Somebody Got Murdered

Somebody got murdered down here five years ago. I sometimes wonder if I'm the only person who remembers it having happened. Everyone else seemed keen enough to forget it once the initial shock had been and gone, and it became apparent that there wasn't much mystery surrounding the death. The minute the crime scene tape was gone, folks were using the underpass again. I've rarely heard the death mentioned since then.

It wasn't a rich heiress poisoned during the final course of a meal, or a dashing young man shot by a jealous rival, or a mysterious doctor whose friends all have colour-themed names and access to any number of lethal household implements. Just some poor bloke who got stranded here while trying to make a connection between National Express buses, and wandered off the beaten path. There was no need to call in a foreign detective to assemble the suspects in a room, or consult a nosy crime writer who could use her instincts to nail the killer. The young men who'd done it were caught on CCTV in a garage about half an hour after the murder, trying to spend the money they'd nicked off their victim. They still had blood on their trainers.

For a long time afterwards, I wouldn't come down here. I don't know why; it's no more dangerous than anywhere else, so I can't just pin it on rational concern for my own safety. In the back of my mind, I just feel bothered on a very instinctive level by the fact that someone lost their life down here at someone else's hands, for little or no reason. There's no writer in the world who can pretty that up, or make it acceptable.

But perhaps, at least, I'm not the only one who remembers what happened here. The LEARN LOVE graffiti is fresh, painted in the last forty-eight hours. It's not unique, because I've seen it elsewhere around town recently. But it's still uncanny to me that it's appeared in this particular spot.

I hope it's there for a reason.