ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

when he did not leave while I changed. I decided to ignore him. I
undressed completely, toweled myself dry, resisted the urge to look
up at him to see what he was looking at, and redressed as quickly
as I could and refused to look in the living room mirror as I already
knew I looked a fright.
(Is the use of the word fright too arch; too queer?)
“Please take a seat, sir,” he said politely and when he did not leave
the room I supposed he had been ordered not to leave me alone.
I have always found it difficult not to talk to people when I find
myself in close proximity to them but he was just standing there
looking at nothing in particular so the urge to talk was weakened.
I tried to attract his attention to the pile of wet clothes on the floor
making it clear, I thought, that I expected him to do something
about them: they were dampening the rug, but he paid no heed. I
got up – he became alarmed a little at that – and removed them to
a wooden chair. I resumed my seat on the couch and he relaxed. I
remained as silent as he did.
(It would be correct to use the word him here: “… I remained as
silent as him” – he for the subject, him for the object – but it
sounds wrong, or, at least, clumsy; so, as he did it is; to stop any
reader with a fluffy grammar fixation getting annoyed. “Oh,
thanks, Darling!” My partner, Tommy, just bought me a cup of
coffee. He’s forgotten he’s brought me one already, poor man. It’s
getting worse.)
Eventually the pretty female officer entered without an iPad but
with a note book and pen. How old fashioned! I needed to stay
calm, but not too calm. She looked good in a uniform.
“Can I have your full name please? she said.
“Patrick Osman,” I said.
(I chose a ‘foreign’ name and you will soon see why: a particular
beef of mine.)
“Turkish?”
“Australian”
“I beg your pardon.”
“It’s Australian,” I said more pointedly.
“Sounds foreign.”
“It is.”
She looked at me quizzically like I was a cheeky schoolboy with a
bad record.
“All white Australians come from somewhere else,” I said. “Even
you.”
“I was born here.”
“So was I.”
“And your point is?” she said as neutrally as she could, which was
not very.
“An authentic Australian surname would be something like
Yunupingu, Gulpilil, Noonuccal,” I said, pedant that I am.
“I see,” she said with exasperation but also, eventually,
understanding: annoyed understanding. She took a breath with
intent as if to challenge me further with, I expected, European
names for indigenous people, but obviously thought better of it.
‘Smartarse!’ she probably thought instead.
“Mr. Osman, tell me what happened tonight.”
“My wife has – had – symptoms of early-stage dementia, one of
which was a faulty sense of balance. She had just showered, then
fell, and hit her head on the corner of the glass coffee table and
died instantly.”
The attractive police officer was obviously flummoxed by the brief
and precise description. She stared at me without writing anything
down.
(You see, I know where this is going now. Creative moments like
this often cause younger, brasher writers to cry, “Oh, the writing
process went so well; it wrote itself, actually.” No, it didn’t, darling,
you did! Just like I am; but sometimes creative momentum can
take over and you have to know when to let it, or reign it in. So, do
you know where this is going? I hope not. Not yet.)
“Could you please elaborate?” she asked.
“You’ve been in the bedroom. The sofa in the bay window, the
coffee table, the wet feet, the wet floor, the body, the blood; doesn’t
it look like that’s what happened?”
“Or made to look like that’s what happened.”
I chuckled. I could not help it. “I see. You think I picked up that
large, extremely heavy and cluttered coffee table, hit her with it
and then made it look like she fell on it?”
“Mr. Osman, your flippant tone isn’t helping you.”
“Do I need helping?”
“Without credibility, yes.”
I was disciplined enough to understand what she meant and so
remained silent. It was then that she started to write something
down. I waited.
“You said before that you were afraid that we might think you had
done it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I am on the public record, a television interview two weeks ago, as
a supporter of euthanasia.”
“What was the name of the program, date, and time?” I told her.
She wrote that down. Eventually she added, “So how would you
describe what happened tonight?”
“Serendipitous.”
“I beg your pardon.”
I resisted a comment reflecting her possible ignorance of the word
and forced myself to assume she was surprised by my supposed
flippancy. “She died unexpectedly, accidently, quickly, as opposed
to gradually, sinking into confusion, a withering brain, organ
dysfunction, pain, senility, a coma, then death. She loathed that
scenario. Who wouldn’t?”
“Did your wife share your views on euthanasia?”
“Of course.”
“Did she also take part in that television interview?”
“No.” She wrote that down too.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you into custody based on
what you have told me.”
(I’m resisting here to get bogged down in police procedural
matters. My knowledge of the medical aspects of this story I have
acquired from personal experience. However, when it comes to
research for the sake of pedantic accuracy I find it unnecessary
as it is safe to assume most readers are familiar with television
police dramas from a wide spectrum of sub-genres, and possible
procedures; and readers are willing to suspend disbelief for the
sake of the story – up to a point, of course. Absolute reality is not
necessary if procedural information decided on by the writer for
the purposes of the story falls within the realm of possibility;
besides, what is important here is the dialogue between these
ReadFin Literary Journal 37