[Ed: This document has been released to facilitate on-going investigations into several fatalities, which are detailed in this autobiography. Witness statements assisting these investigations are welcomed. Confidentiality will be ensured.]
Now most of the time my imaginary friends are okay. Yes, there are major exceptions. One’s a bit of a psychopath (all right, she’s a lot of a psychopath), another eats rabbits and sheep, and one’s fairly normal except he keeps inviting other people’s imaginary friends to see me having sex.
I know what you're exclaiming, “Some children might have imaginary friends but adults?”
You're thinking adults don’t have imaginary friends.
(Well, let’s call them ‘im’ friends. I’m already fed up of keep having to write ‘imaginary’.)
Well, I do have ‘im’ friends. And OK some of them aren’t really my friends.
No I’m not being unsociable. I just don’t like being put upon by ‘im’ friends.
(Well, certainly not by other people’s ‘im’ friends).
And as for the police involvement – they can’t prove I’ve been doing anything dodgy or even illegal (lets face it murder’s pretty illegal). I did say one of my ‘im’ friends is a psychopath. So, she’s not a friend as such. I mean would you be okay having a friend who kills people around you and promises you'll be next?
(Yeah, she's also said one day I’ll be a victim as well. That’s why I’m writing this autobiography. It’s a bit hard writing one when you're dead.)
Now don’t get me wrong. I haven’t always seen ‘im’ people.
I do remember, as a child, riding on a wheeled carrier by the front garden. This is before I could walk. I could move the carrier with my feet. I can recall watching my Dad building a big fence at the driveway entrance - presumably to keep me in. It was made using chicken wire and wooden planks.
(Yeah I didn’t know what chicken wire was at the time but I can clearly remember what I saw. As an adult, I know the fence was made from wood and chicken wire.)
I wasn’t seeing ‘im’ people then.
But maybe my Dad was building a fence to keep ‘im’ people out (perhaps not).
Either way, it didn’t work.
I don’t remember more because in using that wheeled carrier I fell into a rosebush straight after watching that fence.
Yeah well, that day I learnt rosebushes hurt.
I can also recall my grandma walking with me from her house to a nearby corner shop. Inside, it had a big glass cabinet where I could see the sweets on sale – well, it looked pretty big to me, but then I was around three years old at that time.
I need to let you know when I first started seeing ‘im’ friends. Baza told me to.
(He’s helping me write this book.)
First of all, it was when I was about four and at nursery school where I happened to break my leg.
No - this wasn’t a school that taught you how to break your leg.
Well, I don’t think it was.
Anyway, it was just after I broke my leg.
And it was the first time I broke my leg as well.
(We’ll get on to the second time in a bit. Breaking my leg wasn’t a habit. Yes it was the same leg but anyway…)
I was on a metal climbing frame lining up with other kids jumping off it.
Someone behind me pushed me. I fell and-
It’s a blank there.
I’d obviously fainted.
I can recall going back to that school with a leg cast on the lower part of my left leg. Now on the first day I went back, I remember seeing a girl who was my age. She was a little bit taller than me with quite wide arms and legs. Basically, she was quite tubby. She looked at my leg cast and said, “Ha, ha! You’ve got a fat leg!”
I looked her up and down and replied, “Well, at least I don’t have a fat body.”
(Yeah, I know and I was four at the time too – I was learning to be catty – or is it bitchy?
Then I heard a laugh next to me. I turned and there was this lad about my age laughing with me and pointing at this girl.
He turned to me and smiled as he spoke, “My name’s Baza.” I was just about to say my name when he added, “I know your name.”
I smiled at him and replied, “Okay. Well-”
At this point the girl spoke and it changed my life. She asked me, “Who you talking to?”
I frowned and pointed to my left, “There - Baza.”
She frowned as she glanced where I’d pointed. “There’s no one there.” She looked at me and added, “You're weird.” Then she walked away.
I turned to Baza and he spoke, “She can’t see me.”
And that’s how it was from then on. Every time I spoke to Baza when anyone was around - especially if I tried to introduce him - I’d get strange looks. Eventually no one at the school spoke to me - except the teachers of course.
Baza never went to my parents’ home but one of the teachers told them about him. They were told they had nothing to worry about. Kids often have imaginary friends my parents were told.
So they didn’t say anything. But I could tell they were thinking something. I did over-hear things my parents said to each other.
So I said nothing about Baza to anyone and I kept my talks with him in whispers.
Plus he was telling me what others were saying when they thought I couldn’t hear them (which was often, considering I don’t hear very well).
This happened more and more when I got to junior school.
My memories of junior school are a bit vague. I do remember being distracted when learning to read. Let’s face it; hearing what Baza had to tell me about what other classmates were doing was distracting.
But what really stood out was starting to see an ‘im’ cat. I mean I was only around six. Okay my ‘im’ cat wasn’t a murderer – well, not yet anyway.
I was in the playground at the front of the school. I was running around having fun but I do remember one time when I suddenly stopped alongside a girl who magnetised me. Bearing in mind I was only six at the time but she fascinated me. I think I even spoke to her saying, “You are so beautiful.”
(I still clearly remember her name - Lisa Darling.)
She was taken aback and smiled at me replying, “Thank you.” But I never saw her again. Maybe she and her parents moved house. But I also remember just after I saw her I first saw the cat.
Initially I thought I’d only seen a random cat. It was walking on the pavement just outside the fence surrounding my school playground. I didn’t think anything of it except it was lovely orange and white coloured cat. I walked towards it and it stopped to look at me.
Now as I say, I was only six-ish but I could swear that cat smiled at me. Then it shuddered, expanded, and changed shape. Suddenly it was no longer a little cat but some sort of fierce roaring tiger-like creature.
(I don’t think I knew at the time what a tiger looked like up close but the cat’s image is so strong in my head I know what it looked like. Mind you around that time I know I did see the cartoon The Jungle Book for the first time so maybe I did know what a tiger looked like.)
It leapt over the school fence and crouched, facing me. It looked like it was about to pounce on me. I backed away in terror, glancing around at the other children in the playground. I frowned. None of them seemed to see this giant cat. A nearby teacher noticed my terror and hurried over to ask if I was all right. I was too scared to say anything. I just pointed at the cat. The teacher looked at what I was pointing to and frowned. She couldn’t see anything. She looked at me and asked if I wanted to go inside and have a drink.
I enthusiastically nodded and she walked with me into the main entrance of the school.
Once we were inside I began to calm. She then asked me if I was all right but I said nothing. I knew she didn’t see the cat. I looked around to see if Baza was nearby to help me but I couldn’t see him. I just lowered my head and looked at the floor. I felt so alone.
She quietly asked me, “Are any of your classmates making you unhappy?” I shook my head. “You know you can say anything you like to me.” She looked around. “No one’s around and I won’t tell anyone what you say to me.” She paused, “Would you like me to call your Mum?”
I shook my head and mumbled, “I am all right Miss. I'm sorry.” I glanced up at her and asked, “Can I go?”
The teacher deeply looked into my eyes, trying to work out what I was feeling. Eventually she sighed and gave up. She nodded and gently answered, “Yes, of course you can.” As I turned to go away she added, “But remember you can talk to me any time you want.” I nodded as I opened the door leading to the playground.
Outside was the tiger, lying down, looking around at the kids as they ran around it. Some of them were instinctively hopping over its tail.
But the kids seemed to be completely unaware they were dancing around a large tiger. And it wasn’t fiercely looking at them either. As soon as I walked into the middle of the playground, the tiger stood up and gently walked over to me, weaving around these kids. I felt no danger from it. I was absolutely stunned when it then nuzzled me making me stagger and almost fall over. I glanced at the front door of the school. There was the teacher I’d spoken to. She was looking at me with gentle concern. I smiled at her and then almost fell over as the tiger nuzzled me again. I laughed at the wonderful feeling I had this big animal to play with.
Of course I did play with my friends as well when the tiger wasn’t there. However, it wasn’t always a tiger. Most of the time it was just an orange and white cat. One time it even let me pick it up. But the people walked past it completely unaware they were walking near a potentially giant animal. And I was completely also unaware of it much of the time I was at the school. It could well have been watching me outside the school playground from the top of a house’s garden wall.
So of course that cat/tiger had to have a name.
So I gave it one.
Well, eventually I did.
In my teens I became fascinated by legends and myths. So my cat/tiger became known as ‘Hekate’, especially after she began killing other animals.
I got on with my classmates-
Most of the time.
Sometimes they ignored me.
Sometimes they left me on my own.
It felt so strange when they just walked past me as though I wasn’t there. Some didn’t respond even when I made a noise.
I knew how Baza felt.
Sometimes my classmates did look at me.
They laughed at me.
Like when I couldn’t complete the tests in the classrooms.
The teachers told them off.
It wasn’t because I didn’t understand the tests. It was because I couldn’t properly hear the teacher. I didn’t know at the time I couldn’t hear very well. I couldn’t see very either. And I hated wearing glasses. I never wore them. They'd make me look even more like an outsider.
The teachers never seemed to care.
Or maybe they did but they didn’t know what to do.
When I went from primary to junior classes it changed but it stayed the same.
It started changing my parents’ views as well.
They wanted so much from me.
But could I change?
They took me to a private teacher who lived near to where I lived. From him I had lessons on maths. Baza was there but said nothing. Whenever I looked at him he just pointed at the private teacher or the papers I was writing on. He wanted me to pay attention. I did and I learnt stuff about maths quicker than my classmates.
I always remember being in a class lesson teaching us long division. Individually, the private teacher had already taught me this but in a slightly different way. The main thing is I now knew long division so I found the lesson dull.
I remember the class teacher had noticed I wasn’t looking at her. She shouted to me, “Do you know how to do long division?”
I honestly answered, “Yes.”
(Yes, I did feel victory when she immediately turned back to her chalkboard and resumed teaching. She so didn’t want to have a further discussion with a lad who said he already knew what she was teaching.)
But that didn’t have any major effect on my classmates.
Sports were becoming more major teaching for the boys. Sports are not my strong area.
It was even worse when you break your leg learning one sport.