‛Anatole was searching in the back shed for his old photo album when he found a screwdriver, covered in fresh, sticky blood. He assumed it was animal blood until he found a human hand. Then he heard a noise and his heart almost stopped. He went to yell out to his wife and brother in the house when he saw his wife in front of him with his brother’s head in one hand and a gun in the other.
Then he woke up again, surf in his ears.
He was an unmarried only child.
But he had stabbed Julius with a screwdriver. Right through the heart.
With relief, Marigold Parsons dropped her dip pen. She was sick of churning out bestselling crime fiction for the benefit of Gaberdine Publications — well, crime and porn to be precise. (The porn didn’t come in till later, unless you were turned on by murder of course.) She poured herself a fifth ouzo, pushing aside the mirror near the desk. She was 38 and looked 48. Late nights and grog blossoms, as her grandad called them. The ‛tram’ roared by below her exclusive Northbourne Avenue apartment. The next murder in The Case of Julius Finn was to take place aboard one of its cars, committed by a Karin Uppskjorta (a working name only). But she was not in the mood for more tonight. Not more writing at any rate.’
It was two a.m. I put down my pen, glared at the open photo album and chanted,
beach sand a city beneath a lens
clouds swirl blue on grey
a red sail grows taller than the horizon
why did you kill me,