chain reaction
7
...though at this distance the populace offers no direct assistance,
anticipation siphons me
from secluded needy-murder, the body is safe, no passer-by would ignore
a dead man lying
in their path, a reason for his being there would necessarily be asked,
so I hasten to identify
a conductor in the crowd, that vital individual who can channel those
competent to this
delinquent social farce, since it seems beyond all reason that the coated
vagrant killer will
herself have scored confession, thus the role of contact-maker in this
improvised performance
falls to me, cast as volunteer spectator calling "stop!" or "hey!" or "help me!",
for I've seen an act of
death, and he comes along with questions, who I am and what I saw,
when it happened
what I was doing, and when he's seen and touched the man inside the un-fit
sticky clothes,
a police procedure takes control and an order is imposed, I have lost my ambiguity and become
part of a triad: unknown killer, murder victim, urinator at the fence, all await
the enquiry team.
8
...with a most ineffectual formality, my equipment has been secured, and
my vehicle too,
and I suspect the earth and cardboard where I piddled have been cordoned
off and samples
taken, certainly my fingerprints are now on record together with my statement
and particulars,
despite the fact that I was mistaken and the guilty man has been caught,
and I suspect
the version I gave is more interesting as an example of public nuisance,
how an anti-social
busy-body (pissing on client property and inventing stories to skip work
by giving statements)
can waste police-time (but how routine efficiency could lead to the arrest
of a lazy deviant)
and in contempt of protestations - that what I wrote is what I saw, that it
was possible to
urinate while having clear, albeit restricted, view of the matter through
the fence's parted shingles,
which I leaned against but did not try to break or separate – and since he,
the culprit, now is
held in custody, I shall be informed should further questions or court appearance be required.
9
...very nearly perverse is how it seemed to me, that the police should drop
me off here on
the very concrete, whose crusty ribs, now flattened by the dull of evening,
had tried to bank
the dying blood, long since rinsed and mutated to a stigma on the floor,
without doubt
it was the focal point, the centre of the action but my car was parked
two streets away,
and to collect my tools - from the secretary's office - meant passing by
the front door, or,
if not, I must re-cross the hallowed fence - all work was finished by a colleague, tools descended, ladder gone,
just a simple transfer of job-sheets when I get back to the firm - so why bring
me back to where,
they say, I changed an honest death to lies, if not to confront me with my folly,
demonstrate their
lack of respect for all my actions, for all my words, for the victim, and even,
I might add,
for the woman I saw stab him, now dismissed as purely fantasy, and what I need most is a stiff drink
and some food, mass to compress the memories, smooth off the nagging surface
of life's lumps.
10
...on the other hand I could have gone to a bar, or called a friend, to talk
things through,
but further visits to my truth will serve for nothing, justice having decided
that my dubious
choice of villain, was not to be approved, that a woman was not suitable
to fill the virile role,
nevertheless I must believe that what I know is that which was, and not
an echo of
just error, so my version needs rehearsing for tomorrow’s office hearing, no
avoiding speculation
when the job-sheets are revised, about my absence on the pitch and ridge
and why I tried
to assign a man's task to an unidentified woman – some would see me far
from where
my work was located, then returning with a lie to rent an alibi and guess
the famous femme
fatale, the stooge who wreaks the shameless deed, if only they could share
the plot, awake
or asleep the images in the slot, his path, her act, perhaps a word, maybe a gest
blocked by a board
- the morning births, and dawn's departure tempts me from the scruple
of incredible certainty.
11
...a passing lurch of protective humour suggests I prepare for unlikely quirks
in the day's
routine, yet before I've even grabbed my things and quit my flat the door-bell stings
and policemen, two, demand to enter, they have questions needing answers,
at my table,
possibly to clarify some former confusion, I esteem, between the crumbs
and the ketchup blots,
between the hours of eleven in the morning and three in the afternoon, sir, yesterday, and can anyone
corroborate my movements, why, because a tip, someone who knows me
claims he saw me
drive a van, belonging to an aggrieved third-party, later involved in a
hit-and-run
and a pedestrian lies bleeding, so therefore, I must explain my whereabouts,
all other cases have
no bearing on the present enquiry, an investigation will be carried out,
so we require you
to come with us to the station, please, to make a statement, if what I say is true there is no need
to worry, the witness could have been mistaken, you'll need your driving licence, lock the door.
...though at this distance the populace offers no direct assistance,
anticipation siphons me
from secluded needy-murder, the body is safe, no passer-by would ignore
a dead man lying
in their path, a reason for his being there would necessarily be asked,
so I hasten to identify
a conductor in the crowd, that vital individual who can channel those
competent to this
delinquent social farce, since it seems beyond all reason that the coated
vagrant killer will
herself have scored confession, thus the role of contact-maker in this
improvised performance
falls to me, cast as volunteer spectator calling "stop!" or "hey!" or "help me!",
for I've seen an act of
death, and he comes along with questions, who I am and what I saw,
when it happened
what I was doing, and when he's seen and touched the man inside the un-fit
sticky clothes,
a police procedure takes control and an order is imposed, I have lost my ambiguity and become
part of a triad: unknown killer, murder victim, urinator at the fence, all await
the enquiry team.
8
...with a most ineffectual formality, my equipment has been secured, and
my vehicle too,
and I suspect the earth and cardboard where I piddled have been cordoned
off and samples
taken, certainly my fingerprints are now on record together with my statement
and particulars,
despite the fact that I was mistaken and the guilty man has been caught,
and I suspect
the version I gave is more interesting as an example of public nuisance,
how an anti-social
busy-body (pissing on client property and inventing stories to skip work
by giving statements)
can waste police-time (but how routine efficiency could lead to the arrest
of a lazy deviant)
and in contempt of protestations - that what I wrote is what I saw, that it
was possible to
urinate while having clear, albeit restricted, view of the matter through
the fence's parted shingles,
which I leaned against but did not try to break or separate – and since he,
the culprit, now is
held in custody, I shall be informed should further questions or court appearance be required.
9
...very nearly perverse is how it seemed to me, that the police should drop
me off here on
the very concrete, whose crusty ribs, now flattened by the dull of evening,
had tried to bank
the dying blood, long since rinsed and mutated to a stigma on the floor,
without doubt
it was the focal point, the centre of the action but my car was parked
two streets away,
and to collect my tools - from the secretary's office - meant passing by
the front door, or,
if not, I must re-cross the hallowed fence - all work was finished by a colleague, tools descended, ladder gone,
just a simple transfer of job-sheets when I get back to the firm - so why bring
me back to where,
they say, I changed an honest death to lies, if not to confront me with my folly,
demonstrate their
lack of respect for all my actions, for all my words, for the victim, and even,
I might add,
for the woman I saw stab him, now dismissed as purely fantasy, and what I need most is a stiff drink
and some food, mass to compress the memories, smooth off the nagging surface
of life's lumps.
10
...on the other hand I could have gone to a bar, or called a friend, to talk
things through,
but further visits to my truth will serve for nothing, justice having decided
that my dubious
choice of villain, was not to be approved, that a woman was not suitable
to fill the virile role,
nevertheless I must believe that what I know is that which was, and not
an echo of
just error, so my version needs rehearsing for tomorrow’s office hearing, no
avoiding speculation
when the job-sheets are revised, about my absence on the pitch and ridge
and why I tried
to assign a man's task to an unidentified woman – some would see me far
from where
my work was located, then returning with a lie to rent an alibi and guess
the famous femme
fatale, the stooge who wreaks the shameless deed, if only they could share
the plot, awake
or asleep the images in the slot, his path, her act, perhaps a word, maybe a gest
blocked by a board
- the morning births, and dawn's departure tempts me from the scruple
of incredible certainty.
11
...a passing lurch of protective humour suggests I prepare for unlikely quirks
in the day's
routine, yet before I've even grabbed my things and quit my flat the door-bell stings
and policemen, two, demand to enter, they have questions needing answers,
at my table,
possibly to clarify some former confusion, I esteem, between the crumbs
and the ketchup blots,
between the hours of eleven in the morning and three in the afternoon, sir, yesterday, and can anyone
corroborate my movements, why, because a tip, someone who knows me
claims he saw me
drive a van, belonging to an aggrieved third-party, later involved in a
hit-and-run
and a pedestrian lies bleeding, so therefore, I must explain my whereabouts,
all other cases have
no bearing on the present enquiry, an investigation will be carried out,
so we require you
to come with us to the station, please, to make a statement, if what I say is true there is no need
to worry, the witness could have been mistaken, you'll need your driving licence, lock the door.