ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

sound was like a bottle breaking on concrete.”
(I worried about the words arse or backside. He’s a man who would
say arse, never bum; but given the circumstances, would he choose
backside as more polite when referring to his now dead wife?
Backside, I think. Oh, dear! Here comes Tommy with another cup
of coffee. Oh, now he’s staring at the used, empty cup on my desk.
If only I could know what he is thinking at times like this. Now
he has turned back to the kitchen with the fresh cup, confused no
doubt. Poor man. Mah! Poor me!)
“How did she come to rest?” asked Marinos. “On her front or on her
back?”
“On her back,” I said. Yes, I can see her lying on her back.
“Where was the towel?” asked Mullen
“I don’t know.”
“Was she wearing it?” Marinos asked.
“Yes. No! I put it over her after I called triple O.”
“Mr. Osman,” said Mullen in a winning tone, “your wife was found
lying on her stomach with her towel wrapped around her and
tucked in above her breasts, like women do.”
“But the wound was to the back of her head,” I said aware of the
flutter in my voice.
“Yes. So, you moved her?”
“I remember closing her eyes.” Did I?
“Mr. Osman, I put it to you that you colluded with your wife
to end her life. She knew exactly where a blow would have an
instantaneous effect. She talked to you about this. You planned
how it should look. The shower, the water on the floor, the
cluttered coffee table, everything. An accident. She needed you to
aim her head at the exact spot. That’s why you remember her eyes.
You were holding her head aiming at the correct spot and with
great force you jabbed her head onto the corner of the coffee table
and achieved your shared goal. Putting her out of her misery. A
noble deed, Mr. Osman, but an illegal one.”
“So you believe me,” I said quietly. “You said there was no water, so
you believe me about the water. Hah? You believe me! You just ……”
I could not help myself. “Chief Inspector Mullen!” I wanted to say
‘Mullet’! I shouted vehemently. “Do you understand how ludicrous
that sounds? That is the most ridiculous story I have ever heard
and that any courtroom has ever heard, or may still hear, no doubt.
Why didn’t she just put a bullet in her head? Why didn’t she just
jump off the roof? Why didn’t she take a handful of pills and slit
her wrists in a hot bath like any sensible person? Why go to all this
ridiculous trouble?”
“Because she loved you Mr. Osman,” said Marinos sweetly. “And
you loved her. She wanted you to be her last image. There you were
face to face. A kiss perhaps? Your face was the last thing she saw:
you, then nothing. Her face was the last thing you saw: her, then
she was gone. Over. Finished.”
I stared at her feeling moisture in my eyes and then said to stop it,
“You’ve been watching too much Swedish crime drama.”
I never did get my cup of tea.
There was a trial. A short trial. The police’s story sounded just as
ludicrous in the courtroom as it did in the station. I was acquitted.
There was such a lot of truth and fiction thrown around in that
courtroom; so mixed up, no-one was ever sure which was which.
One thing I do know though; I’m not such a bad liar after all.
(Oh, Tommy! What - are - we - going - to - do - with - you?)
ReadFin Literary Journal 39