Some Raisins

Flash Fiction story about raisins, breakfast and murder

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Some Raisins

“Nearly every morning for 43 years I sat down to breakfast with my dear late husband. And on every one of those mornings, he would sprinkle raisins on his porridge, pour coffee from the cafetiere for us both and then ask me “Would you like some raisins?”

 I don’t like raisins and never have, and, after all of this, I probably never will. But, you see, his mother had told him when he was a child that raisins are good for you and because he was rarely ill, he took this as a sign that the raisins were helping him.

 The longer he went without getting ill, the stronger his conviction grew that it was the raisins keeping him healthy and then the greater his desire was to convince me to eat them as well.

 Can you imagine Detective – 43 years of breakfasts? That’s nearly 16,000 times hearing the same question? The same enquiry: ‘Would you like some raisins?’

 Now Detective, I love breakfast. On the few occasions that I went away without him I always lingered over hotel breakfast buffets or went to cafes that serve an all-day breakfast and nobody in any of those places ever asked me if I would like some raisins with my scrambled eggs, toast or cereal.

 So today, on morning 15,694 of being asked “Would you like some raisins?” I realised, Detective, that the only way to convince my husband that I would never like some raisins was to pick up the steak knife I was using to cut my bacon and stab him in the throat”

 Detective Francesca Rossi looked at the small white-haired woman in the standard-issue grey prisoner tracksuit sat across the black topped table from her. Although her blood-stained clothes and glasses had been taken from her by the forensics team there was still some dark spatter on her tidily filed fingernails and across her cheek just under her right eye. If asked, Francesca would probably have described the woman as plain. She was a classic, almost forgettable old lady from Barton on Sea – a low height settlement of bungalows and speed humps with regular bus services to Lyndhurst, Bournemouth and Poole that sat on the edge of the New Forest overlooking the English Channel.

“Mrs Newman. It seems a bit extreme to stab someone 27 times in the neck, chest and face over some raisins. Was there anything else that we should be aware of”
Mrs Newman looked Francesca on the eye.

“Would you like some raisins?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Would you like some raisins?”

“Mrs Newman?”

“Would you like some raisins?”

“I understand that this is frustrating”

“Would you like some raisins? Would you like some raisins? WOULD you like some raisins? WOULD you like some RAISINS? WOULD YOU LIKE SOME RAISINS? WOULD YOU LIKE SOME RAISINS? WOULD YOU LIKE SOME RAISINS?”

Two uniformed custody officers spurred into action by the woman’s shouting banged the interrogation room door open and lifted Mrs Newman out of her seat.

“WOULD YOU LIKE SOME RAISINS?”

Her solicitor suggested that medical help be sought.

“WOULD YOU LIKE SOME RAISINS?”

The custody officers put Mrs Newman’s skinny arms behind her back

“WOULD YOU LIKE SOME RAISINS?”

 Mrs Newman did not struggle as the handcuffs clicked into the locked position around her fragile wrists.

“WOULD YOU LIKE SOME RAISINS?”

The solicitor felt that she really must insist that a doctor be called immediately.

“WOULD YOU LIKE SOME RAISINS? WOULD YOU LIKE SOME RAISINS?”

Francesca looked at the old woman - a tiny, lightweight, delicate doll between the two stab vest wearing, bulky custody officers.

“WOULD YOU LIKE SOME RAISINS?”

 “No thank you” replied Francesca

“Very good” said Mrs Newman as she was guided towards the door.