Death is the Beginning - Prologue
Prologue: Cardiff Prison, 1949.
Ace reporter, John Hart, found himself for the first time in his long career, being led down the stone passageway to the execution holding room of Cardiff prison. It was here that Roman Strauss had spent his last night on earth and for John it couldn’t have come fast enough. The buzz in his brain was starting to make even his teeth hurt and he knew he shouldn’t have denied himself his normal early morning pick me up today, though for this morning he wanted to be sober. He wanted to face this murderer and he wanted to be able to understand why.
The guard grunted as he gestured to the doorway of the cell. From where he was standing John Hart could see the guard finishing up the brutal haircut on the condemned man.
“Ah, Mr Hart, so good of you to come.”
Strauss gestured him inside as John took a deep breath and plastered a cock-sure expression on his face, not wanting this man at the hour of his death to have the upper hand.
“Please come in and take a seat.”
John looked around at the walls of the cell. He was quiet unnerved to see all the articles he had written on the trial of this murderer hanging up on the grey stone walls. From the horrific discovery of her body to the sensational trial, John had been there for the whole thing, reporting what truth he could find, making it up when the story needed tweaking. He had destroyed this man in print and he wasn’t about to let her memory down by not seeing this through to the end.
“As you can see I am quiet the fan.”
“Flattering, I’m sure. Is that why you asked me down here Mr Strauss, to stroke my ego?” His bold indifference bristling as he felt his control of this slipping out of his grasp.
“I want you to print something; after all.....you are so good at that.” Roman indicated the articles on the wall behind him. The half truth scandals that had helped John channel the rage he had felt when he first saw the pictures of her beautiful, bloodied body.
“I want you to be the one to print my last words.”
“And what would they be Mr Strauss?”
“That I loved, and will always love my wife.”
John pulled his head back slightly to eye the man only to be surprised when he found no hint of a monster in them; the blue reflected a deep well of pain, loss and love. For the first time since this began the small pang of doubt began to seed in his mind until the pictures of her bloody corpse pushed them down.
“Okay, Mr Strauss.”
“You print that I will love her forever.”
The word ‘forever’ seemed to bounce around the cell impossibly reverberating in such a small space. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Strauss continued to eyeball him, a strange smile playing on his lips.
“Thank you, Mr Hart.”
John’s curiosity spiked with his annoyance at the man’s far too calm demeanour.
“Mr Strauss, can I ask you a question?”
“Better to ask now than later.”
The smile pushed his irritation on further.
“Are you afraid to die?”
If he was hoping to unnerve the man he was sorely disappointed by his answer.
“To die is different from what anyone supposes and a damn sight luckier.”
“Pretty….one of your lines?”
“No, Walt Whitman, Mr Hart, I cannot take credit for everything.”
That damn smile and cock sure grin.
“Do you really believe that? That you’re lucky?”
“My belief? Mr Hart, John, what I am sure of is this is far from over and death is merely another beginning.”
“But it was you, wasn’t it Mr Strauss? You killed her didn’t you?”
Strauss merely smiled before bending over as if whispering something in his ear so the guard couldn’t hear. The look of pure shock on the reporters face told the guard he did not want to know.
“Time to go, Strauss,” the guard yelled from the door and the prisoner stood up, a small smile still on his lips.
As the procession started its grim death march, the reporter stammered back in the cell……
“No…..no stop him….stop him!”
Hart raced out to catch up with the deathly procession, swinging Roman’s arm as he spun him around.
The condemned man had a manic look in his eyes and suddenly his hands where no longer bound. Instead he swung his arm up, a pair of viscous looking scissors clutched in his hand as he spoke in a high pitched voice.
“These ARE FOR YOU!!”
And the arm sliced down with a menacing force. The ripples bled out across time as somewhere in the future a troubled man woke up screaming.
Chapter One