Ok, my name is Daniel Taylor, Taylor with a y. I live in The Meadows, room 07-03 in CV1 3LW Meadow Street, Spon End and I’d like to report a crime.
I did.
No, sir. No, I haven’t.
Well, it started about a week ago. I came back from work around six in the morning and it was already getting light. Since I am regularly working the night shifts, I find it hard to go to sleep right away and usually watch a bit of BBC’s breakfast show while having a coffee. I also smoke a cigarette. Really, the TV is the pits these days.
Yes, sir, I understand. I will. I was sitting on my bed watching TV, but something felt weird. Usually I don’t let anyone into my room – I am not particularly tidy and the interior is about as ugly as the rest of the building. The caretaker, that twat, once told me to clean the stairway myself if I was bothered by my neighbours’ garbage which they keep disposing there. I replied I wouldn’t complain about their ingenious approach to getting rid of their litter if the lift hadn’t been out of order for at least three months now. I was told to go and fuck myself. I could have taken him to court for that, but that’s not my style.
Yes, Inspector. Sure. I felt something was out of place, but I didn’t figure it out until I had undressed and gone to bed. Casting a last look around in the room, it hit me like a brick wall at full speed. There was a pair of boots standing right in front of the sideboard. Not mine, though. Black pleather, size 5, and – I checked – 7 inch high heels. Definitely not mine, sir.
No, of course not, sir. You wouldn’t think I wore a size 5, would you?
Well, I got up and gave the boots a closer inspection. They looked quite new. When I stood there in front of them, I suddenly felt as if I had better put on some clothes. You know, there were those women’s boots and there was me, stark naked in my room and the rain pissing against the window panes. It just didn’t seem right.
No, it’s not about having dirty thoughts or being into any kind of kinky shit, it’s just that it’s been quite a while since any part of women’s clothing last saw me in all my splendour, if you get my drift. Anyway, it sort of freaked me out. Someone must have entered my room while I was at work and placed those boots in there. It took me another cup of coffee and half a pack of fags to calm down, but then I decided it probably wasn’t worth the sweat and went back to bed. Dressed, this time.
The evening, I went to work as usual. I locked the door twice, though. When I came back it all seemed just fine. A one-off, I thought. Some prank. I fell asleep in an instant. Mind if I smoke? Thanks. Around three in the afternoon, I woke up, had a shower, got dressed and shaved. Having barely any clean clothes left, I gathered all the stuff and took it to the launderette over in Earlsdon. All the machines were occupied, so I busied myself sorting the stuff by colour. White goes with white, colours with colours. See, I’m usually not that anal, but if you don’t do that, it might happen that you’ll have to wear pink socks for the next three weeks.
Oh, I am sorry to hear that. I understand it’s very inconvenient she left you without telling you that first. Well, you live and you learn. Ok, so I sorted the washing. One after the other, I took the pieces of clothing from my bag and placed them on the piles. When it was about half empty, I reached in and came up with a white shirt. I have lots of white shirts, but a white tank top is not among them. I tell you, I was freaking a little. First the boots, then this. I looked around, thinking someone might have stuffed it in the bag while I wasn’t looking, but I was alone. Conclusion: It was already there. Which leads me to think that it must have been with the rest of the clothing in my flat. Unsettling, isn’t it?
Well, I did my washing. Oh, you mean after? I went back to my flat and searched everything once again. But nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just the boots. When I left in the evening, I placed a hair over the lock to my room. I’d seen it in detective stories. I also looked around in the hallway and checked that no one was hiding there. Same routine when I came back in the morning. The hair was still in place, the hallway stank of cauliflower, but that was all. Inside, however, there was a skimpy red skirt hanging from the lamp.
The lamp, yes. No idea how it got there. It was as if all these things just appeared out of nowhere. Everything was unchanged. Just a skirt dangling from the ceiling. I lit a cigarette and went back into the hallway. While I smoked, I started to go through all the women I know – Ellen from the coffee shop; Sarah, Jane and Terry from work; Holly and Kath from the pub. My sister and my mother I ruled out. Though it would have been entirely possible for my sister to play this kind of practical joke on me, it seemed not very likely considering she lives up in Dingwall, Scotland. My mother wouldn’t dare buy black pleather boots. She’d feel like a whore – red lipstick is as far as she’s prepared to go. My dad would probably be delighted if she were a little more… confident, you know, but…
Sure, sir. I’ll stick to the topic. So I smoked and tried to picture the women I just named. Ellen is a Jehova’s witness, and while I think that a repressive religion can bring out some weird streaks in each of us, I figured she’d be more into the whip and a gag. Sarah and Terry? Ridiculous! Sarah’s a fat cow, and Terry we don’t even need to talk about – she wouldn’t make it up the stairs to the seventh floor. As I already mentioned, the lift is out of order. Holly? No, she has lots of guys and made it very clear she doesn’t want to speak to me other than saying thanks when it’s my round. And Kath? No, Kath is a nice girl and has two kids but no husband. She simply wouldn’t find the time to come sneaking round other people’s rooms at night. Besides, she smells so much of Vanilla sex that you want to apologise for just looking at her tits. Not that I would, really, it just so happens that they are very prominent. Anyway, the only person I could think of was Jane. Jane, as I already said, is a colleague of mine and sometimes joins me on my coffee break. She’s generally a good girl, but she has this air about her. I can’t describe it – I just think that she might have hidden a lot more than she showed.
No, sir. I didn’t. I’m not a nutcases, right? I just observed her a little more carefully the next day at work. And indeed, she seemed kind of weird. I made an effort to talk to her to find out what she was up to, and she started giving me those looks. You know, those looks. She bought me a coffee, too. I asked her a bit about her private life, but she said she wasn’t up to much. Which is a good indication that there’s something wrong with her…
Me? Nothing. I work the night shifts. When you’re awake all night, you’re glad if you get the shopping and the laundry done. Anyway, when I got home, I unlocked the door. At first the keys wouldn’t go in, I was shaking a little and expecting another piece of clothing. But, sir, nothing. Well, until I went to bed, that is, because under the duvet there was… I guess you can imagine it kind of freaked me out. I mean, in my bed. In my fucking bed! Worn! I really ain’t one of these Japanese daddies; you know, those who they installed these vending machines for.
Yes. No! It didn’t. I felt more like someone was invading my privacy and if I waited one day longer I’d come home to find some hooker stretched out on the carpet, naked. That’s how I felt. Arousal is not a word for it. So I decided I wouldn’t let that happen. Since I figured that every one of these items had appeared when I was at work, I decided to call in sick and stay at home, waiting. I stocked up on cigarettes, took a meat knife from the drawer – you never know, right – and sat down on my bed. By the time it turned nine, I had had my third cup of coffee. Two hours later, I began to understand that it is a lot harder to stay awake if you lie in wait in the dark than staying awake when busy. I was continually nodding off. Around four I must have fallen asleep for good. When I woke up, someone was ringing the doorbell non-stop. I grabbed the knife, shot out of bed, ran to the door and … What do you figure? It was Jane. She had been stalking me, talking and buying me coffee and shit, but this time she was taking things too far. I dragged her into my room and asked her whether the clothes were hers. She denied, and I hit her and asked again. Again, she denied. Something in me wanted to believe her, but then I thought; Why should she admit it? If I were her, I wouldn’t. So I kept shouting and she screamed and tried to wriggle herself out of my headlock. Eventually, she kicked me and I let go for a moment and she ran to the door. I couldn’t let her escape, you have to agree – she’d have told everyone that I was nutcase. So I chased after her, knife in hand, telling her to please stop and calm down. She wouldn’t and I reached for her, but forgot I still held the knife. I must have hit her. She started to bleed. I was confused because this was not supposed to turn out that way – the knife was for self-defence purposes. She fell and lay on the floor, bleeding and crying and sobbing she’d only come to check whether I needed something, considering I was ill. Very clever. And as she lay there and sobbed, it occurred to me that I had better shut her up somehow. We’d been making lots of noise already. Calming her down didn’t work. Shouting didn’t, either. Slowly, I was getting exasperated. I was at my wits end. She wouldn’t shut up. Suddenly, she asked: What are you gonna do? You’re not gonna stab me, right? And I thought: Hey, why not?
Yes, sir, that was what I thought. Yes, you can take this down. It seemed like a pretty good idea at the time. You have to understand she was really getting on my nerves. I mean, what would you have done?
Oh, and what do you think I should have told them? I was waiting for a naked woman to show up tonight, but she didn’t and now there’s a bleeding colleague of mine here on the floor, could you please come over and shut her up? Inspector, I have the highest regard for your profession, but you have to admit that you would have locked me up straight away.
Sure, it doesn’t make much of a difference now. But you know what really bugs me? The boots weren’t even hers. The bitch wore a size 6.
