In the dark

Out of bed and shivering at two-thirty this afternoon: I’ve got another essay to write for Mr. Carwardine and Frankenstein and The Ancient Mariner to read too.

There was a letter waiting for me from Dad. He spent half-a-dozen pages telling me of Mum’s Sunday morning discovery in the outhouse of the bundle of blood-stained clothing Lee wore for his trussed-up corpse imitation back in September. This turned Mum quite ashen-faced and they’ve been on “tenterhooks” ever since, waiting for a fateful knock on the door—the stabbing at Harvey's last winter, plus the bundle of bloodied rags, seemed too much of a coincidence for Dad: "Your uncommunicative attitude, during parts of the summer, can be possibly seen with a damning clarity now, if I’m right. If I’m wrong, then the peculiarity of the situation becomes even more sinister . . ."

As I reread the letter, I couldn’t quite believe the implications of what Dad was saying—it gives me an odd feeling to think this—but on reflection too it’s quite amusing, knowing of the real story behind those ripped and bloody trousers and shirt. Dad said he’d leave the next move to me in case a hasty action “brings down a hornet’s nest about our ears; and by ‘our,’ I mean you and I and your Mum and Rob and Andrew . . .”

He obviously expects some kind of confession from me. I rang them and told them the truth. Dad sounded grim and I can’t help thinking he didn’t quite believe my garbled explanation, so next time I write I’ll enclose some of Lee’s photos as proof.

A cheque for £70 was in the envelope too, which will relieve my financial crisis a little. ‘Crisis’ is the only word to use; I got a note from Midland Bank today saying “we would not expect to see any increase to your overdraft” (of £178.10)—actually nearer £220 as I write this. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I can’t complain as it is purely self-inflicted

It’s dusk once more – daylight goes so quickly – I’m sick of the dark.

We’ve got to get out of here.