Don't worry, it isn't me that does the murders, it's Nigel, my invisible friend. I wouldn't hurt a fly. I like flies.
Nigel is out at the moment so I have the place to myself. Don't laugh: even the invisible have some semblance of life. What does he do when he's out? He walks the streets, where nobody sees him. He catches buses unnoticed, even by the driver who collects his fare. He passes through the park where strollers squint to make out what their dogs are so nervous about. He meets girls, but only the invisible sort.
That's where he is tonight. He met an invisible girl with a name so frail that I'm not sure it even exists. If you stretched a Wendy until it was so thin as to be transparent, that's her name. Invisible Wendy of the doll's house. I bet she has stuffed toys for companions.
No, I haven't met her. He has far more sense than to bring his embarrassments here. "Is that what you really want?" I'd whisper. "Is that all you're fit for?" He would squirm as the latest Wendy arranged herself primly on the sofa and expounded on veganism, or spilled the contents of her handbag and lost her specs while trying clumsily to gather it all up. There would be used tissues that still had some life left in them so couldn't yet be thrown away. There would be a lipstick the same colour as her lips so as not to attract attention. Those are the women of the invisible world.
I have to admit I'm curious about this one. Nigel won't talk about her. Whoever heard of an invisible friend who keeps secrets? When I describe how I picture her, he just says, "if you say so," and clams up. I tell him he's no fun any more and how I could easily train up another invisible friend. He shrugs and says, "go ahead." I feel I've kept up my end of the relationship and now its time for him to acknowledge the effort I've put in.
I'm bored. Nigel might have his faults but at least he's company. I hate being here on my own. Why couldn't he have taken me with him? I wouldn't have got in the way. I could have watched TV while they got on with discussing Jesus or astrology or Sleepless in Seattle, or whatever invisible women like. Nigel has no conversation of his own. He's just an empty vessel into which the Wendys of this world pour their wet ideas. It should be my ideas he's sopping up. He's my invisible friend.
That's it. I'm going to find them. It won't be too hard, he wrote down her address and I'm not above searching his pockets. It's for his own good. "I'm leaving now," I call to him telepathically. "Don't," he replies. He sounds panicky. "I'm coming to rescue you," I reassure him, and shut down the communication channel without waiting for his reply.
In no time I am outside the door. It's locked, but I have skills in that department and seconds later I am in an open living area. I hate to say it but I am impressed. This isn't your typical Wendy house.
I can see I've arrived just in time. The Wendy looks briefly in my direction and for a second I think she's seen me, but she is only coming up for air and quickly resumes her task. I am astonished. She is not just presentable but strikingly attractive. Not only can she see Nigel, but she is willing to do some freelance work on his genital area. Is he paying for it? I can't think of any other explanation.
Nigel has seen me and tries to wave me away. Feeble Nigel, dull Nigel, wet Nigel; invisible Post Office counter clerk; uninteresting and unmemorable and on the verge of ecstasy. And what use will he have for me then? I stand over him and he knows what he must do.
The Wendy looks up at him in surprise as his hands close around her throat, then in fear as his grip tightens. Now she is looking right through Nigel's eyes and into mine. I forgot to mention that I am invisible too, most of the time. Nobody sees me until it's too late.