Dear Ms. (Miss?) Truefitt,
Mr Anderson advised me that it would not be possible to appeal my sentence via post and I have chosen to ignore that advice. Don’t worry – this is not an Angry Letter From A Maniac! It is the most direct and truthful representation of my thoughts and feelings leading up to the event, and I hope you will see fit to recommend my release.
I – like you – am a great Animal Lover. I do not mean this strangely (e.g. sexually). No one was happier about the ducks than me, I assure you. No one. I actually cannot remember being happier.
So I found the way you framed my actions during the trial to be deeply hurtful, and – more than that – a hideous misrepresentation of the truth (not an accusation!). It is not your fault. Mr Anderson’s instructions proved grossly counterproductive, advised as I was to keep schtum re: my sincere motivations and allow him to portray me as mentally unstable(!) It seems unfair that both the prosecution and my defence were determined to prove I am a lunatic.
In light of the above, I include extracts from my diary taken from the period of the ducks, and trust you will conclude I am both sane and not a murderer.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Sunday, May 5th 2013
Day starts miserable. Rain. Unsure if clouds reflect or dictate mood. Went to Alexandra Palace antiques fair. No sign of Lucy. Perhaps goes to different antiques fairs now, or maybe none now with Ian. Perhaps Ian dislikes antiques because borderline antique himself?
Felt awkward not buying anything so bought mug shaped like John Lennon’s head. Not keen on Beatles but feel this is sort of thing people buy. £50, down drain. Sat w/ mug in lap on train home. Looks from people not kind of looks wanted so put mug back in bag.
Rain stopped by time home. Sun streaked sky, which for some reason annoyed. Opened front door to uncanny feeling: something different. Usually silent, this time somehow not. Blips of noise, distant yet joyous. My face like a question mark (I imagine). Sounds like quacking. Quacking? Unusual. Look out of back window.
DUCKS!
Three ducks (mallard) in pond! One a lady! Admit was reluctant to install pond initially, but ultimately impressed w/ own DIY nous when finished. Now look! Three little guys, slicking feathers, bobbing in and out of water like demented seesaws, splashing around in £189 Homebase water feature somebody just had to have (thanks, Lucy). Glad pond finally being enjoyed, albeit not by Lucy.
Mashed up some stale bread in bowl for ducks. Took outside. Ducks anxiously waddle in opposite direction to me, causing mild offence. On bright side, ducks go nuts for crumbs. Fantastic! Helping ducks, but also can get rid of all stale bread. [Don’t worry – I know. See below.] Look forward to becoming relied upon for food/friendship. Fed fish in pond also, which had forgotten to do for week or so.
8pm
Ducks gone. Saddened they feel somewhere they’d rather be, but hopeful will return.
Monday, May 6th 2013
DUCKS BACK! Woke up 10am. Ducks in garden as per yesterday, splashing, dabbling etc. Google search “what ducks eat”, “encouraging ducks to nest”, so forth. Discover should not have been feeding breadcrumbs (low nutritional value, potentially lethal mould). Oops. [N.B. not sure if you checked my internet history during the course of my trial, but I assure you that search terms “duck a la orange” were NOT related to events of this week!]
Went Sainsbury’s, purchased Nature’s Feast brand “High Energy Supreme” bird food (developed in conjunction w/ Centre for Applied Ornithology). Most expensive; wanted best. Many pictures of wild birds on side of packet e.g. Siskins, Finches, Dunnocks, Buntings, Larks, i.e “common garden” birds, but no ducks. Presume most suburban gardens not lucky/good enough to attract ducks, hence no picture.
Place two bowls seed next to pond. Ducks waddle opposite direction from me again, but remind self patience = virtue. Natural and wise for ducks to fear humans. Retreat to patio and ducks quickly descend upon seed. I sit on bench, observe.
Notice interesting colours on man ducks. Feathers on head shiny and two-tone, like oil slick in road beneath boy-racer’s gaudily painted car. Beady brown eye in the middle, like tiny, perfect drain. Notice one man duck has head which is more blue-green, w/ light grey flecks on chest-feathers. Other’s head like green-blue, brown flecks on chest. Decide blue-green will be Barry, green-blue can be Owen. Lady duck brown/grey all over. Seems to get on w/ Barry. She can be Linda.
Definite, literal pecking order. Barry is biggest. Owen and Linda let him eat. Occasionally Barry heads off for stretch or swim or to sit in sun. Then Owen allowed to eat. Then Linda. If Barry returns – quack quack quack! – Owen and Linda scuttle to respectful distance. All ignore second bowl of seed. Amusing. Love these little guys; mucho personality.
8pm
Ducks gone. Wonder where to? Feel confident will return.
Tuesday, May 7th 2013
SIX DUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111111
More than could have hoped! Obviously have caused much chatter in duck community, presume sharing info re: kindly human w/ phenomenal pond + superb taste in bird seed. If growth continues at same rate, could have 768 ducks in garden by this time next week!!
In addition to Barry, Owen, Linda, now also Howard, Errol, Darren. Bit weird three man ducks hanging out together. Hope not gay. Have read about duck proclivities for gang-rape. Hope Howard/ Errol/Desmond not planning to gang-rape Linda. Would prefer if gay.
Initial assumption that BOL (Barry, Owen, Linda) shared info re: me/pond w/ HED (Howard, Errol, Desmond) disproved; definitely two distinct groups. HED kept at bay at other end of garden by BOL, so presume HED must have eavesdropped on conversation re: my garden, and/or followed them here. Slightly sinister.
Put out 4 big bowls seed around garden so all can get a taste. Internet warned against overfeeding so did not put out 6 as originally intended. Ducks again acting hilarious; clear who wears trousers in this garden. Any attempt to approach bowls/pond by HED, Barry and Owen lower heads and charge, like torpedoes, quacking and snapping at tail-feathers of Howard/Errol/Desmond. Funny, but wish all could get on. Sense Linda getting nervous.
Ducks such funny little guys. Bulbous flanks, orange rubbery feet. Look like feathery hot-water bottles, or little electrically-heated pillows (note to self: check if this is a thing. Good idea if not). Tempted to pet. Would be so perfect to hold/stroke in a lap, esp. in colder months. May resist becoming pet in spring/summer/autumn months, but certain would be glad of indoor warmth/intimacy once winter rolls around.
Tried to pet/hold duck. Not keen. Feelings hurt, esp. when have gone out of way to be ultra accommodating. Ducks flew away. Blamed self.
[For the sake of clarity: I would never dream of seizing and holding a duck captive against its will, depriving it of the company of other ducks, but I include the above both in the spirit of leaving these entries unredacted, and to illustrate the immediate depth of feeling I had for these little guys. Why on earth would I want to hurt them? (Answer: I would not.) And they are very hard to catch.]
6pm
Went to top up seed bowls anticipating return tomorrow. Discover huge duck shit in seed bowl. Rude.
Wednesday, May 8th 2013
No ducks. Gloomy again. Sun shines in mocking fashion, illuminating empty garden.
Phone call from mother. Asks if any news, as per. Refrain from saying ducks were in garden; do not want to admit ducks now not in garden. Asks if Lucy OK. I say yes; probably not lie, but secretly hope miserable. Asks me to give love to Lucy. Say I will; feel bad for lying. Say must feed fish and hang up.
1pm
Crow is back. Hopping around edge of pond, pecking at fish. Fetch air rifle, shoot crow in head. Flapping around on grass like spastic mortarboard. Shoot again. Stops flapping. [It feels necessary to point out this was a case of Animal Kindness, not Animal Cruelty. The crow had eaten no fewer than 6 of the smaller (but not inexpensive) Koi Carp during the preceding weeks; it quickly became clear that in order to be the kind to the fish I would have to be somewhat cruel to the crow.]
Moved dead crow to outside hole in compost where fox lives. Hope fox enjoys, as do not believe in senseless murder. Perhaps over time can establish crows/friendship exchange w/ fox.
11pm
Realise have forgotten to feed fish again. Easy to forget when no ducks. Ducks seem like small people, e.g. Ronnie Corbett. Fish seem only like fish. Little to recommend, just cretinous mouths screaming silently into water. Too late now. Will feed tomorrow.
Come back, ducks. All is forgiven.
Thursday, May 9th 2013
Wake up 9am. No ducks. Go back to sleep.
1pm
Terrible nightmare. Dreamt chastised on live TV by David Attenborough re: feeding ducks breadcrumbs. Audience jeer/boo as Attenborough grows pig snout, begins stabbing my guts and oinking. Lucy + Ian laughing/touching inappropriately as I bleed to death on floor of studio. Audience leave after show. Cleaners arrive to sweep studio floor but sweep around body and am not cleaned up. Horrible. Wake up drenched (sweat).
1.30pm
Livid. Look out upstairs window, all six ducks in neighbour’s garden. Lucy + Ian all over again, but worse. Neighbours do not even have pond, just grotesque shed painted like Hansel + Gretel cottage! What have I done to deserve!? Neighbours fawning on patio like dolts, throwing breadcrumbs(!) at ducks, camera phones in twat hands as if have never seen ducks before. Presume smugly patting selves on back re: über-manicured lawn attracting wildlife, i.e. moody husband’s mowing grass 7am every Saturday w/o fail while wife walks alongside hatefully carrying power cable finally serves purpose other than 45mins enforced civility to project image of couple who don’t spend majority of time indoors going for gold in domestic violence Olympics. Notice Errol staring at reflection of self in gaudy chrome sphere water fountain installed on patio. If neighbours not careful Errol will go mad and I will call RSPCA.
Thoughts flash across mind to sneak out middle of night, start blaze in Hansel + Gretel shed. Alternatively, shoot Mr/Mrs Chakrabarti in backs of calves/thighs. When Chakrabartis emit scream could startle ducks back into correct garden. Quickly dispel thoughts; though crimes of passion, would be immoral, also easily traceable back to me.
3.42pm
DUCKS BACK! Ecstatic! Chakrabartis forlorn but would be relieved if aware had dodged literal bullets/arson. Should not have fed breadcrumbs. Ducks clearly happier in tall wilderness this side of fence than neighbours’ pretentious lawn. Should never have doubted Barry, Owen, Linda, Howard, Errol, Desmond. Ducks’ internal satnav obviously awry earlier and can see are relieved now recalibrated.
Immediately go out w/ six bowls and fill to brim w/ Nature’s Feast High Energy Supreme. Appreciate should not overfeed but god knows where have been yesterday and potentially starving. Fed fish also. Ducks wolf NFHES like no tomorrow, quacking w/ joyous abandon, doubtless re: escaping Chakrabartis/receiving legit food via non-amateur duck enthusiast.
Bring pillow outside, lie on bench, listen to gentle quacking. Realise after some time have not had cigarette for hours but feel no need, so relaxed. Call mother from patio on cordless, tell about ducks as if first time in garden. Mother v. excited, asking for photos, but say do not want to upset/confuse ducks w/ technology. Mother says what about cordless? Say good point. Hang up.
Notice whenever make big movement w/ body or attempt approach, ducks become alert/fearful, but if lying still ducks forget presence, go about business as per, remonstrating w/ each other and being mischievous, BOL occasionally charging to drive HED away from prized pond-adjacent territory. Linda even waddles up to patio approx 1 meter away from me! Sits down until I look at her, then flaps wings in panic to lift self briefly over flower bed into pond. Am like God re: humans: subjects ignorant of deity until reminded to fear + struck by sudden urge to behave. Over time, awareness fades and misbehaviour resumes, assuming God’s inactivity = non-existence.
Afternoon becomes evening. Wind lapping gently at face/arms/feet, cooling skin made hot by sun. Warmth remains as sun sinks behind buildings on high street. First time witnessing ducks’ exodus... approx 8pm BOL and HED merge into one group. Unheard of. All 6 suddenly vigilant of fence left side of garden, facing same direction towards setting sun, necks, bodies craning upwards like Indian Runners, as if expect clouds to fall from sky. Silent + still for moment, then all begin crescendo of quack quack quack, culminating in abrupt waddle forward and spreading wings to make selves 3 times original size, flapping to lift improbably from ground, flying in V formation into purple glow of horizon.
This time not sad have gone; feel like witnessed secret ritual unseen by humans. No impetus to move from bench; feel at peace. Decide will sleep al fresco; consider fetch blanket but do not need in sticky night heat. Drift off, hoping to be woken by ducks in formation around bench, as if praying.
Friday, May 10th 2013
Shit. Wake up 9am in rain (no ducks). Soaking, freezing. Phone reminder: sign on @Job Centre 9:30am. Shit. On bus. No time to change/dry. Wet shorts/shirt, hair slicked grimy to face as if covered w/ afterbirth. Woman on bus gives look of disgust. Bad start to day.
12pm
Approx 2hr spent waiting unnecessarily @Job Centre. Did not realise need numbered ticket for service – why if already given appointment time!? Asked why not being called, told must take ticket. Made to feel as if stupid, when they/system = stupid. Take ticket, eventually called 11.30am. Interviewer looks at me as if not surprised don’t have job. Fat, tired-looking man w/glasses + moist upper lip, crammed into swivel chair like coiled slug. Says, quote, I’m not surprised you don’t have a job, if you go out looking like that, unquote. Reply, witheringly: would not sleep outside if I had a job interview.
Interviewer wants book filled w/ evidence jobs looked for. Explain been unable to apply, pressed re: time as been caring for ducks. Says: ducks? Nod. After long pause, say been collecting feathers from garden, possible could start business selling trimmings for hats, special occasions etc.? More pause. Remove number of feathers from pockets to show different types - beautiful blue/green two-tones, grey/brown speckled - but all now matted + mangled by rain/pockets. Interviewer’s disdain becomes pity, feel stupid again but now angry also. Man apologises: if have not filled book cannot give money. Problem. Need funds; running low re: Nature’s Feast High Energy Supreme.
1pm
Get home, still raining. Only Barry, Owen, Linda in garden. Part relieved. Less territorial conflict, also will save money on seed. Notice Barry + Owen seem listless, uninterested in food; only Linda pecking away at NFHES. Nevertheless buoyed by ducks enjoying rain, stretching wings languidly to wash feathers in downpour. Feel as if life lesson here re: making best of bad situation.
Open Internet, look for jobs. Search park attendant/zookeeper jobs. Find only 2, both req. experience. Unfair. How get experience if unable to get job in order get experience? Begin write speculative applications to local parks but realise do not know what talking about. Decide provide evidence via documenting ability to care for ducks/garden. Attempt take photos/video of ducks/garden w/ camera inside phone but see footage/photos poor quality at such distance, i.e. ducks appear as if tiny commas moving slowly across infinite greenness. Do not want become wet/bother ducks, but realise if hold binoculars to phone can achieve zoomed in footage. Feel demonstrates exactly sort of problem-solving initiative req. for any job so include details + diagram of innovation in letter.
Film/photograph ducks for several hours. Intense pleasure re: artificial intimacy and ability to observe at close quarters. Notice Linda preening each individual feather with bill and immense care; reminiscent of Lucy at mirror in mornings straightening segments of hair pre-work. Endearing. Barry + Owen waddle in small circles making half-hearted quacks; become concerned. B+O look confused, maybe worried. Owen stops circling, stands at edge of pond and looms into water, then flaps in, but immediately flaps out onto dry land. Seems indecisive. Concerned are not eating. Watch Barry as sidles up to seed bowl and peers in. Hopes rise. Barry turns from seed then opens bill wide, not quacking, maybe yawning? Closes. Opens. Closes. Opens. Barry vomits thin yellow gruel onto paving stone at edge of pond. Oh no. Feel suddenly light-headed/queasy, rush to beathroom, evacuate guts in sink. What is wrong with Barry?
8pm
Ducks fly away. Hope Barry (and Owen) OK. Both seemed struggling w/ take-off.
Re-read spec. application. Sound as if 12yo. Hate and delete. Instead print photos taken and compile into magnificent A1 paper collage. Looks as if hundreds and hundreds of ducks. Wonderful. Considering which room to hang in when have eureka moment. Fold collage into A4 manila envelope. Search for paper w/ Lucy’s fwding address, find, write on front of envelope. Consider whether to include note. Decide yes. Use finest h/writing on heavyweight paper: “The DUCKS say HELLO! Quack quack quack!” Cute, but realise have used red pen and Lucy may think writing w/ blood again. Re-write note in blue biro on second sheaf expensive paper. Consider whether to sign name. Decide against. She’ll know.
Will post tomorrow.
Saturday, May 10th 2013
Wake up 11am. Not raining but cold. Remember forgot to feed fish again. Will feed double today by way of apology.
Go out with fish pellets and last of NFHES. At first think no ducks? Then notice Linda all alone, shivering beneath plastic patio chair. Something v. wrong. Where are Barry/Owen? Physical sensation of crisis lurching over me; feel sweat on back, trap door swings open in stomach revealing cellar of panic. Search all over for Barry/Owen, every corner of garden, no sign, no quacks. Except...
Feather in far corner of garden, near fox’s den in compost. Feather specked with blood. Greyish w/ brown trim, red dots flicked across like tiny organic Jackson Pollock. Feather of duck? Not sure, but descend nausea staircase into panic cellar. Rush back to patio and Linda, not moved from cover of furniture, refusing to touch Nature’s Feast High Energy Supreme. Remove patio chair from over Linda and see her fluster; does not run, but looks up blamefully and moves self to be under chair again; thinks is hidden? Crouch down and put hand on Linda’s back feathers; does not shrink from touch but shivers palpably. Feel bad, as if rape-touch. Remove hand and re-evaluate – at first assumed Linda merely cold but now convinced displaying signs of post traumatic stress.
Linda turns head so perpendicular to my line of sight. Unclear if looking away or directly at me because eyes either side of head. Convince self in moment of desperation to attempt telepathic communication. Concentrate deeply, silently (but firmly) ask: WHERE ARE BARRY + OWEN? WHAT HAPPENED? WHAT HAVE YOU SEEN? No response. Mentally picture shaking Linda by shoulders she does not have, wonder what am doing telepathically anthropomorphising duck. Realise in head Linda has face of Lucy.
Million + 1 thoughts of increasing severity race through head. What if fox attacked/ate Barry/Owen (or even Howard/Errol/Desmond)? What if gift of crow produced in fox insatiable lust re: avian flesh, in which case death of ducks directly attributable to me?? Find puddle of guilt in panic cellar, seeping up from wellspring in floor. What if initial feeding of breadcrumbs engendered slothfulness in ducks rendering easy prey, or – worse – infected Barry/Owen w/ fatal mould-related illness? Chakrabartis as much to blame if not more so, but what comfort to be accompanied by them in misery basement if I will drown gargling the fluids of culpability, while they float happily by, buoyed by ignorance?
Telephone RSPCA, speak to Sheila, attempt to explain situation re: Linda/Barry/Owen, re: fox, re: breadcrumbs, re: Chakrabartis, re: responsibility re: protecting Linda, re: fear of own mental state deteriorating due to poor structural integrity of metaphorical building filling w/ metaphorical liquid. Sheila says slow down, try speak without sobbing. Hang up. After several mins staring in mirror repeating word: “calm”, call again. Man answers phone: Hi, Ian speaking, how can I help you. AAARGH. Hang up. Call again + again until Sheila answers then slowly explain concerned about stray duck in garden separated from flock (gaggle?) and worried etc. etc. Sheila asks Who is Linda? Sigh, say Linda is duck. After some time/confusion Sheila promises will send operative tomorrow. Say SHE MIGHT LEAVE AND/OR DIE BY TOMORROW but Sheila already hung up.
11pm
Linda did not leave 8pm. Unsure whether relief/concern appropriate. On one hand won’t be plagued by visions re: Linda lonely in unfamiliar places, flapping into overhead electrical wires in lost frenzy. On other hand: weight of responsibility to protect Linda on own property. Anticipate fox stealth + cover of darkness = lethal combination and resolve to stand guard overnight until RSPCA arrive. Turn on kitchen light to illuminate garden and sit on patio chair w/ blanket + air rifle. Will not allow harm.
Sunday, May 11th 2013
3am
Extremely cold.
6am
Sun coming up. No sign of foxes all night. Perhaps wasted time? Or perhaps foxes kept at bay by human presence. Approx 4am Linda starts low, mournful, rasping quack. Not so much quack as noise of tiny feathered bagpipe having air squeezed brusquely out by invisible Scotsman. Disturbing in twilight of early morning.
9am
Sun warms dawn into day, sad into hopeful. Not so much Linda, as continues pumping ghastly noise. Have more confidence in Linda’s perceptiveness/flight instincts re: fox in daylight, so go inside to ring RSPCA. Recorded message informs high volume of calls vs. low volume of workers = long waiting period and perhaps would prefer to contact via contact form on website otherwise press 3 to speak to an operator. Press 3; listen to computerised version Vivaldi’s 4 seasons (Spring).
Go back out w/ cordless, see Linda tentatively emerging from under chair, not rasping. Do not want to disturb, wait round corner of house. Exactly now, someone answers phone at other end, and have to run back in, utter breathless “Hello!?” which hope does not startle Linda but anyway does. Linda quacks quack of alarm, patters off patio into grass, flicking head quickly left + right.
Ask person on phone if can speak to Sheila. Says Sheila not in today. Explain who am and what problem and waiting re: RSPCA welfare officer (not sure if a thing?). Amika checks ref. number in computer, which says someone should arrive today maybe but not sure when due to volume of etc. etc. but maybe not because computer sometimes wrong. Say thanks a lot Amika (not sincere), hang up. Wish had normal phone sometimes so could slam.
1pm
For some hours now Linda = pacing. Pacing side to side of garden, like swimmer doing lengths. Wish would swim side to side of pond, be less abnormal. But no interest in pond now, agitated, back and forth back and forth. Loud, prolonged quacks, continuous, sound of complaint/disappointment:
Quaaaaaaaaaaaaack
Downwards inflection, like a sad Australian, or duck in rapidly departing Formula One car. Like a baby crying. Like hope evaporates w/ every quack. Feel own hope evaporating. RSPCA offer no further information on subsequent calls, becoming irate + insisting callers w/ real problems trying to get through. Hold phone out in direction of Linda to relay despondence but Geraldine says that is sound a duck makes. Loudly explain NOT THIS DUCK, W/ ALL THINGS BEING EQUAL but Geraldine says not obligated to take abuse + hangs up.
6pm
No sign RSPCA. Where the fuck. Approx 3pm went inside. Cannot take. Cannot take incessant weeping. Did I cause? Was me? Did I hurt, kill, alienate? QUACKING QUACKING QUACKING, like cry for help, half running, half flying, never taking off. Did I overfeed + foster reliance? Am I = vengeful God, refusing anything < 100% devotion?? Hoped for Stockholm syndrome but merely abused?
Stare through window + tears at increasingly frantic Linda. Then not stare. Cannot watch. But stare. Can duck self-harm? Flapping flapping flapping, feathers ripping w/ violence of movement, shredding loose, fluttering all around like filthy snow. She patters through fragments of wings, returning again + again to scenes of her crimes. Clipping her own wings with panic, may be rendered immobile + permanently stranded. Cannot look, but look.
Now desperate to stop, to somehow help; go outside. PLEASE LINDA. PLEASE. Hope if scare – if kind via cruelty – can make fly away, leave + return somewhere, find place w/ others of own kind. Run towards Linda, screaming @ top of lungs, flapping own wings (arms) in way that hope = both demonstrative + frightening. FLY LINDA. GO AWAY. GO AWAY. Is scared, but not to point of take-off. Quacks become shorter/faster/louder as flies low-level, fuelled by terror. Does not become focused but confused, flying into fence, into geraniums, into rose bushes, thorns tearing duck flesh and bleeding bleeding bleeding. Oh no.
GO AWAY LINDA GO AWAY, screaming I am, she punctuates randomly with frenzied quacks. Not quacks; squawks. Squawks of horror. See attempts to help transform into torment as they become reality. Killing her. Also see: Chakrabartis watching from upstairs window.
Stop chasing. Go inside, frenzied. Leave Linda flapping and bleeding, against better judgement. Try to telephone (RSPCA). Dialling and dialling. Number not recognised. Dialling. Number not recognised. Again. Engaged. Go out front of house, look down street, both ways. No cars, no vans... WHERE IS HELP?
Suddenly clear; nobody cares. Nobody coming. Linda doomed to isolation from species, to prolonged, self-inflicted murder. Will not permit; if am God, will be ful merci, not venge.
Get air rifle. Heavier this time. Hurts to carry. Take outside. Linda tangling w/ plants , unclear where grey feathers specked bloody brown or w/ natural colour. DON’T MAKE ME LINDA. I LOVE YOU. PLEASE STOP. PLEASE GO. Screaming. Look through scope; blurry - maybe tears, maybe focus. DON’T MAKE ME DO IT LINDA. Aiming now, but distracted by Chakrabartis, who gawking wide-eyed disbelief over fence, pleading: NO NO NO NO NO BRIAN. Hypocrisy! Swing onto Chakrabartis and fire. Fire once, fire twice: words melt into pained screams. Tell Chakrabartis: YOU DID THIS YOU BASTARDS.
Linda back in sights. Hoped shot would scare but did not notice, carries on, throwing herself into surfaces/points w/ brutal gusto. A blur in my field of vision, her frenetic movement simultaneously the reason I should and should not shoot. I LOVE YOU LINDA. BE FREE.
Fire and miss. A sign?
Fire and miss. A sign to pause? To stop the madness? To swerve away from the inevitable?
Fire.
Linda lets out agonising shriek; drops to floor. Dead still, except blood springing from sweet slender neck, an irreversible crimson fountain. No spastic twitch; just dead still. She lies nestled in tall grass, silently; solemnity of moment undermined only by distant screaming of Mrs(?) Chakrabarti, as I fall to ground and ensconce Linda in my foetal position, holding her body to mine, becoming bloody and alone.
_________________________________________________________________________________
The police arrived shortly before the RSPCA, and given my traumatised state I was utterly unintelligible as they dragged me away, unable to explain what I’m sure you can now see were the entirely rational reasons behind my actions.
What if I had waited? What if I had pursued a course of action that did not involve using a (legal!) weapon? What if I had not shot Mr Chakrabarti in the ear? These are all questions we can ask ourselves until the cows come home. But I am convinced that in that moment, under the pressures I was under, there was no other satisfactory option available to me. The fear that Linda was rabid with suicidal intent combined with my deeply (and wrongly, in hindsight) held conviction that I was in some way responsible for the tragedy that had befallen her made watching her in that state unbearable. I’m sure you can understand.
I do feel some regret with regards to Mr Chakrabarti’s ear, and have said as much in the corresponding letter sent to the police, but – between you and me – this does not register even on the same scale as my pain with regards to what was subsequently revealed to be the unnecessary euthanasia of Linda.
If you could keep your ear to the ground vis-a-vis the whereabouts of Barry, Owen, Howard, Errol and Darren (detailed drawings enclosed), I would be most grateful to receive confirmation of their wellbeing. It would put my mind at ease. Perhaps, should you come across such information, you could see it in your heart to share this with me, maybe over a meal or a drink, once your recommendation for my release has found its way to the proper authorities – and assuming, of course, that your “Ms.” is the coy disguise for a “Miss” rather than a “Mrs”. I would not want to be improper.
Yours, with utmost sincerity,
Brian Lassiter