Short Writing Week 3
Some context here
“The Interrogation”
The small one slapped a picture down on the table in front of me. I was still a little dazed from the journey here - via several interactions with walls and floors and elbows, plus one bowl of hot soup somehow - but it shook me out of my stupor immediately.
“What the actual fuck is this?” I asked as politely as I could.
“You know exactly what this is,” said the big one. “This is your masterpiece. Your great work. Your piece of resistance.”
I declined to correct him, it seemed unwise.
“This is a picture of some girl cut in half,” I said.
“We’re still early in the process,” said the small one. “You can just confess now, we can get the gears moving and you’ll have the best possible outcome. You’ll live, you might even get out someday. Don’t make us go through all of it.”
“Confess,” I said, uncomprehendingly.
“We know it was you,” said the big one. “That. And this, and this, and this.”
More pictures came fluttering down onto the table; women in more pieces than women usually are. Blood absolutely everywhere. Some with eyes open, some with no eyes at all. I had seen my share of horror movies but this was significantly too real and I turned sharply away.
“I don’t know who any of these people are. I didn’t do any of this. This is a giant mistake.”
The cops looked at each other and the big one rolled his eyes.
“Do you want a coffee?” asked the small one, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to go to the machine, you can have a minute to think.”
“Oh you’re the good cop, is it?” I said.
“There are only good cops here, buddy,” said the big one, who had manoeuvred himself behind me with the grace of an aircraft carrier.
“Except Louie,” said the small one, on his way out the door.
“Obviously except Louie,” said the big one, more to himself than anything else. He continued to pointlessly circumnavigate the room and eventually docked at the opposite side of the table to me, right back where he started. “You got an alibi for these?”
“Maybe, probably,” I said, getting desperate. “When were they?”
He held up one of the pictures, an inkblot test of gore and terror.
“September fifth, 2021,” he said. “Where were you?”
“I don’t, uh, off the top of my head. Probably at home. Were we still doing lockdown then? Can I check my phone?”
He ignored this and held up another blast of entrails, to which I recoiled.
“June twenty-third, 2004.”
“What? That’s like thirty years before the other one. How do you know it’s the same guy?”
Another was deployed.
“May fifth, 1986”
“Whoa what? I was two years old.”
This too was ignored.
“We don’t know the exact date on this one. She looks bad right? Summer of love, 1969.”
“Hang on a second,” I said, perplexed, but beginning to feel a little relieved. There was no way this could go much further. They’re not listening right now, this guy’s on a roll and wants to show off all his gross pictures. Someone will come in and point out that what they’re claiming is impossible. I just have to ride it out and not say anything anything too stupid.
“June eleventh, 1950.”
“That’s a dog!” I exclaimed. “It’s a golden retriever! It’s not even dead! It’s just sitting there with its tongue out!”
The small one re-entered the room, noticed the photo currently on display and took his hat off. He nodded solemnly at the big one who looked back to me and mumbled “sick fuck”.
“This is insane,” I began. “I don’t know how you can even…” I was cut off by the swish of another picture. This one was sepia toned, and featured a woman sliced up so badly that she didn’t even clearly have a face.
“November, 1888”.
“Hang on a minute,” I said. “I’ve seen that photo before. That’s one of the Jack the Ripper victims.”
“Of course you’ve seen it before, you probably have your own copy stashed away in some little wank cupboard, you piece of shit.” The big one was starting to get more and more furious. The little one put his hand on the big one’s shoulder in a calming gesture.
“We understand you didn’t mean to be Jack the Ripper,” he said comfortingly. “Things sometimes get out of hand. Maybe you had a drink or two, maybe she stiffed you a sixpence or something. You got mad.”
“This is more than mad,” said the big one quietly.
“I am not,” I said calmly, despite how insane it felt to say, “Jack the Ripper.”
“Tell us about Lincoln,” said the small one abruptly.
“What?”
“Abraham Lincoln. You remember him?” The big one shuffled through some papers and slid one out in front of me.
“That’s…” I paused, my head too stuffed full of the things that were wrong to come out with any specific individual one. “That’s a movie poster. That’s Daniel Day Lewis. In the movie Lincoln. It’s got the title written on it, there’s credits printed along the bottom! ”
The big one picked up the sheet and examined it. “Oh shit,” he said, looking up. He made eye contact with the small one, who stood up and grabbed a phone that was attached to the wall. I relaxed a tiny bit, either this prank was over or they had realised they had made a huge mistake. I’d be home by bedtime.
“Yeah. Interrogation room C,” said the little one over the phone. “That’s right, him. I know yeah. Even the dog. He’s confessed to another one. Daniel Day Lewis. Ok, understood.”
Before I could react to this the big one had grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and lifted me clear off my chair. “He was magnificent in Phantom Thread, you scum,” he said, before throwing me down on the floor while the small one made a show of trying to restrain him before he gave up, wandered to the other side of the table and held his head in his hands.
“There’s so much more,” he said, waving his hands in the direction of the pile of items he had brought in, which I now realised included some sketches, a collection of scrolls and at least two framed paintings. “How can you live with yourself? Did you do the four arm guy?” He held up a copy of da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man sketch.
“This is ludicrous!” I said. “None of this makes sense? Is this some kind of joke? I have to talk to a lawyer. I have to talk to someone with a functioning brain.”
“There’s just one more to show you,” said the small one. “The real shit. This is the one you’re going down for.”
The big one stood up, shaking his head at the prospect of whatever this was, and moved towards the door. He opened it, exchanged words with someone outside and received something soft in return. He turned back into the room and flapped it out in front of him like it was a fresh bedsheet, and it came down softly on the interrogation table. I could barely comprehend what I was seeing.
“This is…” I started.
“Go on,” said the small one, nodding, notebook out.
“This is the Shroud of Turin. Is this the original? That’s Jesus Christ.”
The two turned to each other and the big one said, “Independently recognised both the evidence and the victim.”
“It’s not looking good for you,” said the small one.
“I couldn’t… didn’t, I mean, wasn’t it the Romans who, you know?”
The two looked at each other again and the little one shook his head and handed some amount of money to the big one.
“Fuckin’ knew he’d blame the Romans,” said the latter to himself. “I’m getting Louie.” He stood up.
“Yeah,” said the small one. “Go get him.”
“I really want a lawyer,” I said, still mostly out of my mind with confusion. This was ignored.
A couple of minutes passed. Maybe hours. The door opened and a completely normal looking slim guy in a grey suit and glasses walked in. The two cops kept a conspicuous distance from him as he sat down opposite me.
“Good afternoon, I’m Louie,” he said. “Subject relations.”
“These guys are completely insane,” I said desperately. “Get me out of here.”
“I understand you’ve been accused of multiple crimes,” he continued. “Do you have any objections or perceived factual errors?”
“Of course I do!” I almost yelled out. I went through everything, how old I would have to be, where all these things took place, the fictional nature of several of them to begin with. I enthusiastically refuted everything they had put before me. It took some time, but it was comprehensive. It was perfect. It was bulletproof.
“… and he rose from the dead in the end anyway, supposedly. Is that still a murder?”
“This is everything you consider untrue or inaccurate?” asked Louie. The two cops looked at each other and took a step back, but undaunted I said yeah, that was everything.
In a swift movement, Louie stood straight up, his chair flying out behind him, he wound his arm back and punched me in the face with the strength of a sledgehammer. I was launched backwards, my head cracked the one-way mirror and I slumped to the floor, half awake, half alive.
“That was an illegal act that I just committed,” said Louie, calmly, rubbing his fist. “That means this entire session cannot be used in a court. All the objections you listed must be disregarded by a jury. The gentlemen here only presented you pictures, and have not listed any of the evidence we have acquired, and believe me it is a copious amount. We’ll see you in the dock.”
“That’s not,” I slurred out, “how that works.”
“Tell it to the good citizens of Alderaan” said the big one as they all filed out of the room.
“Shoulda confessed earlier, eh?” asked the small one, patting me on the shoulder before he, too, made for the exit.