Sunday, 5 March 2017

Chronicles Of A Middle-Aged Vampire - PART 3

No blood. A dead body and no blood. How should I explain this? And then the answer came to me.

I shouldn't. I was a victim. I knew nothing. It would be as much a mystery to me as to the Police.

I should not manufacture clues or proof to deceive forensics. I was in my own home, in my own room. My fingerprints, my DNA, even Frank's blood on me were to be expected. I had been packing to go to my mother's, to get away from a house that had become a scene of trauma when someone had struck me. I had come to to find my husband dead.

That was all. The whole story. Let the Police look for murder weapons, leads and suspects. All I needed to do was to wash my face and give myself was some kind of head-trauma. A nice photogenic bruise or an impressive scalp wound.

I got myself up, washed my face and gargled with mouthwash, spewing the residue into the toilet so I could flush away any traces of Frank's blood mingled with my saliva. Then I walked back into the bedroom. Now, where would I knock my head? Ah! THERE! I walked over to the cupboard with its full length mirror and reached in to grasp a hanger, then swung my head sideways sharply into the glass.

The impact darkened my sight, dulled my hearing. I felt myself staggering and let myself fall. Hot blood was pouring down the side of my face, pooling on the hardwood floor in a very satisfactory way. I pushed myself up, grasped the side of the door and got to my feet.

There was Frank, dead as a door-nail a few feet away. I stumbled over and knelt beside him, placed my hands on his chest, then pressed my bloody cheek to his silent heart. There!

I reached for my phone on the bed-side and pushed the emergency number with blood-stained fingers. When the operator answered I screamed: "He came back, he came back! Please help me, I think my husband's dead!"

I crawled back on my hands and knees and pulled Frank's oily head onto my lap. A very touching scene and guaranteed to confuse traces of any unlikely behaviour or blood trails. I also ended up soiling my beloved Aubusson, but hey! It's a small price to pay for getting away with murder, even if the rug was over 200 years old.

I settled down to wait and I am sure I presented a touching if gory tableau for the responding officers. The bedroom with the open suitcase, the scattered clothes, my dead husband and me touchingly cradling him in my grieving arms, tears mingling with the blood clotting the side of my swelling face. Very nice indeed!

It was very gratifying. The Police arrived, and I was sped away in an ambulance back to hospital, with a compress on the side of my face to staunch the bleeding. Once admitted they administered a sedative and that was that for me.

I came to much later in a quiet and dim room with my daughter sitting next to me holding on to my hand and weeping. "Sheila?"

"Mom!" My brash and bouncy daughter was swollen-eyed and hoarse with grief, "Oh Mom, I don't know what I would do if I lost you too."

"Frank?" I mumbled, "Frank? Is he..." I gasped and let tears of relief trickle out.

"Oh Mom, he's gone..."

"It's my fault!" I cried truthfully, "I killed him!"

"No Mom! The Police said your attacker came back... Dad walked in on him... You're lucky you survived."

"It was my fault..." I let myself fall back weakly on my pillow. In truth, I felt as strong as a horse.

A nurse came in and check my pulse, looked surprised but gratified and told Sheila she had to leave. I had had a great shock, lost a great deal of blood and needed my rest.

Lovely. I closed my eyes as my daughter tenderly kissed me goodbye and fell instantly asleep

When I woke it was dark and silent, and there at the foot of my bed was the tall and gangly silhouette of my attacker.

"Mrs Valginsky?" He whispered, "Are you awake? We need to talk before you make a mistake..."


No comments:

Post a Comment