The lens through which we view our lives has become fogged, the events before it, indistinct. Traces of red pen that turn the text into a battlefield. Shattered glass, a bottle of wine. A broken mirror reflecting fragments of yourself. Hands fumbling, hands that are too still. Francis hunched over a copy of Hamlet. Paper dashed with blood.
This is not a crime scene, nor is this document an admission of guilt.
If morning breaks over the city, it is unnoticeable through the mist. The image is a repeat, of course; and the negatives, blurring into one another, make it impossible to tell the original apart. London, Birmingham, Brighton, York: there are always four walls, a window, grey skies, a bed. The cup of coffee is always half-empty; the ashtray, half-full. Annotations in red ink always frame the margins of books. These are the only constants as I flit between lives, exchanging stability for the illusion of safety. And I'm more than happy to do so - happy to believe that, if I keep moving, I'll eventually outrun the fear of being caught.
It is only in retrospect that I'm able to see my naivety. Look at the facts from where you stand: document in hand, two corpses at your feet. Yes, you are right in assuming it was the wine that did it. Poison - forensics will tell you that. No, there were no signs of a struggle. The victims knew one another, yes. And, just like that, the words suicide pact will headline the folder containing our files. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust - reduced to ink and paper from one second to the next. It's almost laughable.
But imagine me now, somewhere in the past, hands shaking as I write these words. To whom it may concern: this is my gateway to closure, my epilogue, my goodbye.
I'm aware the way the scenes play out makes it difficult to see things for what they are. The evidence will tell you I was there on the night of his death and that the fingerprints match mine. I will make no attempt at denying either accusation: I was there; the fingerprints are mine. But I will make this clear: Francis Tyrell was my friend, and his loss was also my own.
I can't say I don't regret what happened. I do - God knows I do. I still see him in my dreams: pale, glassy-eyed, and all too still. I still see the halo of red framing his face. He becomes otherworldly here: a tragic hero, a martyr, a saint. Then the moment passes, and he is human again - human and quite beyond salvation. So of course I regret it. I regret the circumstances of his death, the fact I couldn't save him, the knowledge I'll never see him perform again.
You'll think the last point selfish, but my writing acts as evidence here. His mannerisms are engraved in my words. There's the flash of red hair, the nimble physique, the fragility behind every motion. There's the subtle curve of his mouth, the bent shoulders, the gentle arching of his back. The tragic Atlas, present in every breath and every syllable, is Francis. It is always Francis.
To whom it may concern: it's been five years since his death. The date is not exact, but this is hardly relevant. What matters is that you found the body and, in doing so, have found me.
Longridge, just off Marlow Road. You can see the Thames from there. You might be wondering why we didn't throw him into the river there and then. It would have spared us the effort of having to dig a grave for him, and the grief of watching his body disappear under a pile of dirt. Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest.
But it wasn't the fear of being found out that stopped us; to think so would be to give us undue credit, to see us as sensible individuals, able to handle the situation rationally. Perhaps I give you that impression now, but it was certainly not the case at the time. The reason was much simpler than that: Francis was my friend, he deserved a proper burial; and this, I'm afraid, was the closest to that I could give him.
That night, I made peace with a bottle of wine; the following evening I found myself reprising the role Francis had played a mere twenty-four hours before. It had been my decision to refrain from casting an understudy for the part, adamant that it should be him, and him alone, that should play it. It was a testament to his ability, a conviction that no other actor could affect the understanding and sensibility Francis brought the role. And I was right. Every night I stepped onto that stage was a failure, despite reassurances from the audience; and in spite of my familiarity with the text, I was never quite able to match his performance. His Hamlet was ethereal, transcendental, destined to soar; mine, a mere shadow who, earthbound, could only ever exist through imitation.
This was not, however, my only failure.
The second corpse belongs to Orleanna Dalton. Your records will tell you she was a lecturer at UCL specialising in Shakespeare's work. When we met, she was also an actress - the Ophelia to Francis' Hamlet - though this was short-lived.
The latest report on Francis' case claims to have found DNA traces from two 'as yet unidentified individuals'. It is only a matter of time before your system recognises the evidence for what it is. So look at us, look at us closely. We are the last piece, slotting into place. We are the final soliloquy before the curtain comes down. We are the missing negative, developed after years of neglect. And perhaps there is a sort of comfort in that. Perhaps this is the closest you - or any of us - will ever get to justice. Not that it matters now. You've turned the last page.
As for us, the rest is silence.
