God damn the guts and the gore.
I know what you are thinking. This smacks too much of a classic English detective story. Something is about to come up in a quiet community. Big house, small town. Rich people, sick people. Adultery, unrequited love. Guests coming over for Christmas. All is set up for a spectacular showdown involving no other than Hercule Poirot.
Except I’m not Agatha Christie. And it will not happen like that. Cyanide is too romantic for 2014. It might be brutal and dull. Stabbing in the dark, blood on the white carpet, nightmares for a few years to come.
Today I had a walk around our place. The weather was miserable, the sort of December that looks like a particularly tragic November. Freezing and wet. I put my coat on, I put my mittens on (yes, I’m one of those girls who wear mittens) and I went outside. The plan was to smoke a few and get my thoughts in order. You see, earlier in the morning I got another message from Eric in which he mentioned that Hilda and Tom are presently at each other’s throats. To give you some perspective, I thought there was more chance of a volcano eruption in Liverpool. You should have seen these two talking, reading, looking at each other. Both over fifty. “Aunt Hilda is threatening a divorce”.
Holding a cigarette, my hand got numb from the cold. But my head was spinning faster than these birds I shot in a nearby street with a fuzzy effect that makes them look ragged and unreal:
In the street, someone called out: “Marie? Is that you?” I recognised the voice, screamed silently and ran all the way home.
At home, I was unnecessarily pleasant and friendly with parents. We talked about Christmas tree. We talked about Christmas presents. We talked about Christmas menu. And I stuffed three, four, five tangerines inside my dry, wicked mouth.
Tomorrow is the day of the big revelation. I will tell you how I learned about the murder that is about to happen in my house on the 24th of December.
P.S. 11 days.