A Perfect Crime

My lawyer fought tooth and nail (and very expensively) to get the settlement down. We counter-sued her because of her adulatory, only to be shot down by her shark of a lawyer persuading the judge that I had driven her to have affairs through my mental cruelty and neglect of her feelings. Even though the judge was obviously sceptical, I still had to sell the house and pay her legal expenses, although he did decide I should not have to pay alimony. I'm convinced he knew her and her father were lying through their back teeth about her salary when we were together.

Inevitably then, by the time everything was sorted out and paid, I was left with just a few thousand quid to show for all the work on the house I had done, and all the time and effort I had put into our marriage.

I now had nowhere to live- and I still had no fucking idea why she had done what she did...

* * *

A few months after our divorce went through, I had moved to the city and was living in a small, two-bedroomed flat that I was renting. It was okay I suppose, just nowhere near as comfortable as our old house had been. My affair with my ex mother-in-law had continued unabated as we took advantage of the opportunities for her to go to the city 'shopping' and instead spend the afternoon and evening fucking me to a standstill.

I know some of you will think of me as a hypocrite as I continued to fuck another man's wife, yet still condemned my own for shagging around whilst still married to me. Well all I can say in my defence is that my father-in-law fucking deserved it for being such a cunt toward me for as long as he had known me...

I had had no contact whatsoever with Claire since we had walked out of the divorce court. Not a word. Nothing. She too, it would appear, had moved to the city and was living in a penthouse flat she had purchased with the divorce proceedings and help from her father. In a far more up-market area than the one I was living in, there was little chance of our paths ever crossing. She had virtually severed all contact with her mother, too. Gwen told me they had had several major arguments as a family over her treatment of me. Claire and her father on one side, and Gwen alone fighting my corner. Eventually Claire had snapped at her mother telling her to 'mind her own fucking business' and to 'keep her interfering nose out' when it came to her daughter's life.

Inevitably, the atmosphere in her parents house became unbearable whenever Claire would visit and eventually she stopped going as her father took to visiting her at her own flat whenever they wanted to see one another. Gwen just gave up on her daughter. Ignoring her husband whenever he told her anything that had been going on in Claire's life in an attempt to avoid any further arguments about 'his little girl'. She and I settled into an unspoken agreement too- we would never discuss my ex-wife whenever we were together for our sexual shenanigans. That suited me down to the ground I must admit. I didn't really want anything to do with the unfaithful bitch so not even mentioning her was perfect for me.

I have to say, I was full of resentment toward my ex-wife. The lies she had told in our divorce after she had betrayed my love for her; the way she had never offered an explanation about why she had become dissatisfied with our life together; the way she had totally ignored her vow to love and cherish me 'til death us do part when we married in front of all our friends and family- all this greatly contributed to me crossing the thin line between love and hate. As much as anything though- perhaps what hurt more than all- was the look of contemptuous disinterest she gave me when we left the court after our divorce was granted.10 years together as a couple and it obviously meant fuck-all to her.

Some time after our split I had discovered through a friend of a friend of one of my 'nieces' that, months before our separation and divorce, Claire had apparently started going to a well-known pick-up joint in the city: a club where married women were known to go when they were looking for a bit of strange cock. She had been seen there quite a few times when we were still supposedly together, usually with different men but toward the end of our marriage she always appeared to be with the same one. He was reputedly quite a bit older than my wife, rich, very flash, and with a reputation for the darker side of life.

This information of course added to my sense of despair and anger about my marriage, further fanning the flames of the burning feelings of betrayal and hate I had toward the former love of my life. She obviously wanted something completely different from what she was getting from me. Something she felt she needed other men for. I still didn't understand what the 'something' was though...

* * *

The following summer I had reluctantly agreed to join my work colleagues on a night out to celebrate the 21^st birthday of one of them. They had arranged to go on a pub-crawl around the city, and then go on to a nightclub to finish the night off in the hopes of chatting up some girls to round the evening off with a good fuck. I had agreed to go on the pub-crawl, but stated that I would give the nightclub a miss as I already had a 'girl' whenever I wanted and didn't need to chat up any 'fresh pussy' to get myself fucked.

Much to my surprise, I had actually quite enjoyed my night out drinking with my work-mates and left them as they began to make their way into the club, suffering the resulting piss-taking as an 'old git' as they all set off on their drunken stagger. I had a bit of a 'buzz' going myself as I left them at the door and set off on my way in search of a kebab- as is the want of all drunken men in the UK.

As I walked happily down the street, singing away to myself, a car door opened suddenly as I was passing and banged against my hip, causing the door to rebound back and apparently trap the driver's foot in the door-well.

"Oops. Sorry mate." I apologised.

"Watch where you're going you fucking idiot." Came the reply as the door burst open again and a short, stocky middle-aged bloke stood up to confront me.

"OK...OK...My fault. No problem." I again apologised, not wanting any trouble.

"Leave him alone, Karl. He's always been a damn fool." A female voice I instantly recognised rang out from the other side of the car- a Bentley I noticed for the first time.

"You know this cunt?" Karl demanded of her.

"He's my ex-husband." Claire replied, the disgust in her voice quite obvious even to my drunken brain.

"Is he really? Well it's about time he learned a fucking lesson." The man spat, pushing me in the chest and sending me staggering against a shop window.

My training and self-defence instincts subconsciously kicked in and I pushed him forcefully back against his car, hearing a satisfying grunt as he slumped to the floor.

"Fuck off bitch!" I snapped at my furious ex-wife as she ran around to the driver's side of the car and I set off on my way again, her hysterical vitriol ringing in my ears as I walked away from her.

Mumbling a few hundred expletives about 'that fucking bitch' and her new man, I forgot about my kebab and flagged a taxi down, making my way home where I collapsed onto my bed without even getting undressed and immediately fell asleep.

* * *

The following morning I awoke to the sound of loud banging in my head. I slowly realised through my emerging consciousness that it wasn't a brain haemorrhage, or even just a hangover, but instead was some idiot pounding violently on the front door of my flat. Moments later I was confronted by a gang of uniformed police staring down at me as I lay on top of my bed in a semi-conscious haze.

"John Grant? Are you John Grant?" I dimly heard a man in plain clothes address me from the doorway.

I nodded, unable to speak properly due to the fuzz that appeared to have grown on my tongue overnight.

"John Grant, I am arresting you on the suspicion of the murder of Karl Simpson. You do not have to say anything, but whatever you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you. Do you understand?"

My head was scrambled. Who the fuck was Karl Simpson? Murder? What the fuck was going on?

"I...I...What the fuck are you talking about?" I finally managed to get out of my mouth.

I felt myself being dragged to my feet by two burly coppers, my arms roughly pulled around my back as my wrists were secured in steel handcuffs.

"Take him to the station," the voice said, "And be careful with him, he's a dangerous man."

"What the fuck is going on? Dangerous man? What? Who's a dangerous man?" I demanded as I was dragged down the stairs and pushed unceremoniously into the waiting police car, much to the obvious astonishment of my watching neighbours who had been disturbed by all the noise.

I was taken to the local police station where I was formally charged and had my possessions, belt and shoe-laces confiscated before being placed in a cell and the door locked behind me. Shaking my head in disbelief as I massaged my sore wrists, I tried to make sense of what all this was about. Slowly my befuddled brain began to clear sightly, the memory of the previous night gradually coming back. Karl, wasn't that what Claire had called the man who had pushed me? Claire screaming something at me as I walked away from them. It all started coming back.

"Oh Fucking Hell!..." I thought to myself as I put my head in my hands and sat down heavily on the plastic-covered bench...

* * *

Chapter 7

How the hell had this happened? I hadn't hit anyone had I? So how the fuck could I have murdered someone?

The police were not very forthcoming either. They tried to interview me alone at first, pressuring me to 'confess and make it easier on myself'. At least I was alert enough to realise I desperately needed a lawyer, refusing to answer any questions until I had one. Eventually the police left me alone in my cell to wait.

There was no way me or my family were going to have the wherewithal to pay for some fancy-dan defence lawyer, so I was appointed a legal-aid solicitor to act as my defender. Luckily he wasn't just a wet-behind-the-ears newcomer, but a seasoned professional who refused to let me be interviewed until he had found out all the facts, leaving me alone whilst he went to find out all about the charges. When he returned about an hour later, the expression on his face was enough to tell me I was in deep, deep shit..

It appeared that Karl Simpson had, during our alleged fight, banged the back of his head violently against the corner of his car door causing a massive bleed at the rear of his brain. The accidental blow had knocked him unconscious and eventually killed him before any help had arrived.

"Fucking hell... I only pushed him." I protested to my freshly appointed lawyer.

"That's not what the police have been told," he replied, a note of disbelief quite obvious in his tone, "They have a witness who says you caused it all."

"A witness?... Who?... Honestly I just pushed him slightly... Just the once." I protested, feeling sick to my stomach through a combination of the trouble I was obviously in and the raging headache- caused by the previous night's alcohol intake- that was pounding in my brain.

"His companion, the woman who was with him. She alleges that you attacked him without provocation." He stared into my eyes over the top of his glasses, looking for a clue whether I was telling the truth or not, "Are you saying she is lying?" he demanded.

"Lying?... Of course she's FUCKING LYING!..." I yelled, "SHE'S MY FUCKING EX-WIFE...SHE LIES ABOUT ME ALL THE FUCKING TIME!..."

"Oh dear!... Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. And I thought it was just going to be a simple drunken brawl that resulted in a tragic accidental death. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear..."

His words echoed through my befuddled brain as the seriousness of the accusation against me resonated in my confused mind.

"My ex-wife... My fucking bitch ex-wife... I might have known she was the cause of all this shit."

My stomach couldn't take any more. I couldn't hold back any longer. I violently threw up the contents of my churning guts all over the cell floor...

* * *

What made me absolutely realise I was up to my neck in the brown stuff, even more so than anything my solicitor tried to tell me, was when I received a letter from Gwen whilst I was on remand awaiting my trial. In it she told me she would be unable to ever forgive her husband and daughter for what they had done to me and that she would be seeking a divorce from him as soon as she could. She told me she had been to the police and tried to tell them that her daughter's statement that I had ever been violent toward her was just a pack of lies and that I had never in any way threatened or intimidated my wife in all the time we had been together.

Sadly the police had refused to believe her. They had informed her that everything she had told them was only hearsay and that it would be inadmissible as evidence at my trial. They went on to admonish her and tried to make her feel ashamed, telling her that maybe she should be supporting her daughter rather than defending someone who was, after all, only related to her by marriage.

Gwen finished the letter by saying she did in fact feel ashamed. Ashamed of her daughter and husband. She then apologised for not coming to see me. She felt she would be unable to hold herself together if she ever saw me locked up. She also confirmed she would not be at my trial either. Having to watch her daughter doing her best to get me sent down while her husband gloated was something she just would not have the stomach for.

That letter broke my heart...

* * *

Looking back now, I realise I never stood a chance in my trial. Not after my tearful, distraught ex-wife had testified. Testified? What I really mean is lied through her fucking teeth...

She stood up in front of all my family, the judge and jury, all the press, and lied from the start to the finish. She told them she had always been frightened of my violent nature. Had always been worried whenever we had an argument. That was why we had divorced. - Never mentioned the fact she was fucking anyone who happened to have a cock. She went on to say that I had obviously been drunk when I came across her and her boyfriend that fateful night, shouting abuse at both of them as I went to confront her boyfriend. He, of course, had been totally innocent. He'd asked me politely to leave them alone and stop swearing at his girlfriend. She told how he had not known his fiancée was my ex-wife. How he was a placid, calm man who wouldn't harm a fly. - All complete and utter bullshit!...

My barrister tried his best. Tried to convince the jury of my side of the story. Unfortunately, confronted by the sight of that manipulative lying bitch, the 12 good men and women chose to believe her and found me guilty of the lesser charge of manslaughter.

The judge was a different matter entirely. He had completely fallen under the spell of the beautiful, distraught woman in the witness box. Convinced by her that once again I had ruined her life by taking away from her her one true love. In his sentencing statement, the dozy old twat pandered to the watching press, telling them he was determined to make an example of me. Someone who had used his considerable martial-arts skills to cause the death of a significantly older man just because he was with my ex-wife.

He went on to say that, because of my expertise, my hands and feet could be classed as deadly weapons in the eyes of the law and the sentence should be the same as if I had attacked the poor victim with a knife or even a gun. Consequently he felt he had no choice other than to sentence me to the most severe punishment possible under the guidelines of the law, and that I would serve 20 to 30 years imprisonment with a minimum sentence of 20 years.

* * *

My poor mother collapsed, sobbing her heart out as she hugged my father in the public gallery. My poor dad. My strong rock of a father had tears streaming down his face in a display of wrought emotion I had never witnessed from him before. Both my sisters sobbed quietly as they hugged one another. All the while my ex-wife glared unblinkingly at me, a look of revengeful hatred across her face as I was led from the dock to begin the end of my life as I had known it up to then.

That look, that expression of hate, would stay with me for the rest of my days. It would turn my previous adoration of the woman into an obsessive, reciprocal hatred for the one-time love of my life who had now ruined me completely. Ended my hopes of ever finding love again. Ended my dreams of ever having children and a family of my own. I had been a 'nice' man. I was always loving and attentive once I had grown out of my teenage angst. That moment, the moment when I was led away from my sobbing family under the hateful smirk of my ex-wife, that single moment changed me completely. It made me bitter, resentful. I hated her. I hated the law. I hated myself. I hated the whole fucking world...

Chapter 8

I'm not going to pretend otherwise. I was scared shitless when I was first locked up in my cell at a high-security prison somewhere in the wilds of the west country. I had never been incarcerated anywhere before. I had heard the rumours. Heard what happened to 'pretty-boy' lags like me in jail. I knew I could look after myself if I had to, but if I was ganged up on? Who knew what would happen?

My first day in there I met a man who was to remain a friend until his death a few years ago. A habitual criminal called Archie 'Rembrandt' Squires. He was just a few years older than me and I was to share a cell with him. I suppose you could say he took me under his wing, explaining all the do' s and don't s, who was who in the prison, all that sort of crap.

He was, he informed me, the best forger in the country and was only locked up because he'd been grassed up by someone he'd sold a forged work of art to, who had then tried to sell it on at a Sotheby's auction.. Archie was a right laugh. He was relatively small in stature, delicate even, but also one-hundred percent heterosexual. He was just a really smashing bloke who happened to be serving 8 years for making money out of his hobby. He became my best friend when I intervened in an argument that was going on one day when I got back to our cell. A big bullying thug was threatening him for his 'ciggy' allowance, demanding that he hand them over or he'd tear him a new arsehole. I made it quite clear that sort of behaviour toward my cell-mate wouldn't be tolerated and a swift kick to the bollocks further stressed the big man's understanding of the situation. From then on, Archie was my mate, watching my back and letting me know what was going on in the prison that I should know about.

Prisons are not quiet places. All night long someone is either coughing and sneezing, or singing as they try to forget where they are, or even in many cases, crying themselves to sleep. Guards are not quiet people either. Even if they wore rubber-soled boots, they would have their bunches of keys jangling on their belts as they walked the balconies during their constant night-time patrols. Consequently sleep is very difficult in prisons. Especially when you are locked up for the first time in your life. I was no exception. For weeks I suffered from insomnia, laying awake at night, totally unable to get to sleep. Archie would stay awake with me. Talking about anything and everything under the sun as he tried to distract me from the nightmare that my life had become.