A knife's life (Kerry)

Pub meals are the worst. The steaks are so tough. Bill always brings me out in preference to the worn-out hotel steak knives; their serrations have seen better days. Mine, on the other hand, has been a sheltered life. Spent lying alluringly on a collector’s shelf, showing off my fine carved handle and sparkling blade, my serrations are as splendidly sharp as ever.

I have very little experience with owners. Bill is my first real one. I mean he’s the first to actually use me. He simply came in one day and picked me up off the shelf. I heard him muttering something about liking the cut of my jib. I think he might have been referring to my bone handle. Next thing I know I’m being dropped into his smelly, dark pocket.

I confess to suffering a little from claustrophobia and being in this enclosed space was not a pleasant experience. However, using all my ingenuity, I managed to scrape a tiny hole in the corner of his pocket with the rough texture of my carvings. Just enough to give me a bit of fresh air. You may ask why I didn’t use my fine blade to escape but I am not equipped to self-propel.

Upon my word! Excuse me. We’re in the washroom at the hotel and Bill has dug me out of his pocket. He has flicked me open and is using me to pick his teeth. This is grotesque. Abominable. He wipes my blade on his trousers and closes me up. I cannot tolerate this gross misuse of my fine qualities.

I had been following some of the muffled conversations Bill had with his partner back there in the pub lounge. I am forming the opinion that Bill is up to no good. There was talk of ‘picking the lock’ and ‘keeping watch’. These are not activities I have been involved with before but I will have no choice of course if I am forced to participate.

I feel Bill’s hand. He is stroking my handle. I think he likes having me in his pocket. Now he clutches me and draws me out carefully. It’s dark out here. We’re outside in a laneway. Someone is breathing heavily. There’s no talk, just slow shuffling noises. I’m afraid. Bill has flicked me open. He’s pointing me.

He stabs. My blade slips easily through fabric, and into flesh. It’s warm momentarily then I am released to the cold air. Another stab. Another.

This is unbearable. I feel ill.

I am grabbed from behind. Another powerful thrust. I feel a shudder and hear a gurgle. A body slumps on the ground and I clatter noisily onto stones.

Someone picks me up and throws me. I spiral through the air, the wind blowing against my blood-smeared blade. The cold force of water slaps me unexpectedly. I have no resistance against its dragging current and slide slowly downwards until I feel myself settle ignominiously onto freezing mud.