OJ Simpson's chilling 'hypothetical' confession to murder: This 'fictional' description of how he killed Nicole Brown Simpson after being enraged by 'kinky' rumours caused outrage. So did he do it? Read it and decide for yourself

In what many considered a miscarriage of justice, O J Simpson — who died last week — was acquitted of the exceptionally brutal murder in 1994 of his ex-wife, Nicole, and a man he came across at her house. He never gave evidence in court, except to insist he was 'Absolutely 100 per cent not guilty'.

But in a ghost-written book with the odd title of 'If I Did It', published under his name in 2007 in the strangest circumstances (see panel below), he told in detail his hypothetical version of what might have happened.

Was it a confession? He insisted it wasn't. Read this edited extract and decide for yourself, bearing in mind this caveat — that the accomplice he calls Charlie has never been identified or traced and almost certainly did not exist...

O J Simpson, who died last week, was acquitted of the exceptionally brutal murder in 1994 of his ex-wife Nicole

Murder weapon? Simpson bought a 15in knife similar to the one shown in this court exhibit

I'm GOING TO tell you a story you've never heard before, because no one knows this story the way I know it. It takes place on the night of June 12, 1994, and it concerns the murder of my ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and her young friend, Ronald Goldman.

I want you to forget everything you think you know about that night, because I know the facts better than anyone. I know the players. I've seen the evidence. I've heard the theories.

I've read all the stories: That I did it. That I did it but I don't know I did it. That I can no longer tell fact from fiction. That I wake up in the middle of the night, consumed by guilt, screaming. Man, they even had me wondering, What if I did it?

Well, sit back, people. The things I know, and the things I believe, you can't even imagine. And I'm going to share them with you. Because the story you know, or think you know — that's not the story. Not even close. This is one story the whole world got wrong.

Now picture this — and keep in mind, this is hypothetical.

The bloodstained walkway of Nicole's Bundy Drive home, in a crime scene photo. Her body has been pixellated

A glove found at OJ Simpson's home - originally said to have been half of a pair he wore during the murder 

On the night in question I was in a lousy mood after hearing from a friend about the out-of-control things my ex-wife was up to, mixing with a dodgy crowd and taking drugs. We'd been divorced for two years after she walked out on me and I'd pretty much given up on her, but she was still the mother of my kids, nine-year-old Sydney and five-year-old Justin.

I had to do something; if not for her, for them. Don't get me wrong: Nicole had been a terrific mother — almost obsessive at times — but she'd been screwing up big-time lately. The idea was to shake her up so badly that she'd finally start getting her shit together.

I remember thinking, That woman is going to be the death of me. Nicole was sapping a lot of my goddamn energy. She was on the fast-track to hell, and she seemed determined to take me and the kids with her.

I felt whipped. I'd been somebody once. I'd had my glory days as a football star, a number of high-paying corporate gigs, many years as a football analyst, and even something of a career as a Hollywood actor. But everything seemed more difficult now.

I was outside my house on Rockingham Drive in the Los Angeles district of Brentwood after getting a burger from Macdonald's. I remember looking at my watch. It was 10:03. I was about to go inside to finish my packing for a business trip to Chicago, when a car slowed near my gate, parked a short way down the street and the driver got out.

It was Charlie. I'd met him some months earlier at a dinner with mutual friends, and I'd seen him again a few weeks ago, when we'd gone clubbing with the same friends. I liked Charlie — he was one of those guys who is always in a good mood, always laughing — and I'd told him to stop by when he was in the neighbourhood.

The first thing I noticed was that he wasn't smiling. 'What's up with you?' I said. 'You're not going to like it,' he said. Right away I knew. 'This is about Nicole, isn't it?' I said. He nodded. 'Just tell me,' I said, already riled.

He told me he'd been out to dinner with some guys in Santa Monica and they were talking about a trip they'd made recently to a beach resort in Mexico where they'd partied with a couple of girls. 'It was Nicole and her friend Faye,' he said. 'There was a lot of drugs and a lot of drinking, and apparently things got pretty kinky.'

I tried to stay calm, but I was fit to explode. 'Why are you effing telling me this, man?!' I hollered. 'I'm sick of hearing this shit!. That is the mother of my children!' 'I know, man,' said Charlie. 'And I know you two have been through a lot of sh*t, and I thought maybe if you talked to her…'

'I've been trying to talk to her for years,' I said. 'She won't listen to me. Or her family. Or her friends!' I was fuming and tried to count to 10. I didn't make it. I looked at my watch. I had less than an hour before the limo showed up to take me to the airport for my business trip, just enough time to drive down to Nicole's condomimium [townhouse] on Bundy Drive, two miles away, read her the riot act, and get my ass back to the house.

'Come on,' I said, got into my Ford Bronco SUV pulled into the street, the tyres squealing against the kerb. 'Where we going, OJ?' Charlie asked. 'We're going to scare the shit out that girl,' I said.

'This isn't a good idea,' he said. 'Screw that, ' I replied. 'I'm tired of being the understanding ex-husband. I have my kids to think about.' I was seething. Charlie looked scared. 'Relax, man,' I said. 'I'm just going to talk to the girl. And it'll be quick. I'm leaving for Chicago on the red eye.'

We were at Nicole's place by then and I parked in an alley behind her condo. It was so quiet it kind of spooked me. 'Which one's her place?' Charlie asked. I pointed it out.

'I don't like this,' he said. 'What if she's with someone?'

'She better not be,' I said. 'Not with my kids in the house.'

I slipped on my blue wool cap and my glove, which I keep for nippy mornings on the golf course. I reached under the seat for my knife, which I kept in the car because LA is full of crazies. 'Nice, huh?' I said, showing it to Charlie. He snatched it out of my hand, pissed. 'Go in there and talk to the girl if you have to,' he said, 'but you're not taking a goddamn knife with you.'

I opened the door, got out of the Bronco, and stole across the alley to Nicole's back gate, which was broken and opened if you gave it a little push. I must have told her a million times to get it fixed but the woman never listened.

I moved toward the front door, and noticed lights flickering in the windows. Candles were burning inside, and I could hear faint music playing. It was obvious that Nicole was expecting company. I wondered who the f*** it was this time.

Ronald Goldman, who was killed along with Simpson's ex-wife Nicole in Los Angeles

Former golden couple OJ and Nicole at at Olympics party in 1984

Simpson tries on one of the leather gloves prosecutors said he wore on the night his ex-wife Nicole and Ron Goldman were murdered 

Just as I was beginning to get seriously steamed, the back gate squeaked open. A guy came walking through like he owned the place. He saw me and froze. He was young and good-looking, with a thick head of black hair, and I tried to place him, but I'd never seen him before. I didn't even know his name: Ron Goldman.

'Who are you?' I said. 'I'm a waiter at Mezzaluna,' he explained, stammering. 'I, uh—I just came by to return a pair of glasses. Judy [Nicole's mother] left them at the restaurant. 'So it's Judy, is it? You're on a first name basis with Judy.'

At that moment, the gate behind Goldman squeaked again and Charlie walked in. He was carrying the knife. 'Everything cool here?' he asked. 'I saw this guy walking through the gate, and I just wanted to make sure there wasn't going to be any trouble.'

'This mother-f****er wants me to believe that he's here dropping off a pair of Judy's glasses,' I said. 'I am,' Goldman said, appearing increasingly nervous. 'And then what?' I said. 'You were going back to the restaurant?' 'No,' he said. 'My shift's over. I'm just leaving these here and going home.'

'You expect me to believe that?' I said. 'I don't expect anything,' he replied. 'I'm telling you the truth.' 'You're a liar!' I shouted. 'She's got candles burning inside. Music playing. Probably a nice bottle of red wine breathing on the counter, waiting for you.'

'Not for me,' Goldman protested. 'Screw you, man!' I said. 'You think I'm stupid?!'

Suddenly the front door opened. Nicole came outside. She was wearing a slinky little cocktail dress, black, with probably not much on underneath. Her mouth fell open in shock. She looked at me, and she looked at Goldman, and she looked at Charlie, just beyond. Goldman was pretty well trapped. Charlie stood between him and the rear gate, and I was barring his way to the front.

'OJ, what the f**ck is going on?' she said. I turned to look at her. 'That's what I want to know,' I said.

Our family dog , a large Akita, came wandering out of the house, saw me and wagged his tail. Then he saw Goldman and also wagged his tail. I looked at Goldman, steamed, and Charlie moved closer, the knife still in his hand. I think he sensed that things were about to get out of control, because I was very close to losing it. 'Let's just get out of here, OJ,' he said.

I stared at Goldman. 'I asked you a question, mother-f***ker. What are you doing here? You delivering drugs. I hear half you assholes are dealing on the side.' 'Leave him alone!' Nicole said and came at me, swinging. 'Get out of here! This is my house and I can do what I want!'

'Not in front of my kids, you can't! I said.

She came at me like a banshee, all arms and legs, flailing, and I ducked. She lost her balance and fell against the steps to the condo. I heard the back of her head hitting the ground, and she lay there for a moment, not moving.

'Jesus Christ, OJ, let's get out of here!' Charlie said again, his voice cracking.

I looked over at Goldman, and I was fuming. I guess he thought I was going to hit him, because he got into his little karate stance. He started circling me, bobbing and weaving, and if I hadn't been so angry I would have laughed in his face.

'OJ, come on!' It was Charlie again, pleading. Nicole moaned, regaining consciousness. She stirred and opened her eyes and looked at me, but it didn't seem like anything was registering.

Charlie walked over and planted himself in front of me, blocking my view. 'We are done here, man—let's go!' I noticed the knife in his hand, and in one deft move I removed my right glove and snatched it up.

'We're not going anywhere,' I said, turning to face Goldman. 'You think you're tough?' I said. Charlie reached for me and tried to drag me away, but I shook him off, hard, and moved toward Goldman. 'Okay,' I said. 'Show me how tough you are!'

Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what happened, but I can't tell you exactly how. I was still standing in Nicole's courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn't remember how I'd gotten there, when I'd arrived, or even why I was there.

Then it came back to me, very slowly, the earlier events of that evening. And now? Now I was standing in the dark, listening to the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my own heart. I put my left hand to my heart and my shirt felt strangely wet.

I looked down at myself and couldn't get my mind around what I was seeing. The whole front of me was covered in blood, but it didn't compute. Is this really blood? I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is it mine? Am I hurt? I was more confused than ever.

What the hell had happened here? Then I remembered that Goldman guy coming through the back gate, with Judy's glasses, and I remembered hollering at him, and I remembered how our shouts had brought Nicole to the door . . . Nicole. Jesus.

I looked down and saw her on the ground in front of me, curled up in a foetal position at the base of the stairs, not moving. Goldman was only a few feet away, slumped against the bars of the fence. He wasn't moving either. Both he and Nicole were lying in giant pools of blood.

I had never seen so much blood in my life. It didn't seem real, and none of it computed. What happened here? Who had done this? And why? And where was I when this shit went down? It was like part of my life was missing — like there was some weird gap in my existence.

But how could that be? I was standing right there. That was me, right? I again looked down at my blood-soaked clothes. I noticed the knife in my hand. It was covered in blood, as were my hand and wrist and half of my right forearm.

That didn't compute either. I wondered how I'd got blood all over my knife, and I again asked myself whose blood it might be, when suddenly it all made perfect sense: This was just a bad dream. A very bad dream. Any moment now, I would wake up, at home, in my own bed, and start going about my day.

Then I heard a sound behind me and turned, startled. Charlie was standing in the shadows, a few feet away, his mouth hanging open, his breathing short and ragged. He was looking beyond me, at the bodies. I went over and stood in front of him and asked him the same question I'd just asked myself. 'Charlie, what happened here?'

He looked up and met my eyes, but for several moments it was as if he didn't really see me. Then he shook his head from side to side, his mouth still hanging open, his breathing still short, ragged, and in a voice that was no more than a frightened whisper, said, 'Jesus Christ, OJ — what have you done?'

'Me?' I said. What the hell was he talking about? I hadn't done anything.

Simpson, flanked by his lawyers, celebrates as he listens to the not guilty verdict

Simpson in his famous police mugshot. He never gave evidence in court, except to insist he was 'absolutely 100 per cent not guilty'

I jumped at a sound behind me, a high-pitched, almost human wail. It was the dog, circling Nicole's body, his big paws leaving prints in the wet blood. He lifted his snout and let out another wail, and it sent chills up and down my spine.

'Let's get out of here,' I said and hurried toward the rear gate, moving through it, with Charlie close behind. But I stopped, thinking about all the blood. My shirt and pants were sticking to my skin. Even my shoes were covered in blood.

I looked behind me and saw a track of bloody, telltale prints. 'I've got to get rid of these clothes,' I said and without even thinking about it I kicked off my shoes and began to strip. I took off my trousers and shirt, dropped the knife and shoes into the pile of clothes and wrapped the whole thing into a tight bundle.

Charlie stood there all the while, mumbling. 'Jesus Christ, OJ!' He just kept repeating himself, like he'd lost his goddamn mind or something. I got behind the wheel of the Bronco, and Charlie climbed into the passenger seat. Then, tyres squealing, I pulled out of the alley and headed home.

I glanced at Charlie. He was hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. 'What happened back there, Charlie?' I said. He sat up. His cheeks were wet with tears. He shook his head from side to side and shrugged.

I thought back to that horrific scene at the courtyard, and to all the blood. I had never seen so much blood in my life. It didn't seem possible. It didn't seem real. This wasn't really happening. That hadn't been me back there.

I'd imagined the whole thing. I was imagining it then. In actual fact I was home in bed, asleep, having one of those crazy crime-of-passion dreams, but I was going to wake up any second now. Yeah — that was it!

Only I didn't wake up.

When I got back to my house, a limo was waiting at the gate to take me to the airport. I didn't want the driver to see me so I sneaked in through the back door. Before doing so, I told Charlie that, once I had gone in the limo, he was to park the Bronco in my driveway, then get into his own car and take off. He was also to take the bundle of clothes with the knife in the middle and 'make sure it disappears forever'.

Inside I showered and dressed, my heart still beating like crazy. I could feel it in my ears, and against my temples, but as I looked around I couldn't understand what I was so worked up about. I took a deep breath and told myself, The last hour was just a nightmare. None of that ever goddamn happened.

Then I got in the waiting limo to the airport and took the plane to Chicago. There I checked into my hotel, went to my room and fell asleep. A short time later I was awakened by the ringing phone. I picked it up and a cop in LA told me: 'Nicole has been killed.'

'What do you mean killed?' I asked. And the cop said, 'We can't tell you. We're still investigating. But we can tell you that the kids are all right. I need you to come back to Los Angeles now. We'll be waiting for you at your house.'

I went nuts, and I remember screaming at him, begging him not to leave me in the dark about what had happened — but it didn't help. I slammed the phone down, stormed into the bathroom, and threw a glass across the room. It shattered against the tiled wall, sounding like a gunshot. I looked down at my hand and noticed that my finger was bleeding.

I called Nicole's family, the Browns. Her sister, Denise, came on the phone, hysterical. 'You brutal son of a bitch!' she hollered. 'You killed her! I know you killed her.'

I caught the first plane back to LA, sitting upright and stock still throughout the flight. I felt like I was made of glass and that if I moved too much I would shatter into a million pieces. In the car going home from the airport my heart was pounding and the blood was roaring in my ears. I was terrified, to be honest. Nicole was dead — gone forever -and the police were waiting for me.

I heard her death reported on the radio, and the whole thing felt completely unreal, as if it was happening to someone else, not me. My hands were shaking uncontrollably. 'Are people saying they think I did it?' I asked my lawyer, who'd come to meet me at the airport. 'I can't believe people would think I could do something like that.'

Adapted from If I Did It: Confessions Of The Killer by OJ Simpson (Gibson Square Books Ltd, £10.99). © The Goldman Family 2007. To order a copy for £9.89 (offer valid until May 6, 2024; UK P&P free on orders over £25) go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.