wife. She’s still alive, for now.’
And on and on and on it goes. They read a name and I admit what I did. Sometimes in detail, sometimes flippantly. Give the analysts something to think about when they review the recording of this lacklustre interrogation.
I mention Audrey on occasion. The way she smells, the fullness of her lips, her trusting nature, how she tastes between her legs. Detective Inspector January David shows an incredible amount of restraint. He is detached. He is compartmentalising. He thinks he is winning. That he has won.
Think of his joy at hearing Audrey’s news . Perhaps a child will save their relationship. Listen out for the ripping of his soul when the paternity connects Audrey to me for the remainder of their pathetic lives.
We three are for ever linked but, from this moment, all are alone.
And all are guilty.
Eames
August 2007
Crowthorne, Berkshire
I’m inside.
That’s it.
Put the monster in a prison and throw away the key. Let him die in his cell. Let him live out the rest of his days thinking about the horrendous things that he has done to others, to their families that have been left behind. Leave him to decay in a damp jail. Keep him in one tiny square room that he must live, sleep and defecate in.
That is what you expect everyone to say.
But it isn’t.
And you can’t call this place a prison or a nut house or an asylum. They prefer the word hospital . I’ve learned that already. They also don’t like the word treatment . This is a place where mental health issues are managed .
It’s a medical facility where you stay for the rest of your life.
A hospice for the criminally dysfunctional.
I haven’t even been here a week and I’m already receiving fan mail. Not everybody wants the worst for me.
Dear Eames
I hope this letter finds its way to you and that you have the good grace to read the words that I have taken the time to compose. You will be receiving messages from far andwide, I am sure. From strangers. Some will hate. Some will love. Others come merely with twisted intrigue. I write to you as a father. A father whose child no longer lives because of you.
Having read that last sentence, I hope that you can see that you are no longer alone. You may be in a room by yourself, but I am now there with you. I am in your mind, in your thoughts, as I should be. And I forgive you.
You may not be seeking my forgiveness at this moment. You may not believe that you need it nor deserve it, but I offer it to you anyway. You have taken one of my children away long before they were due to leave, and I forgive you for your mistake. You are not perfect. Nobody is. Your previous actions cannot be understood. They cannot be condoned. But I am here to tell you that you have the opportunity to be pardoned for your wrongs if what you seek is absolution.
You are not alone.
I offer you this mercy in the hope that you understand your crimes and trust that you are sorry for the things you have done. Only in this admission will you truly be forgiven by me. This will bring you some peace. This will see that you are set free. For you are also one of my children.
Yours hopefully,
God
It’s not uncommon to receive a note like this. God is always writing letters to me. Perhaps he has run out of diseases to create and cures to be hidden. Maybe drought and famine are no longer interesting. Earthquakes aren’t the amusement they once were. Floods aren’t sexy.
Maybe he sees something in me.
Fuck you, God, you judgemental hypocrite. I don’t feel spiritually malnourished enough to buy into your conflicting rhetoric, you fucking warmonger. If you feel regret over all the people you have slaughtered, then book yourself in to see a therapist, but call off your minions with their typewriters and pencils and offers of forgiveness. We’re stocked up on craziness in this place already.
I don’t feel sorry for the lives I have taken, only that there could not have been more.
There will be
And on and on and on it goes. They read a name and I admit what I did. Sometimes in detail, sometimes flippantly. Give the analysts something to think about when they review the recording of this lacklustre interrogation.
I mention Audrey on occasion. The way she smells, the fullness of her lips, her trusting nature, how she tastes between her legs. Detective Inspector January David shows an incredible amount of restraint. He is detached. He is compartmentalising. He thinks he is winning. That he has won.
Think of his joy at hearing Audrey’s news . Perhaps a child will save their relationship. Listen out for the ripping of his soul when the paternity connects Audrey to me for the remainder of their pathetic lives.
We three are for ever linked but, from this moment, all are alone.
And all are guilty.
Eames
August 2007
Crowthorne, Berkshire
I’m inside.
That’s it.
Put the monster in a prison and throw away the key. Let him die in his cell. Let him live out the rest of his days thinking about the horrendous things that he has done to others, to their families that have been left behind. Leave him to decay in a damp jail. Keep him in one tiny square room that he must live, sleep and defecate in.
That is what you expect everyone to say.
But it isn’t.
And you can’t call this place a prison or a nut house or an asylum. They prefer the word hospital . I’ve learned that already. They also don’t like the word treatment . This is a place where mental health issues are managed .
It’s a medical facility where you stay for the rest of your life.
A hospice for the criminally dysfunctional.
I haven’t even been here a week and I’m already receiving fan mail. Not everybody wants the worst for me.
Dear Eames
I hope this letter finds its way to you and that you have the good grace to read the words that I have taken the time to compose. You will be receiving messages from far andwide, I am sure. From strangers. Some will hate. Some will love. Others come merely with twisted intrigue. I write to you as a father. A father whose child no longer lives because of you.
Having read that last sentence, I hope that you can see that you are no longer alone. You may be in a room by yourself, but I am now there with you. I am in your mind, in your thoughts, as I should be. And I forgive you.
You may not be seeking my forgiveness at this moment. You may not believe that you need it nor deserve it, but I offer it to you anyway. You have taken one of my children away long before they were due to leave, and I forgive you for your mistake. You are not perfect. Nobody is. Your previous actions cannot be understood. They cannot be condoned. But I am here to tell you that you have the opportunity to be pardoned for your wrongs if what you seek is absolution.
You are not alone.
I offer you this mercy in the hope that you understand your crimes and trust that you are sorry for the things you have done. Only in this admission will you truly be forgiven by me. This will bring you some peace. This will see that you are set free. For you are also one of my children.
Yours hopefully,
God
It’s not uncommon to receive a note like this. God is always writing letters to me. Perhaps he has run out of diseases to create and cures to be hidden. Maybe drought and famine are no longer interesting. Earthquakes aren’t the amusement they once were. Floods aren’t sexy.
Maybe he sees something in me.
Fuck you, God, you judgemental hypocrite. I don’t feel spiritually malnourished enough to buy into your conflicting rhetoric, you fucking warmonger. If you feel regret over all the people you have slaughtered, then book yourself in to see a therapist, but call off your minions with their typewriters and pencils and offers of forgiveness. We’re stocked up on craziness in this place already.
I don’t feel sorry for the lives I have taken, only that there could not have been more.
There will be
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