Chapter 2: The Offence of Murder

She was walking home alone one evening during the middle of winter. A shower of rain had just washed the footpaths clean. There was an icy wind blowing up from the Antarctic, her coat was thin and threadbare, and she shivered with every gust of wind, she dreaded the walk across the old football fields. No windbreaks or cover if the rain came down. Crossing the fields was quicker though, than taking the poorly lit streets to home.

Although not safe after dark, she had been told and shown what to do if someone got out of line with her. She also carried an old switchblade razor in her handbag. Her brothers had shown her how to use it and more importantly, not to be scared to use it. She wasn’t.

As she approached the playing fields, she shivered once more put her head down and walked briskly into the wind. She promised herself that she’d get a decent coat one day, as soon as she could afford it. She thought that a good couple of weeks in the alley behind the pub would go a long way to getting her a decent coat.

She wasn’t paying attention to the dark black night around her, and then out of nowhere a large figure just appeared in front of her, this hefty baulk of a bloke came out of the blackness towards her, he grabbed her around the throat, and punched her in the face before throwing her to the ground. Her shrieks and screams disappeared in the wind. As quickly as her cries for help, for mercy, were heard by her attacker they were washed away on the wind, it swept her noises, her screams, clean, by that cold wet wintery wind which took all of her cries and buried them amongst the branches and the leaves. A wailing wind in the dead of night, high winds, mournful, screeching through the electrical wires swaying from pole to pole, like the devils themselves were singing out their music to the tormenting of the trees, the leaves, and muffling all human sound. No one heard her.

Her head was spinning and she felt the punches, again and again in the belly as he ripped her dress and then forced it up around her waist. She felt his hand around her neck tightening, she was thrashing about trying to push back against this giant thug of a man, to push him off of her, but he was too big, too strong she felt his hand reach into her knickers, and then he grabbed hold of them and pulled them to one side, ripping the thin satin material as he tried to insert his fingers into her. She struggled and tried to scream and kick her way out. But he just slammed her down continuously, as he slapped her around her head and face.

Her head hit the hard but lush wet green football field, momentarily stunning her. His hand around her throat tightened and she began to lose consciousness. His tightened hand on her throat slowly started to squeeze the life from her. All the teaching her brothers had shown her was of no use. A fist thudded into her face knocking her senseless, then another one splitting her lips. The taste of blood made her dry reach. She coughed, she spluttered. The laughter from this thug rattled around in her ears until it settled into her brain, it was a sound she would never forget. The noise of his brutish voice as he told her, “Don’t remember me do you, you fucking whore, but I remember you. I’m getting my ten quids worth from you and later on that tart of a sister of yours.” His words would be etched into her brain forever. As his fist smashed down into her face once again.

She lay there stunned. Not unconscious and not conscious, her will fading quickly. Her handbag was still on her forearm, she raised her arm slightly and eased it down and open, as she thrashed about. The big brutish thug told her to be still and that he wouldn’t hit her any more. She could smell the rum on his breath as he leaned over her. His stench of sweat and booze, the fear she had inside of her was making her head swim more than the beating, more than his stench.

Her hand started searching through her handbag until it came upon the cold steel of her switchblade razor. She grabbed it and using her fingers opened it quickly but carefully. She started to speak but it was more a squeak than a voice, “Please Mister, don’t hurt me, I promise I won’t tell, please don’t hurt me anymore,” her voice was broken, weak, sounding like a little girl about to be raped, scared, waiting for death. She was clever at playing these games. She could make any man believe what she wanted them to believe. She wanted to let him think of her as a weak, little girl, waiting for the end.

He was straddling her as his hand released its grip around her throat as he started to undo the buttons on his fly and as he relaxed his grip on her body, she seized the moment and swung her arm around catching him across his face, she swung it again this time slicing the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, as he tried to protect his face. The stroke almost severed his thumb. He screamed in a rage trying to catch hold of her wrist when she struck again, taking off most of his nose. It went flying from his face but fell next to her, collecting in her tangled clothes. He screamed at her as he tried to get up, it was then that she struck him around his neck just above his shoulder blade. He threw his head back, his fatal mistake. Christine brought her arm up across his throat, this time she remembered what her brothers had said, ‘If you can’t kick him in the balls slice his throat’, two, three, four more times, each time slicing deeper into his throat. She felt the blade slice through his ragged, unshaven skin, hardened by days of labour under the sun. She felt it catch on some tissue in his throat and she pressed in harder and slowly drew it across his whole throat, deep, feeling the blood gushing down her arm onto her body, she heard a guttural scream as he started to fall backwards.

He was stunned by the suddenness and viciousness of the attack. He cried out in pain and terror. A terrible gurgling sound came from him. His hands trying to stem the flow of blood, this life-giving fluid draining from him. Christine felt the warm liquid falling onto her. Not in little drips but in a flood as it gushed from his throat. She smiled victoriously, knowing that she now had time to escape.

Christine finally pushed him off of her. His two hands were clasping at his throat, the only sounds were that of him gurgling, she didn’t stop to see who it was, or what she had done. She started running, she ran, losing her high heels, she stumbled and her handbag went flying off into the darkness, she stopped for a second, looked around, she couldn’t see it. Then she heard the awful screams continuing, so she ran faster forgetting the handbag, she was crying, screaming for help, the odd light went on as she passed by some houses on the far side of the fields, but no one came out. No one cared.

She ran as fast as she could ignoring the pain of sharp stones on her feet, she fell, she cried and crawled into the darkness, listening. Waiting for those horrid screams to find her. They didn’t. All she could hear was her own heart pounding in her chest. Her breathing came in fast, short panting sounds. She looked down at her hands as they shook, she was unable to control herself.

She looked at her hands, quivering from the cold and fear, she looked at them all covered in blood, the cold steel razor still in her grasp. She looked down at her torn dress, blood-stained from her chest to her waist. So much blood. Her tears were cold on her cheeks, her cries for help unanswered.

Slowly she wandered towards the house she called home. The lights were off, no sounds came from the inside. She knocked gently on the door and no one stirred. Her sobbing went unanswered. She banged and banged, she screamed and yelled. She heard voices behind the door, it was opened an inch or two. A face behind it looked at her and screamed. One of her brothers threw open the front door and with a cricket bat in his hand, he was ready for any intruder. What he saw took him by surprise. The last person he thought he would see was his baby sister, covered in blood.

“Fucking hell Chrissy, what happened to you?” Her older brother said. He threw open the door calling out to his Ma, as he took hold of his little sister seeing the glazed look in her eyes, her body shaking and her crying becoming louder and louder, he brought her into the house. He looked out into the street seeing no one, not even other lights on in the street.

In a moment, the household was wide awake. People were everywhere. The woman they called mum finally became her mother. She looked at her youngest daughter, the razor in her hand, took it, gave it to one of the others, and told them to bury it in the backyard veggie patch, “Right now,” She told them.