‘Friends’ by Stella Turner

I buried that nice young policeman by the lilac tree. Burnt his pocket book and scattered the ashes over his grave. It was a nice spot, sheltered from the east winds. The cats, Apollo and Cleo, took to sleeping there and some days I’d drag the sun lounger from the top of the garden to keep them all company.

His skill of detection was exceptional. I could see it in his eyes as he asked his gentle probing questions. The photo in his wallet was of his mother, unusual for these days. Most young lads have a picture of a shameless hussy exposing herself or a picture of a child or two born out of wedlock. I feel a twinge of guilt that one of the good guys had to die young.

They’d found her in the student accommodation, Mrs Priestly, the busy body. She told everyone she ran the University forgot to mention she supervised the cleaning staff!   She looked peaceful, pale and serene like my friend Dorothy had looked when she was found slumped over her re-cycling bin. Not many people could have looked that good amongst the old newspapers, milk cartons and odd bits of rotting food.

I knew I’d have to answer a few questions but I was good at amateur dramatics. My performance in Arsenic and Old Lace was reported in the local newspaper as worthy and the Vicar commented on it in the parish magazine as deadly good. Think he thought that was hilarious, silly old sod. Maybe when he’s tippling the communion wine he might swallow something more than he’s bargained for.

One day I might have to tell the truth and in my defence I’d say it’s difficult to keep friends. They drain you, they drag you down, they suck you dry. But in the meantime I’ll make friends with the girl next door. She plays her music too loud, she argues with her boyfriend and she’s far too pretty to grow old.