The Personal Touch

Next on the list was stabbing.
Stabbing had the personal touch in a way that shooting didn’t, as it required the perpetrator to be close to the perpatree.

I needed to choose a murder weapon. I arranged my collection of knives, saws and artisan swords on my living room floor and stared at them, wondering how I could decide.

I remembered what Clive, the tutor on my holiday - I mean creative writing course - in the Algarve said: “If in doubt, act it out.”

If Clive were here – I knew he couldn’t be, because he wasn’t due for release for another year - he would suggest I tried out all the potential murder weapons, which was the reason he wasn’t here. Some people just don’t know where the boundary between fiction and reality lies.

Forty minutes later, I had whittled it down to a choice of just two: the carving knife and the three-inch long knife I bought as a souvenir in the Algarve.

The carving knife was most satisfying to use, but a little difficult to explain: “Just on my way to an emergency Sunday roast, Constable” might not be convincing enough.

Brian, as I called the little knife, on the other hand, could be concealed quite easily.

“Here’s to research,” I said as I lifted my first glass of wine to my lips. It had been fun, at least for me, although I wasn’t sure the satsuma, the kiwi fruit or the Granny Smith would see it in quite the same way.