Confession by K. A. Laity

Confession

K. A. Laity

 

I didn’t mean to kill him. Let me get that out there straight away. I know things have not been great between us and certainly there was some hostility—okay, a lot of hostility. But it wasn’t deliberate! I certainly didn’t mean to—

 

I mean—a butter knife! Would I have ‘armed myself’ with a butter knife if I had been feeling murderous? I’m not making light! I’m just—I’m just—you know…Stunned, right? Stunned! A butter knife! Who would have ever imagined—

 

Yes, I admit it. I did poke him with the butter knife. Sure, sure. I did that. I didn’t mean any harm. Well, not much harm. I was annoyed, to be sure. I had a passing—passing!—moment of irritation. I poked him. I’m sure it would have annoyed him any way. Annoyed yes, but not lethally so. Really. Most unexpected.

 

It was his own fault the cellar door was open. He had left it open. He always does—did—that and irritated me to no end. Doors left open, cupboard doors ajar, the tap dripping. There’s a reason they use that in torture—or was that only in cartoons? No, I’m quite certain I read about it in that book—

 

What?

 

No, I’m pretty sure, I mean it’s the only possibility, right? As he was falling down the stairs—having tripped, having dodged away from the butter knife poke, as it were—his elbow—yes, must have been surely, his elbow caught on the bag of potatoes which landed on him. He loved potatoes. That’s why had such an enormous bag of them. Full, too.

 

Oh no, I loathe potatoes. Can’t eat them. They give me the runs.

 

Yes, I suppose if it hadn’t been for the bag of potatoes landing on him just there, perhaps he would have only broken a leg or an arm or both. Quite painful I bet. No, not happy about it, just mentioning, like. It was rather fortuitous—or what’s the word? Coincidence? Infelicitous. That’s a good one. Yes, infelicitous it was that the potato bag fell as it did and snapped his neck. Just like that. What are the odds, indeed.

 

Am I going to have to explain this all again at the station? 

White Rabbitproof