I’ve lost my car key.
Actually, I say I’ve lost my car key. But the evidence that it was actually me who lost it is inconclusive.
On one hand, it nearly always is me who loses things like car keys, in our household. I’m a little absent-minded, to say the least.
On the other hand, Lizzie was the last person to drive my car (she moved it about five metres up the drive into the bit of the drive which goes into the garden. I’ve no idea why she did this. As I think I’ve mentioned before, she just likes moving stuff about).
So Lizzie is a suspect too. Not that she’d ever admit it.
I talk to a friend about the Case of the Lost Key and he points out the evidence against me is entirely circumstantial.
‘But it nearly always is me who loses things like car keys,’ I insist. ‘There’s a precedent!’
‘Yes, but in court they wouldn’t be able to mention your past misdemeanours,’ he counters. ‘On the other hand, the evidence is stacked against Lizzie! We know she was the last one to drive your car! She’s the prime suspect!’
I nod slowly, not entirely convinced. I’m not sure how sound my friend’s knowledge of the law is.
Days pass and the key remains lost. My car stays dormant, just as it feels someone has hit the accelerator on the level of stress in our house.
‘We need to find your key!’ blurts Lizzie, impatiently. Things are getting urgent. Several events are coming up which will require us to drive our children to different places at the same time. In other words, we’ll need both cars. Without them, we’re screwed. (Can’t you just use your spare key to drive your car? you might be wondering. The answer is: no, I can’t. I lost that one months ago. I told you I was absent-minded).
‘Can you remember what you were wearing, when I gave you back your car key?’ Lizzie now asks, tapping the kitchen table irritably. She’s insisting that she returned the key to me, immediately after she moved my car. I have no memory of this, however.
‘I think I was wearing blue shorts the day you moved my car,’ I reply, as coolly as I can. ‘And I’ve checked the pockets of those.’
‘The same question back at you, as you’re a suspect too…’ I continue. ‘What were you wearing, when you took my car key? Have you checked your pockets?’
Lizzie frowns and mutters that she doesn’t remember. What she really means is… I haven’t checked my pockets, because it wasn’t me who lost the key, you fucking idiot.
We now embark on a joint effort to find the missing item, around the house and its surroundings. ‘This is like real detective work!’ says Lizzie, as she interrogates me further about my movements on the day the key went missing… trying to piece together a picture of what happened.
All the while, I counter-interrogate, asking Lizzie similar questions… trying to keep the finger of accusation firmly pointed at her too. I’m innocent until proven guilty, I keep reminding myself.
As we continue to cross-examine each other – and search the house – I begin to think back to all of those old TV shows and movies which featured detectives who also happened to be married… Hart to Hart, The Thin Man, Moonlighting (OK, they weren’t married in that one… but they did shag).
Are Lizzie and I like those characters? I ask myself. Hardly, I conclude. For one thing, there’s little of their fun banter between us (not today, anyway). And for another, I’m sure there was never an episode of Hart to Hart where Robert Wagner and Stefanie Powers spent the whole show bickering over a missing car key.
And so Lizzie and I keep on key-hunting… both aware of how high the stakes are. After all, it’s not just a case of finding the thing. It’s a case of solving the mystery of which of us is to blame for losing it. The location of the missing key will hold… er… the key to this.
Finally, after about an hour, Lizzie comes up to me…. bright-eyed.
‘I’ve found it!’ she declares, breathlessly.
‘Where was it?’ I reply… relieved… but nervous.
‘Down the side of the seat in my car,’ she responds, pleased as hell. ‘It makes sense. Do you remember… after I gave you back your key, you decided to drive my car into town…’
‘Well, I did borrow your car, because you’d parked mine halfway up the garden, for some reason.’
Exactly! Lizzie’s expression says. And that’s when your key slipped out of your pocket down the side of my car seat. It’s as clear as day! She doesn’t even need to say this last bit. I know what she’s thinking.
‘That’s great you’ve found it!’ I say. ‘Well done!’ I don’t say: yes, you’re clearly right. It WAS me who lost it. I don’t want to give Lizzie the satisfaction. And, also, her evidence seems a little sketchy.
Lizzie narrows her eyes at me. Obviously, she wants a confession of guilt.
A couple of minutes later, I make a terrible mistake. An awful tactical misjudgement.
We’re in the hallway and I say to Lizzie, ‘I’m just going to put my car key on this shelf here… I don’t want to lose it again!’
Gah! I’ve made an accidental confession, I realise, horrified. Did Lizzie notice?
Of course she noticed. She’s looking at me with barely suppressed glee.
‘You don’t want to lose it again, did you say?’ she says softly but with heavy meaning.
I don’t say anything but I know what Lizzie’s triumphant expression means… the exact two words she’s thinking…
Case closed.
June 2023
P. D. Clifton 
Leave a comment