Hidden in plain sight – part 3

Read part one 

Read part two 

Pacing up and down my flat didn’t help nor did the opening and closing of the empty refrigerator.  The lone letter on the doormat from the council threatening eviction for non-payment of rent only made me more manic.  The neighbour’s dog’s barking had intensified, and I swear there were people on the corridor walking back and forth talking in tongues – you know like they do in church?  My blood temperature was approaching critical levels.  In the past, I had made several complaints to the council about the damn dog – it was unfair to keep pets in flats.  it was unfair to other tenants too.  I was also pretty sure the animal never left the flat.  He was probably going mad. 

As I absentmindedly flicked through the TV channels, my phone rang.  I frantically searched for it around me like an idiot, then remembered where I had flung it. I nearly broke my leg on a damn rug that was out of place as I beelined for the bedroom before the caller, who I was sure was Mark, gave up.  I threw the damn rug out of the window.

The call was from a local number:  I never answer such calls because of debt collectors and such, but I figured my man was in some sort of trouble and must be calling from his office landline.  I answered, then this irritating bitch from BritishGas started asking me to confirm my name and address.  I told her to fuck off and I hung up.  By this time, my knees were trembling with rage more than anything else.  I decided to visit Mark at his house.  I reasoned he was probably dying in bed and couldn’t get help, and desperately needed me.

When I got there, I couldn’t bring myself to ring the buzzer.  I waited patiently for other people who lived in the building to open the main building’s door.  I was there for hours.  I was cold but at least my rage had subsided.  I was about to give up waiting when an idea struck – I could buzz anyone and pretend to be pizza delivery for the next door whose buzzer was not working. That worked because the first buzzer I pressed didn’t even ask for an explanation, the doors just slid open. 

I entered the foyer and pressed for the lift. Mark lived in one of these new age buildings, not a 50-year-old leaning tower of Southwark council like where I lived. The lift in my block was always either broken down or stunk of urine and weed: his smelt like the candle section in Ikea.  The lift came to the ground floor and a lovey-dovey Indian couple emerged holding hands.  I smiled at them.  They ignored me.  I rolled my eyes and kissed my teeth as I punched in floor 10.  I did not need extra aggro.

When I got to the tenth floor, I stood there for several minutes before walking to Mark’s door.  Then I went to his door and pressed my ear against it.  I heard shuffling from inside: I knocked 3 times and stepped back.  I waited in anticipation for him to let me in.  The door swung open and this painfully thin blonde woman stood there. She was dressed in an oversized man’s shirt that wasn’t buttoned up properly.  She wore nothing else but tiny panties.  I was taken aback but didn’t want to assume things – she could have been the maid, a prostitute or anything. 

“Can I help you?” she’d asked with an obviously fake posh accent. 

“Is Mark home?”  I was as polite as it was humanly possible, although bile was rising.

“No.  But you can leave him a message.”

“I don’t like leaving messages with strangers.” I said and faked-smiled with all the Britishness I had acquired in the twenty years I’d been living in the UK.

“It’s OK, I’m his fiancé!”

I don’t remember much after that.  However, I do remember Mark lunging at me and threatening to decapitate me, but the police held him back.  I couldn’t understand why he was so mad.  I really don’t know what happened or how much of it is true, so everything I tell you from this point forward is what my arsehat of a lawyer told me.

Mark’s next-door neighbour had called the police after hearing raised voices that turned into screams.  The police had to break down the door because it was locked from inside.  When they finally got in, I was cleaning knives in the sink.  There was some blood on my dress and the ceiling, apparently, I had moped the ‘scene of the crime’ in the hallway.  Allegedly as my lawyer likes to say, I, apparently, strangled the blonde until she was unconscious, then [laugh out loud] I took a knife to her jugular and severed it.  Then, apparently, I stabbed her on the face, neck and chest repeatedly – not once, not twice but 98 fucking times.  I then, apparently, put her in the bathtub and tried to dismember her.  Can you believe that shit?  Some nutter, a madhouse doctor or something tells me that I’m suffering from some dissociative disorder….. “the legacy of a bad childhood” ….. honestly the things I hear……

All I know is that I went to Mark’s flat and found it in such a dirty state I decided to clean it.  There was no woman there.  The key was inside a potted plant in the hallway – you see he told me he couldn’t get a copy of the key for me without authorisation from his landlord. I had let myself in as I did on several occasions before, and he never complained.  The lawyer says Mark and the dead bitch were engaged to be married which can’t be true because we were dating, he was MY MAN.  The stupid next-door neighbour told police that she’d seen me many times let myself in and she assumed I was the cleaner.  Why? Because I am black?  There are lots of mad people running around out there, you know.

Janice:  A lot of the evidence shows you were not dating and that you were stalking him: that Mark never even set foot in your church or any church for that matter…..

“What the fuck are you talking about?  Gal, you must be as crazy as they are.  We were dating, ok?  He even let me sleep in his flat once when he was out of the country. I took him to the airport… no…. wait… wait a minute.  Many details have slipped my mind because of the situation I am in now, and the nonsense being fed to me, but rest assured WE WERE DATING AND IN LOVE!  And I didnot kill that woman out of jealousy or whatever they are calling it.  It’s a conspiracy engineered by my evil stepmother, the lady of perpetual stuck-upness. That cow had wanted me committed ever since she laid eyes on my father.

That evil bitch is now making stupid accusations in court and telling absurd lies about how I tried to kill my father by poisoning his favourite drink, which my mum accidentally drank and died.  She’s telling more lies about how I threw a dog from a 14th-floor window: she wants the British public to hate me of course, I mean these people have more sympathy for bank robbers than dog killers.  I’ve never even owned a dog!  She’s telling worse lies about how I stabbed her in the thigh when everyone knows she did that to herself, so my dad could marry her. She had the audacity to say I was fired from my job when WE all know I quit because the boss was sexually harassing me.  Now I’m stuck in this hell hole and everyone thinks I am a deranged serial killer. All I did was fall in love with a man.

[Deep breathe]…. Sorry for shouting.  I didn’t realise my voice was adding several decibels at every outrageous lie.  As Nayyirah Waheed once said, all the women in me are tired – I just want Mark to hold me in his arms once again.

I hope this documentary wasn’t a complete waste of my time, that my side of the story will get out there and put an end to this nonsense, because if they put in me some lesbian infested jail……

Please keep voting and sharing ….. deadline approaching….

1 Comment

  1. Francis

    This final part is so real and moved me to the edge. Great story


Your comments are valid