This was my contribution for the second tutor-marked assignment on the OU course, for which I was awarded a mark of 76%.
We were asked to write a 1,500-word story which included the use of a time shift and some dialogue.
An extra requirement was to base the piece around one or more of the following themes: a letter, passion, a knife, music, a musical instrument, prison, shame, abandonment, shame, honour, hair, a market square.
Dear Paula
Thank you for responding to my website ad. You are the only one that has so far and I look forward to getting to know you. You could be my only friend for quite a while. The picture you sent of you with your cat was very cute. I like cats too.
I’m Veronica, as you know, though everyone calls me Ronni. Well the judge didn’t but most people do. I’m 21, same as you, got naturally curly black hair, piercings in my eyebrows, ears and nose and a tattoo of a guitar on my arse. My fave TV progs are Little Britain and EastEnders.
Do you like music, Paula? I do, I’m crazy about it. That’s how this whole hell began actually. You must be wondering what I’ve done to be in here, though I know the rules say you aren’t supposed to ask. Well if I’m guilty of anything, it’s a crime of passion.
I’m not a bad person, Paula, you HAVE to believe that. I’d never done anything like that before. That’s love for you, I guess. My world clattered around me when I found that bitch in our bed. With my Jason. I grabbed the easiest weapon to hand, which happened to be one of her stupid pink stilettos (she’s the type who wears pink stilettos, probably with no knickers) and gave her a few whacks. Nineteen stitches she needed. Wasn’t so pretty after.
You must be wondering what I’m banging on about here. I’d best start at the beginning. Jason was my soul mate. Is my soul mate. IS. Still is. He got to me like no other man ever did. I’ve got nothing left of him now. Even my photos were taken away as evidence.
Jason Kain, his name is. Singer and guitarist, does pubs and clubs and that. Plays all the classics. Bon Jovi, Eric Clapton.
I met him in my local two years ago. I knew straight away we were meant to be together and there would be no man for me except him. Sounds corny, eh? Don’t laugh, though, we’ll be back together one day, when I’m out of here. Once he sees that useless slag has nothing to offer him and could never love him like I do, oh he’ll be sorry as shit.
He was beautiful. Tall, with long wavy hair and this secret sort of smile that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. Do you get what I mean? He would often shut his eyes when he sang, like he was totally into the music. He was magnetic to watch, not like some of these bloody X Factor types who go through the motions and just want the money.
That first time I saw him perform, we chatted about rock for hours after. He was amazingly down to earth and easy to talk to. You can imagine how chuffed I was when he said at one point: ‘You really know your stuff, don’t you?’
I do, you see. Not like HER. I still can’t bring myself to say her name (it begins with N). She’s got nothing in common with him. She just flashed him her tits and he was off.
Anyway, Jase gave me one of his gig guides, which I taped above my bed. That governed my social life from then on. I started spending all my shitting dole on tickets and drinks at his shows. I set up a website for him as well. They’ve even shut that down now. I didn’t have much in life (more than I have now, though, obviously), he was all I had to live for.
I went to all his gigs, every one, but became so much more than a fan. I had never imagined it was physically possible to think about a man constantly, but he was there with me even when I ate my dinner or had a shower or got on the bus. He lifted my self-esteem out of the sewer it had been swilling about in.
SHE started hanging round him then, like a bloody stalker or something. Baby blonde hair, gigantic tits, blue eyes. Being petite, she could look all vulnerable and blushy next to him, but I wasn’t fooled by the Bambi act.
Of course the jury were when it all came to court. I might as well have tied a noose round my neck once they saw how her pretty face had been mashed up, and heard the lies she spouted about me in the dock and obviously made him spout too. What a pretty couple they made, her and my bloke. I’m sure even my barrister was taken in. He certainly did a bloody useless job of defending me.
And cos I used ‘a weapon’ and made ‘threats to kill’ (I mean who wouldn’t be screaming ‘I’m gonna kill you’ at the bint her bloke was having it off with?) that judge was merciless on me. I got five years. I might be out in three if I behave.
Have you got a boyfriend, Paula? (Or girlfriend? I’m not homophobic.) If you do you find The One, hug and squeeze and never let him/her go. I miss my Jase SO much.
I need him, I want him, I love him and I can’t get over him. It’s hellishly lonely in here. The days are bad, the nights are worst, that’s when I cry myself to sleep, trying not to picture him with HER.
He engulfs me. Does that make sense? The feeling is like something animal inside my body, kicking desperately. Best stop, I’m getting upset now. I’m actually knackered too. I’ve written manically tonight, wanting to tell you everything. Pen hasn’t left paper.
It’s nearly lights out anyway so I’d best wind up. I’m sure you’ve heard all those jokes about women’s prisons – lights out at eleven, candles out at half past. Ha ha. Not quite so funny now.
Thanks for making it this far, Paula. I hope you’ll want to write to me again. Take care.
Ronni xx
******
The judge who sentenced Veronica Pyke told her: ‘You subjected this innocent couple to an obsessive, perverse campaign of abuse and wounded a young woman in a malevolent and entirely unprovoked attack.
‘You are a fantasist. You wholeheartedly and disquietingly believe yourself to be in a relationship with Mr Kain, and moreover that something so superficial and transient as a mutual interest in music places your entitlement to be in such a relationship above that of his current partner.
‘Equally disquieting is your belief that you are responsible for no wrongdoing. By openly breaching a Restraining Order, you have proven yourself persistent in your conduct. I therefore have no option at this juncture but to impose a custodial sentence, to preclude future repetition of such conduct.’
The court learned how Ronni nurtured an embarrassing fixation with Jason Kain, after seeing him sing in a pub.
Inferring sexual encouragement from their first conversation about music, she began arriving obtrusively early to his gigs so she could stare at and photograph him while he soundchecked.
Impervious first to his ignoring of her and later his exasperated appeals for privacy, she amassed a veritable Jason portfolio, which included copious snaps of even his car and guitars.
She advanced to assailing him with progressively lewd messages on Facebook, logging in under different names to sidestep his attempts at blocking her.
It was her website, Kain Mania, which propelled Jason to the local police station. In torrents of gaudy yellow text, Ronni wrote luridly of the sex acts she planned performing on him, and her unnerving contempt for his now girlfriend Naomi Wood. Bizarrely, she also detailed Jason’s car registration number.
At Ronni’s first court appearance she was slapped with a Restraining Order. It was this she breached when she intruded on Jason and Naomi in what she described to Paula as ‘our bed.’ In reality it was an old couch in a pub dressing room which she invaded, correctly suspecting they were snatching a pre-gig quickie.
‘What the fuck are you doing here, freak?’ Jason yelped, grasping at clothes to cover himself. ‘You’re not allowed near us.’
‘Screw your injunction!’ Ronni’s voice was a death-metal screech of spite. ‘I must have got to you, if you had to go to those lengths.’ Then tears jetted from Ronni; horrific sobs that sounded as though they were being torn out of her. ‘You’re destroying me, being with her. I’m gonna kill you, bitch!’
With inhuman speed she seized the fuchsia stiletto and slashed Naomi’s cheek open. Jason wrestled the shoe from Ronni, though not before she inflicted wounds warranting nineteen stitches. The gory uproar alarmed the landlord, who called the police.
Ronni wailed again as she was sentenced to one year in custody for breaching the terms of her Restraining Order and a further four, to run consecutively, for grievous bodily harm, harassment and threats to kill.
