If only I'd listened to my mother I wouldn't be in this mess. Staring down at my feet I can see that the blood is beginning to congeal, if I don't start cleaning up now it won't be so easy. But there is such a lot of it. Nothing prepared me for the amount there would be in spite of the fact that I practically live in my crime novels. That is the novels I write not the ones I read you understand. I write them partly because I got fed up with knowing who did it in the first few pages of those I read but mostly because of what happened when I was ten. I wanted to create something where no one would guess until the last few pages. A bit like being secretly stalked only to find out that someone intends to kill you when it's too late to do anything about it. I throw in loads of red herrings and have so many twists and turns in my plots that sometimes even I don't know who the killer is until I realise it can only be one person. I wonder if that is how this will turn out; I hope nobody will ever know it was me. If I was Martin Henshaw, my latest hero, then I'd have this all neatly wrapped up by now.
But back to my mother who I suppose was the only person who knew my weaknesses thus being the only one to tell me where I was going wrong. I should have listened but I was too clever wasn't I. I thought I was being so careful and yet here I am with a body at my feet and no idea of what to do next. It all started with that damn Amy Ferguson and her insistence that I needed some love in my life. Her and those orchestrated dinners for eight, with a blind date thrown in for me. I told her I wasn't interested, that I was perfectly capable of sorting out my own sex life but she said I obviously wasn't or I wouldn't be here at thirty five, still single and no romance in sight. I managed to side step the first three attempts which wasn't too difficult in view of her choice on those occasions. But then Charlie came along and well, I had to admit it was different. I was attracted, who wouldn't be. Tall, dark and slim with that 'I dare you' smile. I tried to play it down but Charlie was keen, I could tell that and I suppose I didn't put up too much of a fight. Amy was so smug and self satisfied when she found out that Charlie and I were an item that I experienced an anger rise in me that I'd never known existed. I knew exactly how the characters in my books felt and the realisation that it was part of me took me by surprise. I'd always assumed that they were a figment of my imagination in spite of the fact that it was said that all writers have something of themselves in their books. 'You should channel your energies into your writing,' was my mother's view. 'No point wasting a talent like yours on a cheap sordid romance. That Charlie will do you no good anyone with an ounce of common sense will tell you that.' I'd taken that as jealousy as anyone would who knew my mother's personal circumstances. Alone for the best part of twenty five years, since my father's ignominious retreat from the marriage into the arms of the local slut. That's when I'd begun to write; my sense of loss had gone into my stories which are all about betrayal and vengeance. My victims always deserve their fate as I'm sure my father did and the killer always gets away. Perhaps that's why they're bestsellers instead of the usual novels with moral endings and the bad guy getting caught; mine never do. But I think lots of people have a sneaking desire to see the murderer escape, that's if they're being truthful. Well, I just fulfil that fantasy. My mother was right though as I said before, she knew that I wouldn't be able to contend with two rivals and something about the passion of being with Charlie affected my writing. I couldn't focus, it blurred my vision and somehow the plots began to unravel. I haven't had anything published for two years. My agent is tearing her hair out and now the constant nagging has driven me to this. I have finally decided that my stories are really all that matter, my characters are my life and nothing must distract me from that. So first my father, who really started it all, had to go, writhing and screaming as he fell from the top of that multi storey car park. Then, my mother with her incessant 'I told you so,' her eyes pleading with me to stop as the knife plunged in again and again. She鈥檚 quiet now as I stare down at her white face and soon Charlie will arrive and then it will be her turn. I'll have no trouble finishing my current book after that, but first I must sit down and write the ending to this story. At the moment I can't see a way out but once my mind is clearer it will all come together. I mustn't be caught, I can't let my readers dow | 
