Definitely Dead by Kate Bendelow (howl and other poems TXT) 📕

age; stick-thin with undernourishment. This meant he could easily squeeze his way through the smallest of openings, or scuttle like a rat up drainpipes, so he could enter premises through first-floor windows.

He had started his criminal career at the tender age of nine, when his father had taken Jim out burgling with him. Jim was a natural and infamously evaded prison until nineteen. He was spotted clambering out of a local magistrate’s rear bedroom window by an eagle-eyed probationer constable. It wasn’t just the burglary that Jim was sentenced for, but also a vicious attack on the constable who was so badly beaten, he was left partially sighted in one eye and with a ruptured spleen.

Jim enjoyed his first stay in prison. Most of the inmates knew the Baron family and Jim’s reputation had preceded him. He was notorious for having a criminal career which had lasted long before his first capture. The fact that he had severely beaten a police officer raised his popularity amongst his fellow lags. It was whilst serving this first prison sentence that Jim’s criminal education continued, and he left Strangeways with a cast-iron plan to commit armed robbery.

He procured a firearm and began to make plans. Jim was greedy for money and was adamant that his next job would bring him a payday of hundreds and thousands. Jim’s lucky streak lasted for years as he meticulously planned and executed several successful robberies at bookies, off-licences, and post offices. He decided that when it came to co-conspirators less was more, so he worked alone other than with the assistance of his old cellmate, Terry.

‘Did you get me mag?’ asked Jim through a mouthful of scratchings. His watery eyes pooled as Terry passed him a copy of Escort.

‘Don’t know why you bother. Bet you can’t even find it, let alone get it up.’

Jim ignored the retort as he flicked through the magazine, pausing briefly to show a page to Terry. ‘Here, look at this one. Reminds me of the tits on that bitch from the travel agents.’

During that previous armed robbery, Jim had taken a fancy to one of the younger female members of staff. After emptying the contents of the safe and ripping watches and jewellery from the cowering hostages, he had made the young girl pull open her blouse so he could ogle her breasts. She had been terrified as he had pawed at them with one meaty hand, while the other pressed the gun against her temple. As she sobbed and trembled in sheer terror, he found himself more and more aroused.

He would have liked to have toyed with the young woman longer, but common sense prevailed, and he knew it was time for him to get away. Before he fled the scene, he had buried his head between the pert young breasts, sucking and biting at them, causing huge ugly red welts to rise angrily on her alabaster skin.

A combination of new and upcoming DNA profiling techniques, as well as the comparison of dental records was all the evidence the police needed to convict Jim Baron to a very long stretch. As the National DNA Database grew from its infancy, those same profiling techniques improved, and old crime-scene stains from other robberies, which had previously been undetectable, now revealed the truth. Jim Baron was found responsible, causing his release date to be extended further. He was eventually released on his seventieth birthday.

Now, five years on, Jim’s ulcerated legs caused him mobility issues. He was stuck to the confines of his one-bedroomed, housing association flat. Still, after having served so many years at Her Majesty’s pleasure, the flat was a luxury in comparison to his old prison cell. Jim relied heavily on Terry’s support. For a regular fee, he brought Jim his shopping and anything else he wanted.

The police strongly suspected that Jim had thousands of pounds of cash still squirrelled away, but had never been able to trace it and, to all intents and purposes, Jim lived like a pauper. If he still had access to the money he had stolen over the decades, he certainly wasn’t using it. The only thing that betrayed the fact he liked the finer things in life was his huge bulk. Other than the ‘wage’ he paid Terry every week to fetch and carry for him, Jim’s only indulgence was food and drink.

He had been a heavy smoker most of his life but had been forced to quit due to a crippling diagnosis of COPD, a progressive lung disease, which left him floundering and gasping for breath at the slightest exertion. Jim was reliant on a nebuliser and inhaler to control his condition.

Meanwhile, the community nurses, who had to change the dressings on his legs, were known for drawing straws to choose whose turn it was to visit the despicable character. In the five years since he had been released from prison, Jim barely lifted his arse from his old, yellowing armchair, unless it was to drag himself to the kitchen or toilet. He barely used his walk-in wet-room facilities and had given up on dragging his bulk from the living room to his bedroom, choosing instead to sleep in his chair.

‘Right, I’m off. See you next week.’

‘Right then.’ Jim didn’t so much as look up as Terry left. He was too engrossed in his mag, noisily slurping his way through a bottle of super strength cider.

Terry left without locking the front door, something which Jim never bothered about. He preferred to let Terry and the nurses come and go without having the bother of letting them in. He reasoned that nobody would dare try and enter his flat without his permission, and even if they did, they would never find anything worth stealing. His cash was too well hidden.

He never had any other visitors. The neighbours steered well clear and it wasn’t the type of area where the local Jehovah’s Witnesses would come to call. So, it came as a shock to Jim on that