by Giles Ekins
The so-called medium, Simeon Trynor, who possibly performed the ‘audio manipulation’ refused to comment when contacted by the ‘Gazette’
When contacted by this newspaper, a South Yorkshire Police spokesperson stated only that the allegations of abuse and the ‘message; remain ‘under investigation’
In a statement released by his solicitor, Mr Dennis Jowett declared that he fully expected to be totally exonerated of any wrong-doing in respect of his much-loved daughter Josephine. He further stated that he is considering suing both South Yorkshire Police and Simeon Trynor for defamation of character.
.However, as previously stated by South Yorkshire Police, the allegations against Mr Dennis Jowett remain under investigation.
The ‘Garside Gazette’ remains committed to rooting out the sexual abuse of children wherever it may occur’
Stupid of Simeon Trynor to keep hold of the iPhone, but even so, most folk still believe Dennis Jowett to be a ‘kiddy-fiddler’, despite his protestations, he remains as reviled as ever.
One Hundred Five
The Clusterfuck - Part Seven.
But the story does not end there, for what had already been a tragic tale for Josie and me, it was to take a darker twist (not that what happened to Dennis was a tragedy, you understand, the fat bastard deserved it all, and more)
So, here goes.
The ‘plan’ had worked to perfection, so why afterwards did I go to the Jowett house?
Was it to gloat, to witness their destruction at first hand, or did I have a darker ulterior motive? I ask myself that and have no answer.
The capricious gods roll the dice and you must go wherever they lead you, be it to hell and back.
I remember it as a warm early October Saturday, the sun was out, only a few fluffy clouds marred a perfect blue sky.
I was wearing jeans, well washed and comfortable, white loafers, a white roll neck sweater and my hair tied up in a bunch on the top of my head, perfectly presentable and respectable.
I suppose the truth is that I wanted to see first-hand the devastation I had caused, to see Dennis Jowett on his knees, staring out of the window, wondering why it had all gone so wrong. And I would have the knowledge that it was all down to me, that ‘sort,’ that pathetic little council estate slut to whom you gave no more thought than swatting a fly. I’d know that it was my own very cold dish of revenge that brought him to ruination.
I walked past the house twice, my confidence having ebbed away, before finally plucking up courage. I knocked on the door. It was Joyce Jowett who answered, and I do not think she was pleased to see me.
Any more than I was leased to see her.
‘Oh, it’s you, what do you want?’ Come to gloat over our problems?’
‘No, no, not at all. It’s just that I haven’t seen you for some time and have never been able to tell you how sorry I am about Josie. And I am sorry about …your troubles.’. (yeah, like fuck I am)
‘Well, you best come in, I can’t stand here on the doorstep, there are damned reporters here day and night, badgering us about these dreadful scurrilous newspaper articles.’. As she said this, Joyce peered up and down the garden as if expecting a reporter to leap out of the bushes and accost her.
Joyce led me though into the kitchen, picked a pair of blue rubber gloves and began trimming bits of brown leaf with scissors from a sorry looking plant, possibly a yucca, which stood in the sink in a cream ceramic bowl. I don’t think that depressed plant was any happier about being in that house than I was.
‘As I was saying Mrs Jowett, I do really miss Josie, she was my best friend, my best friend ever and I do miss her terribly. I’m just so, so. sorry she’s gone.’
Even though she was about 5’2” and had no more meat on her than the stalk of that yucca plant, Joyce Jowett always managed to appear as though she was looking down her nose at me. It was always a look that intensely irritated me, looking at me as though I were something unpleasant floating in the toilet bowl.
‘You know Charlie, I never did understand what Josie saw in you, I mean look at you, what could you possibly have in common?’
‘Friendship. Or perhaps like you, she just needed somebody to look down on, to cover up her own inadequacies.’ I was determined that I was not going to let her get the better of me.
‘Don’t be impertinent, mind your manners, or don’t your sort have any, manners that is.’
There they were again, those hateful words, ‘your sort’
‘Doesn’t say much for your manners, does it, speaking to me like that, as if I were some wretched servant girl. Is that how you spoke to Josie?’ I retorted, ‘No wonder she left home.’
I’d obviously struck a nerve as Joyce attacked that poor plant angrily, sniping at those leaves as though it were my tongue she was mutilating.
‘No, it was your malign influence, all the drugs and promiscuity you led her into. You’re nothing but common filth, always were, always will be.’
I was extremely angry now.
‘You want to know the real reason Josie left? The real reason? Do you? Damien raped her, that’s why and he abused her for years before that. That’s why,’ I shouted at her. ‘And do you know something else, Dennis raped me, your precious fucking Dennis and Damien are rapists, Mrs Jowett. Rapists!’ I spat out those words with all the fury I could muster.
‘You little lying slut, how dare you say that, you foul-mouthed guttersnipe,’ and she flew at me, scissors in hand.
What happened next is a red blur. The mists of anger took over, all those years of sneering at me, the subtle put downs, the snobbery and inverted class-warfare, the veiled insults, ‘your sort’, guttersnipe and many more as the memories of the rape flooded through me in a fiery inferno.
I reached out, my hands were round her scrawny neck, I was so imbued with angry strength I could have strangled a gorilla that day. Within what seemed like seconds she hung limp and lifeless in my hands. Her death was so quick, I wonder, whilst strangling her, did I constrict the vagus nerve near the carotid artery, since doing so can lead to almost instantaneous cardiac arrest? Maybe! The autopsy will tell, but I do know that strangulation probably broke her hyoid bone,
Panting heavily, I slowly lowered her to the floor.
‘Shit, shit, shit, fuck, shit.’
I swear, I swear I did not intend to kill her. But now the deed was done, it became inevitable that Dennis must now also die. Dennis had to die, and Joyce must take the blame. My clarity of thought was simply amazing. A thousand thoughts fizzed through my brain, lucid and clear. I knew immediately the actions I now had to take.
I had to make it appear as though Joyce had murdered Dennis in a fit of rage and then hanged herself in remorse.
Simple
The garage in the Jowett house can be accessed directly through a door in the kitchen. I picked Joyce up, she weighed not much more than a damp dishcloth (if she ate more than two pieces of lettuce and half a tomato at a meal, she thought she was pigging out) and carried her into the garage and dumped her, that is the right word, dumped her on the floor. I would come back to her later.
In the garage I found a packet of blue nitrile decorating gloves, I pulled on a pair and put a spare pair in the pocket of my jeans. Looking around the obsessively neat garage, I took a hammer with a black rubber grip down from a rack and then cut a long length of green nylon rope from a coil hanging on a hook. A four-step aluminium ladder stood in one corner and so my plans were complete. Joyce Jowett was going to conveniently hang herself.
Now for Dennis Jowett.
One Hundred Six
Dennis ‘the Rapist’ Jowett was a creature, a creature of habit.
Every Saturday morning he walked down to his local shops, about half a mile away. There he would buy a loaf of artisan bread at the bakery, a crusty cob loaf only sold on a Saturday and six slices of locally cured ham for the Jarrett’s lunch.
Then he stopped at the newsagent and buy the ‘Daily Mail’ and his lottery tic
kets for the week and walked back home again. It was the only exercise he ever took and was out of the house for about an hour, usually arriving back home about 10.30.
As for Damien, he was also predictable. He usually spent Saturday morning mooching around town with his mates and if Garside United were playing at home, he always went straight to the match. God knows why, if you look up ‘footballing ineptitude’ in a dictionary you would see a photo of the current Garside team Previous sides were no better, if not worse.
Garside were playing at home which is where Damien would be, so, I had the house to myself for an hour or so.
I went upstairs to Damien’s bedroom.
Another part of the plan was to implicate him in the murder plot. Of course, he would have an alibi, being at the football match, but it could cause him considerable embarrassment to be interrogated about the killings, preferably with thumbscrews and a hot iron.
From his wardrobe I took out two hooded sweatshirts one black, one grey. He had about half a dozen of them, all he ever seemed to wear. I stripped off my own top and put on the grey sweat. I also put on a pair of his jeans, they were slightly too long and wider round the waist, but I threaded one of Dennis’ silk ties through the belt loops and fastened it around my waist. They were still loose but would have to do.
Preparations in place. all I could do now was wait for Dennis to return. I laid on the bed and closed my eyes but however tightly I squeezed them shut, imprinted on the back of my eyelids was the image of Joyce Jowett and her bulging tongue and eyes as I strangled the life out of her.
Not a pretty image and one that would live with me for many days.
I heard the front door open and close and I tensed up, my heart beating furiously, the black handled hammer clutched to my chest.
‘Joyce?’ Dennis called. ‘Joyce?’ he called again and presuming that she must have gone out, he went into the kitchen. I heard him fill the kettle and make himself a cup of tea. The chair legs scraped on the kitchen floor as he pulled it back to sit down. As I crept down the stairs in my stockinged feet. I could hear the rustle of paper as he opened the ‘Mail’.
He was seated at the table with his back to me, head bent down to read the paper spread out across the table. He had a mug of tea in one hand.
Slowly, slowly, I crept along the carpeted hallway, my heart still pounding, pounding so loudly I was convinced he must hear it. I controlled my breathing, and with that, my heart also slowed, my resolve steely and assured.
I was at the kitchen door, he was three feet in front of me. Another step closer and it reminded me of the children’s game, ‘what’s the time Mr Wolf? You creep up as close as possible behind the child playing the ‘wolf.’ ‘What’s the time Mr Wolf?’ you ask, and if you were close enough and he/she was quick enough, they would catch you, ‘dinner time’ was the answer.
‘What’s the time Mr Rapist?’
He must have heard me at last, he half turned towards me, ‘Charlie!’ he said in surprise, ‘what are…?’ and in that moment I could see his piggy eyes, remember the stink of his toxic-scotch-soaked breath and his heavy panting as he agonisingly thrust himself into me and the months of pent-up fury and shame swept through me, white-hot, without reason, demanding only to smash in his hated leering face. How many times I hit him with the hammer I don’t know. Ten fifteen, twenty, a hundred? Even so, I was clear-minded enough to remember that both Joyce and Damien were left-handed, whilst I am right-handed, so, as always intended, I held the hammer in both hands to strike at the left side of Dennis’s head.
He lay slumped across the table, his blood oozing over the newspaper spreading in streams as it flowed to the table edge and dripped to the floor.
Charlie McBain you are now, officially, a double murderer.
I swiftly stripped off the blood-spattered hoodie and jeans, putting them into a blue plastic bin bag. I then ran upstairs, showered to get all the thickening gore out of my hair and from my face and dressed again in my own clothes.
Back into the garage.
One Hundred Seven
The first thing I did was to wrap Joyce’s dead hand around the handle of the hammer, carried it back to the kitchen and holding it gently by finger and thumb tossed it back onto the kitchen table, close by his outstretched right hand. Not that I thought anybody would think he had battered himself to death.
Next, I took the length of green nylon rope, fastened a slip knot in one end, placed it over Joyce’s head and tightened about her chicken-skin neck.
The other end of the rope went over a joist in the roof of the garage and I hauled her up. Despite how bodily light she was, it was incredibly difficult to lift her dead-weight up and in place, swinging gently from the beam. The other end of the rope I tied off on the joist.
The next task was to fetch the aluminium ladder, open it up and then kick it aside to lie sideways on the floor, as if she had kicked it over when she hanged herself.
All was now nearly done.
As I made my way back into the kitchen, getting ready to leave by the back door, another thought occurred to me. I would set a classic murder scene mystery. A Sherlock Holmes type mystery
All the keys to the doors to the murder scene, in this case the garage, locked inside, the garage.
I liked the idea. (see, my time spent reading all those crime novels had not gone to waste)
I put on the other sweatshirt, the black one, picked up the bin bag with the bloody clothes and carried it with me, since once I left the house, I would not be able to get back inside. Leaving a bag full of bloody clothes next to the murder victim is just too obviously a plant, don’t you think?
Talking of a plant. (not that poor depressed yucca) I saw Damien’s mobile on the kitchen side, plugged into a charger. I wiped some of Dennis’s blood across it and then wiped it with a piece of kitchen roll, putting the blood-stained paper in the bag with the clothes, I knew forensics would find those blood traces.
I locked the front door, back doors and the door to the garage in the kitchen and took all the keys out of the locks. Finding the remote to the garage door in the carved Canadian Indian bowl on the console, I opened the garage and after checking that the coast was clear, walked, walked not ran, into the garage. I put all the door keys into her apron pocket and then clicked the remote, putting that into the apron pocket as well and ran out of the garage, ducking under the descending door.
I then made my way through the side gate into the garden. Dennis had grown a yew hedge which curved up over a wicket gate with a semi-circular top at the bottom of the garden. The gate led out on to the open paddock and then some fifty yards further away, Westwick Woods. With the hood up and taking long strides so that any observer might think me a man (perish the thought), specifically they would think it to be Damien carrying a blue bin bag.
Which was then hidden, not very well, under a bush. Any search of the woods would very easily find that bag with Damien’s bloody clothes. Talk your way out of that one, you bastard.
I made my way down the woods and through the cast iron gate on Ashgrove Street.
Job done, satisfaction guaranteed all round. Apart of course, for the Jowett’s, who Joyce aside, had got their just deserts.
Two days later, having made sure that there were no identifying marks, I donated Damien’s black hoodie sweatshirt to the Garside Cat Shelter charity shop on Moorgate.
I hope the cats appreciated it.
One Hundred Eight
‘It’s all bollocks of course’, said Chloe Macbeth, aka Annoying Mouse. She had just finished reading her short story, ‘From Beyond the Grave’, to Jeremy in another of her imagined conversations.
‘Actually, ‘she continued, it’s a lot longer than I intended, near on 30,000 words, more like a novella than a short story.’
Jeremy nodded sagely, it’s very good, though.’ he said, ‘even if it is all bollocks’
‘Well, let’s just say it’s bollocks with a hard core of truth’
‘So, what
is the truth of it? Jeremy asked, beady eyes staring up at Chloe.
‘The truth is what you want it to be.’
‘Now that is bollocks.’ snorted Jeremy
‘Yes, you’re right as usual, The truth? Obviously, the truth is that Charlie McBain is me and the Jowett’s are Donald, Janet, David and Julia Jarrett.’
‘That’s obvious, so don’t patronise me.’
‘Sorry. The truth? The truth is that David Jarrett did abuse both Julia and me and that he did rape Julia and her life turned shit.
Donald Jarrett did rape me as described and afterwards my life also turned to shit, just like Julia’s. Julia did drop out of school, but what happened to her before she died of the overdose, I don’t know, so that bit is fiction, I just tried to imagine what her life might have been like.
I was assaulted and groped in the ‘Fox and Duck’ as described, and reacted by glassing Kevin Leeds in the face, for which I did time. I was in prison when the news of Julia’s overdose reached me, and it was then I began to conceive the Plan.
In the story, the scene where the ‘message from beyond the grave’ illusion is explained to the police, that is purely fictional and never happened. Nobody apart from the spiritualist, Sebastian Serrano, and myself know the secret.
‘And me’, interrupted Jeremy, ‘I know now’
‘True, but you’re going to tell anybody, are you? If you do, I’ll pull your stuffing out, piece by piece by piece.
Donald Jarrett was accused of the molestation of his daughter and suffered for it by public ignominy and humiliation which he truly deserved as a rapist.
It is also true that I did murder Janet and Donald Jarrett, exactly as described, and that I did frame David Jarrett for the crime. As it turned out, that when he was arrested and charged with their murders, he could offer no alibi and those bloody clothes and mobile did for him. He was convicted of murder, which in a way is poetic justice, for he had killed Julia just as surely if he had been the one who pumped that uncut heroin into her arm. I feel no guilt for that, the trouble is, the bastard has been granted leave to appeal his conviction. The shit could really hit the fan if that happens.
