Crime

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TO BE WED

I said to her as she came out of the shower that night: ‘To be wed is to be obstinately attached to another.’
She was agitated and didn’t immediately see the joke, but eventually she laughed, and it seemed a release and every emotion poured out of her as I held her in my arms.
It was the night before our wedding – and the culmination, I suppose, of that present phase of life. From now on there’d only be the two of us, which seems an obvious statement considering our wedding, but it meant much more to us.
We had met, it seems, soon after we were born. Our mothers knew each other, and together with Billy’s mom, formed a deep friendship. So it was obvious that my love and I would be friends – with Billy.
Oh, damn you, Billy! Damn you to hell!!!
As kids I did, of course, play with Billy a lot. I hadn’t fallen in love with her yet, and she remained on the periphery of the bonding of two boys. Later, when I put my football away and thought of girls, the relationship of the group changed. Billy was suddenly an unwelcome complication I could do without.
We had fights a lot then, but I thought it was just boys being boys. I never realized he had such a deep longing.
She made it clear to me how Billy felt when he started pestering her. She shouted the fact at me over and over again so I’d get it into my thick head. You see, until then I didn’t understand the complications of the human mind, and words like ‘stalker’ were alien to me.
Well, he certainly became a stalker. At times he hounded her. I tried to stop him, with words, with violence, but nothing seemed to work. And then, when we announced we were to be married …
Well, it was obvious he had gone over the edge, and something had to be done …

It was the night before the wedding. I cleaned the knife, weighted it and threw it in the river. The body I hid as best I could. And it wasn’t until he was dying that I realized he had maybe not loved her at all. Could I have been so wrong about that look?
Still, my love eventually worked through her emotional tirade and pointed out that at last I was no longer wedded to him – no longer obstinately attached to another. It had been annulled.
And the next day we were married. But I could still imagine the blood on her hand.

© Anthony North, September 2008

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HANDYMAN

‘Look what I can do with my hands,’ said Jimmy when he was a kid. And there he was, making gestures from the funny to the obscene. And later, when he found a new use for his hands, he’d supplement it by pulling girls’ pigtails. He never really grasped the deeper impulses of what he was doing.
I suppose that’s why, later, he used his hands to become a bully, hitting out, declaring I’m the big guy around here. He was challenged once when someone else used their hands, but Jimmy settled that score in a dark alley, using his hands to hold the baseball bat.
Using his hands was the making of Jimmy. Not in the way it should – he never used them to be a carpenter, or builder, or anything useful – but to perfect how to break into that house, how to mug someone fast, and occasionally using his feet to get away.
When he met the love of his life, he used his hand more gently – until she decided she had a life and opinions of her own. That’s when he started using his hands to batter her.
Of course, she eventually had enough, and she used her mouth to tell the police everything about him. He used his hands to escape when they tried to arrest him, laying three of them out before making it back to seek revenge.
That’s when he used his hands to throttle her – which was nearly the end of the story of Jimmy. Except that something strange happened to him and he used his hands one more time – to pull the trigger and blow his brains out.
Well, I say brains, but that was the problem with Jimmy. Always his hands. Never his head.

© Anthony North, November 2008

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A TRADITIONAL WAY

I never wanted to be there. They just never understood that simple fact. Why can’t they get it?!!!
When I woke up that morning I knew something had to give – after all, it always does. I’m not up to this life, you see. Responsibility and such things just don’t come into it – and I’ve been like this most of my life. And now, in my 50s, I’ve no desire to change.
So I got up, washed, dressed, went to a cafe for breakfast and just stewed all day.
We all have our routines, you see – our traditions. And they are part and parcel of how your life has been lived. And I’m no different. And living here just isn’t for me.
What do I know of paying bills, of being sociable? And then there’s the time of year to take into account. Christmas – when the traditions are even more important.
So it was inevitable I would do it. It was inevitable I would pick up that brick and smash the shop window, and pretend to steal things, and then sit around waiting.
Well, I’m back home now, comforted by the bars. It’s where I traditionally belong.

© Anthony North, December 2008

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BEHIND THE CURTAIN

I wish my brother would visit. But he can’t.
Circumstances, see.
I’d got myself into trouble. It was my own fault. I remember thinking about it in the shower that night. It had begun as a simple business deal, but some businessmen are not all they seem. And to cut a long story short, the deliveries I received turned out to be heroin.
Of course, I tried to get out of the deal, but they weren’t having that. And the blackmail began. If I didn’t continue, they’d ruin me. I tried again a short time later, and this time they threatened my brother. And if I still complained, well – it was the end for me.
It was inevitable I’d go a bit paranoid, I suppose. And there I was in the shower. I used to enjoy my showers, but now the only image in my head was of people behind the curtain with knives, and I’d end up like the girl in Psycho.
Well, that night I saw the shadow behind the curtain. But I was prepared. I picked up the knife I always kept by my side and lunged through the curtain, knife held ready.
I wish my brother would visit. But he can’t.

© Anthony North, December 2008

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HOW LOUD THEY ARE

The voices are getting increasingly loud.
I don’t like them. They chatter incessantly. They tell me things I don’t want to know. About myself. About others. And I don’t want to hear it. I don’t!
They won’t stop. Once they start, they build and build to a cacophony of noise. They take many forms, the voices – but they speak with a single cause. They single out a single cause, a single task, a single journey I must make – and my conscience begins to run.
I like it when they go. It is peacefulness. I can live with that peacefulness, that tranquillity, even though I know the voices will come again.
They are reaching their crescendo now, urging me on, and the last hope of fighting them vanishes, and I wonder where the knife came from.
Outside, I walk, without direction, but purposefully, and I spy a woman …
Afterwards I go home for tea.
And tranquillity.

© Anthony North, January 2009

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BOILING MAD CHEF

Chef was not happy, and to be fair, you could hardly blame him. The hotel manager had called the police, and when they arrived, he had put it thus:
‘This is the fourth kitchen porter we’ve lost since he’s been here. But according to this one, he threatened to cut him up and boil him.’
The police were, of course, skeptical. After all, chefs will be chefs, and they weren’t exactly known for placid behaviour. But when it was discovered that the other three had disappeared without trace, the case took on a new urgency.
‘You cannot be serious’ Chef had said as he stirred the big, bubbling vat. But indeed they were. And as they emptied the contents and took it away for analysis, the manager commented further on the complaints of chewy meat of late.
Chef was, of course, cleared. No human remains were found, and the police and the manager felt suitably stupid.
And so they should, thought the Chef as he picked up the phone. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said to the suppliers, ‘a new deep fat frier. Large.’

© Anthony North, August 2008

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THE DETECTIVE’S CLUB

The great detectives entered the club room separately. First came Poe’s great Dupin, followed by the genius that was Sherlock Holmes, and once the small, bespectacled priest had arrived, the other’s bid Father Brown welcome.
Depositing their assorted sticks, umbrella and other devices by the hat stand, they sat and waited for the maid to provide drinks. As to why they were there, they had no idea at that point. But once the maid had opened the door to the ante-room, and dropped her tray as she issued a scream, they knew their purpose was clear.
They stood around the body on the floor – noticed the blood from the deep head wound. Each one took in the whole scene, went through various scenarios in their head, and as they questioned the hysterical maid, only one possible answer came to mind. After all, there was no one else in the building.
They looked at each other suspiciously, hardly daring to think such a thing were possible. But in the end, Holmes could take it no more. ‘It is clear,’ he began, ‘that the culprit is none other than … (all three looked above them as he continued) … Anthony North. He wrote him out!!!’

© Anthony North, August 2008

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A LIFE OF CRIME

Crime is what I’m involved with – it’s as simple as that. This last twenty years it has been my life. But how did I get into it?
Well, in my early adulthood I was at a loose end, not sure what I wanted to do. Everything seemed a gamble, and when ever I tried something new, it turned out only to be temporary. Maybe I was destined to be a drifter, but there wasn’t much purpose in that.
Eventually I met Cat Man Craig, or Cat for short. He was, well, a burglar, and damned good at it, too. No matter how secure a householder thought his house was, Cat knew they’d omitted something, and he always found it.
So, I got to talking with him – spoke about the ‘buzz’ that I wanted in my life – and he agreed to take me on the job he was planning.
I must admit, as we gained entry, and searched the darkened rooms, I had the buzz. And as we finished the job and Cat went home, I knew, from that moment on, this was the life for me. Sadly, though, as I took the police straight to his stash, it was the end for Cat.
I enrolled the next day – made detective in no time at all …
Yep, crime is what I’m involved with – it’s as simple as that.

© Anthony North, July 2008

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THE APPEARANCE OF THINGS

A good action movie needed its shadowy villain. The director knew that. And he also knew the best ideas were taken from the every day things he observed.
His mind’s eye drifted back to that very morning. He was exciteable. It was the last day of filming, and it always had an effect on him. Indeed, he was lucky to have got to this stage. Powers high up in the movie business did not want this film made. And okay, there was editing, marketing, and much more yet to do, but he felt good it would be a success.
But all these thoughts had affected him that morning. And he was becoming increasingly paranoid as he saw the car following him, and later, the shadow.
He sat there, thinking what to do, ideas flashing through his mind …

The shadowy figure in the car knew he had a job to do. And as the car he was following pulled up outside the parking lot, he acted quickly but stealthily. His target had to be stopped. This he knew. And he was being paid big money to do it.
The target was walking, now. There were people around, a youngster playing by the road, a couple talking outside the laundry, and as the target walked passed the trellis at the side of the gate, he knew it was time to act …

The Director saw it all before him. The shadowy figure, the appearance of normality, but knowing this was defective. Intention showed on the man’s face as he walked from behind the trellis, smiled and raised the gun.
A moment’s silence and then the two shots rang out.
The director’s eyes bulged. Everyone around him waited, silenced by the scene. Until finally, he said: ‘Cut! Okay, that’s a wrap.’

The Director felt good as he left the party after the end of filming. He had had the idea for the sudden appearance of the gunman when he saw a shadowy figure behind the trellis by the gate that morning. And as he passed through the gate once more, he had just a second to notice it again before the gunman appeared. And as the gun fired, he liked the irony that he’d just filmed his own death.

© Anthony North, July 2008

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SUSPECTS A’PLENTY

To say her behaviour was inappropriate was an understatement, but I loved her. And to discover her body, in our house, strangled like that …
The police discovered me in quite a state. The DI in charge of the investigation did what he could to comfort me, but it was an impossible task. And anyway, I had no alibi, so I could see that he was treating me as a suspect. Indeed, it was only when they looked into my wife’s past that suspicion was removed – that, and my obvious distraught state.
I did, of course, know of three of her lovers, but the fourth was even a shock to me. But which one was the killer, the DI had no idea.
‘It’s not good enough,’ I stormed after two weeks, with no clear suspect.
‘I understand how you feel,’ the DI said, ‘but they all have a motive, and none of them have an alibi. Any one of them could have done it, and working out which is a tall order.’
Even the only witness proved of no use. She had spied a man approach the house at the right time wearing a black coat, but no such coat was found – nor the ring that had been taken off her finger; an obvious trophy of the killing.
I turned to drink after that interview, and for days on end I would drink myself into a stupor. One night, I caused trouble in a pub and the police were called. Luckily, the DI was in the station at the time, and he smoothed things out for me – gave me a warning, nothing more.
‘I know how you feel,’ he said, ‘but this isn’t the answer.’
‘Well I’m going to find the killer myself!’ I shouted as I left.
Two days later I was back. I’d broken into one of the suspects’ flat, searched the place, but was disturbed.
‘I can’t keep bailing you out like this,’ the DI said. ‘One more thing, and I’m going to have to nick you.’
The drink increased, and so did my determination. And it was in the flat of the second suspect …

‘Get to his flat,’ I told the DI from, my mobile, ‘now!’ And I told him where to look.
They got there quick, took the shortcut in their determination to act on my information. And sure enough, they found the coat and the ring under the floorboards.
Well, that was three months ago now, the man in prison, refused bail, waiting for the trial. And it seemed such a perfect crime, even waiting so long to plant the evidence. But the thing that made it such a perfect crime was the one thing that meant it couldn’t be.
My behaviour. You see, I’m not really a killer, and what the police took as grief was really the guilt that would disclose the real killer in the end.
And when will that be? Most likely when the neighbours notice the smell and break down the door to find my corpse swinging from the rope, this confession on the floor beside me.

© Anthony North, July 2008

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FUTURE PROSPECTS GOOD

She sat at the table and felt good. The room was perfect. Just the two of them. Expensive – just as she was used to. And as she poured the champagne, she knew her life was going to be good from now on.
How different it had been only a couple of weeks ago. Married into money, she seemed to have the perfect lifestyle, but the slight problem of her not loving her husband made her indifferent. Hence, the affairs – lots of them. Which is where HE had come in.
‘So I pay up, or you expose me,’ she had said when he showed her the photos. Of course, she wouldn’t have minded, if not for the money. But she just couldn’t give that up.
…
He felt guilty after that first approach. At first he could see no reason for it. After all, he was a professional blackmailer – had a whole file on this type of woman, the easy pickings. But this one was different.
Maybe it was her looks. Yet he had blackmailed beautiful women before. So it soon dawned on him that he was maybe falling in love with her.
And she sensed it, too. Even though he was a blackmailer, she handed over that first payment with a kiss. And it felt so right …
…
She sipped from her champagne, smiled seductively, and he held her gaze. ‘So we’re agreed?’ she said.
He replied in the affirmative. Future prospects were good, he knew. And it seemed strange, as he laid down his file between them, that this was both a business meeting and a declaration of their future life together, in love.
She felt a buzz at the prospect of her becoming a blackmailer. The money would continue now, she knew that. And as he continued to drink from his glass, she watched as his eyes glazed and he fell from the chair, dead.
She picked up the file, smiled once more, and departed. Now she had a husband to divorce.

© Anthony North, July 2008

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THE COTTAGE ON THE MOOR

You must have heard the rumour? No? So you have no idea what happened here, in this cottage? Well, have I got a feast of a tale for you.
As you can see, the cottage lies many miles from anywhere, and the moors can be bleak at times. But walkers just loved the scenery. Even the fact that so many disappeared did not put them off. And just as they got to the point where they couldn’t shake off the tiredness, they came upon the cottage.
‘Come in, come in,’ the kindly old man would say as he excitedly ran out. ‘You must be starving.’
He lived on his own in the cottage – had done for thirty years, ever since he retired from his hill farm. But every time a stranger came upon the place, the delight between them both was spontaneous. And as the walker entered the cottage, the smell of cooking was delightful.
Seated in the cosy chair by the fire, a huge mug of steaming tea in hand, it seemed like paradise amid the hardship of the moor. And once the huge bowl of stew arrived, the walker would eat greedily until full. And always the question: ‘Are you not eating?’ they’d ask as they watched the kindly old man simply watching them.
‘Oh, I’ll eat later,’ he would always reply.
Usually, this was followed by the walker taking a long sleep. And somehow, as another mug of tea was ready as he awoke, he simply couldn’t raise the energy to leave …
And well, as we now know, they usually never did. Why not, you ask? Well, the immediate reason was the sleeping pills in the tea. But by the time they had been there a month, most were far too fat to do so, anyway.
What’s that, you say? Oh, you’ve guessed it. Yes, our kindly old man turned out to be a killer. And sometimes he’d keep his guests there for months before … well, you know. And we know this because once he was dead, the bones were found underneath the cottage. And, judging from their state, the motive was pretty clear, too.
I guess you can take the man out of the farm, but not the farmer out of the man.

© Anthony North, June 2008

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THE RECONCILIATION

Jones sat facing the two men. His mind appeared somehow blank, as if he really did not want to remember what was about to come. But he knew, deep down, that he must. It was the purpose of the reconciliation, the idea that completion can come from those affected by a crime coming face to face with the perpetrator.
The person on his left remained silent, confusion on his face. It was the man on the right who did all the talking. ‘Do you want me to describe what happened?’ he asked.
Jones replied in the affirmative.
‘The body of the woman was found just off the main street. It wasn’t a frenzied attack, or anything like that. A single blow to the head, and it was over.’
Jones looked at the man on the left. The confusion was being replaced by a look of determination, as if he was trying to think things out.
The man on his right continued: ‘Investigation showed that the victim was being blackmailed after cheating on her husband. She turned the tables on the blackmailer and confronted him – which proved a mistake.’
Jones looked at the pictures of the crime scene spread out before him. Then he looked again at the silent man. Thoughts seemed to rush through his mind at that point, as if confronted with it, all would become clear. Finally, he turned to the therapist on the right. Said: ‘It’s coming back. I remember.’ It had worked, and action and memory had reconciled.
He turned to the man on the left and said ‘sorry’, before bursting into tears of despair.

© Anthony North, June 2008

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AN AVENGING TALE

Ricky’s Story

I think I loved Julie all my life. Looking back, even as kids in school I was always pulling her hair or some other stupidity like that. But it wasn’t until much later that my expressions became more.
Of course, I never realized, at the time, that my mate Wayne’s expressions were similar. I was naïve like that. But what did it matter, anyway? Well, eventually it did. I was old enough to know better – Julie was old enough to know better; even though, as I discovered, see also had a soft spot for Wayne.
But it was me she loved! It was! Until …
A moment of weakness. That’s all it was, she told me. But that was no good for me. She’d been with someone else – and my best mate.
I suppose it’s hard to decide who I hated more, at that time. But my actions were very clear. I took a baseball bat to Wayne’s head.
He recovered. I never killed him or anything. But it was prison for me – and through my actions, it was Julie for Wayne.
Of course, by the time I was released, I’d come to terms with it all – knew I’d lost her, forever. But did Wayne have to taunt me so? What kind of revenge was he after? Or maybe he just wanted me back in prison.
Well, the night they found me with a blooded baseball bat next to an unconscious Wayne once more …

Wayne’s Story

I don’t think I ever saw Ricky as a friend. He was always better than me at everything. He even looked better than me, and I felt I was nothing more than his one man audience – the person to bounce his superiority off – make him feel good. And when he finally won Julie, it was more than I could bear.
Of course, revenge eventually came. And the look on his face when he realized I had spent the night with her. I honestly don’t think he could even imagine I could do a thing like that to him.
The fool. The total fool – and I had had my revenge. For the first time.
I recovered from his beating, and Julie was so incensed with Ricky that she wouldn’t even visit him in prison. She was mine, and no one would take her away from me. Yet, if only she could have looked at me as she had looked at Ricky – shown affection as she had to Ricky. I began to realize I had only half of her.
I suppose that’s why I wanted revenge once more when Ricky came out of prison – why I taunted him so much. And when I woke up in hospital a second time, the pain never bothered me once. After all, he was back where he belonged …

Julie’s Story

Boys will be boys, I suppose. But unfortunately, girls will also be girls. I suppose, as a kid, I liked both Ricky and Wayne equally. After all, there was no understanding of love in those far off days. But as I grew to maturity, I knew Ricky was for me. Oh, I knew Wayne was hurting, but I had to follow my heart.
So why did I sleep with Wayne? Why do we ever do such disastrous things? I suppose in a way I felt pity for him. At least, that’s what I kid myself. But once Ricky had done that to Wayne, I felt there was no going back. He was not the man I thought he was and I hated him.
Of course, I was never fulfilled with Wayne. How could I be after Ricky? And apart from anything else, he was so eaten up inside with jealousy, even once I was his. And when Ricky was released – I told Wayne to stop it – stop the taunts – but would he listen to me?
I began to question everything. I suppose I even began to fall in love with Ricky all over again. And as I did so, I got more and more annoyed with myself. Which, of course, was transferred to Wayne.
Well, I’m finished with Wayne, now, and visiting Ricky regularly in prison. And when he’s out again, that’s it – marriage, kids, the lot. And I’ll always know he’ll love me. He proved that when he took the blooded baseball bat from me, plastered his fingerprints all over it, and told me to run.

© Anthony North, June 2008

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WITNESS TO A GROSS EVENT

Oh, how I wish I’d never taken the short cut home that night. If only I’d stayed with the road – not gone down the path in the dark. But wishes are no use after the event.
How do I describe what I saw? How CAN words be enough?
She was dead, that was plain to see. And how she must have suffered, as the monster attacked her, and then did that …
I don’t remember contacting the police, but they eventually arrived to find me almost comatose by the body. Of course, I was no good as a witness – I’d not really seen anything. At least, not then.
Later, it was a different matter.
How do you sleep once you’ve seen images like that? How can you stop the nightmares?
Many a night I woke up in a cold sweat, screaming, reliving how it must have been for her. And even when awake the images would not disappear.
I suppose, eventually, you get used to them, and they become part of you. But it was a changed me, that was for sure; no longer shrouded by innocence, but in a way, gross, as those images were gross.
They say such an experience affects you for life, and I think that is true, slowly turning your mind, your very being, until the night I deviated from the road. Walked down a path. Waited.
I can stop myself.
I CAN!!

© Anthony North, May 2008

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FRESH IDENTITY

If only I’d known. If only I’d realized the errors of my ways. But we rarely do so before taking the plunge.
I suppose you could call me a fraudster. Computer banking and electronic records were my thing. Ah, the delights it offered for identity fraud. And once you’ve got your mark, you can create a whole fresh identity for yourself. And if you’re really lucky, finding a no hoper, with a life that went almost unrecognized, and found him dead, apparently having committed suicide, and no one knows …
Well, I managed to step into his shadow perfectly – after burying his body, of course.
Such a non-entity he had been.
No one ever recognized him, he had never been in debt, he had no family to become suspicious, and soon my fresh identity was building a new life for itself.
So you can imagine the shock when, six months into my fresh identity, armed police burst into my house, spread-eagled me on the floor, and rushed me in for questioning.
A little extreme, you may think, for simple identity fraud. Well, let this be a warning to all who think they can get away with it in the end. There is always a catch.
And what was mine?
Well, I have a lifetime in prison to ponder it – how total and absolute my success that no one would believe I wasn’t who I had claimed to be. And why, oh why, did I have to pick a murderer on the run?

© Anthony North, May 2008

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FEROCIOUS

She walked up and down the room, treading the carpet. She walked fast, angrily, ferociously.
‘And you just couldn’t resist, could you?’ She never awaited an answer. ‘God, I knew you were unhappy, I knew we had problems, but this?’
Her face was contorted, her good looks turning to something macabre, insane and – yes – so very defiant. ‘I should have guessed.’ An admonishment. ‘All the signs were there.’ A sense of regret – or was it stupidity for not realizing?
Her husband just sat there, staring into space.
‘I gave you everything,’ she continued, her pace quickening, as if there was no time to get to where she wasn’t going.
Maybe that was why, she thought, suddenly. I’m pacing up and down, trying to work it out, but maybe we were just going nowhere.
Her thoughts turned to words: ‘But that doesn’t let you off, you bas …’
Was that the crescendo, cut off in its prime? Was the ferocity of her mood declining?
The time comes. We know it does – when the anger is spent, maybe through sheer tiredness. And this is the point of reunion, of forgiveness, of being carried away on a tide of ecstasy as they make up.
She turned to face him, knelt by him. And as she stared at the knife embedded in his heart, she knew that this time it was final.

© Anthony North, May 2008