest to the charges. Any hope he might have had that the state would do for him what he himself had repeatedly failed to accomplish were dashed when Judge Randolph Hunt commuted the death sentence in favor of life imprisonment.

2 - 'Til Death Do Us Part

I told myself it was only ten minutes. Ten minutes was nothing. There were any number of reasons why a person would be ten minutes late. The cab could have got a flat tyre. There could be roadworks. She might have spilled something on the dress and stopped at a dry-cleaners. Really, when you thought of all the things that could prevent a person from arriving on time, it was a miracle that anyone ever got anywhere. I wasn’t worried. I knew she would get here. It was only ten minutes. 

The registrar shuffled awkwardly and maintained his wan smile while the CD looped back to the beginning of the track. I was really starting to hate Pachibel’s Canon, but at least it covered up the whispers that were echoing around the room. There weren’t many people in attendance - neither of us had much family to speak of - but there was enough of a crowd to make the murmurs of discontent seem louder and louder as each agonising minute went by. 

But it had only been ten minutes. Aside from the basic logistical factors, there were all sorts of reasons why Karen might not have been able to get here, up to and including terrorist hijack, elephant escape and alien abduction. As I was ranking these in descending order of probability, everyone else leapt to the mundane conclusion that she had got cold feet and wasn’t coming at all. I was doing my best not to look at anyone, but I caught glimpses here and there of painful sympathy mixed with secret, shameful glee at witnessing a live Hollywood trope: the runaway bride jilting a sap at the altar. It was too ridiculous for words, so I concentrated on the route Karen’s car would take to get here and whether it would pass the elephant enclosure at London Zoo on the way. 

Lee came back into the church through the side door, slipping his mobile phone into the pocket of his suit.

“No answer,” he said. “I left another message, but…” 

It was clear that he had given up on her. He was my best mate and my best man, but he’d never thought much of Karen. While he had never come right out and said it - you don’t, do you? - he clearly thought I was a mug for taking her back. Maybe I would have felt the same in his position, but he didn’t know her like I did and, more than that, he didn’t know everything that she and I had been through. If he had, he might have thought differently. Or maybe not. I don’t know. 

“Listen, mate…” Lee said, glancing around at the small, agitated crowd shifting in their seats.”I don’t want to be the one to do this, but, you know, maybe we need to start thinking about the possibility that she’s not coming.”

“She’ll be here,” I said. “It’s our wedding day.”

“Chris…”

“She’ll be here. There’s just been a delay, is all.”

Lee looked at me with something approaching pity, before quickly stowing it away from view. 

“Yep. You’re right,” he said. “Just a delay. We’ll sit tight.”

And that was why he was my best mate, because he had my back even when I wouldn’t see sense. It didn’t mean I wanted to speak to him, though, so I just looked at my shoes and did my best not to catch anyone’s eye. The whispers amongst the dearly beloved were starting to get louder and less discreet. I didn’t need to pick out the specifics to know that word was travelling around the room that I was about to become an anecdote that would be retold for years to come. Poor Chris, left at the altar by that Karen. 

When the door at the back of the room burst open, my heart leapt into my mouth, before dribbling over my lips and onto the floor. It wasn’t Karen who bustled her way into the room, but her best friend, the supposed Maid of Honour. Up until that point, I was sure that some sort of minor accident was preventing Karen getting to the ceremony on time, but Michelle’s arrival seemed like a bad omen. Lee went over to talk to her while I tried to reassure the registrar that my bride would be along shortly. He nodded in a way that suggested he didn’t believe me for a moment.

I glanced over to Lee and there seemed to be some debate going on between him and Michelle. Even from across the room, I could tell that the main thrust of Lee’s argument was “tell him” and that Michelle was hesitant. There were a couple of nervous glances in my direction, before Lee coaxed Michelle over to where I was standing.

“Hi Michelle,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“No-one knows. Karen’s not at the flat, she’s not answering her phone and no-one’s heard from her.”

I nodded. I felt surprisingly calm about the whole thing.

Lee prodded Michelle. “Tell him the rest.”

Michelle bit her lip and then said:

“I was passing by her place last night and… well, I don’t know for certain, but I’m pretty sure I saw Russell’s car parked outside her house.”

And that was when I started to feel scared.

Russell, who had been with Karen for four years before she and I got together. Russell, who did something for a living that it was better not to ask too many questions about. Russell, who had dominated and abused Karen to the point that she had been terrified to breathe without his permission. Russell, who despite being an utter shitbag and the worst thing to ever happen to her, was who Karen had gone to for comfort when she and I split up for two weeks last August.

Lee looked at me with such naked pity. I couldn’t bear it.

“I’m sorry, mate. I really am.”

I shook my head. “This is all wrong. Karen wouldn’t… She just wouldn’t… Something’s happened.”

Lee and Michelle shared a glance and it was clear that they were trying to find a way to get me to see what they thought was self evident.

But I knew differently. If there had been any remaining doubt about whether Karen was coming, I knew that she wouldn’t be with Russell. At that point I was willing to believe that she’d got cold feet or something like that, but I just knew that she wouldn’t be with Russell. Not by choice. It didn’t make any sense.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I said to them, doing my best to keep my voice level, “but I really think something is wrong. Karen wouldn’t even talk to Russell. She wouldn’t have anything to do with him. Why would she see him the night before her wedding?”

Lee and Michelle didn’t think that the question needed an answer and had clearly decided that I was in traumatic denial, but I felt I had to try and get across the severity of the situation. I knew what sort of man Russell was. He was clever, amoral and capable of anything. I didn’t know what to do.

The registrar shuffled up towards us and discreetly made himself known.

“Ah, if there’s not going to be… That is, if there are further delays… Well, I have other ceremonies to conduct today.”

I could no longer say that Karen would be here. I didn’t know if she would or not. I still believed in my heart that she wanted to be here, but there was a terrible sense of dread stealing over me. As I tried to work out what to do next, Lee and Michelle discreetly told everyone that perhaps it was best if they went along to the reception and had something to eat and drink. Although they said that I would be along later, I knew I wouldn’t be. If Karen wasn’t coming, I wasn’t going. There was no way I could leave the registrar’s office and once everyone had left to go to the pub, I sank into a seat at the back of the room, crushed by the weight of the situation.

Michelle went off to make phone calls, while Lee stayed and kept me company. We didn’t talk much, but I was glad that he was there. Most of all, I appreciated him not trying to say ‘I told you so’. 

I was present for nine weddings that day, none of them my own. Truth be told, they all kind of blurred into one. After each ceremony was over, the book had been signed and the guests had cleared the room, Lee tried to convince me that maybe staying in the registry office wasn’t a good idea. He would try his best to make going home, or to the pub, or even just for a walk, seem like a good idea. I understood why he was doing it, but I couldn’t leave. I knew something terrible had happened, but I felt completely unable to do anything about it. I wished I could have got up and gone to the pub, or gone to a railway bridge and thrown myself off, or even gone to the police station and demand they put on a search for my missing bride. There were a million things I could have done, probably should have done, but I didn’t. My whole life had been based around Karen and without her I didn’t know how to do anything. 

The fading of daylight was the only method I had of telling time and gathered from from the increasingly awkward coughs of the registrar and his assistant that the day was winding down and that their office was about to close. I was just wondering whether it would be OK for them to lock me in overnight when I heard her voice.

“You’re still here.”

I wasn’t sure if it was just a dream in my head, but when she stepped in front of me I could see it was really her. She was wearing the white dress I bought her in Portugal and oh my god she looked beautiful.

“Yeah, welll… I didn’t have any other plans,” I said.

She nodded.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Michelle said she saw Russell’s car outside your flat last night.”

“You know about that?”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “I didn’t want you to find out.”

It felt like she was resting a dagger on my heart, grazing me with the tip of the blade and daring me to lean in towards her. I couldn’t stop myself, so I asked the question. 

“So, you’re going back to him? We’re over then?” 

“No… Chris… I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, you are…” I conceded. “But you’re late.”

“I know. I’m so sorry about that. It couldn’t be helped.” 

“But Russell-“

“Isn’t going to bother us again. I promise.”

“Did he hurt you?” I whispered.

“He tried. But don’t think about it any more. There’s something I need to ask you.”

Karen knelt down beside me, but I couldn’t look her in the eye. I stared at my hand as she took it in hers. Karen said something that I didn’t hear because I was distracted by how raw and scraped her knuckles were. I was about to ask her what happened when she brought her other hand up to my face and gently turned my head to look at her as she repeated the question.

“Will you marry me?”

From the expression on her face I could tell that she genuinely didn’t know what my answer would be. How could she not know?

“Of course I will,” I said and her smile made everything else irrelevant.

We hugged and kissed and as I held her close, I buried by head in her shoulder and burst into tears, not because I was sad, but because we were going to be together for the rest of our lives and it was everything I ever wanted. 

And through the tears, I saw the small streak of blood on the collar of Karen’s dress and I knew what she had done and why she was so certain that Russell wouldn’t be a problem any more. Still, I didn’t let her go.

For better or for worse, right?