Short Story Competition #7 Winning Entry

Written by Lauren Cooke

The Story of a wrongly accused gentleman

If you knew Roger Blackwell, then you’d know ‘e wasn’t a murderer. For one thing ‘is ‘ands are too small, with stubby fingers that would ‘ardly fit around a penknife, let alone a nine-inch dagger, and for another his nose is small and upturned – and it’s a well known fact that criminals have big, ‘ooked noses – nothing like our Roger’s.

Of course, just cos he had a bit of a criminal record – you know, disturbing the peace, a bit of Drunk and Disorderly and so on – the police put him down as the killer. It seems a bit of a big jump, from knocking some irritating wanker around in the pub to stabbin’ your bookie with a dagger and writing “Greedy Bastard” on the walls in permanent marker. Naturally, on the night of the killing Roger was down the bookies, with me in fact, losing a few weeks wages on an horse called “Old Timer”, and helping the whole thing down with a nice fag – clearin’ the airways and all that. Roger always said that Kallum – that’s our bookie, see – was a plonker, and why he’d suddenly switch to calling him a “Greedy Bastard” I just dunno.

The police said at first that they was just following up enquiries, or some other shit, but I reckon they ‘ad it in for him from the beginning, ever since Deirdre (that’s his ex-wife, that is) tried to do him for domestic violence. She claimed he’d been hittin’ her around when he came ‘ome from the pub on a Friday, but I know that usually ‘e was legless, and couldn’t barely walk, let alone punch her in the stomach ‘til she miscarried.  Now, don’t pass this on, but his Deirdre’s a nasty piece of work – blond hair cut in one of those bobs, breasts out ‘ere and a walk like a heavily pregnant penguin. She’s much too bossy to have a baby, in my opinion – it would’a meant dirty nappies, sicky shirts and Roger having to give up goin’ down the bookies on a Wednesday – and where would that leave me?

Now, I’ve been watching those crime documentary thingies recently, and it says on there that the killer’s usually a family member – once you’ve done away with the other suspects – the psychotic girlfriend, angry stranger, penniless junkie and cute lookin’ granny. So what I wanna know is why they haven’t checked out Kallum’s parents in Bombay, or wherever that sort a’ person comes from. Just cos they live round the other side of the world don’t mean they’re above hirin’ a hit-man to do over their son on the one day he made any money out of us, therefore conveniently inheritin’ his worldly goods and leavin’ us out of pocket.

Also, I can’t see how Roger would get hold of a dagger anyways. Just because he’s a member of the local Antiques Appreciation club don’t mean that he’s buying knives off of eBay and murdering people with them. Even lovely Deirdre agrees with me on that one – she said the only blade he had – a cheap lookin’ samuri – is stored in the shed, and it’s all rusty. I mean – he doesn’t even have the internet at his house, cos of ‘ow much it costs – my Maxine pays for ours, with her Bingo money.

The worst thing about the police is that they just don’t listen – it’s all, “It must be him” or “Lets kick that murdering bastards ass”. If they just stopped and listened then they’d see that Roger just ain’t the type. Buying sex off those tarts down Flaggern Drive doesn’t make someone wanna kill someone else, does it? Sure, he’d give a call girl a smack if she refused to do what ‘e wanted, you know, something a bit, um, particular, but wouldn’t we all? I’ve been known to give Belinda, that’s the whore down behind those big ware’ouses, a quick punch to teach ‘er a lesson – I mean, if those Serbians or whatever wanna live in our country then they gotta earn some money, ain’t they. That’s another thing, actually – immigrants. Bloody annoyin’, the way they stick their noses into our lives, and take all our jobs and the like. I’ve been on the dole for two years now, with a fuckin’ terrible part-time down the Newsagents, and it’s all cos of them, slimin’ their way into our ‘ouses and our jobs – I used to work in the factory near the Greekin estate, until they came over and stole that. The manager said e’d sacked me cos of a “lack of commitment to the workplace”, but I know that it was cos those Asian bastards are cheaper to pay. He’s obviously going for quantity, not quality, that’s what my Maxine says.

Come to think of it, Kallum down the bookies was one of them too – from Bombay, wasn’t it? I always said to Roger that Kallum oughta be shown what it’s like to be the loser in a fight for your country. I said he oughta go speak to Charles Darshly, that’s the boss of the Bookies, and tell him exactly what’s going on – y’know, how these foreign gits are destroying our culture. Roger was never very keen on the idea – said it was a bit nasty. I think he was shit-scared, but each to ‘is own. I suggested petrol bombing Kallum’s ‘ouse or somethin’, cos I’ve got a mate down the ware’ouses (you know, where Belinda hangs out) who makes them for only five quid a shot. They come with a guarantee, too, so we din’t really have anythin’ to lose. Now I think of it, Roger’s gone a bit soft-‘eaded in the past few months – I think he might be having  a mid-life crisis. Even more reason why he din’t do it – d’ya really think a man who’s gone a bit funny – only drinks a couple of nights a week, has suggested only putting half his wages on the horse at the bookies – would really do someone in? I know ‘e’s had a bit of a past, but ‘e’s never done nothin’ like this – even that little bit of loan sharkin’ he did went down the pan! Course, that was cos he never could remember how much people owed him, so ‘ad to get me to get the money outa them, which I got a bit bored with in the end.

I spose what I’m trying to say is that I know Roger wouldn’t do a thing like that. He just doesn’t have the guts to pull it off. And even though the police have practically thrown away the key, I’ve found the evidence that proves without a shadow of a doubt that he din’t do it. Firstly I’d better explain myself, hadn’t I? I’m not a pervert or nothin’ like that, but I’ve had this camera up in Roger’s room for a while. It’s the internet, see, openin’ up lotsa opportunities and things, and I saw a chance to make some dosh. So I had this camera up in his room, and I recorded what was goin’ on and put all the footage, and suchlike on this website – I called it “Rogerin’ Roger” – witty, eh? And on the night in question, while someone was carvin’ up old Kallum, Roger was up to some mischief with that ex-wife of ‘is – and let me tell you, he’s never hit her that I’ve seen.. So that means that someone else did it, and I can tell you who.

Haven’t you ever wondered why I din’t tell this to the police? Cos then I would have been put away, and Roger would have been able to tell them that I always called Kallum a “Greedy Bastard”, without worrying that I’d do over ‘is mama as a bit of revenge, which I’ve always told ‘im I’d do, if ‘e dobbed me in. And ‘e could tell ‘em that I lost all of my earnings on the night we’re talkin’ bout. That I stole a dagger from the pawn shop down that road, and stabbed him, but that the blood went down the drains so I had to write in permanent marker. And if he’d done that then I would be in prison ‘stead of him, so I couldn’t, see? I just gave Belinda a fiver to tell the coppers that I was shaggin’ her brains out, and I buried the Knife at the end of the garden, wrapped up in my missus’ nighty. Simple, eh? They’ll never know I did it. They’re not even close.

-end-
© Lauren Cooke 2007

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