Well readers, just as well nobody read my previous post about Irish soccer. It turned out to be quite a good match and I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed it. Let us hope Mick McCarthy can keep it up.
So, I decided to take today off. I guess you could call it “Mark’s Day Off”, but it might be just a tad too boring to get that title. They definitely couldn’t make a film about playing chess (Lost – hate that) and writing all day.
Going to watch “Bohemian Rhapsody” later. Apparently it’s quite good. But I always wonder about these so called true or biographical stories. Like for a start it’s made for a mainstream audience, so there is loads of things that are just not in it.
Bet your thinking when does Part III start, will this guy stop waffling. I have loads of time. So much better than having to rush everything.
I decided on a name for my story – The Iron. I know, not exactly the greatest title but look it will do. It obviously relates to the murder weapon. Always open to suggestions though. Remember to read Parts I and II first, if you haven’t already done so.
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“Where the fuck is he?” That was what Niall thought as he anxiously waited outside the front door for Inspector O’Callaghan to show up. He was already ten minutes late.
Then just as he was thinking about ringing his mobile, the inspector’s specially adapted car pulled in. There was a torrential downpour occurring so he went back into the house to borrow an umbrella for the Inspector.
He shouldn’t have bothered for all the thanks he got. By the time he had found one, O’Callaghan had already managed to get into his push wheelchair and looked indignant at the suggestion he might require assistance. Niall wouldn’t bother next time.
They immediately went into the sitting room where the husband was waiting. O’Callagan took center stage and started asking questions.
The husband was hesitant at first saying that he had already answered everything. Niall now spoke up for the first time saying O’Callaghan was the best detective in the force, which brought about a quizzical look.
“It’s the clothes isn’t it. This fine Garda here beside me in his immaculate uniform and here’s me in my wheelchair in shabby clothes looking like perhaps I should be out begging in the street. Do you know why that is?” O’Callaghan said sincerely.
The man said nothing but shook his head perhaps instinctively.
“It’s because I’m prepared to get my hand dirty. I used to dress like him but had to keep throwing stuff out from getting blood on them.”
That seemed to settle things down and he began to answer.
O’Callaghan spent a good half hour questioning him before he broke ashen faced into tears. He had been happily married with two children, quintessentially upper middle class with a nanny to boot.
No sexual problems, perhaps even better than usual and no enemies.
O’Callaghan barely said goodbye on the way out. Niall had heard he didn’t like a puzzle he couldn’t solve.
Till next time
Mark's Writing Corner 