THE COLOUR OF EVIL

THE COLOUR OF EVIL.

           The woman over the road was painting her door green. Crouched down on her haunches, her buttocks stretched tight in the white fabric of her jeans, she was totally unaware I was spying on her. It’s surprising how much I can see without being seen through this little hole I’ve snipped in the curtain.

She's not bad looking, the woman over the road; old enough to know what’s what, with a bit of experience, exactly my type. Just watching her starts the adrenalin fizzing.

 She always wears stretch jeans. Today’s are cut real low and show off her bum when she bends down. And that skimpy cropped top rides up when she stretches. That’s to encourage chaps like me to look at her boobs. The way she dresses is a clear invitation to anybody to try it on.

 Still it isn’t her clothes winding me up this morning, it’s the paint.

 It isn't that I dislike green generally, but this is exactly the same green as institutional walls. They used to be like that in the clinic. Nowadays they're pastel with pictures of rivers and fields everywhere.  Somebody told me they're supposed to calm the patients, but they don't calm me down.

 Their insistence that I carry on visiting that psychiatrist every month riles me. They know I'm cured. I wouldn't hurt a fly now, not with the new tablets they give me. And I make sure I take them every day…. well, almost.

The woman over the road stands up and stretches her arms above her head, flicks her long hair across her neck. A groan vibrates my lips. I'm a bum man myself, but her boobs aren't bad either. Size 38 I wouldn't wonder. A real nice handful. I wonder what she weighs. She's not so tall so I'd guess at around eight and a half stone same as Sandra.  Her hair alone would add a pound or two.

 I like women with a lot of hair. Hers is dark, almost black, and looks to me as if she ought to get a brush to it.  It’s the way those little stray bits hang over her ears. What do they call them? Ringlets? That sounds a bit old fashioned to me and she’s certainly not that. Bet she's a real goer on the quiet, Not like the rest of 'em in this street. .Miserable old gits all of 'em. None of 'em even pass the time of day with me. Makes me angry that does.

Lunchtime, the woman over the road goes indoors. They brought my meals-on-wheels earlier and checked if I'd taken my pills. I told them I had and didn't let on I'd chucked them down the toilet. It gets on my wick the way they're always checking up on me.

 The woman across the road has finished painting her door. It doesn't look bad, but the colour's driving me bonkers.

 Couldn't eat the grub, I hate fish. Instead I had a whisky, well two to be honest. Or was it three?  The social worker never thinks to look behind the cleaning stuff under the sink when he's searching for it. I know I'm drinking a bit too much. But what the heck. Not many other pleasures in life these days. Not since Sandra…..

She was a bit of all right, Sandra. Always smelled lovely, though it was her hair that turned me on. She had plenty as well, but hers was blonde. Still she shouldn't have argued with me about the tele. She knew I liked to watch the wrestling and it didn't get me all riled up like she said. She was better than most of the people the service employs though. I really miss her. Good job she had no relations in this part of the world. 

Half-past two now. The woman across the road has a visitor. Actually she seems to have a lot of visitors. All male.  Wouldn't surprise me if she isn't on the game. She looks fit for it. Flaunting herself around. Last night I saw her in her bedroom through a crack in her curtains, almost naked she was. Wearing nothing but her knickers. She's the sort that could get a man into trouble

Pity I didn't have my camera to hand. I'll make sure I have it tonight. Those pictures I got last week of that couple having sex in the park are great, but I'd really like some of her. Wonder if she is on the game. Perhaps I'll have a nibble myself if she is. Probably a bit out of my bracket though. Those chaps visiting look pretty well heeled, smart cars and all that. Look, there's another. Never seen him before.

Now that car's something. Just look at it!  I’d like it if it wasn't green. Green as her bloody door. What's the matter with these folks. Enough to turn a man to drink.

Nine o'clock. I really shouldn't have had those whiskies instead of supper. My head feels like there’s hammers in it. The noise is deafening.

 Damn, it’s not my head, there’s somebody at the door. Who'd it be at this time of night? Nobody due and I didn't forget to go and sign in.

At the door two blokes. Even without uniforms I'd recognise them as coppers. They flash their cards at me as if they needed to.

'Just a few questions, Mr Benton, if you don't mind.'

 Did I have any option? I thought of Sandra and my legs turned to jelly.

The taller of the two walked straight into the living room ahead of the shorter, plumper chap. His gaze scanned everything like a submarine’s telescope, no doubt taking in the whisky bottle still on the table.

'You live here alone, I believe; Mr. Benton.'

.'S'right. All alone. Ever since I got out...'.I stopped. Stupid. I didn't need to tell him that if he didn't know already.

  'Yes. We have your history. But really all we want to know is whether you saw anything untoward this evening. Any strange comings or goings, for instance.'

  'Strange? What's happened? It's her isn't it? The tart across the road. The one that's painted her door green. No surprise if somebody's topped her.'

  'Why do you say that? Certainly nobody could call her a tart. She's a well renowned author, writes mystery novels. And nobody has topped her, as you put it. The problem is somebody tried to break into her house whilst she was out. We wondered, with you being directly opposite, if you might have seen anything.'

  Dropped a clanger there didn't I? Best get them away from the idea of anybody topping anybody.

  ''Well, as a matter of fact I did happen to see somebody visiting her earlier. Not that I’m in the habit of spying on her, of course.'

   'Of course not Mr Benton. What was it you saw?'

   'An expensive car. Bentley I think it was? A horrible green colour. Round about half two.'

  'Ah, that'd be her agent. Already accounted for. If that’s all you can recall we'll be off.'

It came to me in a flash that here was an opportunity too good to miss. The image of her bum straining against the fabric of her jeans floated at the back of my eyes. If I helped them a bit they'd feel I had nothing to hide and leave. I could then go over and commiserate with the woman. Just the introduction I needed.

   ‘Well. There was something a bit strange, but probably it’s nothing important. There was a young lad hanging about her house last week, on a motor-bike, in leathers and a helmet. He could have been casing the joint I suppose.’ Damn it, wrong choice of words.

     'Er, I mean watching the house.'

     ‘Watching the house? You mean loitering with intent? How long was he there? Was it during the daytime? What time was it? Why didn't you report it at the time?'

     The barrage of questions confused me, got on my nerves, made me feel like I did when I was interrogated last time. I bet he already knew all about that. Probably he imagined I'd tried to pinch her knickers. The effect of the whisky was beginning to wear off. I eyed the bottle.

     ''A lot of questions, detective. Need to sit down and consider a bit before I answer. Would you fancy a glass?' I nodded at the bottle.

    'Not whilst I'm on duty, thank you. Tell me exactly where were you when you saw this motor cyclist and when was it?'

    'Er….Thursday I think, or was it Friday? Fairly late in the evening.'  I'd best remember what I was inventing here. For later, just in case. The other chap had his notebook ready now.

    'And were you in this room or outside?'

    ‘Neither, as a matter of fact, I was upstairs. Getting ready to go to the pub.'

    'Ah! I thought you had to remain indoors after nine' o'clock. Rules of your release and all that.'

    'Yes. Well. Er. Not getting ready to go to the pub. Getting ready to go to bed was what I meant.'

    Disbelief tinged his reply. 'I see. And just where was this motor-cyclist.'

    'Parked right there. Across the road. Just below her window. He'd be able to see her getting undressed.  If she was getting undressed, of course. I don't know that.'

    'Obviously.' he said. 'Let's have a look shall we?’

     'What? Upstairs?'

     'That's right. You don't need to come up. You stay here with my colleague.'

      'But.....'

      'No problem. Won't touch a thing. I just need to confirm for myself exactly where you say you saw this bike.'

      No Problem! My trembling legs finally gave out and I flopped into a chair. Prison walls greener than the woman’s door seemed to be closing in on me. This time I'd go down for a long, long time - forever probably.

 Problem was Sandra. She was on the bed upstairs, her yellow hair spread, her throat gaping where I'd sliced it. She doesn’t smell nice now either.

 Everything would have been okay if she'd stopped nagging me about the wrestling. And if these coppers hadn't arrived until tomorrow. By then Sandra’d have been buried in the cellar as planned.

And anyway it was all the fault of that woman and her green door.