Police officers who seemed incapable of doing anything about what had happened to his fiancé.
Since her death, Stanley had been in a stupor, an angry stupor yes, but still a stupor. He went though all the stages of grief at once, and was now working his way back through them again with each stage accompanied by a large Jim Bean.
When it had first happened he had sat there for ages, holding her hand with a blank and probably very stupid look on his face. It had been a female detective who had finally managed to prise it away from him, bagged it, and then taken him to hospital.
It was indicative of Stan's state of mind that as the police officer had bent over him to pull his fingers away he had not stolen a glimpse down her shirt.
Perhaps grasping your girlfriends severed arm did something to your libido.
Stan had suffered from minor burns, but they were purely superficial, which was remarkable considering the power of the beam of energy that had killed the love of his life.
He had been released from hospital within a few hours, the only additional precaution being a small, coloured plaster that they had put on his arm. It was green when they first applied it, and he'd had very strict instructions that if it turned blue he was to drink three pints of water and get back to hospital straight away.
For now it remained resolutely green, just as he remained resolutely blue.
No one seemed interested in finding out who had killed his girlfriend, the waiter and a large bucket of lobsters. No one seemed to care that his life had ended when Susie's had, and he wanted to find out who was responsible.
Sure they pretended to be interested, they made all the right noises, but Stan could tell that it was just that, the right noises.
As far as he could tell, they had assigned no officer to investigate, had made no more than cursory analysis of the restaurant, and had only questioned him because he had insisted on it.
Stan had seen enough episodes of Csi to know how it was supposed to work.
First the area was supposed to be sealed off with yellow and black police tape. Then the deceptively attractive former model turned forensic science officer, shapely in her all in one white coverall walked the area, one step at a time, while the ageing but highly competent detectives questioned passers by.
Next they found clues, a piece of hair, a DNA sample, and slowly but surely they pieced together the complicated jigsaw to work out who had done the evil deed.
None of which was happening.
The first place Stan had gone, after being let out of the hospital, was back to the restaurant. So, just three hours after the incident, the window was back in place, the table had been replaced, there was even a new waiter serving the food Stanley should have been eating.
Three hours later, Stan had wanted to still be sitting at the table, sipping coffee perhaps, basking in anticipation of the next twenty years of frenzied sex filled marriage. Not standing in the rain, starring in through a window at two people, sitting in his seat, eating his food, having his fucking life.
No one was investigating, the pieces of the jigsaw had almost literally been brushed under the carpet.
Shit, shit, shit, he thought. "Another whiskey please," he said to the barman, who dutifully poured him a glass. This glass represented denial, one of the many stages of grief, and one he was revisiting for the fourth time that evening.
It did not make sense, surely someone could not be killed in a busy restaurant and it not be investigated?
But that had been that, no one had questioned him again. He had sat at home and waited for the call, but nothing came. In the end he had eventually made his own way down to the police station, and started to ask questions himself.
Eventually even to his befuddled mind it became clear that no one was
Since her death, Stanley had been in a stupor, an angry stupor yes, but still a stupor. He went though all the stages of grief at once, and was now working his way back through them again with each stage accompanied by a large Jim Bean.
When it had first happened he had sat there for ages, holding her hand with a blank and probably very stupid look on his face. It had been a female detective who had finally managed to prise it away from him, bagged it, and then taken him to hospital.
It was indicative of Stan's state of mind that as the police officer had bent over him to pull his fingers away he had not stolen a glimpse down her shirt.
Perhaps grasping your girlfriends severed arm did something to your libido.
Stan had suffered from minor burns, but they were purely superficial, which was remarkable considering the power of the beam of energy that had killed the love of his life.
He had been released from hospital within a few hours, the only additional precaution being a small, coloured plaster that they had put on his arm. It was green when they first applied it, and he'd had very strict instructions that if it turned blue he was to drink three pints of water and get back to hospital straight away.
For now it remained resolutely green, just as he remained resolutely blue.
No one seemed interested in finding out who had killed his girlfriend, the waiter and a large bucket of lobsters. No one seemed to care that his life had ended when Susie's had, and he wanted to find out who was responsible.
Sure they pretended to be interested, they made all the right noises, but Stan could tell that it was just that, the right noises.
As far as he could tell, they had assigned no officer to investigate, had made no more than cursory analysis of the restaurant, and had only questioned him because he had insisted on it.
Stan had seen enough episodes of Csi to know how it was supposed to work.
First the area was supposed to be sealed off with yellow and black police tape. Then the deceptively attractive former model turned forensic science officer, shapely in her all in one white coverall walked the area, one step at a time, while the ageing but highly competent detectives questioned passers by.
Next they found clues, a piece of hair, a DNA sample, and slowly but surely they pieced together the complicated jigsaw to work out who had done the evil deed.
None of which was happening.
The first place Stan had gone, after being let out of the hospital, was back to the restaurant. So, just three hours after the incident, the window was back in place, the table had been replaced, there was even a new waiter serving the food Stanley should have been eating.
Three hours later, Stan had wanted to still be sitting at the table, sipping coffee perhaps, basking in anticipation of the next twenty years of frenzied sex filled marriage. Not standing in the rain, starring in through a window at two people, sitting in his seat, eating his food, having his fucking life.
No one was investigating, the pieces of the jigsaw had almost literally been brushed under the carpet.
Shit, shit, shit, he thought. "Another whiskey please," he said to the barman, who dutifully poured him a glass. This glass represented denial, one of the many stages of grief, and one he was revisiting for the fourth time that evening.
It did not make sense, surely someone could not be killed in a busy restaurant and it not be investigated?
But that had been that, no one had questioned him again. He had sat at home and waited for the call, but nothing came. In the end he had eventually made his own way down to the police station, and started to ask questions himself.
Eventually even to his befuddled mind it became clear that no one was
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