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My storytelling skills aren't great but here's part one I whipped up a while ago. You might have seen it before - I can't remember whether I've posted it or not. It's quite slow going as well. You've been warned.
An Absence Of Fear - Part One
So it all boiled down to this one moment in time. It's funny how life does that; one minute you're on top of the world thinking nothing on earth can touch you, the next you're staring down the barrel of a gun...and you want to pull the trigger. What could have caused such a radical turnabout in such a comparatively short space of time? Maybe I should start at the beginning, which isn't a beginning at all but serves the purpose of enlightening you about my plight.
I've never been too ambitious in life - ambition creates a vacuum of resentment and sullen envy among your peers. It overshadows your life lurking like an overbearing, suffocating blanket, threatening to pull you down lest you have ideas above your station. I was content with a nine to five job, endlessly travelling to my workplace like another automaton in the great wheel of life.
I work in a small city, for a small publisher. My day consists of endless proof reading of drafts; the kind of repetitive monotony that you can lose yourself in. I've been a great stickler for routine; getting up at 7.00am, showering, grabbing the customary cup of coffee and then getting into my car (a Ford, to be exact) and driving to work. I arrive at precisely 8.30am and I sit down to read the morning paper. But this isn't an account of my working day. More of an insight into the effects of the turbulence that have caused me to be here racked with anguish and despair at the actions I have taken. The actions that have spurred me onto this moment in time.
One blustery, torpid day, I left work with a new draft in my briefcase. It was remarkably different from the standard plethora of scientific journals and non-fiction that was customary in my job; for one, it wasn't typed. It was hand-written. A long sweeping antiquated script had garnished the envelope that was on my desk this morning. It bore my name in the top left corner: "To Mr A. Kameron."
Of course, I'm a busy man at work and I had no more time to give it my attention, not when my boss was waiting for the final draft of two manuscripts I was perusing. I placed it to one side and promptly forgot about it having devoted my time to the rest of my work. It was a busy day and when I finally managed to exit the building, nodding to the guard at reception by way of a formal greeting, I was hungry and eager to get back to the relative peaceful sanctuary of my quiet suburban house. I got into my car and threw my briefcase onto the passenger seat. After gunning the engine, I switched onto classic FM and my car slowly pulled away and entered the stream of traffic, resembling a snail convention on a cold wintry morning. I reached my house without any major incidents, apart from the youth tooting his horn with wild abandon to every driver who didn't live up to his "standard" of driving and the cyclist who combined hurtling along both the road and pavement in her reckless journey to her destination. In short it was a typical return to my humble abode.
I entered my house and walked to the kitchen, flicking the hallway light on for better navigation. After switching the kettle on I treaded heavily to the lounge while kicking off my shoes...and stopped dead in my tracks. A smell of urine and the pungent odour of faeces hit my nose. It was a rank and abhorrent stink that confused me until I had shoved the door fully open. Hoisted from the lounge ceiling (I idly noticed the cracks along the ceiling forming a shattered effect on the once immaculate artexing and joining at the epicentre where the source of the break had occurred) with a slick black type of rope attached to the light fixture, was the security guard from work. I felt a sudden rush of air in my head, as if all the oxygen being sent to my brain had been suddenly cut off and a high pitch keening sound emitted from my rasping throat. Staggering to one side I collapsed against the wall and felt my stomach muscles heaving as I dry retched in pain. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I grimaced at the sight of the dead body slowly spinning from my ceiling, an expression of such horrifying malevolence on his purple, ruptured face that I felt scared just to be there. His bluish hands were swollen and his tongue was nearly black. One arm hung limply down his side with a blood-covered hand clutching a piece of paper in a clasp that only the symptoms of rigor mortis could convey. The other hand was wedged in against his neck with a finger jammed into the minute gap between the side of his neck and the strange black rope as if he thought to gain some kind of respite in the final throes of death and had failed where no one had succeeded.
It was the first time I had witnessed a dead body in the flesh, so to speak. Other viewing of corpses in newspapers and the news had evoked a feeling of detachment - it wasn't in front of you, therefore it couldn't affect you. But what I felt at this moment in time was a profound revulsion coupled with a sickening realisation that there is no glory in death, only the final ignominy of your corpse being discovered in a situation that you shouldn't have been in. A grotesque parody of death where the freakish abnormalities of your corpse are highlighted for the world to see and witness, much to your unknowing derision. An undignified end to a life when you expected to pass away in a less violent and more serene manner. As I witnessed the twisting corpse dangling in front of me, the thought hit me suddenly like a sledgehammer blow.
"How did he get here and why?" I murmured to myself as I recalled greeting him on the way home from work. As I made my way to the landline to phone the police I pondered a vague thought that was skittering on the edge of my thoughts. My hand trembled as I dialled 999 and I made a mental note not to disturb anything...and then I slammed the phone down before I heard a voice on the other end. I don't know what prevented me from doing speaking to the police, moreover it was the feeling that something wasn't quite right. There was no evidence of a forced entry and the victim was not related to me, insofar that he was just someone I recognised from work. Rather like someone you passed in the corridor and noticed but never got to know because you existed in different circles. Startled, I realised I was analysing the whole situation coldly and without a modicum of emotion. But, for some reason I didn't care. I carefully shuffled to the lounge and studied the dead man in front of me, my eyes taking in all the details and finally resting on the torn scrap of paper in his swollen podgy fingers. It was heavily stained with blood and, perhaps urine as well. There was no doubt that he had soiled himself in the final last agonising moments of life and the stink made me wrinkle my nose in disgust. I crept forward toward his body with slow, precise movements. I was very quiet and felt as if I was trespassing - as if the overweight lumpy security guard would awaken a fixed me with accusing eyes as I slowly prised the slip of paper from his fingers. It was harder than I thought it would be; in films you always saw the clue easily taken from the hand of the victim eventually leading to the killer's demise but it took me a good ten minutes before I finally managed to withdraw the bloody scrap of paper. I felt a wave of guilt pass over me as I realised this was akin to stealing from the dead. Quickly striding to the kitchen I decided to wash the blood off my hands. Knowing about the thorough measures in forensics these days (I had proofed enough books on the subject) I needed to find a way to make sure no trace of blood was left anywhere but the lounge. My experience of serology was fairly limited but adequate for the purpose. Deftly washing my hands I grabbed a towel from the rail and wiped them vigorously. Next I took a sandwich bag and placed the note into the bag - there was no need to read it now, I thought to myself coldly. My actions chilled me to the core but I was intrigued. I feverishly tried to recall the tests the police take to check for any residues of blood. As far as I knew there were two main tests for blood apart from checking for visible signs of it.
The first was the Kastle-Meyer Colour Test, which uses a solution of phenolphthalein and hydrogen peroxide on a piece of filtered paper. When any quantity of blood is present it turns pink. Silently marvelling the bonuses of my photographic memory that constantly amazed my work colleagues, I remembered that the paper also turns pink when in the presence of potatoes. Grinning to myself I grabbed a couple of potatoes and placed them on the draining board, next to the sink. That should sate any policeman's appetite, I ruefully reckoned.
There was nothing I could do about the other test apart from scrub away every possible trace of the guard's blood. Luminol is the chemical that is sprayed across the scene because it makes blood luminescent. It glows a faint blue colour. I scrubbed the sink repeatedly and put all the implements that came in contact with the blood in a plastic bag.
Quickly exiting my flat, I reached my car in the driveway and stuffed the plastic bag and the note in the plastic sandwich bag into my briefcase. My eyes briefly fell on the envelope but I dismissed it from my mind - there were far more important matters at hand.
Exiting my car, I went back into my house and dialled the police.
"Hello, emergency services? What service can I get you?"
"Police, please."
"What's the nature of the incident?"
"Murder." Most foul? I pondered to myself. Definitely.
"Hold the line, please." A brief second pause and then, "Can you please state your address?"
"Yes, it's 42 Forrest Crescent."
"Can you tell me what has happened?"
"Someone was murdered in my house. Not by me but I came back from work and found him dead here. Please can you send someone round?”
END OF PART ONE
An Absence Of Fear - Part One
So it all boiled down to this one moment in time. It's funny how life does that; one minute you're on top of the world thinking nothing on earth can touch you, the next you're staring down the barrel of a gun...and you want to pull the trigger. What could have caused such a radical turnabout in such a comparatively short space of time? Maybe I should start at the beginning, which isn't a beginning at all but serves the purpose of enlightening you about my plight.
I've never been too ambitious in life - ambition creates a vacuum of resentment and sullen envy among your peers. It overshadows your life lurking like an overbearing, suffocating blanket, threatening to pull you down lest you have ideas above your station. I was content with a nine to five job, endlessly travelling to my workplace like another automaton in the great wheel of life.
I work in a small city, for a small publisher. My day consists of endless proof reading of drafts; the kind of repetitive monotony that you can lose yourself in. I've been a great stickler for routine; getting up at 7.00am, showering, grabbing the customary cup of coffee and then getting into my car (a Ford, to be exact) and driving to work. I arrive at precisely 8.30am and I sit down to read the morning paper. But this isn't an account of my working day. More of an insight into the effects of the turbulence that have caused me to be here racked with anguish and despair at the actions I have taken. The actions that have spurred me onto this moment in time.
One blustery, torpid day, I left work with a new draft in my briefcase. It was remarkably different from the standard plethora of scientific journals and non-fiction that was customary in my job; for one, it wasn't typed. It was hand-written. A long sweeping antiquated script had garnished the envelope that was on my desk this morning. It bore my name in the top left corner: "To Mr A. Kameron."
Of course, I'm a busy man at work and I had no more time to give it my attention, not when my boss was waiting for the final draft of two manuscripts I was perusing. I placed it to one side and promptly forgot about it having devoted my time to the rest of my work. It was a busy day and when I finally managed to exit the building, nodding to the guard at reception by way of a formal greeting, I was hungry and eager to get back to the relative peaceful sanctuary of my quiet suburban house. I got into my car and threw my briefcase onto the passenger seat. After gunning the engine, I switched onto classic FM and my car slowly pulled away and entered the stream of traffic, resembling a snail convention on a cold wintry morning. I reached my house without any major incidents, apart from the youth tooting his horn with wild abandon to every driver who didn't live up to his "standard" of driving and the cyclist who combined hurtling along both the road and pavement in her reckless journey to her destination. In short it was a typical return to my humble abode.
I entered my house and walked to the kitchen, flicking the hallway light on for better navigation. After switching the kettle on I treaded heavily to the lounge while kicking off my shoes...and stopped dead in my tracks. A smell of urine and the pungent odour of faeces hit my nose. It was a rank and abhorrent stink that confused me until I had shoved the door fully open. Hoisted from the lounge ceiling (I idly noticed the cracks along the ceiling forming a shattered effect on the once immaculate artexing and joining at the epicentre where the source of the break had occurred) with a slick black type of rope attached to the light fixture, was the security guard from work. I felt a sudden rush of air in my head, as if all the oxygen being sent to my brain had been suddenly cut off and a high pitch keening sound emitted from my rasping throat. Staggering to one side I collapsed against the wall and felt my stomach muscles heaving as I dry retched in pain. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I grimaced at the sight of the dead body slowly spinning from my ceiling, an expression of such horrifying malevolence on his purple, ruptured face that I felt scared just to be there. His bluish hands were swollen and his tongue was nearly black. One arm hung limply down his side with a blood-covered hand clutching a piece of paper in a clasp that only the symptoms of rigor mortis could convey. The other hand was wedged in against his neck with a finger jammed into the minute gap between the side of his neck and the strange black rope as if he thought to gain some kind of respite in the final throes of death and had failed where no one had succeeded.
It was the first time I had witnessed a dead body in the flesh, so to speak. Other viewing of corpses in newspapers and the news had evoked a feeling of detachment - it wasn't in front of you, therefore it couldn't affect you. But what I felt at this moment in time was a profound revulsion coupled with a sickening realisation that there is no glory in death, only the final ignominy of your corpse being discovered in a situation that you shouldn't have been in. A grotesque parody of death where the freakish abnormalities of your corpse are highlighted for the world to see and witness, much to your unknowing derision. An undignified end to a life when you expected to pass away in a less violent and more serene manner. As I witnessed the twisting corpse dangling in front of me, the thought hit me suddenly like a sledgehammer blow.
"How did he get here and why?" I murmured to myself as I recalled greeting him on the way home from work. As I made my way to the landline to phone the police I pondered a vague thought that was skittering on the edge of my thoughts. My hand trembled as I dialled 999 and I made a mental note not to disturb anything...and then I slammed the phone down before I heard a voice on the other end. I don't know what prevented me from doing speaking to the police, moreover it was the feeling that something wasn't quite right. There was no evidence of a forced entry and the victim was not related to me, insofar that he was just someone I recognised from work. Rather like someone you passed in the corridor and noticed but never got to know because you existed in different circles. Startled, I realised I was analysing the whole situation coldly and without a modicum of emotion. But, for some reason I didn't care. I carefully shuffled to the lounge and studied the dead man in front of me, my eyes taking in all the details and finally resting on the torn scrap of paper in his swollen podgy fingers. It was heavily stained with blood and, perhaps urine as well. There was no doubt that he had soiled himself in the final last agonising moments of life and the stink made me wrinkle my nose in disgust. I crept forward toward his body with slow, precise movements. I was very quiet and felt as if I was trespassing - as if the overweight lumpy security guard would awaken a fixed me with accusing eyes as I slowly prised the slip of paper from his fingers. It was harder than I thought it would be; in films you always saw the clue easily taken from the hand of the victim eventually leading to the killer's demise but it took me a good ten minutes before I finally managed to withdraw the bloody scrap of paper. I felt a wave of guilt pass over me as I realised this was akin to stealing from the dead. Quickly striding to the kitchen I decided to wash the blood off my hands. Knowing about the thorough measures in forensics these days (I had proofed enough books on the subject) I needed to find a way to make sure no trace of blood was left anywhere but the lounge. My experience of serology was fairly limited but adequate for the purpose. Deftly washing my hands I grabbed a towel from the rail and wiped them vigorously. Next I took a sandwich bag and placed the note into the bag - there was no need to read it now, I thought to myself coldly. My actions chilled me to the core but I was intrigued. I feverishly tried to recall the tests the police take to check for any residues of blood. As far as I knew there were two main tests for blood apart from checking for visible signs of it.
The first was the Kastle-Meyer Colour Test, which uses a solution of phenolphthalein and hydrogen peroxide on a piece of filtered paper. When any quantity of blood is present it turns pink. Silently marvelling the bonuses of my photographic memory that constantly amazed my work colleagues, I remembered that the paper also turns pink when in the presence of potatoes. Grinning to myself I grabbed a couple of potatoes and placed them on the draining board, next to the sink. That should sate any policeman's appetite, I ruefully reckoned.
There was nothing I could do about the other test apart from scrub away every possible trace of the guard's blood. Luminol is the chemical that is sprayed across the scene because it makes blood luminescent. It glows a faint blue colour. I scrubbed the sink repeatedly and put all the implements that came in contact with the blood in a plastic bag.
Quickly exiting my flat, I reached my car in the driveway and stuffed the plastic bag and the note in the plastic sandwich bag into my briefcase. My eyes briefly fell on the envelope but I dismissed it from my mind - there were far more important matters at hand.
Exiting my car, I went back into my house and dialled the police.
"Hello, emergency services? What service can I get you?"
"Police, please."
"What's the nature of the incident?"
"Murder." Most foul? I pondered to myself. Definitely.
"Hold the line, please." A brief second pause and then, "Can you please state your address?"
"Yes, it's 42 Forrest Crescent."
"Can you tell me what has happened?"
"Someone was murdered in my house. Not by me but I came back from work and found him dead here. Please can you send someone round?”
END OF PART ONE
That was very good. I'm intrigued, so hurry up and write the next part.
Looking forward to Part Two. Nicely done, you are very modest.
Yeah, I've got to actually pull my finger out and write the next part. I have a lot notions on how the story should progress but more research will be needed.
Well written as always. I've always tried to avoid crime because of the complexity of evidence gathering/avoiding and the potential for plot-holes, but it looks like you've done enough research on your subject to at least look like you know what you're talking about.
Murder most excellent.
Murder most excellent.
My storytelling skills aren't great but here's part one I whipped up a while ago. You might have seen it before - I can't remember whether I've posted it or not. It's quite slow going as well. You've been warned.
An Absence Of Fear - Part One
So it all boiled down to this one moment in time. It's funny how life does that; one minute you're on top of the world thinking nothing on earth can touch you, the next you're staring down the barrel of a gun...and you want to pull the trigger. What could have caused such a radical turnabout in such a comparatively short space of time? Maybe I should start at the beginning, which isn't a beginning at all but serves the purpose of enlightening you about my plight.
I've never been too ambitious in life - ambition creates a vacuum of resentment and sullen envy among your peers. It overshadows your life lurking like an overbearing, suffocating blanket, threatening to pull you down lest you have ideas above your station. I was content with a nine to five job, endlessly travelling to my workplace like another automaton in the great wheel of life.
I work in a small city, for a small publisher. My day consists of endless proof reading of drafts; the kind of repetitive monotony that you can lose yourself in. I've been a great stickler for routine; getting up at 7.00am, showering, grabbing the customary cup of coffee and then getting into my car (a Ford, to be exact) and driving to work. I arrive at precisely 8.30am and I sit down to read the morning paper. But this isn't an account of my working day. More of an insight into the effects of the turbulence that have caused me to be here racked with anguish and despair at the actions I have taken. The actions that have spurred me onto this moment in time.
One blustery, torpid day, I left work with a new draft in my briefcase. It was remarkably different from the standard plethora of scientific journals and non-fiction that was customary in my job; for one, it wasn't typed. It was hand-written. A long sweeping antiquated script had garnished the envelope that was on my desk this morning. It bore my name in the top left corner: "To Mr A. Kameron."
Of course, I'm a busy man at work and I had no more time to give it my attention, not when my boss was waiting for the final draft of two manuscripts I was perusing. I placed it to one side and promptly forgot about it having devoted my time to the rest of my work. It was a busy day and when I finally managed to exit the building, nodding to the guard at reception by way of a formal greeting, I was hungry and eager to get back to the relative peaceful sanctuary of my quiet suburban house. I got into my car and threw my briefcase onto the passenger seat. After gunning the engine, I switched onto classic FM and my car slowly pulled away and entered the stream of traffic, resembling a snail convention on a cold wintry morning. I reached my house without any major incidents, apart from the youth tooting his horn with wild abandon to every driver who didn't live up to his "standard" of driving and the cyclist who combined hurtling along both the road and pavement in her reckless journey to her destination. In short it was a typical return to my humble abode.
I entered my house and walked to the kitchen, flicking the hallway light on for better navigation. After switching the kettle on I treaded heavily to the lounge while kicking off my shoes...and stopped dead in my tracks. A smell of urine and the pungent odour of faeces hit my nose. It was a rank and abhorrent stink that confused me until I had shoved the door fully open. Hoisted from the lounge ceiling (I idly noticed the cracks along the ceiling forming a shattered effect on the once immaculate artexing and joining at the epicentre where the source of the break had occurred) with a slick black type of rope attached to the light fixture, was the security guard from work. I felt a sudden rush of air in my head, as if all the oxygen being sent to my brain had been suddenly cut off and a high pitch keening sound emitted from my rasping throat. Staggering to one side I collapsed against the wall and felt my stomach muscles heaving as I dry retched in pain. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I grimaced at the sight of the dead body slowly spinning from my ceiling, an expression of such horrifying malevolence on his purple, ruptured face that I felt scared just to be there. His bluish hands were swollen and his tongue was nearly black. One arm hung limply down his side with a blood-covered hand clutching a piece of paper in a clasp that only the symptoms of rigor mortis could convey. The other hand was wedged in against his neck with a finger jammed into the minute gap between the side of his neck and the strange black rope as if he thought to gain some kind of respite in the final throes of death and had failed where no one had succeeded.
It was the first time I had witnessed a dead body in the flesh, so to speak. Other viewing of corpses in newspapers and the news had evoked a feeling of detachment - it wasn't in front of you, therefore it couldn't affect you. But what I felt at this moment in time was a profound revulsion coupled with a sickening realisation that there is no glory in death, only the final ignominy of your corpse being discovered in a situation that you shouldn't have been in. A grotesque parody of death where the freakish abnormalities of your corpse are highlighted for the world to see and witness, much to your unknowing derision. An undignified end to a life when you expected to pass away in a less violent and more serene manner. As I witnessed the twisting corpse dangling in front of me, the thought hit me suddenly like a sledgehammer blow.
"How did he get here and why?" I murmured to myself as I recalled greeting him on the way home from work. As I made my way to the landline to phone the police I pondered a vague thought that was skittering on the edge of my thoughts. My hand trembled as I dialled 999 and I made a mental note not to disturb anything...and then I slammed the phone down before I heard a voice on the other end. I don't know what prevented me from doing speaking to the police, moreover it was the feeling that something wasn't quite right. There was no evidence of a forced entry and the victim was not related to me, insofar that he was just someone I recognised from work. Rather like someone you passed in the corridor and noticed but never got to know because you existed in different circles. Startled, I realised I was analysing the whole situation coldly and without a modicum of emotion. But, for some reason I didn't care. I carefully shuffled to the lounge and studied the dead man in front of me, my eyes taking in all the details and finally resting on the torn scrap of paper in his swollen podgy fingers. It was heavily stained with blood and, perhaps urine as well. There was no doubt that he had soiled himself in the final last agonising moments of life and the stink made me wrinkle my nose in disgust. I crept forward toward his body with slow, precise movements. I was very quiet and felt as if I was trespassing - as if the overweight lumpy security guard would awaken a fixed me with accusing eyes as I slowly prised the slip of paper from his fingers. It was harder than I thought it would be; in films you always saw the clue easily taken from the hand of the victim eventually leading to the killer's demise but it took me a good ten minutes before I finally managed to withdraw the bloody scrap of paper. I felt a wave of guilt pass over me as I realised this was akin to stealing from the dead. Quickly striding to the kitchen I decided to wash the blood off my hands. Knowing about the thorough measures in forensics these days (I had proofed enough books on the subject) I needed to find a way to make sure no trace of blood was left anywhere but the lounge. My experience of serology was fairly limited but adequate for the purpose. Deftly washing my hands I grabbed a towel from the rail and wiped them vigorously. Next I took a sandwich bag and placed the note into the bag - there was no need to read it now, I thought to myself coldly. My actions chilled me to the core but I was intrigued. I feverishly tried to recall the tests the police take to check for any residues of blood. As far as I knew there were two main tests for blood apart from checking for visible signs of it.
The first was the Kastle-Meyer Colour Test, which uses a solution of phenolphthalein and hydrogen peroxide on a piece of filtered paper. When any quantity of blood is present it turns pink. Silently marvelling the bonuses of my photographic memory that constantly amazed my work colleagues, I remembered that the paper also turns pink when in the presence of potatoes. Grinning to myself I grabbed a couple of potatoes and placed them on the draining board, next to the sink. That should sate any policeman's appetite, I ruefully reckoned.
There was nothing I could do about the other test apart from scrub away every possible trace of the guard's blood. Luminol is the chemical that is sprayed across the scene because it makes blood luminescent. It glows a faint blue colour. I scrubbed the sink repeatedly and put all the implements that came in contact with the blood in a plastic bag.
Quickly exiting my flat, I reached my car in the driveway and stuffed the plastic bag and the note in the plastic sandwich bag into my briefcase. My eyes briefly fell on the envelope but I dismissed it from my mind - there were far more important matters at hand.
Exiting my car, I went back into my house and dialled the police.
"Hello, emergency services? What service can I get you?"
"Police, please."
"What's the nature of the incident?"
"Murder." Most foul? I pondered to myself. Definitely.
"Hold the line, please." A brief second pause and then, "Can you please state your address?"
"Yes, it's 42 Forrest Crescent."
"Can you tell me what has happened?"
"Someone was murdered in my house. Not by me but I came back from work and found him dead here. Please can you send someone round?”
END OF PART ONE
An Absence Of Fear - Part One
So it all boiled down to this one moment in time. It's funny how life does that; one minute you're on top of the world thinking nothing on earth can touch you, the next you're staring down the barrel of a gun...and you want to pull the trigger. What could have caused such a radical turnabout in such a comparatively short space of time? Maybe I should start at the beginning, which isn't a beginning at all but serves the purpose of enlightening you about my plight.
I've never been too ambitious in life - ambition creates a vacuum of resentment and sullen envy among your peers. It overshadows your life lurking like an overbearing, suffocating blanket, threatening to pull you down lest you have ideas above your station. I was content with a nine to five job, endlessly travelling to my workplace like another automaton in the great wheel of life.
I work in a small city, for a small publisher. My day consists of endless proof reading of drafts; the kind of repetitive monotony that you can lose yourself in. I've been a great stickler for routine; getting up at 7.00am, showering, grabbing the customary cup of coffee and then getting into my car (a Ford, to be exact) and driving to work. I arrive at precisely 8.30am and I sit down to read the morning paper. But this isn't an account of my working day. More of an insight into the effects of the turbulence that have caused me to be here racked with anguish and despair at the actions I have taken. The actions that have spurred me onto this moment in time.
One blustery, torpid day, I left work with a new draft in my briefcase. It was remarkably different from the standard plethora of scientific journals and non-fiction that was customary in my job; for one, it wasn't typed. It was hand-written. A long sweeping antiquated script had garnished the envelope that was on my desk this morning. It bore my name in the top left corner: "To Mr A. Kameron."
Of course, I'm a busy man at work and I had no more time to give it my attention, not when my boss was waiting for the final draft of two manuscripts I was perusing. I placed it to one side and promptly forgot about it having devoted my time to the rest of my work. It was a busy day and when I finally managed to exit the building, nodding to the guard at reception by way of a formal greeting, I was hungry and eager to get back to the relative peaceful sanctuary of my quiet suburban house. I got into my car and threw my briefcase onto the passenger seat. After gunning the engine, I switched onto classic FM and my car slowly pulled away and entered the stream of traffic, resembling a snail convention on a cold wintry morning. I reached my house without any major incidents, apart from the youth tooting his horn with wild abandon to every driver who didn't live up to his "standard" of driving and the cyclist who combined hurtling along both the road and pavement in her reckless journey to her destination. In short it was a typical return to my humble abode.
I entered my house and walked to the kitchen, flicking the hallway light on for better navigation. After switching the kettle on I treaded heavily to the lounge while kicking off my shoes...and stopped dead in my tracks. A smell of urine and the pungent odour of faeces hit my nose. It was a rank and abhorrent stink that confused me until I had shoved the door fully open. Hoisted from the lounge ceiling (I idly noticed the cracks along the ceiling forming a shattered effect on the once immaculate artexing and joining at the epicentre where the source of the break had occurred) with a slick black type of rope attached to the light fixture, was the security guard from work. I felt a sudden rush of air in my head, as if all the oxygen being sent to my brain had been suddenly cut off and a high pitch keening sound emitted from my rasping throat. Staggering to one side I collapsed against the wall and felt my stomach muscles heaving as I dry retched in pain. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I grimaced at the sight of the dead body slowly spinning from my ceiling, an expression of such horrifying malevolence on his purple, ruptured face that I felt scared just to be there. His bluish hands were swollen and his tongue was nearly black. One arm hung limply down his side with a blood-covered hand clutching a piece of paper in a clasp that only the symptoms of rigor mortis could convey. The other hand was wedged in against his neck with a finger jammed into the minute gap between the side of his neck and the strange black rope as if he thought to gain some kind of respite in the final throes of death and had failed where no one had succeeded.
It was the first time I had witnessed a dead body in the flesh, so to speak. Other viewing of corpses in newspapers and the news had evoked a feeling of detachment - it wasn't in front of you, therefore it couldn't affect you. But what I felt at this moment in time was a profound revulsion coupled with a sickening realisation that there is no glory in death, only the final ignominy of your corpse being discovered in a situation that you shouldn't have been in. A grotesque parody of death where the freakish abnormalities of your corpse are highlighted for the world to see and witness, much to your unknowing derision. An undignified end to a life when you expected to pass away in a less violent and more serene manner. As I witnessed the twisting corpse dangling in front of me, the thought hit me suddenly like a sledgehammer blow.
"How did he get here and why?" I murmured to myself as I recalled greeting him on the way home from work. As I made my way to the landline to phone the police I pondered a vague thought that was skittering on the edge of my thoughts. My hand trembled as I dialled 999 and I made a mental note not to disturb anything...and then I slammed the phone down before I heard a voice on the other end. I don't know what prevented me from doing speaking to the police, moreover it was the feeling that something wasn't quite right. There was no evidence of a forced entry and the victim was not related to me, insofar that he was just someone I recognised from work. Rather like someone you passed in the corridor and noticed but never got to know because you existed in different circles. Startled, I realised I was analysing the whole situation coldly and without a modicum of emotion. But, for some reason I didn't care. I carefully shuffled to the lounge and studied the dead man in front of me, my eyes taking in all the details and finally resting on the torn scrap of paper in his swollen podgy fingers. It was heavily stained with blood and, perhaps urine as well. There was no doubt that he had soiled himself in the final last agonising moments of life and the stink made me wrinkle my nose in disgust. I crept forward toward his body with slow, precise movements. I was very quiet and felt as if I was trespassing - as if the overweight lumpy security guard would awaken a fixed me with accusing eyes as I slowly prised the slip of paper from his fingers. It was harder than I thought it would be; in films you always saw the clue easily taken from the hand of the victim eventually leading to the killer's demise but it took me a good ten minutes before I finally managed to withdraw the bloody scrap of paper. I felt a wave of guilt pass over me as I realised this was akin to stealing from the dead. Quickly striding to the kitchen I decided to wash the blood off my hands. Knowing about the thorough measures in forensics these days (I had proofed enough books on the subject) I needed to find a way to make sure no trace of blood was left anywhere but the lounge. My experience of serology was fairly limited but adequate for the purpose. Deftly washing my hands I grabbed a towel from the rail and wiped them vigorously. Next I took a sandwich bag and placed the note into the bag - there was no need to read it now, I thought to myself coldly. My actions chilled me to the core but I was intrigued. I feverishly tried to recall the tests the police take to check for any residues of blood. As far as I knew there were two main tests for blood apart from checking for visible signs of it.
The first was the Kastle-Meyer Colour Test, which uses a solution of phenolphthalein and hydrogen peroxide on a piece of filtered paper. When any quantity of blood is present it turns pink. Silently marvelling the bonuses of my photographic memory that constantly amazed my work colleagues, I remembered that the paper also turns pink when in the presence of potatoes. Grinning to myself I grabbed a couple of potatoes and placed them on the draining board, next to the sink. That should sate any policeman's appetite, I ruefully reckoned.
There was nothing I could do about the other test apart from scrub away every possible trace of the guard's blood. Luminol is the chemical that is sprayed across the scene because it makes blood luminescent. It glows a faint blue colour. I scrubbed the sink repeatedly and put all the implements that came in contact with the blood in a plastic bag.
Quickly exiting my flat, I reached my car in the driveway and stuffed the plastic bag and the note in the plastic sandwich bag into my briefcase. My eyes briefly fell on the envelope but I dismissed it from my mind - there were far more important matters at hand.
Exiting my car, I went back into my house and dialled the police.
"Hello, emergency services? What service can I get you?"
"Police, please."
"What's the nature of the incident?"
"Murder." Most foul? I pondered to myself. Definitely.
"Hold the line, please." A brief second pause and then, "Can you please state your address?"
"Yes, it's 42 Forrest Crescent."
"Can you tell me what has happened?"
"Someone was murdered in my house. Not by me but I came back from work and found him dead here. Please can you send someone round?”
END OF PART ONE