Stripes hang in damp doom, stains conceal patterns, walls grieve,
The forced uncertainty compels urgent thought.
Get in, get the hell out of here.
Knock once. Knock twice. No answer. Knock again. Once more. The same.
Thoughts more. Knocks twice still further:
Anyone in? I’m your driver. Fab Four
meeting. Remember?
No response, the what to do situation.
Fear the worst?
Eyes are directed to the letterbox. Taken down deep through the postman’s rabbit hole.
Of the second-floor, flat 4, bed-sitting-room. Noel Road, Islington, 1967, August 9th,
Electric light on?
Seems unusual?
The top of a bald man’s head.
Seems strange?
… A panic, a phone call later.
GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!
Enter Detective Sergeant Harold Challenor arriving arm in arm with Truscott from the Yard:
… I’ve been on shift over one hundred
hours, I’ve been at it non-stop.
I know. But how did…
Hush. Maverick detectives never reveal sauce.
Well, get you Detective Sergeant, I … well, if it’s gonna make you touchy ...
So know when to hush. Now please, let us both proceed.
Private eyes squint studious. Take notes. Take in the bedsit sight.
Two stools, two chairs, two single divan beds. A chessboard ceiling of pink and yellow.
A wall collage mind-blows them. Mythical beasts, Renaissance high art, the recognisable, unrecognisable, up against low-brow tabloid times.
Is this a walk-in art installation?
I believe it to be a theatre as an
expression of the mind.
Two dead bodies floor and bed are discovered within the montage.
Stomachs turn at the artist’s brush strokes, like a spilt tin of Morton’s Blackcurrant pie filling,
Look at this, a Renaissance crucifix
pasted over a Union Jack.
There lies Orton, body still warm, under a faithful headstone.
Well check this, crossed horse legs. Ape body, Cro-Magnon head spliced with fresh blood.
Here lies Halliwell dead and cold, within his own gore memorial.
Over here…look
Desk top. Red-grained leather binder. A diary. Accompanied by a note:
If you read his diary all will be
explained
KH. PS. Especially the latter part
Take elementary logic, make elementary notes.
Blood hammer. Blood wall. Blood floor. PS. Really, and, especially the latter.
Scribble down never forgotten notes. One obviously murdered.
Nembutals and bottle, glass and grapefruit juice.
Scratch out the violent message. One evident suicide.
An apparition startles. Elevates up, up, up and in.
And who might you be?
A Clean-up Mary scorn, horn rims, twin set, hair rinse, pearls, purse, and swine:
Why, I’m Edna Welthorpe, a friend of both
the boys…
You can’t come in here. This is a crime
scene. What is it you want?
…They’d shared everything except success
you know…
Well murder and death has made them equal. Sorry, what's all this to you?
…Poor Ken. Always desperate to be heard, Lost in Joe, gone into his heart, suffocated in this bedsit wall of mixed up prison form art…
Overpowered by the others talent more like, couldn’t take the failure anymore … Sorry, what is it you want? Who are you? What do you know? What is it you want?
…I’ll gonna report you. You rude bloody upstart. I'll write to the paper I will. You’ve started something now. You mark my words. This is not forgotten. Here today…
I want you to stop. I want you to leave.
Now. If. You. Please.
…Ooh. Get you. Stop he says. Leave indeed. But I’ve already left love. If you were any kind of copper you would have guessed as much…
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