by Mutley The Dog
I put it all back.
Just like it had been.
After I had finished washing the knives that is, that bloody night of awakening - all of thirty years ago now.
They didn’t have forensic science then like they do now. The sink stayed as I had stashed it – for years. Years.
The Police never thought to check.
I would see the pots and pans and plates stained with moulds and food still sitting there for a while; unmoved and unmoving, as the house roughened up the way empty places do when bad things have happened. Grease and dust marked the windows, a pane or two got broke. Wooden planks, bright and new appeared one day – incongruous like a bloodstained bandage on an old wound, to late to staunch the flow – but hiding that families memorial.
As I walked past each day I would wonder –what would have happened- what could have happened to me if anyone had moved that stuff – if they had been worth the trouble, if it had not been so damn easy for me? If the Police – lazy, careless - had only thought to ask, had only known that the poor do wash up – at that time cleanliness was all they had.
That and sparkling carving knives. And bones.
I got away with it then – I’ve got away with it a thousand times since.
It gave me the taste – and when I have eaten I always do the washing up.
Its only fair after all.