"Honestly, I just want to help people."
"I find that hard to believe when you just confessed to five murders."
To be fair, it did seem pretty suspicious.
"Wait, you have to hear me out," I held my hands out, palm up, begging her to listen, to let me tell my story. She sat back in her chair, crossing her legs and waving a hand, as if to say 'go on then'. Grinning, I sat back in my chair, clearing my throat. I do so love storytelling.
I had been ambling along, more of a stroll really, along the river, when a van had pulled up alongside me. A white van, the creepy kind where the windows are mirrored to add to the aesthetic. The window rolled down and I stopped walking, heading over to the van. Their hair fell across their face, obscuring my view of them, but they were obviously lost, who wouldn't help them?
It seems, though, that perhaps getting into the van to help the poor person find their way around the city wasn't a great plan. I mean, it wasn't the best idea, but during our short conversation, I found out that they liked carrot cake as much as I do, so they seemed pretty cool.
They had asked for directions to a specific store, because apparently they had a delivery of sliced bread in the back of the van. Isn't that just the best thing?
There I was, giving them instructions, when they turned the wrong way. I had specifically said straight on, but they turned left. There was no traffic, nothing preventing them from going straight on. I had turned to them, confused, and they had looked over and winked at me. I smiled back, reaching for the door handle, but it was locked. I looked down at the handle, trying it again, and then trying the window, but neither opened. Starting to panic, I turned back to face them, only to catch a glimpse of a club before it connected with a crack against my head, everything going dark as my head lolled forwards.
I woke up on the floor of the empty carpark of a construction site. The site was empty, either the project had been abandoned or work simply wasn't planned for today. I stared at a large yellow vehicle, trying to figure out what it was used for, my head heavy and aching.
"Mornin'," I turned my head, the movement forcing me to blink away stars, and stared up at the van driver. "How are you feeling?"
"Get away from me!" I screamed, pushing myself up onto my elbows in an attempt to shuffle away from them, but a wave of nausea overwhelmed me and I rolled to the side instead, opting to crawl away.
"I'm your worst nightmare and, darling, I've come to reap you," I turned my head to look over my shoulder at them, wondering if they was being serious – the humour in their tone and the grin on their face told me otherwise, but the throbbing of my head stopped me from jumping to conclusions.
It was when they reached into their jacket and pulled out a knife that I turned and started to crawl away as fast as I could, hearing their footsteps approaching on the loose gravel of the carpark.
A burning erupted between my shoulder blades and I screamed as I fell against the floor, my arms giving out beneath me. They ripped the knife out and I screamed again, trying desperately to pull myself away from them, but my arms had given up. I tasted blood in my mouth and felt it start to trickle down my chin as they stood, watching, laughing...
"Let me stop you there."
I looked up at her, angry that she had stopped my flow. I had been at the best part.
"In this job," she sighed, "I get to hear some pretty bad excuses. 'It wasn't me, I was at home' but there's no alibi and there's definite proof they were there. 'She attacked me first', but ten different eyewitnesses say otherwise. This one, I have to say, tops the cake on worst excuses I've ever heard."
Narrowing my eyes, I lifted my hands onto the table, the cuffs clinking against the table as I leant forwards.
"You didn't let me finish, but you've ruined it now," I sneered, her face showing no signs of intimidation. Turning a page on her notepad, she hovered her pen over the page.
"And what would the ending be?"
"It's really quite clever," I grinned, leaning back in my chair, my hands clasping in front of me as I stared at the ceiling with glee. "The big plot twist, is that the story is not from my perspective." I looked at her, waiting for a gasp, for a look of realisation, for anything. But alas, she only looked bored.
"No, it isn't, is it? For one, I don't see a gaping wound in your back." She deadpanned and I slammed my hands down on the table, the sound of the bang bouncing around the room.
"You think you're being funny..."
"What I think," she interrupted me, "is that you are telling the truth, albeit in a roundabout way. You pulled up alongside the river, asking for directions. You knocked out and later killed a man named John O'Doherty, stabbing him between the shoulders and puncturing his lung, watching as he choked on his own blood. You dragged his body to the back of your van, putting him with the previous four. If a passing woman hadn't heard a scream and called the police, you would have left again, to find your sixth victim." She tilted her head to the side. "How's that for a story?"
"It's pretty good, it's lacking a bit of incentive, though," I mused, pursing my lips. "Maybe you should do some revisions, a little editing and then come back and we'll take another look at it." It was her turn to narrow her eyes and she looked about to say something else, but the door behind her opened and another officer walked in. He leant over to whisper something to the officer sat opposite me, who had her eyes on me the entire time.
The officer glanced towards me, a grim look on his face, before leaving as quickly as he had entered. I watched him go, waving at his back, before I turned back to face the woman opposite me.
"How's this for incentive – five men found dead in the back of your van, all five irishmen who worked at the factory that you recently got fired from. Turns out, they were all on the same production line as you. Also, a little bit of information has come to light," she gestured towards the door, telling me that the officer had just told her this, "you used to threaten all five of them and it was their reports against you that lost you your job. All of your threats, it seems, were backed by the fact that they were Irish, a culture you have been prejudiced against since the death of your mother while under the care of an Irish doctor, eight months ago."
She fell silent as I felt my anger seething.
"You dare mention my mother–"
"Furthermore, since we already have evidence of you admitting to the murders, as well as all the evidence that stacks up so nicely against you, the only purpose of this continued interrogation was to get a straight story and I feel like we have completed that task now–"
"I want a lawyer."
"Sweetie," she leaned forwards over the table, "you'd better have a good one."
The anger overcame me and I lunged across the table, screaming at her, the shackles rattling and pulling tight as I tried to move further than I could. She started, leaning back in her chair and pocketing her little notebook, clicking the pen off and standing, straightening her jacket and turning, walking towards the door as I remained, sprawled across the table, shouting profanities after her.
I would get her.
Sitting back in the chair, I cocked my head to the side and started laughing, imaging watching her cough up her own blood and being able to do nothing as her lungs flooded and drowned her.
From the other side of the screen, the footage of the interview was being saved, the notes being put neatly into a file and the interviewer was being handed a cup of coffee.
"How on earth did you get her talking?" someone asked.
"Look at her," the woman pointed and all eyes turned to look at the girl, at the blood staining the ends of her sleeves, on the bottom of her shoes and a streak across her jeans where she had wiped the knife, sat with her head thrown back, laughing, tears rolling down her cheeks.
"She wanted to tell a story, so I let her tell it."
Hello! I'm sorry this is so long, I started and couldn't stop. It also got a lot more complicated than I meant for it to, but that's life I guess.
This is probably incredibly factually incorrect (I have no idea how interrogation works) but I don't really care, it seems like it ended up as a pretty cool little story. Also, the whole 'motive' thing was given no thought at all, which is why it is terrible.
I'm starting to see a theme with these prompted stories, in that they all seem to be quite grim and violent...
Anyways, that's it for now!
Bye!
No comments:
Post a Comment