This flamingo was my favourite, but it is broken now. I had seven flamingos. This one was my favourite.
They all stood in their formation in the front garden, coyly propping themselves up on one leg. Sometimes they looked like they were shielding their beautiful pink plastic feathers from the muck, and sometimes they looked playful. Teasing me.
Yes, yes... Last Friday. What happened? Well, I was playing with Svetlana... this one. My favourite one. Mr Dewberry came walking past my garden, that rotter, that horrible man, and he started talking to me.
“Oh, Kevin, Kevin, when are you going to grow up and stop playing with those stupid plastic birds, eh?” What a bugger. No, he didn't actually sound like that. I apologise. My impression was tarnished by anger and for that I am very sorry, mister policeman. What? No, I didn't say anything else to him that day. He walked off with his pointy-faced wife.
Well, then I went in and had lunch, then I took Svetlana for a walk, then... oh. Right. Well, in the evening, once Mr Dewberry had gotten home – I could tell, I watched out the window for two hours until he came back – and then I got the spare key Mr Dewberry always left under his flower pot, and let myself in.
What next? I told you. We killed Mr Dewberry. We bashed his silly, mean brains in. 'We' as in me and Svetlana. I told you that already. That's why she's all broken. Look at her, poor thing... this one was my favourite.
Sorry? Why do the others have blood on them? Well, we let them watch.
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