ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

two characters and the development of plot and intrigue. I am
talking here about what is more important: I don’t need to study
aerodynamics to jump a puddle.)
“You’re arresting me?”
“No, but you’re the only witness.”
“Are you going to charge me?”
“We’d like you to assist us with our enquiries.”
(Oh, look! Tommy is sitting in my reading chair reading McEwan’s
Amsterdam. He will not remember a thing he has read, of course.
He’s read it before, when he was well. Maybe it is muscle memory at
play. He used to read for hours every day. I don’t even think reading
is possible for him anymore. If I had time I would watch to see if he
turns the page. His balance is getting worse, too. And that is not
all. However, the idea of making it look like he is doing something
normal, requiring working brain function, is proof that something
is still operational in that brain of his. Meanwhile I am worrying
about continuing this interrogation here or back at the station.
The stakes would be higher at the police station. OK. And there
needs to be a developing expert who has been rabbiting around the
scene, collecting information while Patrick has been questioned by
the cute officer.)
As I was led out of my house a dozen or so people, all clad in white
plastic looking like workers in a nuclear power plant, passed me
and invaded my house like ants. And yes, the police officer, the
same one who saw me naked, did place his hand on my head,
pushing it lower, protecting it from damage, as he directed me
into the back seat of the police car. The ride to the station was
uneventful: no one spoke. I was later led politely into an interview
room and offered a cup of coffee. I asked for tea, English Breakfast,
and the young man stared at me for a moment, either in ignorance
or distain, but then went away to get it, maybe not English
Breakfast, but he went away. I sat and waited. There wasn’t a vast
mirror on the wall; you know, a two-way mirror for investigators
to sit behind and watch proceedings, making clever but snide
remarks, but there was a CCTV camera in the corner of the ceiling.
At least some modernization is occurring in our police force. And,
lo and behold, a little red light went on as I was watching it. A few
moments later she arrived.
She turned on the recording device on the table between us, stated
the date and time, my name, and her name, “Detective Constable
Lena Marinos.” She asked me the same questions she asked me at
my house and I gave the same answers, minus some of my attitude:
I thought it only fitting. I was curious what line of questioning
she would take but she did not continue. Instead another person
entered the room.
He was a large man in a cheap suit. He had pages in his hand.
Paper. This station is so behind the times.
“Joined now by Chief Inspector Mullen,” said Detective Constable
Lena Marinos for the sake of the recording but who did not see fit
to introduce him to me.
“Mr. Osman,” said the new arrival referring to his bits of paper,
“you said your wife had just showered and had walked into the
bedroom drying herself presumably.” He spoke like a rugby player,
all mumble, few consonants,
(I won’t bore you with writing his dialogue phonetically; you get
the idea.)
“But the floor and her feet were dry.”
“Shouldn’t a lawyer be sitting quietly next to me?” I asked in the
politest tone I could muster.
“We haven’t charged you with anything,” said Marinos.
“You’re just …”
“Yes, I know,” I interrupted, “just helping you with your enquiries.
It probably evaporated.”
“What?” said Mullen.
“The water,” I said helpfully. “It probably evaporated.”
“What work did your wife do?” he asked, ignoring my comment.
“We run a business together: an employment service specializing
in relief staff for the medical industry.”
“Did she understand medical …” he waved his hands as he sought
for the word, I expected him to say ‘stuff’, “… procedures?”
“She was a trained nurse with many years’ first-hand experience,”
I said.
“Was she up with, ya know, trauma cases?”
“Most of her career was in the emergency department.”
“So she knew about trauma injuries.”
“That’s what usually happens in an emergency department; yes.”
“Did you see her fall?”
“No. I was about to sit but looking for a space on the cluttered
coffee table to put my gin and tonic; she was walking from the ensuite
drying herself.”
“She was naked?”
“She was drying herself with a towel, so, yes and no.”
“And talking at the same time.”
“Yes. She could do that.” I instantly regretted that line. Marinos
looked at her hands.
“What was she saying?” Mullen asked.
I did not hesitate. I thought little about what I should say, but I
was aware that an instant reply was necessary, otherwise they may
think I was working something out; weighing my options for a
better answer. “Her condition was constantly on her mind, what
to do about it, be in control of it, avoiding the medical and legal
outcomes. I don’t remember exactly what she said but she always
spoke about that, ever since she was diagnosed.”
(I want you to believe him. Do you?)
“I think I was thinking about all the coffee table clutter: where did
it come from, what could be tossed. I don’t remember exactly.”
“Are you aware that aiding and abetting a suicide is a criminal
offence?”
I chucked incredulously, “Yes.” I could sense a goal he was steering
the questions towards. A goal he so desperately wanted.
“Do you remember when you realized something was wrong?”
“I hadn’t sat yet, or had I?” I thought about it. What did I
remember? Oh, yes. “No, I hadn’t sat down yet. I heard a sound. A
surprised sound. Like an ‘oops’ but it was soft, sharp but soft. Not
alarming until I looked up.” I sighed deeply, closed my eyes, and
flopped my head back.
“What did you see?”
I was trying to recollect the sequence of events, their order, their
connections. Did I remember the sequence or did my brain fill in
the gaps with invented logic? “It was just before she hit the floor.”
“The floor or the coffee table?”
I could feel their logic. “The floor. She was in the air, facing up.” I
could see her as if caught in a photograph, suspended in the air.
“Her backside hit the floor first, and then her head was thrown
back sharply, whipped against the corner of the coffee table. The
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ReadFin Literary Journal