Slaughter of the Innocent

There are many forms of escapism-for me, they are: reading, writing and single malts! Indeed, escapism is a necessity of modern living for many of us and its forms may be many...However, watching the Dexter series and The Walking Dead are worryingly two  other forms I indulge in and thus I'm concerned that these choices somehow relate to a hidden personal philosophy of mine; If you don't know, I guess that the basic premise of these series boils down to this...It's ok to kill another thing if A: You are about to be eaten by someone who resembles a Jeremy Kyle contestant with the brain capacity of pond slime, or B: If an evil person continually harms the innocent without consequence then an alternative form of justice must come into force. 

Yes, so far, I'm leaning towards an agreed philosophy, though, who, and how, should justice and evil be defined? (Comments below please)

So, let us say that a wide consensus is agreed, we are clear on the term EVIL and this is the premise by which I choose to live my life, then how far, in-fact, would I go?

Well, let's test this premise using the first pond-slimed weasel that pops into my head- Ah yes...Michael Gove-yet to appear on Jeremy Kyle but mixing with pond-life nonetheless. Together with his posse of public school boy buddies they have decided that year 6 children (that's 11 year olds) should sit a grammar test which includes: identifying a passive, impassive voice within a text, and identifying main and subordinate clauses within sentences. 

Can we agree that this is evil ?

Will we see children turning away from literature, or will we see them queuing into the early hours for the next Harry Potteresque book whilst discussing the texts inadequate use of the impassive, and the lack of subordinates! I for one never read or write with these elements in the forefront of my mind (Could this be why I'm not a successful author on The Booker Prize list?!). Surely we should be nurturing the joy in the written word before teaching them to tear each sentence apart and analyse all its parts.

So, what do you think? 

Gove's posse, furthermore, have also suggested that all primary school children should learn, not just 1 foreign language (most schools I know of already teach 2) but also latin and greek- I say Mr Gove, 'Repere retro sub rupe a qua vos concepti sunt' or 'σέρνεται πίσω κάτω από τον βράχο από τον οποίο σχεδιάστηκαν' (Google told me that this means 'crawl back under the rock -guess it should say 'public school'-below which you were conceived'). 

So, as you can see, Gove indeed comes under the category of  'a bad man' doing harm to innocents, but the question now remains of how to deal with him? A punishment equivalent to the crime...hmm...If anyone has any suggestions please let me know below!

Anyway, I promised not to vent my spleen and I have broken that promise, so back to the celebration of the group's achievements! Below you will see that I have pasted Bob's amazing story which came second in the Norwich Theatre's ghost story competition. Well done again, Bob.

(Please comment at the end of the post-it isn't obvious where the link is but, if you move the mouse over it, it should highlight the link). 

Bob also wrote a brilliantly intelligent and witty review of  Alan Ayckbourn's 'Haunting Julia'. Hopefully Bob will post this up very soon!

Happy reading!!

NON-COMMITTAL

Margot sent me to cover the funeral. It seemed a bit pointless to me – what was going to happen at his funeral, after all, that could add anything to his life story? But a job’s a job, so I looked out a suitably sombre dress and put on black tights, even though the temperature outside was somewhere in the high twenties. I was a little early, which would give me time to observe the mourners as they arrived. 

An usher intercepted me in the foyer of the crematorium. He had a clipboard and a reverential smile. Was I family? I told him I wasn’t. I was handed an order of service and accompanied to a seat. Even though it was early, the chapel was already half full, which meant that it was also half empty, so why did the usher almost sit me on the knee of the single occupant of one of the rear rows? I made a show of settling myself. Should I pretend to pray? I decided not to be hypocritical, modestly tugged my dress towards my knees, and tried to look reflective. Mourners kept arriving, but no-one else was directed to our row. Was it reserved for unwanted guests? I sneaked a look at the man next to me. He was of middle years, dark-suited, with a startlingly colourful tie. He must have noticed my scrutiny, because he turned and flashed me what could only be described as a cheeky grin. I looked away, but the contact had been made.

“Good turn out.” he said, in a husky whisper, still grinning.

“Yes,” I whispered back, not grinning. He looked away, his eyes roving the room as though trying to see someone in particular. Perhaps he was. In my head, I began to cast my piece for tomorrow, rehearsing an opening sentence: “A large lottery win did not bring good luck to local man, Simon Farnsfield. Less than six months from cashing in his winning ticket for twenty-five million pounds, Simon’s life was tragically ended by a freak accident…” Was falling drunk into the swimming pool of his new mansion a freak accident? Perhaps tragic accident would be better?

“Friend of the family?” came the husky voice beside me, cutting short my deliberations.

“Something like that,” I mumbled.

“Only I don’t recognise you.”  Why was I embarrassed to admit to being a reporter? I decided to shift the focus from myself. If he wanted to chat, I might pick up some inside information.

“Did you know him well?” I ventured.

“Pretty well.”

“An old friend?”

“Old as they come.” His tone, even though muted, was jaunty. I noticed he was still grinning, not quite your traditional mourner.

“Were you at school together?”

“Indeed we were.” This was a stroke of luck. My fingers itched to get out my voice-recorder.

“Had you kept in touch?” (This as close as I dared get to “Did you look him up again when you heard of his lottery win?”) He crossed the first fingers of his right hand in a gesture appropriately reminiscent of the National Lottery logo itself.

“We were like that.”

“His death must have come as a terrible shock?”

“It certainly did. What a prat!”

“I’m sorry?”

“Could have seen it coming. Should have seen it coming.” I almost put my hand up to my nose to stop it twitching: it was detecting the first raw, tantalising scent of a story.

“How do you mean?” I prompted. “He should have seen what coming?”

“Murder, of course.”  

This was a wind-up, wasn’t it? He knew I was a reporter. He was feeding me a line. All the same…

“You’re saying he was murdered? It wasn’t an accident?”

“Accident my arse!” A woman two rows in front heard the inappropriate word and stiffened. Arse? At a funeral? Well, really! She looked over her black-clad shoulder and frowned in our direction, positively crackling with disapproval.

“Who murdered him? How do you know?” I hissed. I had to find out more, even at the risk of further expletives. I was sensing career advancement.

“Hannah, of course. The cheating bitch!” Several people looked round this time. 

“Hannah? His wife?” The grin had gone, I noticed. At that moment, precisely on cue, the grieving widow entered, head bowed, faltering steps aided by an older man: grief personified.

“She pushed him into the pool?”

“And the rest. Hard to fight back when you’re sozzled.”

Now the coffin began its slow progress from the rear doors. Everyone fell silent. I dared one last whisper: “How could you possibly know? Weren’t they alone in the place the night it happened?”

“Oh yes,” he said, “It was just the two of us.” And along with my story, he vanished.

Bob Bishop 
October 2012