You Can't Kid a Kidder

Jim had always looked up to his father as a child.
He was, after all, a high-ranking police officer, a man admired and revered by all.
There was never any reason to question his father’s honour, although the way he treated his mother was, in hindsight, appalling. That sort of behaviour was normal in the seventies, he supposed.
Although his father had been bullied at school, (‘One of the worst in Yorkshire’), he was glad to oblige both Jim and his brother with a good education at the local grammar school.
Jim remembered the twice-yearly Spanish holidays as happy times, although the villa where they stayed was always full of very shady characters that all knew his father very well.
‘Why can’t they stay in another house?’ Jim would ask his mother when the men had their parties.
‘It’s their house, Jim. Besides, Dad has to entertain sometimes, darling. That’s his job,’ she’d say back at him, bleary-eyed.
‘But this is our holiday, Mum, and I thought Dad was a policeman,’ he’d say.
‘He is, Jim,’ she’d say, muffling his ears to quash the loud jeers from the living room, wincing for him. The lifestyle and the booze had eaten away her conscience by that time, and she could no sooner tell him the truth than give it all up for him.
As Jim got older, his mother receded further and further into her own world. By the time he left school, she was alcoholic.
After he’d completed his A Levels, Jim was asked to join the force by his father but he timidly declined the invitation.
‘I want to be an artist, Dad. You know I do.’
‘When are you going to grow up, boy? You don’t want to turn out like you Mam, do you?’
Jim felt like punching him in the face but he couldn’t raise his fist. His father sneered at him and walked away.
His brother, Joe, had already joined the force and was working his way up the ladder very quickly.
Jim couldn’t work it out, though. Joe hung around with some very dodgy people in the pub and they were always scamming something or other. Needless to say, they never got into any trouble.
Years passed by and Jim’s mission to become a famous artist faltered after his fiancée called off their engagement and left him for someone else.
When Jim went to visit his mother to tell her the news, she begged him to come home and stay.
‘Just for a while, Jim. I need you,’ she said. It was barely midday and she was already well gone.
He imagined that it wouldn’t be long before she was dead, and accepted. The drink had ravaged her body and mind. Three detox programs and four ten-week breaks at the Priory had done nothing for her willingness to give life a try.
Knowing how much she’d always loved playing with him in the garden, Jim decided to paint a picture of the apple tree they used to sit under together all those years ago, hoping that it might cheer her up.
One afternoon, Jim was painting on the patio when his father and brother came bowling into the house.
Forgetting that Jim was around (they didn’t care about his mother, who’d gone out shopping for once), they were laughing hysterically about something.
‘Did you see the look on Jerry’s face when he realised it was us!’ Joe shouted.
‘He almost shat himself when I told him what we’d do if he squealed!’ his father said.
They got themselves a drink from the cabinet and sank in to the sofa.
Without delay, Jim walked around the house to the front door, let himself in quietly and found a packed holdall in the hallway. After picking out an item from the holdall, he walked back out of the front door and returned to where he’d stood when they walked in. They were still sat on the sofa, chuckling to themselves with the effects of the whiskey.
‘Call Dave and tell him to get over here sharpish,’ his father said. ‘And don’t say anything you don’t need to.’
Joe nodded and went to pick up the home phone, smiling.
As he waited for an answer, he suddenly saw Jim standing at his easel on the patio. His smile slid down his cheeks and his face turned white.
Putting down the phone, he walked slowly over to his father and gestured for him to look towards the patio doors.
When his father turned and saw Jim standing there, with a brush still in his hand, his initial reaction was one of horror. His face juddered for a second, but he was quick to right his facial expression.
‘Hello, Jim,’ he said, tritely aligning his voice to sound even.
Jim said nothing.
Joe had other ideas, stomping aggressively across the room and through the patio doors to within a metre of Jim.
‘What did you hear?’ he whispered with intent, glaring at him with wild, reddened eyes.
Jim said nothing, and turned to walk away into the garden.
‘Don’t walk away from me!’ shouted Joe, kicking his easel and causing the painting to fall into a flowerbed.
His father’s hand came to rest on Joe’s shoulder. He squeezed tightly.
‘Let him be,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll talk to him later.’
His father did talk to Jim, later in the week.
By this time, news had filtered through of a well-planned robbery at a jeweller’s shop in town. The local radio station reported that the police already had leads but without CCTV images of the crime, no arrests had been forthcoming as yet.
‘I suppose you’ll be questioning all known criminals in the area for possible suspects, won’t you, Dad,’ said Jim.
‘Yes, son, we will,’ his father replied. ‘In fact, I think we’ve already found our man.’ He lit a cigarette and put some smoke between them. ‘Terrible, isn’t it. There’s so much crime out there, you just can’t trust a soul these days.’
‘I know, Dad. It’s awful, isn’t it,’ replied Jim, looking him straight in the eye through the smoke. ‘That’s why I sent one of the necklaces to Scotland Yard with a note describing how you and Joe did it. You really should be more careful with your stash, you know.’
For the first time in Jim’s life, he saw his father look vulnerable. It was quickly replaced by anger, but it was well worth the wait.
‘Even you wouldn’t do something as stupid as that, Jimmy boy,’ he said, flicking his cigarette out into a bush and looking down.
‘Wanna bet?’ Jim replied. ‘It’s done, Dad. It’s over.’
Without warning, his father grabbed him by the throat and started squeezing, but it was far too late for that. Jim had come prepared.
He plunged the knife deep into his father’s ribcage and up into his heart.
‘That’s for making me and Mum’s life a misery,’ he whispered in his father’s ear.
As his father’s grip loosened from his throat and he fell away onto the ground, Jim calmly made his way to the house to use the phone.
‘I’ve just been attacked by my father,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve killed him.’