I found a double bladed axe on the ground. It was long, almost half my height and next to it was another shorter axe with four small blades, with points instead of curves and each perpendicular to the other. They did not look like they had been used; there was no blood on either of them, but I thought I should return them to the police anyway.
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And when the bobbies came over we sat down in the park outside the flats where my mother lived, each taking a striped folding chair which we arranged in a circle. And more bobbies came, so the circle was maybe six policemen and myself.
The bobbies started asking me questions: When did I last see my mother? How often do I see her?
I see her a lot. She’s ninety-nine and doing well, I reply.
But all I wanted to do was to give them the axes.
So I take them up to see her, to prove she was doing well; and at the top of the stairs, the first floor hallway, she’s standing there. She looks fifty and is dressed in a black and purple halter top, a slit in the fabric revealing a youthful neck. She has on a knee length skirt.
And she has arranged her hair in her typical bouffant from the seventies; it is still dark brown with enough dye to hide any hint of grey.
See, she’s doing fine, I say to the cops as I put my arm around her shoulders. Though I wonder why she is out of the flat, wandering the halls.
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