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Chapter Three


13.

She doesn’t care either.  She’s duty-bound to know my story, and she keeps cutting me off.  Apparently she has a strategy.  I’m going to be in court first thing tomorrow regardless of anything, so the best thing I can do is give a ‘no comment’ interview and a not guilty plea when I’m in the dock.  That will buy them time.  I will no doubt be refused bail – accused murderers rarely get bail, I know that – but there will be applications put in every week, as she thinks she can prove I’m not at risk of absconding or re-offending, and I would be on bail within weeks.  I would just need to hang on in there.

            I’m in the best possible hands, apparently. 

            If the best possible hands won’t listen to what I have to say, and can treat this as anything but the worst thing that has ever happened to me, then I’m pretty fucked.

            No comment?

            All I want to do is comment.

            I want someone to talk to me, not at me.  To listen to me and hear the absolute truth, yet I’m stuck in London away from anyone I hold dear, not knowing if they even know, or whether they care right now.  What do they think?  What do they want to know?  Will they blame me?

            I’ve had lots of thinking time and I’m done with thinking now.  I’m beginning to think that the first person to hear my story will be my cellmate – whoever he may be. 

            “I want to go back to my cell,” I interject.  Michelle looks startled, but she knows what she’s doing and right now she really doesn’t need me there, and listening to her outline the next few months of my life is of no benefit to me.  I lost interest in her the moment she told me I wouldn’t get the opportunity to speak tonight. 

            “I still have things to explain to you,” she protests.

            “I want to go back to my cell,” I repeat, looking straight through her and directly at the policeman that has been stood there, waiting patiently.  Within seconds I am out of there and being led back to my cell to be left alone with my thoughts, rattling around enclosed inside the shit and piss stained walls.  I have to contain my truth.  She’s pissed off with me – I can’t imagine she appreciates uncooperative clients, but I really couldn’t give a damn.

            All I want is someone to talk to, but there appears to be no-one willing to listen.  It’s bubbling inside me, this story.  My reasons are clear to me only and the more I consider them, the more I am abstracted from them.  With repeated, non-vocal rehearsal, I am beginning to question myself and the answer seems to be crazy.  That is the beginning of the end for me, if I don’t even believe myself.  I can’t hold it in.

            “He was my stalker,” I tell the policeman.  “If he wasn’t dead, I would be.”

            I’ve started now, so I have to finish.             

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