Well, for those who stayed off reading last time due to incompleteness, or for those who are curious, here’s the ‘finished product’ - by which I mean it’s in semi-final drafting stages now. It’s being edited, but the story is essentially complete, apart from possible word substitution and playing with language :)

Jehoshaphat

rnThe rock struck the water, ripples circling the centre of the pond and touching tufts of grass overhanging the bank. Matted plants surrounded the small pool, now trampled with black boots and flecked with reddish mud. “Clay?” the sergeant asked with hand poised over his notebook as he jotted in shorthand. His mustache looked waxed as I took in his face, his eyes were intent on his writing. “Yes, the entire area’s on clay. Nothing grows that well.” I spat, the gobbet of saliva hitting the pond surface. The sergeant grunted and folded over the page he was jotting on, then stopped down at the bank. His eyes fixed on the water, the surface moving up and down gently. Putting the notebook in his chest pocket, he reached down and gently brushed the grass stems overhanging the pool. I glanced away from him, towards the apparatus of the Law. Seven other officers were spaced around the old oak tree, a blue plastic tape checkered with white surrounding them. One, the forensics detective, was bent over the corpse of what appeared to be a homeless wanderer, or so the dirty clothes and unshaven appearance probably indicated. I drifted closer, leaving the sergeant to mutter over crushed grass and muddy footprints. “Male. About thirty, thirty-five I’d think. Anyone recognise him?” the detective was asking, to the accompaniment of shaken heads. “That’s the first step then. Rigor’s well set, temperature close to 25 degrees. At least twelve hours ago, gentlemen. Bullet holes, two each for his head and his chest. We’ll need to do a proper post mortem to confirm specific cause of death at the morgue, though.” The forensic detective zipped up the bodybag, and gestured to two waiting constables, who carefully lifted the bag, placed it on a gurney, and wheeled it away from the pond. The gurney lurched over a protruding root, then stabilised before it reached the waiting ambulance. “Sir, if you don’t mind.” The sergeant’s voice came from behind me, and I turned to see him holding a handful of brass casings. “Can I have a look at that rifle you mentioned keeping at home?” “Of course,” I replied, voice even. “Now, officer?” “If you don’t mind,” the sergeant replied, dropping the bullet casings into a plastic sample bag. I nodded, and led the way to my driveway, leaning on the fence as the sergeant strode along beside me. “Trouble, sir?” he asked as I stumbled on a patch of rough dirt, my knee flexing awkwardly. “Nothing major,” I replied, my face slightly reddened. “Leg troubles. Should have driven.” After several minutes more we rounded a bend in the drive and reached the tarred surface that led up to the house. The dog was lolling on the front porch, but she jumped out of the way once she saw I had company and skittishly sniffed at the sergeant’s boots. He bent down and scratched her ears, his fingers fondling their dark skin. “Nice dog,” he said to me. rn “Come in, I’ll find that rifle for you.” I replied, unlocking the screen door. I settled the sergeant into the kitchen and limped into the bedroom, then picked up the rifle from my bedroom windowsill. My hands ran over the smooth stock and stroked the barrel, before I shrugged and grabbed my walking stick, leaning on it heavily as I returned to the kitchen. The sergeant was leaning against the bench, his navy blue shirt sharply outlined upon the redgum surface. He was staring at the portraits sitting on my dining table, their silver frames shining in the morning sun. “Here you go sergeant,” I said, handing him the rifle. He looked it over carefully, sliding the bolt back and forward and glanced up at me. rn “Bit of an antique, this one sir.” “My father’s. Never used it much, but never really felt like getting rid of it either. Kind of a keepsake.” “Of course.” The sergeant glanced around once more. “I’ll have to take this with me, just for a brief time. I’m sure you can understand why.” ” It will be returned unharmed?” “As soon as it can be,” the sergeant replied, tucking the gun under his arm and pulling out another notebook. ” When we’re done with it we’ll call you, and you can bring this down and pick it up from the station.” He scrawled his name on a dotted line, and tore off the receipt. I took it from his fingers and glanced at it, then slid it underneath the phone on the kitchen bench. “Thank you for your assistance,” the sergeant said, stepping onto the porch. “You’ll be available if we have anymore questions?” “Of course, officer,” I replied. “I wish you luck.” The sergeant nodded once and stepped off the porch, giving the dog a quick pat before striding briskly down the driveway. I watched him turn the bend and reentered the kitchen, shutting the front door. Looking over at the phone, I smiled briefly, then picked up the receipt and tore it into four square pieces, and dropped them like floating leaves into the wastepaper basket.

rn”How would you describe yourself? As a person.” rn I exhaled, smoke swirling from my nostrils into the clean office air. My forehead crinkled. ”Why is it relevant?” I stubbed out my cigarette on the ashtray beside me. “Because if I can’t build a sympathetic portrait, you’re going under, Walter,” my lawyer replied, his voice irritated. “Why the hell can’t you understand that? The police are damn sure you did it, and even I’m not sure you didn’t! Five bodies now, Walter. Five! The homeless man from three weeks ago, and another four John Does from between two years to a decade old. At this rate the police are likely to find another half a dozen before they’re through!” I shrugged and leaned back in my chair. “I didn’t do anything. You’ll have to just take my word for it; it wasn’t me. I’m not paying you to try to convince me I killed people that I didn’t even know existed, let alone died. I’m paying you, John.” John pushed his chair back and strode to the window, gripping the frame. His knuckles whitened, the sunlight shining over his lips. His voice came, softly. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell me?” I shook my head, realising the useless gesture. “No.” “Then God help you when they select a jury, Walter.” John turned, and offered me a hand up. “I’ll do the best I can. But it isn’t hopeful. Not at all.” I picked up my stick from where it leant against the table, and put my weight on it as I limped to the door. Before my fingers met the cold metal of the knob, I turned my head. “I’m not a murderer, John.” His eyes locked on mine through tinted lenses, but didn’t reply. I smiled briefly, and turned the knob, walking out into the street. “Done now, sir?” the sergeant asked, holding open the door to his car. “I’ll give you a lift home.” I looked at him, then hobbled over to the car and slid inside. He swung the door shut and climbed into the driver’s side, turned the key in the ignition and then pulled away from the curb. “A nice chat, was it?” the sergeant asked as he indicated left and turned. I didn’t reply, and he grinned beneath his mustaches. “Not going to talk? Lawyer got to you already about what you do and don’t do?” “I think you know,” I replied, staring through the windscreen. “Fact is, Mr Malory, our case looks pretty airtight. Your rifle fires the same kind of rounds that caused death in four of the five victims. Only the most recent one seems to have escaped you, eh? Or at least your bullets. Pity he’s proved to be such a lightning rod, helping us find a few other ‘missing persons’. All corpses found near that little pool on the edge of your property, and the neighbours tell us you’re mighty protective of your little ‘holy grove’. Sounds interesting, doesn’t it?” He glanced at me, then chuckled. “Have it your way then, Mr Malory.” The sergeant accelerated out of the town and onto the highway, before taking the exit that led to my house. He pulled into my drive way and drove along the hard packed dirt, stopping before the front porch. I opened the door and climbed out of the car, then leaned down and shut it. The sergeant opened the automatic window before I turned away. “Face it, Wally. You may’ve been granted bail, but you won’t be free much longer. It’ll go better on you if you give in, and soon. The prosecutor’s willing to deal, and without something, you know the likely ending. Eye for an eye, it’s on the books. You don’t want to go that way.”rn “Have a good day, sergeant,” I replied, and entered the house, pulling the door closed behind me. I leant against it, my breathing rapid, until the engine of the police car had retreated into the silence of the lonely homestead. I looked over at the mantelpiece, and the hanging crucifix suspended above the sandstone shelf. I hobbled over to it and traced the letters I had carved into the wall beneath it. “Thelema”, I whispered, and looked into the face of the forsaken yet risen one. “Do what thou wilt.”

rnThree black stripes moved slowly along the bed, the shadows cast by barred windows turning in time to the dying afternoon. I lay on the hard mattress, my eyes fixed on the swinging light bulb on the roof. A steely boom came from down the corridor, but I waited until the sounds of footsteps drew outside my cell door before I sat up. The sergeant was leaning against the bars. “Yes?” I asked him, wincing as my knees creaked into place without lubricating cartilage to guide them. “I still don’t get it, Walter,” he replied, and unlocked the cell. He sat on my wooden chair and leaned forward, his chin resting in his hands. “I still don’t know why.” “Why what?” “You damn well know,” he replied, his voice darkening slightly. “All that’s left now is for the sentencing, after that pathetic display of a trial. There really wasn’t anything you could’ve said, and your lawyer knew it. No, Wally, we know how, we know when, we can even make fairly certain guesses as to exactly where. That’s enough for the Inspector, and probably for the jury. But not for me.” I turned away, lying on my side facing the wall. There were nineteen scratches in the peeling cream paint, and I rubbed my nail alongside the leftmost, taking the total to twenty. “Wally,” the sergeant’s voice was softer now. “I need to know.” “Do you believe in angels, sergeant?” I asked him, my lips almost brushing the wall. There was a pause in the sergeant’s breathing, as if I had caught him off guard. He replied, but his voice was hesitant. “What do you mean, angels?” “Sometimes, sergeant, people hear voices. Sometimes, I think, the voices are real.” “And you think it’s angels talking? Wally, be serious,” the sergeant said, and I heard the wooden legs of the chair scrape along the floor as he stood up. The cell door clanged as he swung it open. “You trying to say that God made you do it?” the sergeant asked, then snorted, slamming the cell door closed before he stomped off towards the exit. I lay curled up against the wall, my nose brushing the twenty scratches of days passed without real sunlight or hope. The first time it had been an adrenaline rush, I thought, as my mind wandered over blue sky and dappled water. The second had been less of an excitement than a duty, and the third… the word ‘habit’ echoed in my head, although surely nine in twelve years wasn’t a very compulsive habit. “No, God didn’t make me do it,” I whispered, images flashing through my mind in a cascade of silent execution and death without warning. “He just let me choose to.”

rnIt was windy the first day of October, the trees surrounding the courthouse flexing in a seesaw motion as gusts of air pushed at their branches. I shivered in the cool morning air, my eyes shaded from the sun by a kerchief wound around my temples. The kerchief was red, with a black border. I almost grinned at the thought, but forced my lips to remain still whilst the judge continued reading. “And thus, convicted of murder in the first degree in six instances, and murder in the second degree in three instances, you are sentenced to be hanged by the neck until you are dead, on this the first of October, at eight o’clock in the morning.” The judge looked over at me, his blue eyes seemed almost sad, before he looked down at the small crowd behind me. “The accused, Walter Theophilus Malory, is declared present, and has been sentenced to meet his Maker in recompense for his crimes against his fellow men. Are there any here who wish to speak in favour of the accused, or are all of one mind and belief to the justice of his sentencing?” The dozen or so citizens who had gathered around the courthouse steps looked uncomfortable, but none raised their voice above a muttered curse. One met my eyes, Jason, who owned the general store, but he shook his head and turned away. The judge waited a brief interval, before turning to me. “Walter Theophilus Malory, you are condemned in both the sight of God and man. Your proscribed sentence will now be carried out. May the Lord above have mercy upon your miserable soul.” I touched my handcuffed right wrist to my temple, and followed the sergeant as he led me up the gallows steps. The executioner patted me on the shoulder, then placed the knotted rope over my head, slipping it tight enough to remain fixed below my Adam’s apple. He held up a blindfold, but I shook my head, my eyes fixed on the gleaming copper face of the clock set into the courthouse facade. “Any last words, Wally?” the sergeant asked, his voice soft in my ear. I looked at him, and smiled. “Father, forgive me,” I said, my voice loud enough to carry to the onlookers. “I knew well what I did.” The executioner nodded once, and pulled the lever. I felt my legs drop and the biting hessian slice into my neck and jaw, my breath catching in my throat as my eyes rolled back. I heaved one last gasp of air into my lungs and then, with a shattering sound of crunching bone, I fell.

Alcata’riel.

-Andiyar