Just Like Iago

There is a morbid fascination with murder, I think, if that's not too obvious and trite a thing to say. I bet if you looked at the proportion of TV programmes that are dedicated to the discovery of who-killed-who, it would be a fair percentage. And so many adopted formats!

The Who-Done-It, abbreviated down like doughnut to donut to reflect its colloquial common status, its frequent and popular use. Whodunit? Belittles it really, don't you think? I mean, taking a life should not be on the same par as grabbing a sweet treat for a quick boost.

As someone who has done both, I feel qualified to comment.

But human curiosity can never be fully satisfied by the who. No. Identifying the perpetrator, cornering the killer, manacling the murderer: it can never stop there. Because whilst you may have found the culprit, it's not enough to know who did it. That's not the core of it, is it?

You know what I'm talking about.

You think about all the times that you've read a crime report and someone has been named. You take that name and you swirl it around in your brain, trying to extract from it what you can: does it sound like a "bad" family name? Do you know of other "insert name here" who were bad 'uns? Does it have a certain flavour, a dark bitterness like liquorice that taunts and prods? Is it strange, hinting at the delinquency behind it, in the person it labels? Or does it taste bland, nondescript or saccharin-y sweet, an indicator in itself?

There's nothing to be found there, in my opinion. Perhaps in the olden days where you had warriors and their strengths needed to be more readily recognised like Steelblade or Wolfslayer - but then killing was so much more out in the open then. More "IN YER FACE" literally. Or "Here's my sword carving out your bowels". A part of every day life, you could say. Hunting, protecting your tribe from others and from marauding invaders, or wild, ravenous animals. I don't know, I'm making it up. My point is that there is nothing in a name; nothing that could lead you to a killer; nothing that could give you an insight, a Columbo-esque moment of enlightenment or clarity.

Giving a name to evil is not an easy thing.

I think that mostly and certainly in our modern times, the killer tries to remain hidden, stealthy and silent, a predator among prey. Unless they are out of control. Or warmongers. Or want a martyrdom. Or notoriety.

I want none of those things. But I am a killer.

My name is John Smith. And my victim? A name just as mundane.

And what about how they look? Come on, admit it! You've wanted to see the face of Jeffrey Dahmer or Fred West or Lizzie Borden (let's not be sexist here!). You've Googled them so that you can look into the face of a killer and see what is there; to see if you can glean the apparent signs of murderous intent on their face; to see evil etched around their eyes; to catch a glimpse of the devil red reflected in their pupils, flaming and obvious, indicating the impulse to strike!

But I bet even with all that access, with all that scrutiny that the internet allows you, I bet you'd most like to look on the face of Jack the Ripper, the one who has never been identified, who will never be known. And it will irritate you like an itchy label on the back of your neck.

Am I right? I know I am.

So. We've discussed the whodunit and now you know. I did it. I am the who. And there the story ends. You've got me, bang to rights! Lock me away!

Which is where I am now. Languishing in a miserable little cell, stifled by the stench and the minimalism and the starkness of it all. The insipid colour of the walls, the roughness of the blanket, the germs rising in visible green swarms from the toilet.

The End.

Except the story doesn't end there, does it, for you? Because there is so much more to know, isn't there? You have your name so the who is solved. But you're not satisfied by just knowing my name, are you? What about the how? And the why? Well now, they are questions that surely, surely, must have your curiosity piqued? You're human after all.

Let's discuss the victim. After all, there is nothing hidden there. She has been named numerous times already in numerous publications and media.

Her name was Sarah. She was my wife. I killed her. Not with my bare hands. In candlelight. In our living room.

It was not planned. I'm not a pleasure killer. I got nothing from it other than the result, which was necessary under the circumstances. It did not give me a thrill; I didn't take any trophies; I didn't use an unmarked bag full of dismemberment tools. The very thought makes me shudder. I won't be doing it again for kicks.

Does it haunt me? No. Was I unsettled at the time? Um, that's so difficult to comment on, I think. I remember the fury of the act and the heat of the emotions that rose that evening, molten under my skin. I can recall the throb of adrenaline and will even admit to shaking with tremors. I can envision her face as I caved her head in with a poker in a singular act, sharp and strong, and took the life from her with no spark of emotion. I can examine the event with dispassion. I am a cold-blooded killer, it would seem.

But I didn't enjoy it.

***

I am tired. I know. Poor me. I am pursued relentlessly for the truth. They tried, the detectives, to split me open like an apple to see my very heart in its perceived blackness, worm-infested. They tried to carve me up like a meat joint, sliver by sliver, stripping me down to a single bare bone, each question designed to take a little bit away from me to them to fill their plate. Why did you do it? What happened that evening? Were you having an affair? Was she having an affair? Was she going to leave you? Were you in trouble? What did she say to you that evening to make you react? Had she found out something about you that she didn't like? Gambling? Drug habit? Embezzlement? Double life? Did she threaten to expose you?

Why did you do it?

Why? Why? Why?

I think even if I said "I don't know" there would be some degree of satisfaction because it would hint at some madness, some unknown human quality, something other that would pigeonhole me and make me quantifiable.

I could tell you. It's true. I know why I did it.

But I will never tell. I am like Iago. There is a power in the mystery, isn't there? There is a power for me in keeping it from you, my audience. Just like Iago. He reigns supreme in Shakespeare's villains for the fact that he shares and yet, he shares nothing. Asides reveal - what? You see his machinations, his need for vengeance, and he hints at his ire but you do not know, not for certain, what motivates him to act.

And I will be the same.

You do not need to know my motive. I do not need to share. The ugliness of the act will speak for itself and that will have to satisfy you, I am afraid.

I fantasise about a TV programme being made about me in the future where I am discussed and clips are shown of me, and my former life: photos are displayed on the screen of Sarah and I on holiday in Magaluf, a beautiful view as a backdrop; or our wedding photo, holding champagne flutes; or perhaps, in more recent years, at our 25th wedding anniversary party, surrounded by mutual friends, people who thought they knew us; and these people will be interviewed in their lounges and will comment: "It was such a shock!" and "He was always so calm and relaxed and they always seemed so solid as a couple" and "It was such a horrible crime! Poor Sarah!"

Poor Sarah indeed.

And then the detectives will be interviewed and will talk about how they could not get me to talk and how this deeply affected them, that I could be so cruel as to not give closure, when we all know that it's because they don't want to be plagued by an itchy label. Ha!

The programme will end with something like this on the screen in the end credits:

"To this day, it is not known as to why John Smith killed his wife with a poker on 13th July 2004."

And John Smith will end his life as a man not easily assessed, a man not boxed in by what is known of him.

A man alone and mysterious to all. A man like Iago.

The solution to the whodunit.

But not the why.