By Brian Robinson.
My accountant died just recently. Actually, he didn’t just die: he was murdered. Fourteen stab wounds in a vicious and frenzied attack.
He must have made a miscalculation somewhere along the line?
I’ve always been fascinated by numbers. They have a deeper meaning for me. Two plus two hardly ever makes four. Bur why fourteen times? Why not eighteen or ten times? Could that be the measure of the rage? Or, was each thrust of the blade payment for each shit bit of advice?
He lived in a high rise block of flats in Westcliffe-On-Sea. I’ve been there many times. Not luxurious apartments, but posh enough never the less. A different story on the inside though. A worn three piece suite; a few foxed and faded certificates; several pieces of old teak furniture; and a line of diminishing wooden elephants parading across an ancient sideboard. Not much to show for a life?
He had money though. Make no mistake about that. But he was crafty. It would have been stashed away in shares or overseas bonds. It wouldn’t be stitched into his mattress.
I’ve never had money, not to speak of anyway. It wasn’t for the want of trying though. I’ve had a stab at several businesses, but never had the luck. There’s no point in brooding now.
Still, I mustn’t linger. I’ve got a dart match tonight. I have to get cleaned up and find a place to stash this bloody knife.
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