Postaday 2011: Perfect Crime
My crime would be perfect. Absolutely perfect. You see, the flaw with all crime is that no matter how well planned, no matter how carefully executed, there is always a link: a motive – a reason the crime is committed. But not for me. I have no victim in mind; no revenge or hate: just the idea of the perfect crime.
So my plan is this.
I’ll get in my car at dusk and I’ll drive. I’ll drive at random, deciding where to go, as I go. Wherever I get to, I’ll buy a ticket to a place I’ve never heard of. I’ll walk for miles under cover of darkness. And when I’m safe, I’ll make my move.
I’m in the country now, breathing damp night air, my breath visible against the darkness. My fingers brush the rough wood of the shed as I peer round to see the house. Squares of orange light shine onto the garden. There’s a family inside. I can see a woman. She looks about forty. There must be two or three children but, standing on my tiptoes, I can only see the tops of their heads as they play around. I can hear their happy squealing, and her voice. She sounds calm. Happy and calm. Perfect.
No one could have a motive for killing her. A loving mother. Perfect.
You wait. You wait until it’s dark. You wait until it’s dark and it’s silent. You silently walk to the door and push it open.
Step after step you come closer. Closer to perfection. You enter the room, hear her sighs as she sleeps. You take the pillow and push – push as hard as you can – until she stops struggling. Then you smile and breathe easily and begin to retrace your steps to go home again, knowing it’s done.
As I am leaving the house, I hear a scrunch of gravel as a car swings into the drive. I hide in the bushes by the side of the house, my heart pounding.
Wait a minute, that’s MY car, well it’s my OTHER car, my HUSBAND’s car! My husband is here! How can he know?
I hear the soft click as he locks the car. In the flash of the indicators I see his figure silhouetted against the house. I just don’t know how he found out where I was going! I hadn’t even known.
He fumbles in his pocket as if he is searching for a key. He approaches the front door. The porch light illuminates his features. He smiles and unlocks the door. It opens inwards. He steps in and snaps on the light. The door shuts and I am left here, distant, shaking in the night air.
There are things I do not know. I have choices to make. There are truths I could learn and possibilities I don’t even want to imagine. Seconds pass.
A wail of lonely grief echoes in despair through the house and through the garden. He has found her.
I take my key for his car out of my pocket and make my way across the drive, incensed with his secret unfaithfulness. I make my decision.
I’ll drive straight home and wait there for my husband.
It wasn’t as I had planned.
But I think it was perfect, don’t you?