A Perfect Crime

by A. Yi

  This was fun. He didn’t know how to stop me. I could see him clench his fists.

  ‘Is your dog dead?’ I asked. This took him by surprise. ‘I fed him rat poison.’

  The old man’s face went red and he began shouting.

  ‘Are you fucking human? You had to kill the dog too?’

  My lawyer sighed. I was being childish, probably. The prosecutor smiled. Surely nothing proved the ruthless cruelty of a killer like this?

  After that a police officer was called. He said that normally even the toughest thugs lost it in prison, cried, asked to see their families. I was the only one to remain calm and detached, as if none of it bothered me.

  ‘His only request was for a McDonald’s.’

  ‘It was a KFC,’ I said.

  Last Words

  As soon as my lawyer suggested a plea for leniency, the public prosecutor scrambled to his feet and cried that such a crime could never be pardoned. As the scales tipped to the left, my lawyer decided to change tactics and add weight to the right, which he did by producing a certificate signed by a midwife stating that I had not yet turned eighteen. The prosecutor argued for an investigation, including an inspection of our household registration documents and my school records, as well as witness testimonies and a trace of my mother’s movements eighteen years ago. They weren’t impossible requests. He simultaneously reminded my lawyer that pressuring a witness into giving false testimony was an offence under the law.

  My lawyer then repeated his three-pronged argument about how I had willingly given myself up. This the prosecutor could not accept, because I had yet to express even a hint of remorse. The lawyer narrowed his eyes at me as if to say, I’m not doing this alone, kid. But the last thing I wanted to do was make such a performance in court.

  ‘You feel no remorse, isn’t that correct?’ the prosecutor said.

  The question was there to help me, but I just cocked my head. I didn’t say yes, I didn’t say no. I wanted to say yes.

  ‘Why did you go looking for the police officer?’ my lawyer asked.

  My head was still cocked. The judge reminded me I was required to answer. I thought for a long time and then decided I’d better tell the truth.

  ‘Because I came to the conclusion that they were so lousy they wouldn’t catch me otherwise.’

  My lawyer looked betrayed and flustered. He walked past me in the dock, thumped on the table and filed an application for a psychological examination.

  He then produced a medical report stamped by the A—Province People’s Hospital supposedly written five years previously. He began reading out loud the diagnosis: hysteria and neurosis mainly, peppered with quotations from seminal works of psychology for reinforcement. He expounded on the necessary nature of such expert testimony, arguing that the court’s own examinations were inadequate, and that this medical certificate was in full accordance with the principles of objectivity as required by the judicial system. He then took out another paper, in which two professors of law had written in support of this appraisal. And he quoted: ‘Our justice system should treat cases such as these as iron-clad. It is too late to conduct a medical appraisal after the death sentence has been carried out.’

  The prosecutor laughed coldly. He dragged a comb through his already neat hair, guiding it with his other hand for protection. This was a standard tactic used by the defence. He then pointed at me and spoke to the rest of the room.

  ‘Does he show any signs of mental illness?’ He then turned to me. ‘Are you sick?’

  ‘Of course not.’ I could sense the shock in the room.

  ‘How do you know?’ my lawyer growled, standing up.

  ‘Shouldn’t I know best?’

  ‘That’s what every mentally ill person says. That’s the best proof, right there.’

  His veins were popping as he thumped at the table. Laughter erupted in the public gallery.

  ‘So do you need an appraisal or not?’ the judge asked.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  My lawyer threw his briefcase onto the table and looked as if he was about to storm out. Only a sense of his own self-importance stopped him and he asked for Kong Jie’s mother to be brought in. He then looked across at me like a man who was about to die making his last desperate plea to be saved. I, however, had long wanted an end to this game. The person in the courtroom on trial wasn’t me, but a machine designed to validate my lies.

  Mrs Kong was wearing the same black ankle-length dress, but this time she had added a long blue scarf. Kong Jie’s scarf. Holding back her tears, she read out a document apparently entitled An Act of Mercy from One Mother to Another. Everyone in the court wore grave expressions, listening without moving. Her performance that day was pretty good; her tone, the balance between emotion and restraint, it was all exquisite. My lawyer must have written the script for her, but somehow it must also have touched a nerve (it was so unlike her wild shouting of before). My lawyer was like a songwriter watching the performance from his position in the audience as he seemed to tap his finger in time. People wiped tears from their eyes.

  But I had to stop her. ‘This is a financial transaction.’ I watched as the paper floated from her hand like a white crane. Her thin, solemn frame began to tremble. She closed her eyes, opened them, and then fell backwards. People rushed to help. Saliva frothed around her mouth and her body twitched as if she was having an epileptic fit. The court was filled with noise like school breaking for the day: people fidgeted, talked, anxious and unsure of what to do. Then it hit them. Together:

  Kill him!

  Kill him! Kill him!

  Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!

  I looked up at the ceiling and then out at the courtroom. It was small, like a theatre box. People far in the distance were waving their fists and all that was left were the yellow seats and dark green banisters. On the wall to the side was fastened a Western-style lamp which was on but gave out only the weakest light. No one thought to switch it off. There will come a day, when everyone has gone, when all that is left is the dancing dust.

  ‘Kill me,’ I said, returning to reality.

  My eyes showed I was sincere. My lawyer had stuffed his papers into his briefcase and taken his place as a spectator. The public prosecutor was stunned; his body shook. Eventually he began reading from a report, his voice almost singing. What I heard was ‘vicious in the extreme’, ‘utterly devoid of conscience’, ‘total disregard for the law and human life’, ‘ruthless methods’, ‘serious consequences’, ‘grave danger to society’, ‘public indignation if we don’t hand down the death sentence’.

  The courtroom exploded in applause as he finished and continued for some time before stopping abruptly. They felt the amorphous loneliness just as I did.

  The judge asked for my response.

  ‘I want to tell the public prosecutor that I actually passed him in the street the day I bought the switchblade. And I thought about killing him. But my plans were already fixed.’

  Confused, he looked down.

  Just then a lion-like roar broke through the silence. ‘Why did you kill my daughter and not someone else!’ ‘I had to kill someone.’

  ‘You could have killed a corrupt official or a thug. Why did you have to kill my daughter?’

  ‘Because she was worth it.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ the judge said. ‘Because she was beautiful, kind, clever. She had a future, but she had a difficult childhood, lost her father young. She’s your sweetheart, all of you.’

  ‘You animal!’ the public prosecutor cried.

  ‘So you did it out of hate?’ the judge continued. ‘No, I did it for a reaction. I’ve read the newspapers, magazines. I know how much attention a vicious murder case gets. Especially if the victim is a child, student or young woman. Even ugly girls become precious beauties, kind and loved, if they are murdered. If plain girls get that treatment, reactions to the death of a girl like Kong Jie, who was pretty much perfect, would be more exaggerated. Then I worried the
story wouldn’t be big enough, so I stabbed her thirty-seven times. I planned it all carefully. She trusted others easily, was a good girl. You guys, you all live with these supposed lofty ideals. A pretty vase like her gets smashed? I knew you’d be rushing to express unparalleled anger and emotion. You would agonise over the fact that you couldn’t do to me what I did to her. That you couldn’t dismember me.’

  ‘You killed her to become famous?’ the public prosecutor asked.

  ‘No, I just wanted to make sure I handed you enough motivation to come and catch me. I killed someone you couldn’t tolerate to be killed so that you would put all your energy and resources into hunting me down. Get everyone involved. But you couldn’t do it.You got lazy. So I gave myself up to the police.’

  ‘You murdered her so that you could go on the run?’ the judge asked.

  ‘Yes. Running away is the only way to feel alive. You’re the cats, I’m the mouse. Mice are clever, strong; they are streamlined, carry no extra weight. They are almost mathematical in their beauty. I’ve been longing to feel such nervous energy, such pressure.’

  ‘Don’t you have your college entrance exams soon?’ the judge said. ‘Couldn’t you throw yourself into the anxiety of studying?’

  ‘I was secretly assigned to the military academy a long time ago. My uncle is head of the dean’s office.’ ‘You could have chosen to put your energies into something positive.’ The judge again.

  ‘I tried. I put everything into being an exceptional student. But those things are like water cast out in the desert, they evaporate quickly. Whenever I started something, I would picture its inevitable ending. An apple becomes pips in the trash. While everyone is making toasts during their feast, a cat paces in the kitchen waiting for the scraps. Take love. Fireworks exploding in the air. We’re like impotent men trying to have sex, we’re cheating ourselves. We want to believe the sky is lit up by the sparks of romantic connection when actually it’s just black. Our lives are simply a long turn to old age and decrepitude until we can’t even wipe our own arses. It’s undignified. Then once we’re dead along comes a dog one day, digs up our bones and plays with them. We’re nothing more than decaying corpses.’

  ‘What do you think the point of life is?’ the prosecutor asked.

  ‘Exactly. There is no point. If I’d killed you instead, yours would have had some meaning at least.’

  He banged his hand against the table. I really thought I’d set him off, but I continued.

  ‘I’m not here today to play God and tell you what life is really about. All I’m trying to say is I may be young but my soul is exhausted. This is my reality. I lost faith in it all a long time ago. I know swans have nothing to do with poetry. Why are they always flying? Because they’re like pigs, avoiding the cold, looking for food. We’re no different. We’re not better than animals, we display all the same disgusting behaviours. We’re just aware of it, that’s all. We hunt for food, plunder territories, calculate resources. We’re completely controlled by our primal sexual urges. We do it all, but feel ashamed. We invented meaning just like we invented underpants. But once we see through these fake meanings, it all slips away until the word no longer makes sense.

  ‘This false enlightenment made me detached, passive, bleak even. My life started to fall apart. I took to lying for hours as if paralysed. No miracles filled my days. Each was as unchanging as the one that went before. Time stood still, or moved achingly slowly, like pouring concrete. Every day was death by drowning. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I felt absolute terror for no apparent reason. I took to crying. One day, when I could stand it no longer, I made a decision: seeing as I had no power over my life, I’d give it to you. I couldn’t choose myself, but I’d give the choice to you.You chase, I run. It was that simple. Imagine an animal at the bottom of the food chain: everything is a constant competition, a hunt for food. The thought replenished me. Life is pointless after all; it’s all the same, no matter what you do. It’s all destructive ultimately. But at least this would prevent me from having to face the passing of time alone. I wanted to put up a protective barrier between myself and time. I used to think, wouldn’t it be cool to go to war, or become an outlaw – that way I could satisfy my private desire to kill in the name of something greater. I thought of rescuing a damsel, like a knight in some martial arts novel, but then I realised no one would come miles looking for me to help them find retribution. No, killing your perfect sweetheart was my best option. I went on the run, dropping clues, like an animal leaves a trail of scent, so that you might find me. I was happy; my time was filled. I could feel it in my body. I was living a fruitful life. My performance was perfect. But you let me down.’

  I was finished. I lifted my handcuffs and with great difficulty scratched the itch on the back of my neck. Everyone watched, dumbstruck. I was perverse, frightening, and yet somehow my conclusions made sense. I was feeling pretty good about my speech and even half expected someone to come over and pour me some water. After a while, a noise, a realisation, broke through the silence.

  ‘No!’

  It was the prosecutor. He pulled at his tie, jumped up and pointed at me.

  ‘You are pure evil! Suddenly I can understand why people kill for money or desire. Compared to you, they are worthy of our respect! They still operate according to society’s norms and our normal ways of thinking. But you! You are an attack on our very way of life, our traditions and the beliefs we rely on to live.’

  I nodded. He stared at me as if I was a monster. Then came his screams, like those of a terrified child.

  ‘The judge has the final say. I beg you, Your Honour, give this young man the death penalty. At once. Have him executed at once! I can feel his insidious thinking spreading and multiplying. He will only serve as inspiration to other helpless young people. He is a danger to our society. He will terrorise the whole world. I beg you! For all of us, for humankind, kill him at once!’

  No response. Everyone sat in their seats.

  I raised my handcuffed hands, looked up and spoke calmly.

  ‘Yes. Shoot me.’

  They led me to a new cell. The judgement came quickly and was no surprise. Documents pertaining to my case must have been rushed between government departments, from the District Court to the High Court, the High Court to the Supreme Court, which then prodded the High Court, which in turn prodded the District Court. The guards were handed a letter and they reported to their section manager, who then reported to the section chief, who then reported to the vice-procurator of the court, who then reported to his superior, the presiding judge. The death sentence would no doubt take months to process, maybe even a year. Probably it would be done by shooting, maybe by lethal injection. Whatever. I was waiting for my last supper. As for explaining the case to the outside world, they’d no doubt come up with their own explanation. Attempted robbery? Exam pressure? Social exclusion? Something suitable to propagate to the masses. They sure as hell wouldn’t let people know it was out of boredom. A desire to play cat and mouse. That that was my reason for killing her.

  My original plan consisted of four parts:

  Purpose: Relief.

  Method: Escape.

  Technique: Murder.

  Funds: Ten grand.

  This is the full record of my last words. Let it be recorded in history that once lived such a person.

  Goodbye.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Marysia Juszczakiewicz and Tina Chou at Peony Literary Agency, Oneworld Publications, my translator, Anna Holmwood, and Julia Lovell, who made the English-language edition of the book possible.

  This book has been selected to receive financial assistance from English PEN’s Writers in Translation programme, supported by Bloomberg and Arts Council England. English PEN exists to promote literature and its understanding, uphold writers’ freedoms around the world, campaign against the persecution and imprisonment of writers for stating their views, and promote the friendly cooperation of writers and
free exchange of ideas.

  Each year, a dedicated committee of professionals selects books that are translated into English from a wide variety of foreign languages. We award grants to UK publishers to help translate, promote, market and champion these titles. Our aim is to celebrate books of outstanding literary quality which have a clear link to the PEN charter and promote free speech and intercultural understanding.

  In 2011, Writers in Translation’s outstanding work and contribution to diversity in the UK literary scene were recognised by Arts Council England. English PEN was awarded a threefold increase in funding to develop its support for world writing in translation.

  www.englishpen.org