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    Rigby Taylor
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

Rough Justice - 26. Chapter 26

The headmaster’s house was set back from the road in a fenced off piece of the school grounds. Low hedges and a nearby street lamp meant that anyone at the door would be visible from the road, so he had to be quick. Fortunately, there was little traffic. A light went on in what he supposed must be the lounge. Robert crossed the road swiftly, glided up the path, and knocked firmly. The hall light was switched on and the door opened just wide enough for Mr Nikelseer to identify his visitor.

Spending the afternoon at home had not been a good idea. Writing letters had not stopped the headmaster brooding on the evils of the world, and he was furious that his evening should be disturbed by this personification of depravity. Before he could slam the door, Robert slithered through, kicked it shut and, filled with dread and sharp fears of what would happen if he failed, grovelled at his headmaster’s feet.

‘Sir! Sir! Have compassion! I’ve been in torment since you spoke those words to me this morning. I’ve prayed all day for guidance, and… and... I think the Lord has spoken to me!’ The final half-dozen words burst forth in a rush of confusion, embarrassment and hope. Mr Nikelseer stepped back to avoid contact with this disciple of the city of Sodom, for whom even the Lord God could find no mercy. Had he been able, he would have turned his supplicant into a pillar of salt on the spot, but not knowing the trick he did the next best thing. Making the sign of the cross with the index fingers of both hands, he shouted, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’

Hysterical laughter threatened to burst through Robert's self control. His mental state was as fragile as the headmaster’s. He raised stricken eyes to his persecutor, chillingly aware that his last cards were being played.

‘You have breached my sanctuary!’ Nikelseer hissed. ‘Leave instantly, or I will call the police!’

Fear of failure set Robert pleading anew until, angered beyond bearing, Mr Nikelseer backed towards his study. ‘You have been warned,’ he intoned from the doorway. ‘The law knows how to treat godless perverts!’

With appalling clarity Robert envisaged a future of public notoriety, ridicule, harassment and loneliness. He was going to lose Bart!

The flimsy filaments of hope, love and fear with which we weave our natures, stretched, spun themselves into a cord as cold and hard as life itself, and Robert bowed his head. He had offered the enemy a chance. The offer had been rejected. The old man had sealed his own fate.

The headmaster waited anxiously for a few seconds, then, deciding it was safe, turned and entered his study. Robert, eyes blank, face expressionless, leaped silently to his feet. Before Mr Nikelseer could reach the telephone, a sock filled with small lead sinkers thudded into his skull behind the ear. Robert caught the falling body and carried it back to the entrance, where he let it fall roughly to the floor. He took a new pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and put them on, before grasping the old man under the arms and dragging him into the study.

Leaving the body in the centre of the room, he removed from his pack a large plastic bag and three strips of rubber cut from a discarded inner tube. He dealt a second, firmer blow with the lead-filled sock, placed the plastic bag over the old man’s head and secured the opening round his neck with one of the rubber ties. With the others, he fastened the arms to the body and the legs together.

Turning to the desk, he grimaced with satisfaction. The computer was the same as his father’s, and equally old, although the printer was different. He switched on and unpacked. A glance over his shoulder showed spasmodic twitching of his victim’s head and a convulsive shuddering of the thorax, but little other movement. The plastic bag was already fogged and starting to cling to the face.

The computer wasn’t connected to either the Internet or a fax, so there was no password to worry about. He brought up the Letters file and was presented with more than a hundred titles, organised alphabetically with the date appended: ‘Aust. Prof. Assoc. 23.9.98’, through to ‘Yeller’s Motors, and the previous day’s date. Robert scanned random letters. All seemed to be personal and all were dated. A second date, not always the same, had been added at the bottom of each letter, presumably to indicate when the letter had been printed and posted.

He checked a letter with the prefix Ed Dept. and that day’s date. It described in detail what the headmaster had seen in Bart’s office that morning, demanded immediate expulsion for him, and termination of employment for Bart. Robert felt sick. There was no date at the end, so he took a chance that it hadn’t been actioned and deleted the text, replacing it with a prepared letter from his USB stick. He printed this, dated the computer copy at the bottom to indicate it had been printed, then signed the printed letter with a practised flourish. Taking care not to make any creases, he pressed the letter against the fingers of the still warm, but by now dead man on the floor behind him. He then placed it in the desk drawer on top of everything else as though intending to post it in the morning.

There were letters to the editors of newspapers on aspects of morality; memoranda about Bible class activities, and dozens of letters to A Osbairne about the church. The last letter in that file was a copy of the letter to the Education Department. This also had no date at the bottom, so Robert deleted it. There were no letters labelled Lance, but that omission was soon rectified. Robert had the seven dates he needed in front of him. It was a simple matter to choose existing letters, check they had actually been created on the date required, rename, delete the text, and replace it with another of the prepared letters from his memory stick. By the time he was finished he had seven letters labelled Lance, followed by the date they had ostensibly first been written, printed and sent.

One, dated eleven months earlier, commenced, ‘Dear Boy’, and congratulated Lance on his success with the Bible class. The next, dated during the second term of the present year, praised Lance’s playground attempts to physically dissuade boys who demonstrated “unnatural tendencies”.

The third, dated four days after Murray’s death, included these sentences: You have demonstrated remarkable leadership over this latest problem. I have offered up prayers for the lad’s eternal soul, but remain concerned for your safety. Rest assured that the two sinners of whom we spoke will not be permitted to judge you. Their own judgement-day is nigh.

Robert would have preferred to date it two days earlier, but there had been no suitable letter to replace. The fourth letter, dated two days following Bart’s near fall to oblivion, admitted to a certain sadness that a permanent solution to the problem had not been achieved, but commended the skill and planning involved.

The fifth lamented the loss of a perfectly good cricket shed, but ended philosophically with the cliché about God moving in mysterious ways, and was dated the last day of the previous school term.

The sixth, dated in the middle of the school holidays, suggested that attempts to achieve their mutual goal could not rely on mere chance. Such things as brakes failing were likely to create suspicion. There was a terse, badgering tone emerging, suggesting that Lance was failing in his duties.

While composing the letters, Robert had conjured up a picture of the headmaster; recalling conversations, turns of phrase, the letter written to his parents, and harangues from the stage at assembly. Imagining he was the headmaster, he had then simply written without thinking, letting the words tumble forth.

The note Robert had delivered to Lance earlier that afternoon was very simple, merely demanding that he visit the headmaster at eight-thirty p.m. exactly, neither earlier nor later, to discuss what were described vaguely as new and possibly dangerous developments. It had ended with an injunction to destroy the letter immediately by burning, and to speak to no one about it. Luckily, the headmaster had composed a complaining letter to his bank the previous evening, so this was deleted and replaced with the “original” of the letter given to Lance. It was very different, however, from the one dropped on his doormat. A smile of satisfaction flickered as Robert gazed up at a faded print of Christ Triumphant hanging above the desk. He adjusted a sentence, re-read the letter, and checked it carefully:

Dear Boy,

Something of the utmost importance has occurred! God spoke to me whilst I was conducting my morning devotions. I was kneeling before the image of Christ Triumphant, when loud music welled within my head and I heard the voice of God praising the work both you and I are doing. There was more music, and wondrous lights poured over my study, bathing everything in the aura of perfection. The voice spoke again, urging me to tell the world of our great deeds and noble self-sacrifice.

You must visit me tonight at eight o’clock precisely. Be neither early nor late. We will discuss together how best to inform the world proudly and at once of our fight against the devil in our midst. I am filled with joy and anticipation,

Yours in God’s Judgement,

 

Having minutely re-checked this final letter for errors, Robert inserted the correct date at the top, and typed that day’s date at the bottom to indicate it had been printed and delivered. After re-sorting the files into alphabetical order, saving everything to the hard-drive and emptying the ‘recycle bin’, he searched around on the desk, in the drawers and the cupboard underneath before he discovered a box containing a CD neatly labelled “Back up - Letters”. He inserted it, set it going, checked his list, and hoped he had thought of everything.

 

It was now fifteen minutes to eight, exactly ninety minutes since he had knocked at the headmaster’s front door. Time was getting tight. The computer had to be shut down before eight o’clock because someone was sure to check on when the files had last been modified. As soon as the Back up was completed, Robert turned off the computer, unplugged the keyboard, carried it across to the dead man and pressed cool and rapidly stiffening fingers onto the keys before returning it to the desk and re-connecting.

There was no time to think about what had been done, simply an overwhelming urgency to ensure that every possible eventuality had been anticipated. He re-packed everything, double checked that nothing remained to show he had been there, turned off the study lights, turned on the reading lamp and television in the lounge, left the front door ajar, then exited by the back door, making certain the lock caught as he closed it. He then vaulted the back fence, ran across the darkened school grounds to the corner of the street where there was a public telephone, and dialled 000.

While waiting for his call to be put through to the police, he recalled Warren Pinot’s lazy, educated voice and slightly bewildered way of not seeing what was obvious to everyone else. By the time an efficient voice announced, ‘Police,’ he was ready. It was eight twenty-five.

‘I think I want to report an assault.’

‘Do you or don’t you?’

‘I do... I…I think.’

‘Give me the details. Speak clearly, I am recording this conversation.’

‘Goodness. Well, let me see. I must be precise, yes. Well, I was driving through Toowong this evening at about eight o’clock and managed to lose myself. I stopped to check my map and glanced at the house over the road. As I did so, a thin young chap parked his car, walked up to the door, knocked, and when an old man opened it, the fellow stepped inside and hit him on the head! I was dumbfounded. As I watched, he dragged the body out of the way and kicked the door shut. When I finally discovered where I was, it was quite stupid really, I was only one street away from where I usually drive, but you know how it is?’

‘No, sir, I do not!’ an irritated voice interrupted. ‘Please stick to your story.’

‘Yes, yes, sorry. Now, where was I? Oh yes, when I got home my wife insisted I ring and tell you. I hope I haven’t waited too long?’

‘Where exactly was this, sir?’

‘I don’t know the name of the street, but it was an old, two-storeyed, mock-Tudor style house in the grounds of a school in a similar style.’ Robert’s voice had gathered an involuntary but useful edge of hysteria. ‘Does that help?’

‘Yes. I know the place. Your name, sir?’

‘Oh, goodness me! I don’t want to get involved, I mean, there’s my wife and children to consid...’

‘Your name, sir?’

‘Oh, heavens! No.... I couldn’t.... The papers, my job...no.’

Robert replaced the receiver, left the telephone box and concealed himself behind a stone wall in the shadows of an overhanging tree, just in time to see Lance stop his car in front of the house and saunter up the path. He left the scene quickly. No point in tempting the Gods. He was no Icarus.

A three-minute run brought him to the station. Suddenly ravenous, he used the wait to grab a couple of sandwiches and a can of drink. He took the train to Central and changed into his school uniform in the toilets, dumping the rubber gloves, CD and the train ticket in separate rubbish bins as he raced for the cinema – the same one he and Bart had gone to four days previously. It already seemed an aeon ago. It was just on nine o’clock. A paperback-reading ticket-seller absentmindedly sold him a ticket. He entered the darkened, half empty auditorium and waited for his breathing to return to normal. As soon as he was certain he didn’t look as though he had been running a marathon, he went out and knocked on the door labelled Manager.

‘Come in,’ called a pleasant voice belonging to an overweight young man.

‘Gosh! Are you the manager?’ asked a wide-eyed Robert.

‘Assistant - a title to compensate for the low wages. Maybe some day. Cheap security guard is a more accurate description. What can I do for you?’

Robert’s plans had run out. All he knew was his presence at the movie had to be noticed and remembered. The Assistant Manager smiled affably, allowing his eyes to stray to his visitor’s taut crotch, where they tarried.

Suddenly Robert knew what to do. He smiled shyly, then hesitatingly said, ‘Actually, I have a bad headache, and I wondered if you had anything for it? I wouldn’t have dared come in here normally, but before the show I saw you in the foyer, and you smiled at me and I thought you looked really nice, so that’s why…’ his voice trailed off as his host’s smile turned to puzzlement.

‘I don’t remem…’ he began, then stopped as another thought visibly entered his head.

Robert’s face fell. He blushed and stuttered, ‘Oh, I’m…I’m sorry. I feel so stupid. I…I thought you were looking at me… and…’ He bit his lip and stopped talking.

The assistant manager’s face cleared, he hit his head lightly with the heel of his hand and showered a dazzling smile over his tightly trousered guest. ‘Of course I remember! Sorry! My mind was miles away, I wasn’t concentrating. Yes…yes. How could I forget? Here, sit down. I’m sure we’ve got aspirin somewhere.’ He searched in a cupboard, produced a first-aid box, dispensed two tablets, filled a tumbler from the sink in the attached washroom and presented it to Robert, who downed pills and water gratefully. They chatted amiably for a few minutes, Robert mentioning how silly he felt in his school uniform. In return, he received fulsome compliments on its snug fit and, as he was leaving, a pat on the bum and an offer of a drink after the show – or any time he was passing.

Returning to the auditorium, he forced himself to stay awake and recall the short films before the interval, that he’d seen with Bart, as well as the feature.

A train from Central, followed by a fast jog, got him home just on eleven o’clock. He entered his side door, secreted the pack under the bed, and went through to the lounge where his parents and Bart were waiting, anxious but doing their best not to show it.

‘Not waiting up for me, I hope? That’s why I left the note telling you I was going to town to the flicks, so you wouldn’t worry. Bart! What’re you doing here? I told Mum to ring and tell you.’

Bart didn’t trust himself to speak. He had been physically sick earlier in the evening with the fear that Robert had done something irrevocable. He made do with a worried frown and a shake of the head.

‘We didn’t get home in time to ring him.’ Monique was terse. ‘Bart was here waiting for us when we arrived back at four o’clock!’

‘We have been very upset!’ Sanjay came as close as he ever had to sounding really angry. ‘Bart told us you had a run-in with the headmaster and that you had skipped school. We thought you might have done something silly.’

‘Hardly! As Bart said, we’ve done nothing wrong. I was suddenly sick of the whole stupidity and felt like being on my own for a bit. Sorry if I worried you. It was selfish of me.’ He sat down beside Bart, who still had not trusted himself to say anything, and snuggled up. ‘Forgive me?’

He looked so innocent and appealing, all Bart could do was laugh nervously, try not to cry, give him an affectionate squeeze, and say, ‘Of course, silly. I’m a worrier.’

‘I wandered around town, saw lots of miserable looking people and realised my own lot wasn’t so bad. Went to a boring movie, caught the train home, and here I am. What’d the cops say about the video?’

‘I didn’t take it in.’

‘Why not?’

‘Not without you.’

‘Sorry. I wasn’t up to a cross-examination after Nikelseer’s ear bashing. Tomorrow?’ Robert’s tired, easy smile calmed their fears.

‘Sure. Tomorrow.’

‘Thanks for worrying about me.’

Monique and Sanjay went to bed. The lost sheep had returned. All was well. Because it was so late, Bart stayed the night.

‘What did you tell Mum and Dad about this morning?’ Robert asked casually as soon as the light was out.

‘I didn’t mention our argument, just said Nikelseer caught us having a bit of a cuddle and lost his cool. I told them everything he said, though. That’s why we were so anxious. No one should have that sort of shit thrown at them.’

‘I want you to promise me something.’

‘What?’

‘Promise first!’

‘I promise.’

‘No matter who asks, or how many times they ask you, never, ever tell them what Nikelseer saw us doing in your office, and never, ever repeat what he said to us - the threats he made!’

‘That’s easy. I promise again.’

Silence.

‘Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me, so stop worrying!’

Robert continued to worry and, despite his exhaustion, found sleep elusive.

 

Lance had parked his car, stomped irritably up the path and pressed the bell. He was sick of the greasy old fart expecting him to come running every time he had another inspiration about bloody God and sin. It was all he ever talked about. But things were getting serious. His father had been ignoring him totally since he stuffed up at Vaselly’s. He’d been a hundred percent certain that was going to work. He also didn’t trust Nigel and Ernest, even though they’d promised to deliver. Fat lot of good that’d be anyway. Despite hours of thinking he had no plans for Saturday. His mind was a blank. He couldn’t even get a good night’s kip any more. Nightmares about getting raped by huge bastards in prison had him waking in cold sweats. Because that was where he was heading if he didn’t get shot of Vaselly and Brown-eye! He shook off his fears, wondering why he’d been summoned to the Holy Presence. Must be something serious. He brightened. Maybe Nikelseer would have an idea.

There was no answer to his ring, so he hammered on the door. It swung open. The old fool’s probably draining his brain, and left it open for me, he thought as he let himself into the hallway and slammed the door behind him. He went into the lounge, dumped his jacket over a chair and sat watching television for a minute before he realised the old man was either having a very long piss, or had gone out. He went to the foot of the stairs and called up before noticing there were no lights on. Perhaps the silly old fool had gone out for a stroll and that’s why the door was open.

He went out and looked up and down the street. No one. Leaving the door ajar in case Nikelseer came back, he poked his head into the ground-floor rooms. Kitchen, dining room, toilet, laundry and… switching on the study light he at first didn’t notice the body on the floor, almost tripping over it. When he saw what it was, he gave a grunt of surprise followed by a vicious smile as he knelt down, lifted the edge of the plastic bag to check it really was the headmaster, and felt the wrist to see if there was a pulse.

‘Well, well,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Someone’s done me a favour. I wonder who and why?’ The smile was wiped as quickly as it had appeared. ‘Christ! I’d better fucking disappear. This looks like a set-up.’

He raced out to the car and was a couple of blocks away before he thought of his jacket. A panic stricken U turn caused an oncoming car to throw out all the anchors and skid wildly before righting itself and driving on. Lance jammed on his brakes and sagged over the wheel, shaking uncontrollably. A fucking cop car! Why hadn’t it stopped him? ‘Because it was going to Nikelseer’s, that’s why,’ a voice whispered in his head.

Whimpering with terror, Lance drove unsteadily home. If he’d known where his father was he’d have called and begged him to come home. With a shudder of revulsion he realised he had shat himself, so tossed his jeans in the washing machine, cleaned himself up and downed a couple of slugs of whisky. Thus fortified, he was glad his father wasn’t there. He’d only start asking questions and nagging him. Probably wouldn’t even believe him. Anyway, his jacket didn’t prove anything. He could have left it there the previous day. Yeah. That’s what he’d say. The headmaster had invited him round yesterday to check he was OK after Brown-eye had beaten him up for no reason. Lance warmed to his plan. He’d say the headmaster was going to expel the prissy black queer today. Let him crawl out of that one.

 

Arnold Osbairne arrived home angry. He didn’t realise he was angry because he’d been in that state for so long he’d forgotten what it was like to exist in any other. Lance’s car was parked in the centre of the drive, so he had to scrape his own on the bushes to get to the garage. The sooner that fuckwit kid got out of his life the better. He let himself in through the back door and, without turning on the laundry light, removed his clothes.

He was a fastidious man who could not bear to wear anything more than once. Each night he would put everything washable in the washing machine, walk naked to his bathroom, shower, and don fresh pyjamas. It had become his only pleasurable ritual. He lifted the lid and threw everything in before registering the smell. He turned on the light, lifted out his clothing, and discovered Lance’s soiled jeans. They were inside out and some of the muck had stained his shirt.

‘By Christ but I hate that bastard,’ he hissed through his teeth, picking up the jeans, stomping along the hallway, throwing open Lances door, switching on the light and slamming the stinking mess into his sleeping son’s face.

‘You fucking little snot-nosed bastard,’ he seethed, holding the jeans firmly against the gagging mouth.

Lance was petrified. He had no idea what was happening. Imagined it was the police, a gang of queers seeking retribution, Murray’s ghost. With a supreme effort he dragged the suffocating cloth off his face, grabbed a lung-full of air and let loose with a scream of such terror that his father leapt back in alarm. Lance sat up, white with shock, eyes distended in fear. ‘Dad! What’re you doing? Why?’

His father was repelled. This shit-smeared runt couldn’t be his. He had hated him since his wife returned from the hospital and transferred her affections to her newborn pup. He wanted to strangle the scrawny, screaming little creep. Instead, he turned on his heel and went to shower off his disgust.

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Rigby Taylor; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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Oh! Robert, Robert, Robert: do I understand? Yep, am I pleased? Yep, Right thing to do?......  this is not going to turn out well... oh! Bugger!

 

Very clever, just hope its clever enough. And if he's not, we know who to blame @Rigby Taylor!

 

Good reading, thanks.

 

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Mmmm... the slippery slope you reckon? But please don't blame me, I only write what pops into my head - where it comes from I've no idea.:unsure:

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2 hours ago, Rigby Taylor said:

Mmmm... the slippery slope you reckon? But please don't blame me, I only write what pops into my head - where it comes from I've no idea.:unsure:

I as indeed the Seer.  Robert did not spend the time mastering Nikelseer's signature for naught.  Let's call this chapter, "As The Cookie Crumbles".  Robert''s actions could not have been scripted any better.  I can hardly wait for the rest of the story.

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1 hour ago, WildcatLes said:

Robert''s actions could not have been scripted any better.  I can hardly wait for the rest of the story.

And you could not have given me a greater compliment - thanks.

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I can see two holes in Robert's plan. All the letters to Lance will be last saved at the same time, and if Lance hasn't burnt the letter, the different time for the meeting will stand out. Also, Robert may have been caught on camera at the station while buying food. But the chance of that being discovered is low. And finally I'm wondering which CD Robert threw away ? What did he do with the USB stick? I hope he deletes everything and reformats it.

I have no problem with him offing the madman and trying to frame Lance. I hope he gets away with it and never feels guilty about saving himself and Bart. But I'm still worried about them being in a relationship which includes sex. That would be illegal here (Denmark), even though he's above the age of consent, because a teacher is a person of trust who cannot engage in an intimate relationship with a pupil. Even if the student is above 18, it could be illegal.

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When I wrote this story, there were no security cameras in public places. The CD and USB stick were disposed of in separate rubbish bins in the city. Teachers and senior pupils have been engaging in intimate sexual activity since the dawn of time - if it is forced, it is evil, if consensual, as it often is, it can even be beneficial, as long as they don't make it public. That would force the authorities to take a stance, and it has to be said that in the wider interest of protecting students from possible predators, the general rule that teachers and students do not become intimate, is wise. Such activity is severely frowned on here too, and would probably result in dismissal of the teacher. I'd like to make people think about it, rather than simply follow popular opinion. Blanket laws always penalise as many people as they protect. There should be a way for the parents and lovers to present their case so it is acceptable to the authorities, and they don't have to live in fear, with consequences such as Robert's dilemma.

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I agree completely, and  was mostly worried about them having sex because it could ruin Bart's life if discovered, not because I thought it was wrong for them to be in a relationship.

 

btw I hope Robert is smart enough not to offer up his cinema alibi too fast, including having the train ticket. If he's questioned about having proof, he can 'think of it' after a while. But to line up all his evidence can trigger suspicion. But let's hope they don't even think of asking him.

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7 hours ago, Timothy M. said:

btw I hope Robert is smart enough not to offer up his cinema alibi too fast, including having the train ticket. If he's questioned about having proof, he can 'think of it' after a while. But to line up all his evidence can trigger suspicion. But let's hope they don't even think of asking him.

Ha! either you are a clever criminal or a clever strategist... He's pretty smart, but under enormous psychological pressure.... so...

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There is an awefull lot of could be's, maybe's, might have been's, and so on!

   They need to question Bart. There is a lot of misdirection at the moment because so much is at stake ,for so many ,for  so many reasons and so on. Usually, the reason for a crime is a simple one! At the moment, they seem to complex and complicated.

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This reads more like a TV script at the moment and not a real life drama. I am eager to see if this line of thought continues or if it become's more realisitic and akin to what happens in the real world.

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1 hour ago, Bushman60 said:

This reads more like a TV script at the moment and not a real life drama. I am eager to see if this line of thought continues or if it become's more realisitic and akin to what happens in the real world.

Ha! If you want the real world, read the newspapers, biographies and watch documentaries. They are sometimes real. Fiction is a selective re-creation of reality, so the author can make a point that he hopes will encourage readers to think about the situation.

 

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2 hours ago, Bushman60 said:

There is an awefull lot of could be's, maybe's, might have been's, and so on!

   They need to question Bart. There is a lot of misdirection at the moment because so much is at stake ,for so many ,for  so many reasons and so on. Usually, the reason for a crime is a simple one! At the moment, they seem to complex and complicated.

It appears from this comment that you think Robert should be caught and punished - interesting.

I suggest that murder is seldom simple - it is the end product of multiple unpleasant actions that finally need excision if the victim is to retain his/her sanity.

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Nah.I haven't made that conclusion yet. Think another chapter might tell the tale so to speak. Often its not who we thought it was anyway.

    Very often its not one of those who we thought it was. yes he was hit on the head with a bag of lead. But was he actually dead or just knocked out? Did someone else turn up who used this opportunity to even the score so to speak and actually pin the blame on someone else?

   Remember, not all blows kill! Many only stun or concuss the victim. Lead is heavy but we have no idea how much was in the bag nor are we told if blood ,fractures , broken skin or bone is present. It's all just surmisation at the moment. Only once during the questioning does someone say something to the interviewing police.Then that line of questioning clams up and goes very quiet and asks for his lawyer to be present. However it could almost be to late now,as the person of interest has potentially opened the can of worms which the police can now exploit.

   Once something is let out it is very hard to hide again. That is why it is best insist on lawyers presence first as once that has been made the hands of the police and the crown prosecutors etc; are tide

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Ugh Robert yes the headmaster is a horrible human being but murder is never the answer. Lance deserves to be punished for what he has done and I don’t pity him rather I pity Robert. He gave into the darkness inside of him and once your on that path it can be hard to turn back. Plus Bart isn’t an idiot and neither are Robert’s parents so I’m sure they’ll be suspicious when the news breaks. If I was Bart I couldn’t help but be disgusted that my lover killed someone especially in such a cold & calculated way and it would put a strain on our relationship if not outright end it.

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2 hours ago, NimirRaj said:

Ugh Robert yes the headmaster is a horrible human being but murder is never the answer. Lance deserves to be punished for what he has done and I don’t pity him rather I pity Robert. He gave into the darkness inside of him and once your on that path it can be hard to turn back. Plus Bart isn’t an idiot and neither are Robert’s parents so I’m sure they’ll be suspicious when the news breaks. If I was Bart I couldn’t help but be disgusted that my lover killed someone especially in such a cold & calculated way and it would put a strain on our relationship if not outright end it.

So, You think Robert should have let the Headmaster destroy Bart's career, and his own hopes of education? Consider the stress he was under... several attempts on his life and that of Bart. Locked in a burning shed, and the murder of Murray. If murder is never the answer, why do soldiers go to kill people in other countries? Why don't they sit down and discuss their differences rationally? Why do some countries have the 'Death Penalty'? If you were attacked and the only way to save your own life was to kill the other person, would you allow yourself to be killed? Robert was defending his and Bart's right to share their lives together. Lance and the Headmaster were bent on destroying them - mentally if not physically. Surely it could be argued it was self defence?

Thanks so much for sharing your reactions, It's very interesting.  

Rigby.

Edited by Rigby Taylor
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8 hours ago, Rigby Taylor said:

So, You think Robert should have let the Headmaster destroy Bart's career, and his own hopes of education? Consider the stress he was under... several attempts on his life and that of Bart. Locked in a burning shed, and the murder of Murray. If murder is never the answer, why do soldiers go to kill people in other countries? Why don't they sit down and discuss their differences rationally? Why do some countries have the 'Death Penalty'? If you were attacked and the only way to save your own life was to kill the other person, would you allow yourself to be killed? Robert was defending his and Bart's right to share their lives together. Lance and the Headmaster were bent on destroying them - mentally if not physically. Surely it could be argued it was self defence?

Thanks so much for sharing your reactions, It's very interesting.  

Rigby.

 

Self defense in this situation is a matter of opinion and also a matter of facts. As already stated in the story they had a chance, possibly with police help, to stop Lance without framing him for murder. If nothing else perhaps he could have used his forgery skills to falsify evidence implicating both in crimes Lance actually committed as a way to stop them. In the end I don’t feel sorry for Lance as he was a murderer and likely would have gone on to hurt more people. The headmaster I don’t feel sorry for either but clearly some of his own staff thought he was insane which makes me wonder about his credibility. I don’t know if we can assume he really would have succeeded in ruining their lives with his threats and accusations especially as few actually knew of the relationship between Robert & Bart. If the forgery practice was linked to this event it means Robert had this idea in mind before the headmaster ever threatened to ruin their lives. He also was pretty fast and calculated in everything he did meaning he had likely planned this whole thing in advance. That means it wasn’t a moment of passion but premeditated. If he had killed the headmaster in a moment of rage I might be more sympathetic for why he did it but his whole reasoning was based on paranoia. Things are not black and white so yes I agree he had a right to be worried though when one takes a life one has to deal with consequences if only to one’s emotional & mental state. Thinking about this logically considering how cold and calculated his actions seemed to be is there any evidence it won’t happen again? How can we know that if someone else comes into their lives that seems to threaten their livelihood with homophobic beliefs that Robert won’t decide to stop them with violence as it worked so well in the past? I just don’t like to see someone go down a path like this because you never know where it will lead. Perhaps his actions were justified but it still will weigh on his conscience. Thankfully I don’t think we have to worry about a repeat performance in the future as I believe Robert’s conscience will not allow him to give into this type plan again.

Edited by NimirRaj
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I was afraid the title Rough Justice might lead us somewhere like this. I'm not sure this is what John meant when he told Robert he needn't tell Bart everything, if he knew it would hurt him. Although, I hesitate to ask, do John and Michael have a cave on their property...? A very well written climax. Thrilling, chilling, bold. Onto the dramatic conclusion... 

Edited by sef
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