I was sitting in my cell and staring at the floor when everything became real. My mind had been swimming in a fog, the world had glided passed me and I had not been a part of it, but suddenly that haze was clearing and I was remembering and there was little I could do to shield myself from the horror those memories would bring. I must have sat staring at nothing for hours until my mind finally stirred awake. I looked at the walls. I noticed there were four walls which were dull grey in colour. (I killed Linda?) There were count the days away tally marks and initials carved into the solid stone and somewhere in my subconscious I figured I’d probably add my own initials and countdown marks; it was something to do, something to prove I existed. The floor was black and dirty. (I killed Linda!) The bed had grey washed out sheets and there was a disgusting yellowing toilet with faeces smeared down its sides in the left corner of the room. I look at the floor again. I became aware of the sour reek emanating from the dirtied toilet and retched. I closed my eyes. Breathe in, breath out, breath in, this isn’t real, this isn’t happening, breath in, breath out. Please god, I thought, help me, oh god, oh shit I killed Linda! I killed Linda!

As I scanned the room for a second time I noticed there was a newspaper by the toilet. A know-it-all voice in my head murmured “that’s your toilet paper for the next forty years” and, whilst I did not relish the prospect of wiping my ass on hard inky paper for the remainder of my life, I was immensely glad there was something to do in my cell. Something to read. As I reached for the paper I saw it was a Daily Express, my paper of choice, a paper I had read for almost six years now. The familiarity of it could have been comforting but it was not. Instead this seemingly harmless lump of dead tree gleefully reminded me that nothing would ever be the same again. I could not read the news as I had before; with an “oh how sad”, and “isn’t that awful” mind-set. I had killed someone. Someone I loved. I was destined to feel empathy for the psycho’s whose shoes I had worn; to see myself in every murder story. I would read about these brutal strangers, and the strangers they had killed, and feel regret. I would not be allowed to forget what I did. Of course, I did not have to look at the paper. I did not have to torture myself. I could try to ignore it. But then there was the harrowing thought of me not having anything to do at all for forty years....... and the paper was bound to have some nice articles, it wouldn’t all be bad. There was bound to be trivial stories about animals which had saved the day, or proof of aliens, or the finding of new types of frogs or whatever. There would be jokes and adverts, weather forecasts and crossword puzzles; I didn’t have a pen but that didn’t matter, I could work them out in my head.

As I started to read the first page I realized I was rocking back and forth and forced myself to stop. My heart skipped a beat as I saw my own name under the heading Justice is served: killer Keating gets life imprisonment. My stomach lurched violently as I read on: Daily Express is pleased to reveal that Linda Carr’s murderer Trevor Keating has received the sentence of life imprisonment for his savage and horrific act. It is alleged that Keating’s family are appealing for his sentence to be reduced but we strongly doubt they will be successful. I read on in silent horror as the article described (in morbid detail) the gruesome way in which I had killed and disposed of my girlfriend, and as it continued to insist that my family’s appeals would be entirely futile. The piece ended with Daily Express’s much used slogan “The Daily Express Knows Best”. There was no use denying it anymore, I thought, this really is happening. That slogan pierced into my heart like a nail; “it really happened and you’re here for good” it seemed to jeer; “we KNOW there’s no hope for you now”.

And I remembered it all; how I’d walked into our bedroom and she’d been there with him, on him, all bastard over him. Oh yes, I’d caught my darling Linda shagging Mr fucking perfect boss, drives a porch and is more fucking understanding than me (wanker!), and something in me broke; some part of me snapped and wham-bam- thank-you-mam I went stir fucking crazy and snapped her neck (YOU FUCKING BITCH!) and kicked Mr fucking perfect in the balls until his eyes bled (HA!). My rage passed as suddenly as it had come (OH CRAP!) & I found myself disbelievingly gawping down at the two dead bodies of my woman and her affair. I must have gone into deep shock because I can’t remember dragging his body into our garden pond. When the Police found him he was floating grotesquely on the surface of the water like a dead goldfish. I threw Linda into my wheelie bin; I don’t remember doing this either.

Three whole days passed before they found the body of my heart breaking, soul stealing, fiancé rotting away with the rest of my trash; it would probably have been a lot longer if the stupid bitch hadn’t been on a diet for the last six months of her life. It only took one strongish gust of wind and my wheelie-bin toppled over and stained the pavement with a sludgy mix of blood, corpse, mouldy tea bags, last night’s beef stew (which I had dazedly slopped onto her face), several empty beer cans, a half-eaten custard donut, and three blurred Daily Express newspapers with all the crossword sections completed, cut out and sent off to hopefully win a prize.

Soon afterwards a crowd had gathered outside my house all silently gawping at Linda’s mangled putrid corpse as she gawped back at them with her wide broken jaw and dead fish eyed stare. I peered out from behind my curtains and watched this strangely silent moment. It was completely surreal. Everyone was still and quiet and gawping in a way which was sickeningly both comical and repulsive. The stillness had seemed eternal; then, like a film which had switched from pause to play, everything had swung into life again. A frenzy of sirens, flashing blue lights, children crying and screaming, my neighbours gibbering, half excited, half scared shitless. I wasn’t scared or nervous as I watched the chaos from my window, although I knew I should have been; I did not feel regret. I didn’t really feel anything then. Nothing was real.

Now it WAS real. Too fucking real. The cell walls encasing me told me so. The paper I was reading told me so. My own memory told me so. I bit down on my lip. I was rocking again. Oh God. Oh shit, please God, please help me, please God, give me a sign it will be ok; let me know you don’t hate me God. I’m sorry God. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so....There was a loud knock at my cell door and a gruff male voice bellowed “Keating?”

“Yes....th..that’s me” I stammered, heart in my mouth. It’s a sign, my mind screamed. God, oh thank you God, you do love me! The sound of keys jangling, then a flap opened in the door and a brown-paper-wrapped package emerged and fell to the floor with a soft thud. The keys jangled again, the flap closed. The sound of retreating footsteps. I inched towards the package and picked it up. I picked slowly at the edges being careful not to damage the paper too much; this was a divine God send and I was going to handle it with care. I reached inside and felt a small note and a plastic object. Like a polite child who reads their birthday cards before opening their presents I read the note in nervous anticipation.

Dear Mr Keating

Congratulations you sick bastard! Your crossword entry has won you one of Daily Express’s six fabulous prizes.

With a sickly sinking feeling I reached inside the package and discovered my prize; it was reward number six, the booby prize if you will: a white plastic pen with the slogan “Daily Express Knows Best” scrawled on both sides. Oh, I thought. Oh shit! God fucking hates me.