The Curious Incident in the Nighttime

Writing this web-log keeps me psychologically grounded, for I feel I’m creating something which people will read long after I go to my Eternal Reward. While writing, I don’t dwell on the seriousness of my circumstances.

So this web-log is a refuge, but, obviously, I can’t hide in it all the time. Accordingly there are long periods in every day when I consider the situation I and my men, Mikey, Squeaky, and Freddy, are in, and realize that the odds of us evading the American police for ever are small indeed. And not just the American police, but the British police, and the police in any country I and my men might escape to, for the police forces of the world work together. I know this from experience. I was, after all, in the highest echelons of the British security and diplomatic establishments.

But I’ve never lost hope that I’ll escape being caught before I die. Being 113, this isn’t impossible. But it is more impossible for Mikey Squeaky and Freddy, for they are mere forty-somethings. Until we have better ideas, we’ll continue living in our underground home, which is the basement of a demolished house in an area quite hidden away in a city in Texas which I cannot name because the police may be reading this blog.

Today, I’ll continue telling of the events of over a year ago, in 2007, which led to me and my men becoming outlaws in America. Last time, I told of our killing of Jimmy and his men at his house in eastern Texas, and the beginning of our drive south, during which we robbed a gun shop of much of its weaponry. I considered it prudent that, after we left the town where the gunshop was, we keep driving throughout that night.

This is what we did until sunrise. Seeing the sun’s rays of morning made me acutely aware that I hadn’t slept all night. I realized how easily I could fall asleep at the wheel of our SUV, and wake up momentarily afterwards as it wrapped itself around a telegraph pole.

I and my men needed to sleep, but where? A motel so soon after we robbed the gun shop would be too risky. Under a bridge out of sight seemed best. I turned our SUV down a side-road and soon we passed over a bridge, not too big, not too small. It seemed perfect for four very tired men to sleep under for the rest of the day.

After we camouflaged the SUV, and carried down to under the bridge our stuff, which, for all intents and purposes was our guns – and also flashlights – for it could be night when we next emerged. We settled down to sleep.

The next thing I knew I was awake because I felt a hard blow on my head. It was dark, so I realized I had slept well into the night. A man was standing over me and beating me with a stick. While warding off the blows, I saw the outlines of other men who were beating Mikey Freddy and Squeaky as they lay on the ground. I hooked out my loaded Magnum .37, which I had strapped to my body, and I began firing at my assailant. Mikey Squeaky and Freddy, who had, on my orders, also strapped guns to themselves before sleeping, were soon firing too.

After some minutes all became quiet, for our attackers were lying on the ground. We turned our flashlights on them, and saw blood oozing through their clothes and from their heads. They were not moving and we assumed they were dead.

From how these men were dressed, and their overall physical appearance, I concluded they hadn’t attained the American Dream – a split-level suburban home, with two-car garage and a dog and a cat. They were obviously of that class of homeless and jobless men whom no-one would ask about for a long time if they disappeared.

What to do with the bodies? of which there were eight. We ruled out just leaving them, because this place might well be the home of yet more men, from whom the American Dream had escaped. They might, on encountering the bodies of their comrades, become upset and tell the police. We therefore loaded the bodies into our SUV, which I drove back on to the highway.

At this point I’ll conclude this posting because writing about this incident has revived my anger at our being forced to kill even more men than the ones we’d already killed. It had made the case against us worse should the police ever catch us. These eight men, plus the eight to ten men we’d killed at Jimmy’s house, meant we’d killed between sixteen and eighteen American men in the couple of days since I’d arrived at Dallas Airport from London’s Heathrow.

I’ll speak more next time.

This entry was posted in Writing.

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