THE SECTIONING OF C
                      Abrank
                Copyright 2002, 2004

Chapter 20:  The Mistress

The situation with Jim became progressively worse.
Although the sex was still good, he became more abusive,
both verbally and physically.  He usually confined his
beating to my body, but on two occasions he gave me a
nasty black eye.  It was becoming difficult to explain
away the marks, and my coworkers were becoming suspicious
of my explanations

I resolved to end the relationship.  This was a very
hard thing for me to do emotionally for, despite all the
abuse, I was still dependent on him, and parts of me
still loved him.  Physically ending the relationship was
going to be even harder.  He had threatened to kill me
on more than one occasion, and I knew that if I left he
would find me and do me serious harm.  I considered going
to the police to have him arrested, but couldn’t be
certain that they would keep him locked up until his
trial and conviction.  And the thought of the trial
terrified me.  I did not think I could face him in court,
and the publicity would certainly damage my career.  Even
if he were convicted and sent to jail he would probably
be released in a few years then he would certainly come
after me; he had a nasty vindictive temperament.
Changing my identity did not seem like a viable option; I
would live the rest of my life in fear that he would find
me, and I would have to give up my job and start over.
No, the police did not seem the way.  Shelters for
battered women also did not seem to the solution.  He
could always find me at work and trace me to where I
was hiding.

Two solutions occurred to me.  The first was to make
myself so unpleasant to him that he would leave of his
own accord, and the second was to kill him.  I think I
had been subconsciously trying the first, but was finding
it did not work.  I dared not be verbally abusive or even
critical.  That made him angry and he would beat and
punish me.  He didn’t seem to care if I was cold or
distant to him, he didn’t seem to need my overt approval
or love.  I couldn’t withhold sex; he forced that on me
anyway.  And it was difficult to withhold other services
like cooking, cleaning and washing.

I finally reached the desperate stage where it seemed
that the only way out was to kill him.  To preserve my
career, perhaps the one thing in my life I valued at that
time, I had to do it in such a way that I would not be
suspected.  I began to pay close attention to the TV
detective and police shows that featured murders, hoping
they would provide a clue as to the best way to dispose
of him.  I noted that some murderers were apprehended
several years after the crime because of some minute
detail they had overlooked or that they could not
conceal.  Some were convicted even without the body being
found; bloodstains were judged to be evidence that a
murder had been committed.  I realized that I would have
to plan very carefully if to avoid making the same kind
of mistakes.

I watched these TV shows diligently for weeks, trying
both to build up enough resolve to commit a murder, and
to work out a foolproof method.  When I was emotionally
down, or when he beat me, the thought of killing him gave
me comfort, but at other times, such as when we were
having sex, I realized the impossibility of actually
doing the deed.

My mind was profoundly split over this.  Part emphasized
that murder was the worst crime, the only one punishable
by death in our society, and a violation of one of God’s
commandments.  But another part argued that it wasn’t the
first commandment, God had placed it as only number six
in His list of Ten Commandments, and moreover I had a
moral duty to preserve myself.

Eventually, after a particularly bad beating that caused
me to miss two days of work, I reached the stage where
all of me decided that killing him was the only way out.
My thoughts became more concentrated on deciding on a
method.  I didn’t think I could physically attack him, he
was too strong, and any attack, even if successful, would
leave evidence of a struggle.   I didn’t have any poisons
or sleeping pills in the house, and felt that if I
purchased some now they might be traced to me.  Moreover
such chemicals leave traces in the body that can be
detected in an autopsy.

I finally decided to kill him with love.  I made my
elaborate preparations in secret, and one Friday night in
the middle of March was ready and resolved.  As I waited
for him that evening, I tried to conceal my nervousness.
I was going to need all my powers of persuasion and
seduction.  Instead of dressing as I normally did, as
a submissive, I wanted to convey the appearance of a
dominatrix and had dressed in my black leather outfit.
He came in early, early for him that is, at 6:30 p.m.
“Lets do something different tonight,” I greeted. “I
want to give you a really great sexual experience.”

“What is it, bitch?” he replied with some hostility.

“No,” I said, “ it’s not like that.  I want to give you
the greatest orgasm you’ve ever had.”  ‘And one that you
will remember for the rest of your life,’ I added to
myself.

He looked at me for a moment appraising my outfit, and
then said, “OK, I’ll bite.”

I reached up and kissed him on the cheek, and said,
“Tonight you are going to be a Roman.”  I took off his
jacket, wrapped a sheet over his shoulders, arranged the
folds and fastened it with a pin.  I reached under his
new toga and began to undo his pants.  “No, no.  Keep
still,” I commanded as he began to move.  I then placed
my finger on his lips to emphasize that tonight he must
be passive.  “Tonight you are a Roman slave, who has
fought well as a gladiator, and are to be given a
reward.”

I removed his pants then led him to a stool and made him
sit down.  I took some rope and began to tie it loosely
around his ankles.  As I began he said, “What are you
doing, bitch?”

Again I placed my finger on his lips and said soothingly,
“Remember, you are a slave, and must be bound.  If you
are to achieve the highest state of ecstasy, it must be
something you cannot control, something you’ve never
experienced before.  Just relax and pretend for once that
you are a slave, and have no control over the sexual
experience you are about to have.”  I continued to tie
his ankles, and he didn’t resist further.  I left about
two feet of rope between his ankles so it was only token
bondage.

I reached under his toga and felt for his penis.  It
was as I expected erect and hard.  I stroked it gently.
His hands came forward to stop me.  “No!” I said, “You
mustn’t resist me.  You are a slave.”  I walked round
behind him, lifted the sheet to one side, and pulled his
hands back.  I began to wrap a rope around his wrists.
This was the critical point.

He pulled his hands free.  “I don’t like this,” he said.

“Trust me,” I said. “This is going to be really great.”

“Look,” he said, “why should I trust you?”

I stepped close to him and squeezed his head into my
breasts.  “Just try it this once,” I pleaded.  “I’m sure
you’ll like it.  And if it isn’t the greatest orgasm
you’ve ever had, you can punish me for lying.”

He looked at me critically.  I imagined that a flicker of
malice went through his eyes as if he were deciding to
punish me no matter what happened.  “OK,” he finally
said, “but it’d better be good.  Really good.”

The game was won.  I could hardly restrain my joy.  But
I continued as if nothing of importance had happened.  I
wrapped rope loosely around his wrists, loosely because I
didn’t want him to get worried and break free.  “You have
just killed ten Christians in the arena, and the Roman
Empress is really impressed with your skill and bravery.
She is attracted by your courage and your physique.  She
will visit you later tonight, and has given orders that
you be prepared for her.”

I finished tying the ropes loosely around his wrists.  At
this point he could easily escape by slipping his wrists
out, but he remained passive, perhaps responding to my
story, perhaps planning my punishment, I couldn’t tell.
I threaded a rope crosswise over the wrist rope, wrapped
it two times, pulled it moderately tight and tied it off.
He was more secure now, but could still possibly free
himself.

“The Empress does not want a slave to know he is making
love to a Queen, so he must be blindfolded,” I said with
unintended historical confusion, and began to blindfold
him.

“What are you doing, bitch?  Take that fucking thing
off me,” he said in a loud and angry voice, and began
struggling to free his arms.

This was the critical moment; this was the act of
rebellion I had been expecting.  Dropping the blindfold I
grabbed his exposed penis with one hand and pulled out a
knife with the other.  “Stop that or I’ll cut your balls
off,” I shouted.  He was so surprised that he stopped
struggling.  Now was the moment to assert my ascendancy.
I knew he despised me, and had to show that I meant
business.  I jabbed the point of the knife into his erect
penis so that it drew blood, then moved the point down to
its base.

“Jesus!” he said as the pain registered.

“I’ll really do it,” I warned with a voice so full of
conviction that he had no choice but to believe.  “OK,”
I said in a more relaxed voice, “lets take this slowly.
Just do exactly as I say and things will be fine.”

“You’re really going to get it for this, you fucking
whore,” he said menacingly.

“But only if it isn’t the greatest,” I replied gently.

He said nothing as I put the blindfold on.  I checked to
make sure he couldn’t see anything, then cinched up his
wrists really tight so I knew, and he knew, he couldn’t
escape. 

“Stand up,” I commanded, and he stood up slowly, defying
me as much as he dared.

I removed the toga, which seemed to be getting in the
way, and looked at the cut on his penis.  I hadn’t meant
to spill any blood, and realized it had probably not been
necessary.  I felt guilty and ashamed of my weakness.
Was this to be the drop of blood that would convict me?
The cut was small, but blood was running out.  I got a
paper towel and staunched the flow.  “Sorry about the
knife,” I apologized, “but slaves have to learn to obey.”
To assert my complete control, and provide him with a new
experience, I wanted to secure his balls.  I took his
scrotum in my left hand and squeezed the testicles down.
Then I took a nylon cord in my right hand and wrapped it
around his scrotum above his balls.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, as if he didn’t
know, and began to move away.

I gave his balls a jerk, which brought him to a
standstill, and said, quite unnecessarily, “Stand still,
will you.”  I pulled the cord tight, and tied a knot.
His penis became very erect and I feared he would come.
“You are not allowed to come,” I commanded.  “You must
wait for the Queen.  She will be angry if you come before
she is ready.”  I waited till his erection seemed to
soften slightly then pulled on the cord.  “Follow me,”
I commanded.

He began to shuffle forward.  He didn’t really have much
choice.  It must have been a remarkable experience for
him.  To be a captive for the first time.  To be afraid
of what this mad woman with the knife is gong to do to
his genitals.  To be pulled forward into the dark with
his hands secured behind his back, unable to protect
himself.  In that situation I think I should fear being
pulled down the basement steps the most.  I would fear
stepping into a void and falling helplessly.  I wondered
what it felt like, being pulled by the balls.  We woman
can have no directly comparable experience.  But perhaps
if I had my clitoris pierced...

My train of thought was interrupted when I reached the
foot of the stairs.  Taking pity on him, I tugged gently
upwards and said, “Up the stairs to meet the Queen.”
His feet felt the bottom step and he began to walk up.

“Listen up bitch,” he said, showing he has overcome
whatever fear he had had, “I don’t know what the fuck you
are planning to do, but I don’t want to play any more.”

I was getting tired of continual insults.  I had never
like the way he talked to me, and now was the first time
I could actually do something about it.  “Listen up,
slave,” I replied.  “You keep talking like that and I’ll
have to gag you.  Slaves must show respect for their
Mistress.”

So there it was!  I had labeled myself his mistress.
I was no longer his slave, nor some mythical empress or
queen.  The universe had turned, and I, me, myself, had
become his mistress.  I felt a confusing rush of
emotions.

“Now you listen to me you fucking whore,” he blustered.
“You let me go right now.”

“OK, I warned you,” I said.  We were now halfway up the
stairs.  I looped the cord over and around the banister
and pulled it tight, forcing him to step closer to the
banister.  I then looped it around a baluster, back over
the top and tied it off.  I stood back to admire my
handiwork.  He was completely stuck with his balls tied
to the banister.  He couldn’t move up or down the stairs,
he couldn’t even sit down.

He began to swear.  Ignoring him I went upstairs to a
bedroom and found my inflatable gag.  The gag was mine
since I had worn it, if worn is the right word, several
times, but this would be his first experience.  He heard
me coming back down the stairs, and began to swear again.
I sat down a couple of steps above him.

“I’m getting really tired of your foul mouth,” I said.
“I have a gag here.”  A flashback from something I’d
read, or was it an old movie, popped into my mind.  “Now
we can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard
way.”  I paused.  “The easy way is for you to open your
mouth and accept the gag like a good slave.”  I stopped.

“And the hard way?”

“I have my knife here, and I don’t think you want to find
out what the hard way is.”  I realized I didn’t have the
knife at that moment, but what did it matter?  I reached
out and pressed the end of the gag to his lips.  “Now
open up,” I commanded.

I was prepared for him to try to bite me, and was ready
to snatch my hand away, but he obediently opened his
mouth.  I pushed the gag in and buckled it round the back
of his head.  The strap only just reached the buckle, his
head was bigger than mine, and I had to use the last
hole.  Holding the gag in position, I pumped it up.
He began to make noises through the gag, I knew he was
in distress but didn’t feel any desire to relieve him.
His penis had become soft, so I began to caress it.
“The Queen likes her men hard,” I said. “It wouldn’t
do to fail her,” I taunted him.

Although I had planned in a general way what I wanted to
happen that evening, I hadn’t worked out all the details.
I hadn’t planned to use a gag, for example, but it fitted
in well with the unfolding scene.  I untied the cord from
the banister, and pulled him up the rest of the stairs,
then guided him to the bed and made him sit down on the
end.  I had put a waterproof cover on top of the bed.
I did not expect any blood, but there might be urine
or feces.

In order to carry out the next step of my plan I needed
his cooperation, I didn’t think I could handle him if he
started to struggle.  What I really wanted was for him
to be spread-eagled on his back on the bed with his arms
and legs tied to the corners.  But I feared that if I
undid his arms he would overpower me, so I abandoned my
original plan.  I tied each of his ankles to a corner of
the bed spreading his legs as far as his ankle rope would
permit.  Next I prepared a noose.  “The Queen wants you
prone on the bed so she can take her pleasure,” I said as
I placed the noose over his head onto his shoulders.  I
gently tightened the noose around his neck, and tied it
with a secure knot rather than a hangman’s knot, since I
didn’t want Jim to strangle himself.  I pushed him back
so he was lying on his bound arms, and tied the end of
the noose rope to the headboard.  “The rope around your
neck is a noose, so if you struggle it will tighten and
strangle you,” I lied.  He began to make noises through
his gag.  “I cannot understand you,” I said like a
schoolteacher lecturing an overanxious pupil, “so please
don’t talk.  Just do exactly as I say.”  I cut the rope
between his ankles.  “Now move up the bed.”  He wriggled
a bit but did not seem to be making any progress, so I
took the noose and pulled it putting pressure on his
neck.  This had an immediate effect: he began to make
more noises and use his feet to propel himself up the
bed.  When his feet were completely on the bed, I took
up the slack in the noose rope and retied it to the
headboard, then went to the foot of the bed and tightened
each ankle rope.  He was now immobilized.

I retrieved the knife from the kitchen.  “Now for the
last step, to prepare you for the Queen,” I said. “I’m
going to cut your clothes off so the queen can see your
beautiful body.  Now lie perfectly still if you don’t
want me to cut your skin.”  And with that I began to cut
off his clothes.  It was a little harder than I expected,
perhaps the knife wasn’t that sharp, and I had to saw
through certain parts.

Eventually he was nude except for the remains of
shirtsleeves around his lower arms, which I couldn’t
reach.  I had called his body beautiful, but powerful
would be a more accurate description.  I was able to
examine his body in detail for the first time.  He didn’t
work out, but you could still see muscles on his stomach.
I was going to release the cord around his balls, but
decided not to.  His balls weren’t turning purple so
there didn’t seem to be a circulation problem.  Having
sex with his balls secured would be a novel experience
for us both.  His penis was semi flaccid.

I had read that some ancient Romans had slowly strangled
slaves to produce huge erections.  I wanted to see if it
would work with Jim, so I put a thin leather belt around
his neck and slowly tightened it as I monitored his
breathing.  When his breathing had became labored and
noisy I secured the belt.  I watched in fascination as
his penis began to rise.  “Now you must wait for your
Queen,” I said, and, to torment him, added maliciously,
“When she arrives you must suck her nipples, and lick her
cunt.”

I then left the room and prepared to dress as a Roman 
Queen.  I realized, of course, that Rome did not have 
queens, so felt that my costume need not be historically
accurate.  I could dress to please myself, and perhaps
to impress Jim.  For the first time, I realized, I had 
access to the key to my handcuffs.  I retrieved it from
Jim’s pants pocket, then went and got the handcuffs 
themselves.  I couldn’t lock my hands in handcuffs, that
seemed inappropriate for a queen, but their touch was so
sexy that I had to wear them.  As a compromise, I locked
both cuffs on my left wrist.  I then undressed, which
required me to unlock the handcuffs then replace them.
I put on my red corset and quickly laced it up; tight
but not too tight.  I checked quietly to see how Jim was
doing.  I could hear him breathing and his penis was 
standing up in full erection.  I didn’t want to keep him 
waiting longer than necessary, but couldn’t decide on a 
skirt.  I didn’t think a queen would go uncovered, yet
a skirt didn’t seem right.  I thought I should wear 
something that Jim could feel.  I eventually decided on 
an impromptu chain skirt.  I locked a chain around my 
waist, then locked a much longer chain to it at intervals 
so that loops hung down.  I admired the effect in a 
mirror, and attached another loop in front for modesty.
I put on my highest pair of heels to complete my 
wardrobe.  I finished by covering myself liberally with 
perfume, a new fragrance.  Jim would have a hard time 
identifying me.

As a final touch I cooled my hands in ice, then walked 
into the bedroom, chains jangling faintly.  Jim was lying 
there perforce, but his penis had become disappointingly 
soft.  I placed my icy hands on it, and heard a muffled 
exclamation from him.  I then sat of his chest and 
wondered what he thought.  The smell of my perfume and 
the touch of my chains must be new to him.  I didn’t 
break the spell by speaking, although he probably thought 
it was me, but I was not going to spoil any possible 
fantasy.  I leant forward and caressed his face lightly 
with my nipples, arousing them.  I then turned around and 
sat on his face, effectively blocking his breathing.  I 
watched his penis and sure enough it expanded slowly into 
a magnificent erection.  I rocked my butt on his face to 
give him encouragement.  I then turned around and slapped 
his face to show that I disapproved of his lack of 
tonguing.  Raising myself on my knees, I slowly impaled 
myself on his erection.  I eased myself down, savoring 
the feeling of it sliding into me, and stopping only when 
I felt his balls pressing into my crotch.  I tightened 
the belt around his neck one notch, checked he was
still breathing, then began to rock my hips up and down.
It felt magnificent.  I came quickly and wonderfully.
I think he came too, but his penis remained hard.  I 
screwed around to face his feet, but the position didn’t 
feel quite so good, so I continued turning till I faced 
his head again.  I beat my fists on his chest with joy, 
or was it a tattoo of triumph?  I tightened the belt 
another notch and began to ride him again.  I humped
up and down in rhythm with the bed, trying to get the 
greatest bounce out of Jim’s body.  I came again, and 
kept thrusting my hips forwards as if trying to tear his 
penis from his body.  

Finally it was over.  I lifted myself off his penis and 
lay down sweaty and exhausted next to him.  I listened 
for his breathing, but all I heard was my own.  I had 
done it!  “I hope it was good for you too,” I said 
gently, and stroked his face.

Although I realized the enormity of what I had done,
I felt no remorse.  My thoughts became entirely bent 
towards disposing of the evidence of my actions.  I 
removed my fetish clothes, cleaned myself, took a shower, 
and dressed in old clothes. I put on some latex gloves, 
so as not to leave fingerprints, took out a new Hefty 
garbage bag, and collected Jim’s pants and the remnants 
of his clothes.

Next I undid the ropes and put them away.  The cut ankle 
rope went into the garbage bag.  I then cleaned up Jim’s 
body.  I noticed some blood on his penis, I hoped that
he had not suffered pain from the cut during his final 
orgasm.  I cleaned it up, then turned him over.  As my 
nose had warned me, he had defecated, so I cleaned up the 
mess.  I undid the ropes from his arms, and removed the 
remains of his shirtsleeves.  I put the garbage in the 
Hefty bag.

I turned him on his back, deflated the gag and extracted 
it from his mouth, washed it and put it away.  I dressed 
him in new pair of underpants; somehow I didn’t want to 
see him nude any more. 

I wondered what to do with the knife.  It had Jim’s blood 
on the end, and therefore was evidence suggesting foul 
play.  I was not sure if I could clean it completely or 
if I had to throw it away.  I hadn’t planned on disposing 
of a knife, and moreover it was a kitchen knife that I 
rather liked.  So I decided to clean it.  I rinsed it off 
then used soapy steel wool to scrub the end.  Finally I 
placed it in the dishwasher.

It was now late evening, almost midnight.  I dragged Jim 
downstairs and into the garage.  I opened up my car, and 
stuffed him into the trunk.  I dropped a sealed tarpaulin 
into the trunk and closed the lid.  Next I put some 
blankets on the back seat, I didn’t want to leave any 
marks, and maneuvered my bicycle in.  With gloved hands, 
I put the full garbage bag on the front seat, together 
with an empty garbage bag and a change of clothes.  I 
backed the car out and drove away.  To provide an alibi 
for my trip, in case it was needed, I drove to an all-
night chemist and bought a box of condoms.  I then drove 
to the remote wooded field I had scouted out the previous 
week.  This was about twenty-five miles away from my 
house.  The woods were posted with ‘No Hunting’ and ‘No 
Trespassing’ signs, so I believed Jim’s body had a good 
chance of lying undisturbed for a while.  The only 
evidence to suggest foul play was soft tissue damage; 
marks on his neck, wrists, ankles and balls, plus a small 
cut on his penis.  The neck marks would indicate 
strangulation, and thus would suggest murder, but if the 
body decomposed then surely there would be no evidence as 
to how he died.  I parked the car on the side of the 
lane.  The night was clear and dry so there should be no 
tire marks.  The moon was out, so I didn’t need a light.
I had brought a flashlight in case I needed it, but 
decided to leave it in the car. I opened the trunk and 
pulled Jim’s body out.  I carefully closed the trunk.
Even though there did not seem to be anyone around, one 
never knows, and it seemed best to work as quietly as I 
could.  I dragged Jim’s body through the wood with his 
feet trailing behind.  It was hard work, and I had to 
rest a couple of times.  Eventually I reached the hollow 
I had identified, and rolled Jim into it.  He lay 
twisted, and, for old times’ sake, I straightened him 
out.  I didn’t want to leave any evidence of my presence, 
so I was wearing a hair net and gloves.  I took the 
tarpaulin out of its bag, and draped in over the body.  I 
then anchored it down with rocks and spread some branches 
over it.  I stood back to survey my handiwork.  The scene 
looked peaceful and undisturbed in the moonlight; there 
was no obvious indication that a body was concealed 
nearby.  I checked around to confirm that I had not 
inadvertently dropped anything, and picked up the 
tarpaulin bag.  I walked back to the car.  Outside the 
car, I took off my sneakers and jeans and sweater and 
dropped them into the new garbage bag along with the 
tarpaulin cover.  I changed into my clean clothes, and 
drove quietly off.  

On the way home I stopped at a mall and dropped the two 
garbage bags in a dumpster.  I then drove to the train 
station, took out my bicycle and locked it to the bike 
stand.  I dropped my latex gloves in a garbage can, then 
drove home.  I opened the box of condoms, took one out 
and flushed it.  I was too hopped up and nervous to 
sleep, but finally managed to snatch an hour or so before 
the alarm woke me at 5 am.

I dressed in some of Jim’s old clothing, put up my hair 
and covered it with a net.  I didn’t really look like 
Jim, but I hoped that through the darkened glass at night 
I might pass.  For this reason I wanted to be out before 
sunrise.  I put on gloves; I didn’t want to leave fresh 
fingerprints in Jim’s car, and drove it to the train 
station.  Since it was early on Saturday morning, there 
was hardly anyone about.  I parked the car and rearranged 
the mirrors and the seat to the way Jim had them.  I 
bought a parking ticket and placed on the dashboard.  I 
went into the ladies room, changed into my own clothes, 
and dumped Jim’s clothes in the garbage can.  I then rode 
home on my bicycle, stopping to get some rolls from the 
Shoprite supermarket.

The deed was done.  I sat for a long time turning things 
over in my mind.  Had I forgotten anything?  I thought 
not.  But now much depends on chance, how soon Jim’s body 
would be found.  If it were found in a few days then
I would be discovered, if in a few weeks, then I was 
probably safe.  If in a few months or a year, then I 
would certainly be safe.  

On Sunday night, I decided to set the rest of my plan in 
action.  I called the police.  “I want to report a 
missing person,” I said.

“How old is the person?” the policeman asked.  I realized 
that cases of missing children were far more urgent than 
those of missing adults.  

“I think he’s about 30,” I said.

“How long has he been missing?”

“Since Saturday morning.”

“Do you suspect that he might be in trouble?”

“No.”

“Has he been missing before?”

“Well, he has sometimes gone somewhere without telling 
me, but never as long as this.”

“Well, I think the best thing is to give him another 24 
hours.  If he doesn’t show up by then, I’ll send someone 
around and we can file a missing person report.”

I went to work as usual on Monday.  From work I called 
Jim’s work number and asked to speak to him.  I was told 
he wasn’t there, and, on further inquiry was told he 
hadn’t been there all day.  And no, they did not know 
where he was.

With this preparation completed, I called the police 
again in the evening. “Jim has still not shown up, and he 
didn’t show up at work.  I’m getting really worried.”

“Try to remain calm, Ma’am, it’s probably nothing.  I’ll 
send someone round right away and you can fill out the 
missing person’s report.”

About two hours later there was a knock at the door and a 
young policeman stood there.  He was plump with youthful 
fat.  His skin was smooth and healthy.  “Is this the 
house that reported a missing person?” he inquired.

“Yes.”

“May I come in?”

We sat in the living room, and I answered his questions.  
He asked if we’d had an argument or fight and I said no.  
He asked if Jim had had any reason to leave, or had 
behaved strangely before he left.  I said that everything 
seemed normal.  I gave him a photo of Jim and he left.

On Wednesday I received a call from the policeman that 
Jim’s car had been found, and could he come round to see 
me.  I agreed.

He told me that Jim’s car had been found parked at the 
train station.  He asked if I had any idea where Jim 
might have been going and I said I didn’t know, he drove 
to work and I far as I knew didn’t normally take the 
train.  He asked if he could look at Jim’s things.  I 
agreed so we went upstairs and searched through Jim’s 
dresser.  As he was looking through the drawers I 
suddenly remembered that I had not disposed of Jim’s 
wallet.  It must still be in his jacket pocket in the 
closet downstairs.  My blood ran cold with the oversight.
At that moment the policeman found a black notebook
that I had not seen before.  If he noticed my distress, 
perhaps he associated it with the discovery of the 
notebook.  He opened it to reveal some names and 
addresses.  He asked if he could take it, and I agreed.

A few days later the policeman came round again, and 
wanted to ask more questions.  He asked me to explain my 
movements on that weekend.  “Why?” I asked, “Did anything 
happen to Jim?  Am I under suspicion?”

“Not really,” he said, “but there are suspicious 
circumstances and we have to check all leads.”

“What suspicious circumstances?” I asked, “Are there 
signs of violence in the car?”

“No,” he said, “but we have the parking ticket so we know 
when he parked the car.  The problem is that no train 
tickets were bought at that time.  You’ve indicated that 
he drove to work, so he wouldn’t have a commuter ticket.”

“Couldn’t he have got on the train without a ticket?”  I 
asked.  

“Yes,” the policeman replied, “but we checked the 
conductors’ receipts and there is no record of anyone 
paying a fare from that station.”

‘Damn,’ I thought to myself, ‘I thought that policemen 
were invariably inefficient.’

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I’m worried,” I said.  “It’s just not like Jim to be 
gone for so long.”

The policeman looked at me keenly, as if trying to read 
my mind.  “Tell me,” he continued “what you did that 
weekend.  Start when you last saw Jim.”

“Well, he got up early that Saturday.  I can’t remember 
the time, but it was early.  He didn’t say where he was 
going, and I didn’t like to ask him.  He drove away 
before I got up.”  The policeman was writing in his 
notebook.  “I got up later, and I remember it was such
a beautiful morning I decided to ride my bike.”  

“Where did you go?’  

“Oh, I didn’t go far, I never do.  I stopped at Shoprite 
for some rolls.”  

“And then?”

“As far as I can remember I spent the rest of the day in 
the house.  Oh, I did spend some time in the yard in the 
afternoon tidying up.”

“Did you receive any phone calls?”

“No, I never heard from Jim again.”

“I meant did you receive any phone calls from anyone?”

“I don’t remember.  I don’t remember receiving any phone 
calls.  But it’s possible.”

“What happened Friday night?”

“Not much,” I said.  I tried to blush and failed.  “I 
made dinner then we had sex.”  As soon as I said these 
words I knew I had made a mistake.  I didn’t actually 
feed Jim that night.  If they found his body and did an 
autopsy, they would discover the lack of food in his 
stomach and deduce that I had been lying.  Perhaps they 
had found his body already and hadn’t told me.  The 
policeman must have noticed my agitation, and I hoped
he attributed it to my mention of sex.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he said trying to draw 
me out.  But I wasn’t going to bite.

“About what?  About the sex?”

“No,” he said.  “Not particularly.  Did anything happen 
out of the ordinary.  Was he worried, did he receive a 
phone call, that sort of thing?”

I felt relieved; he must have bought he sex connection.
“No,” I said, “I can’t remember anything out of the 
ordinary.  He didn’t receive any phone calls, and he 
didn’t seem worried as far as I could tell.”  

“Well,” he said, getting up, “if you hear anything let us
know - as soon as possible.”

“And if you learn anything, you’ll tell me?  Did you 
learn anything from that little black book of his?”

“No.  We followed up on some of the names, but nobody 
could tell us anything.”  As he was leaving he hesitated 
as if he wanted to say something, but changed his mind 
and walked quickly away to his patrol car.

I tried to relax.  I felt like a character in 
Dostoyevsky.  I had tried to do everything perfectly, but 
slipped up on the small things: no train ticket, the 
missing Friday night meal, and the initial failure to 
dispose of Jim’s wallet.  Perhaps it is the fate of 
murderers to be tormented by the small details of their 
crime.  Oh well, it had been a week, and Jim must be well 
on his way to decomposing by now.

I didn’t know Jim’s family.  About a week later I called 
up his work number, and explained the situation.  They 
said they couldn’t give out confidential information.  So 
I called the policeman, who said he’d take care of it.  
After another week, I got a call from Jim’s mother.  She 
explained that Jim hadn’t been close; he had not had much 
contact with his family for the past couple of years.  I 
asked if she would like his things.  

“What kind of things?”  

“Oh, nothing much, mostly clothes and oddments.”  

She said, and I could tell she was close to tears, that 
she just wanted something to remember him by.  For the 
first time since Jim’s death I felt guilty.  I felt 
ashamed that I had hurt someone innocent like his mother.
I invited her to come round and check through his things.
She said she couldn’t bear to do that, but she would send
his father.

A few days later Jim’s father came to the door.  I could 
immediately see the family resemblance, big, burly and 
the same features.  I invited him in.  On impulse I 
hugged him and said how sorry I was.  I said the suspense 
was devastating, I didn’t know if Jim was alive or dead, 
but as time passed began to fear more and more for his 
safety.

His father said, “Well Jim was a bugger sometimes, going 
off by his self when he lived at home.  He would 
sometimes be gone for days, and never said where he’d 
been.  Probably with some girlfriend I reckon.”  
Realizing what he’d just said, he stopped abruptly, and 
then tried to erase the words. “Not that he do that now.
Growed up he has.”

“Is there anything you want?  Take anything of his you 
like,” I offered.

He looked through Jim’s few possessions and finally 
selected a framed photo.  “The missus ’ould want this.  
Yes, Jim was never one for things.  Better keep these in 
case he returns.  He’ll be wanting his clothes then I 
reckon.”

Over the next few weeks and months there were constant 
reminders of Jim.  The car leasing company repossessed 
his car.  Various credit card bills arrived, and I 
received a number of phone calls demanding payment.  I 
explained the situation to them and referred them to his 
bank.  I never found out how things were resolved, and 
never attempted to take possession of his bank balance, 
or even to find out if he had life insurance at work.  I 
didn’t want there to be any hint that I had an interest 
in having him declared dead.

They never did find Jim’s body.  Or if they did, they 
never told me.  I presume that if it were found they 
couldn’t identify it.  The only guilt I ever felt was 
towards his mother, and I resolved that some day I would 
atone for it, but when and how I could not say.

END of Chapter 20