Stupid little slapper. Chose the wrong pub that night; slighted the wrong man that night. Didn't she know that it always pays to be polite? Shouldn't have dressed like a slut; putting it all on display. Shouldn't have flaunted and fluttered, giving out all the signals.

It made his blood boil, he said, when she laughed at me, spurned my offer of a drink and whispered behind her hands to her friends. After all the effort I'd gone to, he said. First time since Mother died, since she fell ill, that I had come out to play.

He hadn't liked Mother either. It was his idea to hook up her oxygen mask to the gas pipe.

I'd splashed some old aftershave all over my jacket, there's a bit of a stench building up in the cottage, and driven Mother's old Morris Minor into town.

Took me ages to get the nerve to speak to this girl at the bar. Blonde, she was, with the shortest skirt I'd ever seen. Of course, he would have done a better job. He was always the confident one but he said tonight was my night. Tonight it was Tommy's turn to pull.

She wrinkled her nose when I talked to her. Said she had to go, had a taxi waiting. She sniggered with her mates then marched straight past me, holding her nose.
He was furious. Made me follow her. Teach her some manners, he said.

She'd lied about the taxi. She was about fifty yards up the road and walking fast. He told me, if you run down this alley here and sprint up the next road you can cut her off at the crossroads. He'd chuckled at that. Like he'd made a good joke. I asked him what he meant and he told me I should know the drill by now.

The police got there bloody quick. I was still trying to get the manhole cover up. Apparently her mates thought I looked dodgy and called them when I left the pub. Of course, he'd scarpered before they got there. He has this knack of getting us into trouble then leaving me to try and get out of it.

Stupid little slapper. If only she had been polite. He wouldn't have got mad and I wouldn't be banged up in this cell, awaiting psychiatric reports.