Human Remains

the depressed, the suicidal? None at all. And now they want some sort of justice. I despair of this country and the depths to which it has sunk.
    As part of the preparation for the court case, they arranged for a psychological evaluation of me, which was most entertaining. In fact it remains so because the process seems to be never-ending – once one of them has finished with me, they send someone else, so I am clearly an intriguing case for them. Are they trying to decide if I’m sane?
    After a particularly interesting discussion with one of the psychologists regarding guilt and blame, I wrote to Audrey to apologise formally. What happened with her was a dreadful misunderstanding, of course, and I do regret it deeply. Whether they passed the letter on is a matter for them.
    Vaughn, on the other hand, can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. I have no desire for further communication with him.
    I sometimes think about all the others – and there are still more – who remain in peace at home. I think about what might be left. I have wondered about Leah, too – where she might be now and whether she has continued down her path without my encouragement. I had thought her still unsure, but who knows what has happened to her and her unfortunate married lover since then. If she has turned back from that particular Underworld, followed the path behind her apathetic Orpheus back to life, it may be that she has memories of our meeting and may come forward. Would she speak for me, I wonder, or against me? It all depends on her frame of mind. They all know I did nothing of harm to them. They all know I was on their side.
    There has been no mention of the images and my accompanying notes, and I presume from this that they remain safely hidden. I have no doubt that if they came to light it would prejudice my trial, if it ever takes place, even though they show nothing other than decay. There is no further crime they could charge me with, but if the prosecution showed the pictures in court I can imagine the jury would take it the wrong way. Without them, it may be possible that this whole sorry farce will result in a very brief custodial sentence, probably a suspended one in recognition of time spent on remand.
    I could be free quite soon, in fact.
    I’ve asked for books to be brought from home, but instead they limit me to the library here, which is insufficient for my needs but, as they say, better than nothing. However, unfortunately several of the requests I have submitted have been declined without reason. It’s enough to make me wish they would hurry up and convict me of whatever it is they think I’ve done, just so that I can get back to studying something more interesting than the state of the canteen assistants’ fingernails and the endless pile of letters I’ve been receiving, including some from women who suddenly, and ironically, seem to find me irresistible. I re-read these for my own amusement, since there is precious little else to do. Sometimes I correct the spelling and grammar – ‘you didn’t need to do them things you done, you could of had me’ – dear God, I ask you – and sometimes I spend a while picturing the females who take the time to write to me. Easier, of course, when they have enclosed a photograph. One last week was even wearing a bikini, but that was unfortunate and with the best will in the world the sight of her was not enough to provoke even a flicker of arousal.
    There is one, however…
    Her name is Nancy Heppelthwaite and she is twenty-nine years old. She studied at Oxford and enjoys art, music and literature. She paints. She dances, sometimes, but she has never met anyone she likes to dance with. She has yet to send a photograph even though I have replied and requested one – but in a way I’m glad she remains faceless, as I can impose any number of wonderful thoughts upon her, in those restless hours after lights-out when all you can hear are the shouts and moans of the insane ones who shouldn’t be on remand at all, the sobs of the lonely and the homesick, and the grunts of all the others like me who fill the dark hours with harmless acts of self-abuse. They use posters ripped from the pages of
Nuts
and
FHM
, or disturbing pictures of their wives in their underwear. I use Nancy’s letter.
    Ahead of me lie several paths, and, although limited by the restrictions of the British Criminal Justice System (may it rest in peace), I can still choose my own destiny. I want –