Fool's Journey

By The Webmaster

Peter would be sorry he made that train journey. Rising crime in the UK. The papers were full of it, day in, day out. Peter was sick of reading about these villainous thugs and their abhorrent crimes. He shook his head disgustedly after reading yet another case of some poor old lady who had been badly beaten up in her home for mere pennies. He tossed the newspaper aside, having had his fill of such depressing headlines for another day.

It was a bright, sunny afternoon, a total contrast to the gloom and doom filling the news. Peter relaxed back in his seat, and looked through the window of the speeding train as it travelled through an area of lush green fields and grazing cattle. He sighed as he assimilated the scene: such peace, such tranquillity. Peter had often thought about moving to the country, away from the grim urban jungle that was his hometown, away from all the vandals and muggers and other idiots of that ilk. Mind you, the crime rate in the country was becoming so bad now that the vermin were even starting to infest the rural areas. A few days ago, Peter had read about two thugs who had broken into a farmer's house and had threatened him with a sawn-off shotgun before making off with his life's savings. God, was there no escaping these scumbags? Pushing such gloomy thoughts from his mind, Peter turned his thoughts towards the afternoon that lay ahead of him.

This particular afternoon promised to be a rather exciting one, for he had arranged to meet a very attractive girl whom he had met through the Internet. Her name was Sally. She was blonde - Peter adored blondes - around 28, two years younger than Peter, and had a body to die for.

For the umpteenth time that day, Peter fished out the photo that she had sent him as an email attachment, and which he had printed out from his computer. He found himself inwardly drooling again as he gazed fondly at his gorgeous pen-pal. She was depicted standing in a field, wearing a crisp-white blouse, tight black mini-skirt, and a pair of knee-high black boots. Cor, this girl was an absolute stunner! After all those disappointing plain Janes and fatties and skinnies and - worst of all - those that resembled Frankenstein's daughter, he had finally come across one that was really worth meeting. Peter smiled complacently as he slipped the photo back in his jacket pocket. Looks like you have really struck gold this time, son, he congratulated himself. Another hour, and he would be there. He couldn't wait.

Around the same time that Peter Matthews thought that he had struck gold, somebody else was musing on the fact that they too had struck something.

However, on this occasion, the word "struck" held a darker meaning than the one of striking gold in which Peter was wallowing. For this person - a girl - had struck not gold, but a head. The head of her live-in lover. She had struck him with a large iron poker. And struck him not once, not twice, but many, many times. In a fit of mindless rage, she had bludgeoned him to death. Now, as she stood there, utterly speechless with shock, totally frozen and wide-eyed with panic at the horrific act she had just committed, she could scarcely assimilate the stark reality of the situation. It was like a nightmare, a horrible dream which, try as she might, she just could not wake up from. She was a murderer. A cold-blooded, crazed murderer.

Standing there, in the deathly silence of the living room of the secluded cottage, her white blouse spattered with viscous blood, her heart thudding madly, she felt as if she were going to pass out, the prospect of going to prison for her heinous crime looming up perturbingly in her mind. Oh dear God, why had she allowed herself to snap like that? Why had she lost all self-control? Why had she screamed at him like a maniac, picked up that poker and . . . bashed his brains in? But he'd pushed her too far, hadn't he? Yes, he really had. He'd been a right sod to her. Two-timing her with that slag from the video shop. No wonder he had been frequenting the place for the last three months, his formerly once-a-week film rental trips soon escalating to nearly every night the minute he'd clapped eyes on that new female assistant with the low-cut tops. Her suspicions of these sneaky little liaisons aroused and, finally, confirmed, she had confronted him this morning, and it had all come to a head. And a very bloodied, bashed-in head at that. The way he had so callously laughed in her face had been the main trigger that made her snap.

In a strange kind of way, it had all happened so fast: one minute he was sitting there sniggering at her, the next he was writhing in agony on the floor, trying vainly to ward off the vicious blows she was raining down on his skull, like a woman possessed. Then it was all over. He lay dead on the floor in a pool of blood, its coppery odour filling the room, assailing her nostrils. The grisly culmination of a typical crime of passion. Blood-soaked poker having slipped from her trembling hand onto the floor, she continued to stand stock still, back against the wall. When she recovered her senses - if she recovered her senses - her main problem would be how to dispose of the body. She would also have to concoct a convincing enough story to throw the police off her scent if they came snooping. God, what was she going to do?

The minute the two louts boarded the train and plonked their scruffy forms on the seats opposite him, Peter sensed he could be in for some hassle. They stank of drink. They repeatedly swore. They threw provocative stares at Peter as they pathetically whispered and sniggered. Bang goes the rest of my hitherto peaceful journey! Peter cursed inwardly. He glanced at his watch: 1.30 p.m. Oh no, another half hour to go yet. Somehow, Peter had the unpalatable feeling that these two smelly clowns would be sitting opposite him for the remainder of his journey. "Bloody Four Eyes," one of the skin-heads blurted to his crony, with a typical yob's snigger. "Yeah," his mate replied, sharing the other's childish jeering at Peter. "Looks a right wimp, don't he?" The pair exploded in coarse laughter that cut through Peter's ears like a whiplash. Idiots! He kept his face turned to the window, trying to ignore their obnoxious taunting.

Finally, after what had seemed like an eternity, Peter's train pulled into the station outside which he'd arranged to meet the girl. Sighing relievedly, he rose from his seat, glad to leave the two inebriated louts behind, and stepped out onto the sunlit platform. But Peter hadn't really eluded the yobs, for they too were disembarking from the train and, amid the other travellers, were walking a few yards behind.

She was already there waiting for him as he emerged from the station. The instant she saw him, she walked over and introduced herself. "Hi. Peter?" He nodded. "I'm Sally."

His mouth dropped open. She looked nothing like the glamorous blonde in the photo. Was this some kind of joke? What was she playing at? Although he took her outstretched hand, there was no warmth of greeting in his shake. He just thought he'd been made a fool of , coming all the way out here only to find that his gorgeous Internet contact wasn't all that she had appeared to be. He'd heard about this sort of thing before. You had to be careful with Internet chat rooms.

"Er . . . I know this may come as a bit of a shock to you," the frumpy-looking woman said, "but - "

"A bit of a shock?" Peter spluttered. "A BIG shock, more like!" He shook his head in disbelief. "Why did you fool me like that, pretending to be somebody you weren't? I have come a long way, you know."

The woman lowered her eyes penitently. "I realise that, but it was the only way I could get you to meet me. I'm sorry."

Peter sighed wearily. What a wasted journey. This woman - whoever the hell she was - must be really desperate for a man to resort to such deception. Granted, she wasn't as bad as Frankenstein's daughter, but she was certainly no oil painting either. He fixed her with a vexed glare.

"That blonde in the photo," he demanded. "Do you mind telling me who she is?"

The dowdy, plumpish woman just shrugged. "Oh, she's just a friend. She doesn't know I scanned her photo into my computer to send to you." Then a wry smile curved her thick lips. "She's very pretty, isn't she?" Undoubtedly. But Peter was in no mood to wallow in wistful dreams that had just been so cruelly shattered. Huh, he thought it was all too good to be true! "Anyway, it's a good job you didn't meet my friend today," the woman went on.

"Oh? Why do you say that?"

"Well, let's put it this way. She's not exactly herself today. Been having problems with her live-in lover. He's been two-timing her. She told me she's going to confront him. She's in a real foul mood."

Peter didn't like the way this devious little woman was twitching the corners of her mouth. It was as if she were trying to suppress some kind of warped amusement at her friend's troubled love life. "Look, I don't think we should bother with all this," Peter said. "I'll jump the next train home. Consider our online friendship now closed." He would be glad to see the back of this strange little woman.

"Oh but Peter - "

"No, sorry," Peter interrupted firmly, raising a hand to cut her short. "It's best we call it a day. Goodbye."

He turned and retraced his steps towards the station. All this was enough to put him off Internet chat rooms for life.

Peter's disgruntled expression went from bad to worse as, entering the station, he brushed past the two yobs.

"Going so soon, Four Eyes?" the stockier of the two jeered. Coarse laughter again from the pair.

Peter just ignored them, wishing that Charles Bronson would suddenly appear with his Death Wish gun.

Somewhere, half a mile away, in a secluded cottage, a blood-spattered blonde, her conscience pricking her, was sitting down at her slaughtered lover's computer. Clicking on the NEW MESSAGE field, she typed in the email address of her friend Sally, and then the message: SALLY, CAN YOU COME AROUND URGENTLY? I'VE JUST HAD MURDER WITH MY BOYFRIEND?