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Back I Know What I Saw Save as PDF
Chapters (59)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for I Know What I Saw
  3. By the Same Author
  4. Dedication Page
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. Now read on for a preview
  55. 1
  56. 2
  57. 3
  58. 4
  59. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The mouth of the bag falls open and I put my hand in. I take a corner of the newspaper wrapping and tear it off. I read the date across the top:

30 December 1989

46

Friday

There is no doubt. Looking at this thing in my hand, there is no doubt. It was me. It was me after all.

I pick up the bag and tuck it inside my jacket and run out of the grounds. I have to get out of here.

I break out again into a run, my hands and sleeves covered in soil. My knees damp and dirty. I remember burying this but I can’t remember what happened before. My head pounds as I run. The boundary wall draws near and I jump it. I don’t want the exit now. These gates are meant for people. Thoughts riot in my head.

Did I know this? Did I know that I killed her? Am I perpetrating huge diversions against myself? Am I just playing chess against myself, pretending that I haven’t seen the plan behind the move? I am drawing myself in tighter and tighter coils into a box.

I must have known it all along. This – what is in this bag – proves it.

After ten minutes of running, I am at Seb’s. I push my way past him when he answers the door and barge into the kitchen.

‘Xander?’ he says, following me, puzzled.

I look at him and the ease drops out of his face like a bag of cement.

‘Shit, Xander,’ he says, taking in my muddied form. ‘What happened at court?’

I walk straight to the table and begin to peel back the wet plastic in my hand.

‘Xander? What’s going on?’

I ignore him and carry on unwrapping. The newspaper-packaged bundle is dry.

‘Xander.’

I peel back the paper carefully and expose what has been lying underneath it for nearly thirty years.

‘The missing piece,’ I say.

How can it be? And yet it is. The fragmented recollections aren’t needed any longer and can’t save me now. The proof is there in front of me.

‘Missing piece of what?’ says Seb, as I sit on the chair nearest to me.

‘The record,’ I say, looking up at him. He’s my only friend, and now the sole witness to my unravelling. ‘I killed her, Seb,’ I gasp. ‘It was me.’

It takes some time for him to cajole me out of my daze. In broken sentences I tell him about the evidence. The record piece, the prints, everything.

‘This will prove it,’ I say, lifting the piece to him with a scrap of the newspaper.

He looks startled, concerned – on the cusp of panic. ‘You have to give it to them. It might help you.’

As he says this he starts to rewrap the thing in its paper.

‘Help me? It incriminates me.’

He stops, mid-wrap.