I wasn’t allowed but I followed him. Daddy had a gun and I followed him. I got so close, but he never saw me. Then the bang went around and I saw. He killed her. And I watched and he cut her neck and the blood came out like the hose when you squeeze your thumb on the end and Daddy looked into her eyes and said something quiet and went down her tummy and when she was unzipped he cried, no! and I cried and Daddy got me from behind the rock and he was sad. He’d got it wrong. He thought the deer had no baby. But there it was, I saw it. The tiny little baby inside.
*
“Well, better get on,” said Alice, signaling vaguely towards the kitchen.
Sally smiled. Seven years she’d lived across the road and this was how all their conversations ended: Alice needing to get on.
Noting how rarely Alice went out, she’d wondered if Malcolm might be a bit of a bully. But she was a good judge of character and they seemed like nice people.
“OK, bye then.”
Alice closed the door.
There was a lot to do. She took the bread knife she’d used to separate his head from his body, and put it in the washing up bowl. It had taken an hour. A forum member called Deadlock85 told her it was the perfect decapitation tool. They were wrong. Another called Bosekaiser9 warned her there would be an unimaginable amount of blood. But she still wasn’t prepared.
“Who would’ve thought the old man to have had so much blood in him,” she said, laying towels to prevent it leaking under the cupboards. At one point she thought he might’ve finally run dry, but when she rolled him, the wound began oozing in gentle pulses as though that cold heart might still be trying to drive life into the mean old bastard.
His head had a funny shocked expression, sitting there in the sink.
“Surprised, Malcolm?” she asked it sincerely.
Alice did not want to be punished for killing her husband. She knew that even fifteen years ago, when her plan was first forming. No. She wouldn’t have her future end before it had begun. She’d suffered thirty-six years of prison already. His strangling control, his unpredictable tempers, his halitosis and his drunken hands waking her at three in the morning, slug-tongued, breath like rotting sherry casks.
The landline rang. Alice looked up startled, then turned back to her undertaking.
If you’re organised, the whole business is oddly straightforward. Bleaching, burning, burying and blending. The four Bs of success. She’d taught herself Photoshop, faked some ID, then used false log-in details at the library in the neighbouring town. The Tuesday prior to drugging Malcolm’s Earl Grey and pushing one of his ceremonial blades into his chest, she’d popped in to use the computer. She’d wanted to know the best place to insert it, to ensure he never woke up. On the screen: several thumbnails of chest wounds; close-ups of pale, gaping cadavers. A well-dressed gentleman around her own age had stopped behind her.
“Nasty,” he’d exclaimed, “who are you bumping off?”
Looking him in the eye, she’d replied, “just my husband.”
“Well… no doubt he deserves it,” he’d chuckled, wandering off towards the local history section.
She hadn’t even wanted him dead, especially. She’d broached ending their marriage once, but never made that mistake again. Then there was the time she’d tried to leave him. Her plan, to stay with Ruth, her best friend from school. Only, when she arrived at the address on the back of Ruth’s Christmas card, it turned out she hadn’t lived in Guildford for months.
“They’ve moved to Wales,” was all the woman could tell her. “Don’t you have her phone number?”
How foolish she’d felt. Sitting on a bench for an hour, unable to think of anywhere else to go, she’d got back on the train and returned home. She was lucky that day, returning minutes before he walked through the door, angry dinner wasn’t ready, yelling while she peeled potatoes. But facing away, she hadn’t been able to stop smiling.
Yes, she’d considered alternatives to this, but knew if she left him, he wouldn’t rest until he’d married again. And she would not let that happen to a fellow human.
The phone rang again. Alice stared at the space where Malcolm’s head used to be, remembering how once, after he’d beaten her especially savagely, he’d apologised for losing his head.
The only time he’d said sorry.
Because of the child, she supposed. The little deer she’d never get to hold.
But she would not blame him. This was her doing. From the syphoning of housekeeping money over the years, to the pit she’d dug at the back of the woods, this act was hers. In a way, despite the nice house, the 4×4 and the double oven, this plan was all she had, and she would not have it taken from her. Would not even be angry with him for putting her in this position. She would be calm and decent and respectful. She would be Alice.
The little boat by the jetty. The track leading down to the croft. The view of the loch from the window. They had nearly cost her everything.
But she’d needed them to be there, waiting.
Alice knelt down on the knee cushion she used for deadheading roses, picked up Malcolm’s hacksaw and went back to work.
When the doorbell rang the following day, she had to steady herself against the counter, heart beating like a rabbit’s.
She’d worked half the night to dismember the huge, pale carcass that had once been her husband. It was only when she’d packed him neatly into the big, wheeled suitcase for their trip to Marbella, she realised she wouldn’t be strong enough to lift it into the car.
Alice straightened her cardigan, eyed the shadow through the frosted glass, considered ignoring it, before realising it was probably the brandy that hadn’t arrived in time for Malcolm’s birthday.
How he’d mewled.
“I asked for one thing. One f*ing thing. Are you f*ing mentally disabled? Was it too much f*ing effort to walk to the shop and buy me a bottle of f*ing brandy?”
She’d ruined everything. His sixtieth of all things. A milestone, forever marred by her thoughtlessness.
She’d tried to explain she’d bought him an extra special bottle online. Researched it carefully. Bought it with her allowance. She’d wanted him to have something nice for his final drink.
But a week after Malcolm’s birthday it still hadn’t arrived, so she’d drugged his tea instead. Alice wasn’t interested in alcohol, having experienced its effects first hand. But she wanted that bottle.
Pulling open the door, a tiny involuntary gasp escaped her lips.
It was a police officer.
Alice’s gaze leapt to the suitcase behind the door, then back to the young policeman. For an interminable moment he simply stared. Alice stared back.
“Hello Madam, I’m PC Kershaw. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions?”
Certain he knew everything simply from her expression, she tried to smile, but sensed instantly how ghastly it must look. A pained, lunatic grin. Unsure what to do with her hands, she tucked curls of grey behind her ears, then remembered to respond.
“Of course. Yes, come in.”
She stood in front of the suitcase, directing him towards the lounge.
“Thank you.”
“Cup of tea?”
“I’m fine thanks.”
He entered the lounge, looking around. Alice gestured to Malcolm’s armchair.
“Going somewhere nice?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“Suitcase in the hall. Looks like you’re off on holiday?”
“Oh that. Yes. I mean, no… that’s actually… some old bits of Malcolm… of Malcolm’s. I’m having a clear-out.”
He raised his head in a slow nod.
“Is your husband here, Mrs Hindwood?”
“Malcolm?”
Of course Malcolm.
“No,” she continued, “he… well… no, he’s not here.”
The policeman raised his eyebrows.
“Why?” she asked, a little squeakily.
“We had a call from a Mr Webber. He was supposed to meet your husband yesterday… go over some urgent business. But your husband never showed, and… he hasn’t been answering his phone, or emails. Mobile’s off. No one picking up at home. He was concerned, said Malcolm hadn’t missed a single meeting in the…” he checked a notepad, “twenty-six years they’ve been working together. He was adamant something’s wrong.”
“I see,” said Alice. “Well… it’s true. Malcolm wasn’t in the best state yesterday.”
The Constable waited.
“He left.”
“Left? Where?”
Alice had an inkling. The phrase, ‘lingering perdition, worse than any death,” popped into her head.
“I’m not sure,” she replied.
How Alice hated being deceitful. Even to Malcolm. When he became drowsy and amenable after his barbiturate-laced tea, she’d pulled up a chair, held his hand and calmly and apologetically explained everything. What she was about to do, and why.
But police officers? She really hated lying to police officers.
“The thing is, Constable, yesterday… I told him I wanted him gone. It’s been a long time coming. But Malcolm didn’t take it well. He’d been drinking you see.”
The young man frowned. “You had a row?”
“Not a row. Just a very… honest conversation.”
“How did it end?”
“It ended with Malcolm… departing.”
“Did he seem… OK to you? Depressed?”
Alice looked him in the eyes. “He seemed quite cut up. But not depressed. Malcolm doesn’t really believe in depression.”
“And you haven’t heard from him?”
Alice shook her head.
“How long have you been married, if you don’t mind…?”
“Thirty-three years.”
The boy frowned, looked at his hands.
“Sad… when people grow apart,” he said unexpectedly.
Alice sighed. “Yes. I wish… there’d been another way.”
“D’you have children?”
Alice’s jaw tensed. “No. There was… We had a boy, but…”
“Sorry. That must’ve been…
The young man trailed off. Alice sensed his pain. The taut web of her empathy caught every flutter of his sorrow.
“Sure I can’t make you a cup of tea?” she asked softly.
“No. Thanks.”
“Did your parents… get on?” she asked.
“They had their moments. Does your husband like to drink?”
Alice nodded.
“Both my parents liked a drink… or two,” he said with a crooked smile. “Always thought they might’ve got on, if it wasn’t for the booze.”
“Did they split up?”
“Yeah. I was ten.”
Alice’s brow creased. She wanted to touch his hand. Let him feel the warmth of someone who understood something of grief.
“Sometimes too much has been said, that can’t be unsaid,” she said quietly.
The policeman took a sharp breath.
“If you want to find Malcolm,” she said, shepherding the young man back to the present, “I’d start with the local pubs. Ones with rooms.”
He looked up, nodded, almost smiled.
“Did your husband take anything, Mrs Hindwood? Any belongings?”
“He has a bag with him.”
“OK.” He readied his pen. “Can you describe it?”
Alice hesitated. “Yes it’s a large, wheeled suitcase. Red.”
“Like the one in the hall?”
“Exactly. Yes.”
The Constable forced a resigned smile, “Well… let’s hope he’s able to… move on. I expect he’ll make contact soon.”
“Mmm,” breathed Alice, silently shuddering.
As Alice opened the door, the officer turned. “Nice to meet you, Mrs Hindwood. D’you need a hand with the bags?”
Her eyes followed his to the suitcase.
“That… would be incredibly kind. Thank you. And please, call me Alice.”
*
Alice lowered her book, rearranged her blanket and looked over the purple hills inverted in the loch. As she breathed deeply, something on the shoreline caught her eye. Strutting boldly along the sand, almost coral in the setting sunlight, was a deer and her fawn.
They stopped, the doe’s dark eyes watching her, unblinking, her breath condensing from her grey muzzle.
Alice smiled, feeling her heart beating quickly and the warmth of her tears as they spilled down her cheeks.
Jon is a voice-over artist living in Yorkshire, attempting to get his writing career off the ground. He is also co-host of The Failing Writers Podcast, which ought to give you a clue about how well that’s going. Having said that, doing the podcast has definitely helped him improve, and things may even be looking up. He was recently shortlisted for The Bridport Flash Fiction Prize, he has begun querying his crime novel: The Order, and now to top it off – a piece in Northern Gravy!
