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.They moved heaven and earth – mostly earth – to cover it up, with God knows what levels of collusion and influence being brought to bear.It didn’t happen.Not so much as an internet rumour.Even the murder of the farmer got the screens thrown up around it: officially attributed to some travelling indigent.By way of consolation, the experience served me well for the future, teaching me that the events had to be immediately accessible to the public, after which there could be no way of the authorities getting the toothpaste back into the tube.At the time, though, it was more than a disappointment at my wasted effort: it was a humiliation, because of what it taught me about my own predicament.I had the videotape, of course, but there was the rub: I was scared to release it.I reckoned I could dub over my voice and edit out any glimpses of myself from the footage, but I didn’t know enough about the forensics of these things to be confident I wasn’t giving anything away.My humiliation lay in that I had too much to lose by drawing so much attention to myself, and it wasn’t just the authorities that I had to worry about bringing down upon me.No matter how smart or careful I thought I could be, the second I announced myself, I was starting a countdown to my own death.That inescapable risk-benefit equation: if I didn’t identify myself as the author of the deed, it was useless by way of altering my son’s legacy; but to identify myself as the author of the deed was suicide.I had to make do with trips to Scotland to see my son as close up as I dared.The double disguises of being presumed dead and of no longer quite resembling the deceased anyway served me well.I did, however, unavoidably spend a great deal of time in hotel rooms, with little to pass the time but British television.I got very, very close to my boy on occasion, though never enough to exchange words, to look into his eyes while we spoke to each other.Over time, the frequency of my trips increased, as did my frustration at what I couldn’t do for him, and my awareness of what I must.The idea didn’t go away: the sense of untapped power and possibilities grew and grew.Only the price never changed.Physicists ought to look into the mass-gravity relationship as it is uniquely warped by dead weight.No matter how skinny and waif-like the body, it always seems to feel 50 per cent heavier once it’s lifeless.This girl is five-foot nothing and, I’d estimate, seven stone soaking wet, yet she still has me worked up into a sweat as I get her ready for transport.Could be my condition, right enough – mustn’t forget that.Even just sitting her up while I change her t-shirt takes some haulage.I am grateful, as ever, that once I get the body inside the golfing flight-bag, it will be a lot more easily manoeuvrable.Who invented these things? I ought to look him up and send him some champers or whisky by way of gratitude.I don’t know how they rate for taking your clubs abroad, but for moving bodies around – in broad daylight, if need be – they are second to none.Even the golf bag itself, once you remove the internal dividers, makes an ideal means of keeping the stiff – or more pertinently, I should say, the flopper – in place and the shape disguised.You zip the canvas flight-bag around the whole affair and then you can just wheel it about on the rollers.Her old t-shirt is a bit whiffy, but that is understandable after what she’s been through.We’ll never be in a hurry to add scent to sound and vision on our tellies or the internet.I begin by trying to haul it over her head, then give up and cut it with a knife.Pitiful to think there had been paparazzi stalking her in vain for weeks, tabloid picture editors on tenterhooks for the thus far unattainable prize of a topless shot, and internet Photoshop geeks doing digitally manipulated zoom-ins of wait-was-that-a-nipple? frame captures from her Bedroom Popstars dance routines.and all because of these two skinny tits.I pull the new t-shirt over her head and tug her arms through the sleeves, then stand back and take a picture, in case it gets suppressed or its significance missed.She is slumped in the shot, her head lolled to one side and her hair hanging partly over her face, straggling ends reaching on to the slogan.Has a certain zombie-chic about it.I wheel her out to the van and check my watch [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.They moved heaven and earth – mostly earth – to cover it up, with God knows what levels of collusion and influence being brought to bear.It didn’t happen.Not so much as an internet rumour.Even the murder of the farmer got the screens thrown up around it: officially attributed to some travelling indigent.By way of consolation, the experience served me well for the future, teaching me that the events had to be immediately accessible to the public, after which there could be no way of the authorities getting the toothpaste back into the tube.At the time, though, it was more than a disappointment at my wasted effort: it was a humiliation, because of what it taught me about my own predicament.I had the videotape, of course, but there was the rub: I was scared to release it.I reckoned I could dub over my voice and edit out any glimpses of myself from the footage, but I didn’t know enough about the forensics of these things to be confident I wasn’t giving anything away.My humiliation lay in that I had too much to lose by drawing so much attention to myself, and it wasn’t just the authorities that I had to worry about bringing down upon me.No matter how smart or careful I thought I could be, the second I announced myself, I was starting a countdown to my own death.That inescapable risk-benefit equation: if I didn’t identify myself as the author of the deed, it was useless by way of altering my son’s legacy; but to identify myself as the author of the deed was suicide.I had to make do with trips to Scotland to see my son as close up as I dared.The double disguises of being presumed dead and of no longer quite resembling the deceased anyway served me well.I did, however, unavoidably spend a great deal of time in hotel rooms, with little to pass the time but British television.I got very, very close to my boy on occasion, though never enough to exchange words, to look into his eyes while we spoke to each other.Over time, the frequency of my trips increased, as did my frustration at what I couldn’t do for him, and my awareness of what I must.The idea didn’t go away: the sense of untapped power and possibilities grew and grew.Only the price never changed.Physicists ought to look into the mass-gravity relationship as it is uniquely warped by dead weight.No matter how skinny and waif-like the body, it always seems to feel 50 per cent heavier once it’s lifeless.This girl is five-foot nothing and, I’d estimate, seven stone soaking wet, yet she still has me worked up into a sweat as I get her ready for transport.Could be my condition, right enough – mustn’t forget that.Even just sitting her up while I change her t-shirt takes some haulage.I am grateful, as ever, that once I get the body inside the golfing flight-bag, it will be a lot more easily manoeuvrable.Who invented these things? I ought to look him up and send him some champers or whisky by way of gratitude.I don’t know how they rate for taking your clubs abroad, but for moving bodies around – in broad daylight, if need be – they are second to none.Even the golf bag itself, once you remove the internal dividers, makes an ideal means of keeping the stiff – or more pertinently, I should say, the flopper – in place and the shape disguised.You zip the canvas flight-bag around the whole affair and then you can just wheel it about on the rollers.Her old t-shirt is a bit whiffy, but that is understandable after what she’s been through.We’ll never be in a hurry to add scent to sound and vision on our tellies or the internet.I begin by trying to haul it over her head, then give up and cut it with a knife.Pitiful to think there had been paparazzi stalking her in vain for weeks, tabloid picture editors on tenterhooks for the thus far unattainable prize of a topless shot, and internet Photoshop geeks doing digitally manipulated zoom-ins of wait-was-that-a-nipple? frame captures from her Bedroom Popstars dance routines.and all because of these two skinny tits.I pull the new t-shirt over her head and tug her arms through the sleeves, then stand back and take a picture, in case it gets suppressed or its significance missed.She is slumped in the shot, her head lolled to one side and her hair hanging partly over her face, straggling ends reaching on to the slogan.Has a certain zombie-chic about it.I wheel her out to the van and check my watch [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]