1.
The evening began in its usual fashion. My husband gave me a backhander across the mouth and followed it up with a blow to the gut for whimpering.
Usually, the reason was a mystery. Maybe Joe’s evening cuppa wasn’t dark enough? Or maybe I was making too much noise as I tidied his mess? There was always the remote possibility that I hadn’t tidied to his exacting and arcane standards? But sometimes he didn’t need an excuse; I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
However, tonight was different. Joe had pulled up in the car park near my office, on his way home from work, and pressed the horn repeatedly until my line manager, Susan, looked up from her screen and turned in my direction. Staring at my old bruises, poorly hidden beneath a thick layer of foundation, she jerked her head towards the exit.
“You’d better go, Mel.”
Guilt brought a hot flush to my cheeks. “The Anderson job needs to go tonight.”
Jaw muscles flexing, Susan fixed me with her cold blue gaze. She hid her anger behind an uncomfortable fake grin. It was hard to tell if she was angry with my husband or me. She pushed her mouse across the desk with aggressive jerks of her arm and stabbed the button forcefully. The mouse pointer lurched around a double-page spread before finally finding its way to a large column of text.
“It will go tonight,” Susan said through gritted teeth. “One way or another, but you should go.”
She turned back to the screen with a flick of long red hair.
As I made my way to the exit, past several co-workers who avoided my gaze, I peered over my shoulder. I wanted her to know that this wasn’t my fault. I wanted her to sense my desperation. I hoped she’d turn, see the fear in my eyes, or my trudging gait, and beg me to stay.
But it wasn’t to be. Susan remained hunched towards the screen, smashing at the keyboard with her fingers.
I left the office and exited the building. The evening was warm and clammy, but the sweat running down my back was from fear rather than the humidity. I dabbed my forehead with the back of a hand and walked towards a dented Ford Focus that revved impatiently in the parking area.
A man shouted my name.
I turned and noticed Harry from accounts holding my door keys in his hand. He smiled and shook them. “You forgot these.”
I returned the smile, even though it was difficult to hold in place. My heart beat rapidly. Another trickle of sweat ran down the gulley of my neck.
Joe didn’t like it when I talked to other men, particularly ones as handsome, confident, and well dressed as Harry.
I knew I was in trouble.
I thought about looking over my shoulder at Joe. I needed to know how much of a problem this was. But I also knew that this would make me seem even more guilty. Instead, I moved back to the doorway and plucked the keys from Harry’s grasp. As I began to make a quick getaway, Harry put his right hand on my shoulder.
“There’s a few people from the office going for drinks tomorrow, if you fancy it?”
Talking with another man was bad enough, but any physical contact made Joe furious, no matter how innocent it was. Panic set in. I began crafting best- and worst-case scenarios in my head. If I was lucky, he wouldn’t bruise me too badly.
I shook off Harry’s hand, saying: “Got stuff to do, sorry.”
He shrugged his powerful shoulders and adjusted his tie. “Well, at least have a think about it.”
“I’ve gotta go,” I replied, hitching a thumb in the direction of the car. “Thanks for the keys.”
I kept the happy expression on my face and hoped it appeared genuine enough to fool my husband. The car’s engine increased in volume as I approached. Smoke poured from the exhaust and formed dark clouds.
I opened the door and climbed into the front passenger seat. The interior reeked of the bitter engine oil that wafted off Joe’s grey overalls. I tried not to cough.
I directed a smile at Joe, but it wasn’t returned. His small blue eyes burned with loathing. His oil-stained hands had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. His teeth ground together with an unpleasant rasp. The sound seemed to fill the car. He waited a long time before speaking:
“Who the fuck was that?”
“That’s just Harry,” I replied with a shrug. “I forgot my keys.”
I jangled them for emphasis.
Joe’s eyes narrowed. “And what’s Harry doing with your keys?”
“I left them on my desk,” I said, “in my rush to leave the office.”
Joe sneered. “Rush? I don’t seem to recall any rush; considering you’ve made me wait here, like a cunt, for the last ten minutes.”
I let my hands drop on my lap. I wrapped my fingers around the keys and clutched them until the hard edges cut into my flesh. Looking down, I feigned humility the way my husband liked and murmured sorry into my chest. Doing it made me feel dirty, but it was necessary. It might save me from a more brutal beating when we arrived home.
“Sorry. I – I genuinely thought I was rushing.”
The engine revved.
“Maybe next time you should actually rush instead of just talking about it.”
“You’re right. It won’t happen again.”
Joe gave me a smug grin. “It better not.”
We drove home in silence. Occasionally we craned our heads to stare at refurbished Victorian terraces with fancy sash windows and expensively cleaned brickwork and dreamed of better lives. Joe couldn’t help but stare enviously at the expensive cars that sat outside their front doors. Driving down Highgate’s narrow high street, we cast admiring glances at its clean, village-style shop fronts.
Then we moved past the hospital, and Archway station, and accelerated down Holloway Road. The shopfronts were dirtier and less well-tended. Kebab joints and dirty chicken outlets mingled with betting shops and charity stores. Joe looked at the buildings with a glum expression.
Halfway down the road, we turned left and made our way down a street of beautiful brownstone terraces and attractive redbricks. Then we turned left again and picked up speed until we drove into an unappealing estate of low-rise flat blocks. Joe pulled into an unused parking space and turned off the engine.
Fearing a quick backhander, I drew back instinctively.
Joe smirked. “If I was gonna smack you one, I’d’ve already done it.”
We got out of the car and walked across a patch of grass to our block. Then we went inside and took the elevator to the third floor. Neither of us said anything in the lift. I kept my gaze on the floor, but I didn’t need eyes to feel Joe watching me. Goosebumps dotted my bare forearms. I suppressed the urge to shiver.
The lift pinged open, and we marched down the corridor, with Joe leading the way. I remained two steps behind – he didn’t like me taking the lead in anything. Joe unlocked the door of our flat and went inside. I followed him into the living room.
That’s when he caught me with the backhander.
His knuckles mashed my lips against my teeth. It was the shock more than the pain that made me whimper. But Joe didn’t like whimpering. He shuffled forward and slammed a low right into my gut that folded me forward. The pain left me coughing for breath; the shock made me lose control of my bladder. I dropped on my knees in a puddle of piss that was rapidly cooling on the hardwood floor and looked up at my husband.
Joe’s face was red with anger, and maybe a little excitement, too. He bounced on his toes, his fists tight like he was fighting in the ring.
“D’you fuck him?” he hissed.
I drew in a deep breath and managed to gasp: “What?”
“You heard me, bitch.”
He came in close. I drew away and landed on my backside in another cold pool of piss. My pain began to fade. Humiliation swept in to fill the void it left. My body trembled as tears spilt down my cheeks.
“Harry’s gay,” I said, avoiding Joe’s gaze.
Harry wasn’t gay, but for the sake of this conversation, he had to be – if only to save me from a worse beating. Evening light glistened on the surface of the piss puddle. Then my husband’s shadow blocked out the light. I looked up.
Joe gave me a nasty grin full of small teeth; worn away by his constant need to grind them. “Gay, straight – it all means the same thing to a slut like you. Bet his cock feels just fine when it’s inside you.”
Joe’s smile faded, and his eyes narrowed. He was scrutinising me for the slightest blush, the merest flicker of guilt, or anything else he needed to justify hitting me again.
I wiped away tears with my forearm and sniffled. “I never touched him. I promise.”
“Promise? You haven’t got the slightest fucking clue what a promise means. Fucking wedding vows mean nothing, do they?”
I let out a wail of frustration. “I never cheated on you. Not with him, not with anyone.”
Joe’s face twitched momentarily. The cogs in his head seemed to whir into life. His eyes widened, and a slight smile turned the corner of his mouth. His expression was one of recognition as if he’d deciphered some shocking secret.
“You said with anyone.”
“I don’t understand.”
He leant down until his face was just a few inches away. I resisted the temptation to draw back; that would only compound my guilt, at least in his eyes.
“Why’d you specifically use the term with anyone?”
“I… I…”
“I don’t remember asking if you’d fucked anyone else,” he whispered.
“What are you saying?”
“No,” he said with a shake of the head. “What are you saying? I only asked if you fucked Harry. But when you denied it, you brought a whole bunch of other people into it. Fucking anyone.”
A sob passed my trembling lips. Cold vibrations tingled up my spine. The hairs on the back of my neck stood upright. I was going to die tonight. It was in Joe’s eyes, the continuous left-right movement of his jaw, the sibilant scrape of his grinding teeth, and the hunched tension in his shoulders. Nothing I said would change the outcome because words were useless now. Joe’s psyche had transformed my denial of infidelity into an acknowledgement of multiple affairs.
His mind was somewhere deep, dark, and impervious to facts. There was only one truth that mattered to him, and this truth told him that he’d married a cheat. It didn’t matter that he was the only one who had broken our wedding vows on numerous occasions. All that counted were my imagined infidelities.
Five years of marriage went through my head in seconds. Soft slaps to the face on honeymoon for looking where I shouldn’t, followed by whispered apologies that always ended with the explanation that it was my fault. Pulled punches to the gut for daring to express an opinion. Blows that got harder as time passed, for reasons that became ever less apparent, followed by rough ‘make-up’ sex that happened whether I wanted it or not. All of it leading inevitably to this point – the night of my murder.
Unless I took a stand and fought back.
A quick right flashed through the air. The impact snapped my head back. My left cheek burned and throbbed. Vast constellations of stars appeared and died before my eyes. I felt his left hand on my throat, then his right, the fingers tightening, pressing down, choking off my air supply.
Fear prevented me from reacting. The irrational part of my brain denied what was happening. A voice in my head told me that this wasn’t murder; it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe the best thing to do was to surrender and go with it. Relax, let things happen.
Then the lack of oxygen spiked my adrenaline levels. Panic and self-preservation kicked in. I slapped Joe and raked my nails down his face. Bucking and writhing and twisting my body, I attempted to get free of his grasp. The harder I fought, the tighter he gripped. My eyes bulged as reality faded, and all sounds became quiet and distorted. Darkness impinged the periphery of my vision and spread towards the centre. I had only seconds of fight left.
With all my strength, I kicked out and smashed my stiletto heel into Joe’s kneecap and ground it in deep. A piercing scream filled my ears. His grip loosened. I kicked out again, this time driving my heel deep into his thigh muscle. Joe shrieked again and fell back.
I scrambled away on my hands and knees. Joe tried to follow, but slipped in a piss puddle and slammed face first against the floor. He lay there for a few seconds, groaning, as I struggled to my feet. A wave of dizziness scrambled my vision momentarily but, fuelled by adrenaline and anger, I slapped my face until the pain brought me back around. I was swaying like a tree in the wind but, damn it, I wasn’t going down again without a fight.
Joe used the kitchen worktop to help him to his feet. He seemed unsteady.
I removed my stiletto heels and held them like weapons.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“The fuck you are.”
I staggered a few steps towards Joe, expecting him to rush at me, but something surprising happened. He shuffled back a few inches. It wasn’t the distance that amazed me but the look in his eyes. For the first time in our relationship, I noticed fear and doubt. He stepped forward again and winced as he brought his right leg down.
My gaze drifted to the kitchen. That was my escape route. I locked eyes with Joe again, letting him think I was going to run right through him. If I was lucky, I might be able to wrong-foot him.
“I’m leaving,” I repeated. “So you can either step outta my way, or I’m gonna put you down.” I swiped the air with a stiletto to show that I wasn’t bluffing.
Joe grinned. “Then I guess you’re gonna have to put me down.”
I ran at him with a high scream, holding my right shoe high.
Joe’s eyes widened. He hesitated a moment. Then he sprung forward and caught me as I swerved right towards the kitchen. Our bodies slammed against the tall fridge-freezer. Something walloped my solar plexus, but I ignored the pain and swung my right arm. The heel smashed into Joe’s left eyebrow and tore off a flap.
Panicking, he stumbled back as blood streamed into his eye. He tried to wipe it away. Then, realising how futile this was, he wiped at the sweat that was blinding his other eye.
He couldn’t see.
Now was my chance.
I swung again with everything I had.
This time the stiletto crunched against his windpipe.
Eyes bulging, Joe gurgled and clawed at his throat with both hands. He staggered back towards the sink and flapped his mouth uselessly. It was hard not to notice the panic on his face. He was trying to take in air, but nothing was getting past the dent where his Adam’s Apple used to be. He tried crying for help, but that just made things worse. His face went from red to purple, and his hands flailed around like he was trying to pull oxygen into his body. Gradually, his movements slowed, and he fell on the floor. But Joe kept fighting the inevitable, leaving me to wonder if he might heal himself through willpower alone.
But there was no coming back from this.
Face now the colour of a bruise, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, Joe laid on his back and stared at the ceiling. Fresh tears soaked the hair near his temples. Piss darkened the crotch of his jeans. Then he stopped moving and his body loosened. The stench of shit hit my nose.
Afraid of getting too close, I craned forward for a better look.
Joe gazed at a point far beyond the ceiling. The irrational thought that he was just playing dead made me skitter back in alarm.
But he wasn’t playing. He was just dead.
I dropped the stiletto and began panicking.
I’d killed my husband.
I squatted on my haunches and took deep breaths. How was I going to get out of this? Muttering Oh God like a mantra, I buried my face in my folded arms and thought about the future. I was just about composed enough to know that it wasn’t murder. But a voice in my head that sounded like Joe said: Maybe you can convince them it’s self-defence; otherwise it’s manslaughter. You’re going to prison, you idiot.
Loud knocking jarred me out of my trance.
A heavy fist shook the door.
“You two better open this door now, or I’ll kick a hole in it,” said a rough voice. It was our next-door neighbour, Frank. He’d complained about us several times in the past.
One day, after Frank’s last complaint went nowhere, my husband went next-door to teach him a lesson. He came back fifteen minutes later covered in blood and bruises, shaking with fear and shock. He didn’t hit me for several months afterwards and never spoke about what happened.
Heart thumping, I took slow steps towards the door. I slid the security chain into place and tried to think of a plan. The only thing I came up with was to convince Frank that everything was fine and then decide what to do about my husband’s corpse. The ridiculousness of that thought made me giggle for a moment. Then, without warning, my emotional pendulum swung the other way and tears warmed my cheeks. I tried composing myself.
My hand trembled as I opened the door.
“Hello?”
“Don’t hello me, miss,” he said. “Do you know how much noise you were making?”
Frank came close to the gap. For the first time, I noticed the grey in his hair and the web of lines around his eyes. I’d always imagined him to be in his late thirties, but at this distance I knew he was at least a decade older than that. His eyes studied my face. He gritted his teeth.
“What has that bastard done to you?”
“It’s okay,” I insisted.
Frank shook his head. “The hell it is. Have you seen your face?”
“No.”
“Well, I have,” he said. “And it looks a mess.”
“They’re just tear tracks.”
A wry smile turned the corners of his mouth. “They must be some seriously strong tears to leave bruises like that.”
“It’s mostly mascara.”
“Next you’ll be telling me that blood around your mouth is called Scarlet Dream.”
“Look, please…”
“Don’t please me, just let me in.”
I had difficulty swallowing. “Why?”
“Because I wanna have words with that husband of yours.”
My eyes turned to the kitchen, then back to Frank.
“He went out.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“But…”
“I’ve been watching your door for the last five minutes,” he said. “And believe me, I’d like to think I’d notice a little detail like that piece of shit skulking off to the pub.”
“He’s calmed down now.”
In fact, he was very calm, almost too calm. I stifled another giggle with the palm of my hand. Frank noticed and squinted his eyes.
“That’s nice for him. And what makes you think I’ve calmed down?”
“Look, Mr…”
“Peppercorn.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Of course you will,” he said, “but not until I’ve spoken to him.”
“Please go away.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m asking nicely.”
Frank nodded. “I remember asking you nicely on several occasions to stop making so much noise.”
“And I’m sorry about that.”
“The time for sorry has long gone,” he said, coming even closer. “Now you either open this door, or I’ll kick it off its hinges.”
Nothing I said or did was having an effect. Frank wasn’t going away anytime soon. The longer we had this conversation, the more likely it was that other neighbours might decide to get involved. I wondered if Frank’s reluctance to leave had anything to do with their last scuffle.
“Why?”
“Joe knows why.”
As I thought about what to say next, Frank charged and slammed the door with his shoulder. The impact tore the strike plate off the doorframe, pushed the door into my face, sending me sprawling. Frank went hurtling into the room. He slipped on the wet floorboards and landed on his stomach with a thump.
Rubbing my sore cheekbone, I thought about running through the open door and leaving Frank with my husband’s body. Instead, I slammed the door shut and turned towards the intruder, who was now on his feet and sniffing his fingers.
“Is this piss?” he asked.
I nodded.
Frank held his hands in the air like a surgeon waiting for sterilised gloves. He directed his attention towards the sink. Then his gaze went down towards the kitchen tiles. It was obvious what he saw: the discarded stiletto shoe and my husband’s feet. He looked at me with unblinking eyes, then returned his focus to the ground.
Relief washed over me. I no longer felt afraid. The truth was out there, and there was nothing I could do about it. Once Frank regained his composure, the police would be called, statements would be taken, and my new life would begin. I was ready.
A couple of long strides took Frank into the kitchen area. Eyes firmly fixed on the corpse, he turned on the tap and washed his hands. For a man who’d just discovered a body, his demeanour was remarkably cool
“Was it intentional?” Frank said, his tone unruffled.
“What?”
He turned in my direction. “Your husband. Did you mean to kill him?”
Tears flowed again, I rubbed them away with a forearm. “I just wanted to leave. I just wanted a new life.”
Frank turned off the tap. “He wouldn’t let you?”
“I think he’d finally decided it was time to get rid of me.”
Frank pulled a couple of sheets of kitchen roll from a dispenser hanging near the sink and wiped his hands. He dropped the used tissue in his pocket and pointed at me. “Judging by those marks on your neck, I’d say he nearly succeeded.”
I couldn’t stop shivering. My teeth clacked like castanets. Frank left the kitchen, walked through the living room, and into the bedroom. Moments later he emerged with a thick cardigan that he wrapped around my shoulders. “You’re in shock,” he said. “It’s better to keep warm.”
“Are you gonna phone the police?”
Frank eyed me with surprise. “Do you want me to?”
“I killed a man.”
He shrugged. “In self-defence.”
“He’s still dead.”
“True, but he was a scumbag.”
I allowed myself to smile. “I’m not sure how much that matters in a court of law. Every time he hit me, I defended him or refused to talk to the police. I don’t even think he’s got a criminal record.”
“Then it wouldn’t be wise to phone the police, would it?”
“What are you saying?”
Frank smiled. “You seem smart. Figure it out.”
Was he suggesting that we bypass the authorities and dispose of the body? A brief flicker of hope allowed me to consider a future again; one where I could have a career and children. Was Frank offering that?
“Let’s assume I’m not thinking clearly for a moment.”
Frank nodded and strode around the living room. I was surprised at how tall he was. There were times when he’d passed me in the hallway that he seemed barely more than the five-six I came to in high heels. His demeanour was different, more self-assured than the hunched figure I occasionally saw shuffling down the corridor with the bin bags.
“I know people who can dispose of your problem.”
“Like who?”
Frank stopped moving briefly, his expression one of almost fatherly concern like he was dealing with a simple-minded daughter. “Are you really going to ask me that?”
I answered with a silent shrug of the shoulders.
“Let’s just say they’re the kind of people you don’t want to ask questions about.”
“Okay, then why’re you helping me?”
“I told Joe that if our paths crossed again, I was going to beat him to death. You saved me the trouble.”
“Kind of hard not to cross paths,” I said, “seeing as we’re neighbours.”
“Joe knew what I meant.”
“Which…”
“Look, stop wasting time,” he snapped, holding a mobile phone in the air. “It’s time to make the decision.”
2.
I grabbed the handle of the largest suitcase we owned and pulled it down off the top shelf of the wardrobe. I unzipped the case and scattered the contents carelessly around the bedroom. Then I hefted the case into the living room, where Frank was still on the phone, striding back and forth from the sofa to the television.
“It needs to be now, Tone,” he said, his voice dropping to a hiss. “Remember something, friend. You owe me. D’you really think you’d be walking the streets today if it wasn’t for my intervention? Cal had every intention of putting you in the ground. After everything I’ve done for you, you’re fucking me over… Oh, don’t give me that, you are fucking me over. And, you know what? I think I’m gonna tell Cal he can have his way with you… Goodbye, Anthony, I hope he really hurts you.”
I walked into the kitchen and placed the case beside my husband. It looked big in the wardrobe and felt even larger in my hand, but beside the corpse, it looked tiny.
Frank chuckled. “Oh, then you can do me that favour, after all? Funny that. You better go open, now, coz if I have to wait, it’ll be you going into the fucking furnace.”
He hung up and looked at me. “Why the long face?”
“See for yourself.”
Frank came around the counter and stared at the problem. There was little emotion on his face. “I’m figuring Joe has a toolkit, him being a mechanic and all?”
I nodded.
“Get me the biggest hammer you can find and as many towels as you can spare.”
I went to the cupboard by the door and found my husband’s tool box. Inside was a large ball-peen hammer that I handed to Frank.
He gazed at it for a moment with what appeared to be admiration. “Towels,” was all he said.
A quick recce of the bedroom resulted in me handing Frank five small towels and three large ones. He lined the inside of the case with one of the big towels and placed the other two beneath Joe’s right leg. Without looking up, Frank said: “Now turn on some music. Make sure it’s loud. But if I hear the Spice Girls or Take That or some other shit, I’m going to go home and leave you to it. Are we clear?”
“Crystal. How does the Stones sound?”
“Depends. Are we talking post-Exile or Pre?”
“I can make it Exile if you’d like, and work back from there?”
“I’d like that a lot.”
Exile on Main Street went into the CD unit, and I turned up the sound. Even so, the volume was still low enough to prevent the upstairs and downstairs neighbours from getting annoyed. The opening guitar riff of Rocks Off kicked in. Frank gave me the thumbs up. Then he disappeared behind the unit and raised the hammer high.
As soon as it came down, I turned my back and stared at the CD player. The impact wasn’t something I heard so much as experienced in my bones. Feeling faint, I went into the bedroom and got on the bed. Although my wet dress and underwear were cold and clammy, I didn’t have the desire to move. Every hammer thump sent an unpleasant tingle through my body. I curled into a ball and wrapped the duvet around me. Joe might have been a wife-beating adulterer and alcoholic, but he was still a human being. I convinced myself that there had once been love in our relationship. No matter how bad he was, Joe deserved better than being folded into a suitcase.
I sobbed into the bedding until it was damp, then I fell asleep.
******
Frank woke me with a gentle prod. Something about my expression must have carried a hint of a scream because he placed his big hand over my mouth and shook his head.
“Take a deep breath. You’re fine.”
His palm smelled of handle rubber, metal and bleach, but beneath them was the coppery under-scent of blood. I didn’t want to breathe in those odours and have them become my abiding memory of Joe. Even now, after all the beatings and the abuse, I found excuses for his behaviour. Deep down I still blamed myself. Joe’s words still carried weight: If you’d kept your gaze to yourself, this wouldn’t have happened. If you’d just done what I told you, I wouldn’t have smacked you one, would I? If you watch your tone in future, then maybe I’ll watch my fucking hands.
I refused to breathe, and my face turned red. I struggled and tried to pull the hand away, but Frank increased the pressure on my face. “I’m not letting go until you give me the sign. Now breathe.”
Finally, I accepted that this night was going to be my abiding memory of Joe and took a deep breath through my nose. Frank removed the hand and stepped back.
“Are you calm?”
I nodded. “How long was I asleep?”
“Long enough for me to finish the job and clean up,” he said, “But now it’s time for you to clean up,” he said, hitching a thumb over the shoulder, in the direction of the bathroom. “We have to make this look right.”
I began stripping off shyly. I figured this was the way that Frank wanted me to repay him.
His alarmed expression told me otherwise. He waved his hands frantically. “I didn’t mean strip off in front of me. I’m not like your fucking husband. I meant get changed in the bathroom. You can give me your clothes when you’re finished.”
I stripped off in the bathroom and studied my reflection in the mirror. My lips and left cheek were swollen. Finger marks covered my neck. They were already beginning to bruise. No amount of make-up was going to disguise Joe’s final handiwork. Besides, I was done covering for him. These bruises were his legacy.
I stepped into the shower and turned it up hot, hoping it might wash away my sins. It didn’t. But it did lead me to a few conclusions. I never intended to kill Joe. All I wanted was the chance to leave and start again, but he was never going to let that happen, at least not while there was breath in his lungs. Well, now his lungs were empty, and I was still here.
I turned off the shower and rubbed my hand across the misted glass. My reflection was pink and clean and new. After dressing and pulling my wet hair into a severe ponytail, I emerged from the bathroom to find Frank carrying a second suitcase.
“What are you doing?” I asked nervously.
“Figured if he were going to leave, he’d take some clothes.”
I chewed my fingernails and nodded, still unsure whether I should trust him or not.
“If we’re going to do this,” he said, “it has to be right. Otherwise, we’re both going to prison.”
“Okay.”
“Speaking of being right, where’s Joe’s passport?”
“Why?”
Frank’s expression hardened. “I’m getting tired of the questions, but I’ll bite this time. He’s gonna need to make a trail or questions are gonna get asked. Also, if suspicions do get aroused and the police start asking questions, you’re gonna be thankful for that trail. Now stop wasting time and find the passport.”
Joe’s passport was in the cupboard by the balcony. I opened it and examined his picture for a few seconds. It didn’t capture his essence. The eyes were devoid of cruelty, and there was no tension in the face. It could have been anybody but my husband.
“Any other paperwork you’d like me to find while I’m here?” I asked.
Frank ignored the sarcasm in my voice. “Well, since you asked so nicely, I’m figuring you’ve got a joint account, right?”
“What makes you think that?”
“I’ve met a lot of men like Joe in my time,” he replied. “Every single one was a control freak. And what better way of controlling somebody than by monitoring their money. I’ll lay down good odds that you don’t even have a bank card, right?”
A blush warmed my cheeks. The bruise beneath my left eye throbbed. My silence spoke volumes because he continued:
“How much is in there?”
“A few grand – I think.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because a man answering your husband’s description is going to clear the account in the next few days.”
“But…”
“Let me finish,” Frank interrupted. “Half goes towards paying for his disposal. The rest you’ll get in cash from me once all the costs are totted up.”
I didn’t like it, but I kept my mouth shut. Frank was helping me get rid of my problem, the least I could do was go along with the plan.
“So now what?” I asked.
“Now we get going.”
3.
Frank waited at the door until the sound of nearby footsteps began to fade. Then he turned the handle, walked into the dim hallway and dragged the case containing my husband towards the elevator. I followed with the smaller case containing his things and looked around nervously until Frank hissed at me to relax.
I didn’t relax, but I tried not to appear quite so shifty.
Frank hit the down button and waited. The elevator seemed to be stuck on the fifth floor. He checked his watch and cursed under his breath. Voices and laughter emanated from above, followed by the click-clack of stilettos on tiles. Finally, the elevator groaned into life.
I pulled at Frank’s jacket sleeve. “We’re not getting on with other people, are we?”
He looked over his shoulder. “We’ve got no choice,” he said, wiping my brow with his hand. “Now try and act normal.”
The lift stopped moving and the door opened with a ping. Two men and three women, all dressed up for the evening, were crammed in the cubicle. There seemed barely enough room for one other person, never mind two people and suitcases. One of the men sneered in our direction and said: “Lift’s full, fella. You’ll have to wait your turn.”
Ignoring him, Frank lifted the case with a slight groan and made a move for the cubicle. The man stepped forward and placed his right hand on Frank’s chest. Letting go of the handle, Frank grabbed the man’s forefinger and bent it back. The man cried out and moved back to prevent his finger from being broken. Frank matched him step-for-step and pinned him against the cubicle wall. His friends drew away instinctively.
Frank leant in close. “Lay your hands on me again, and the only busy nightspot you’ll be visiting is a fucking A&E. Nod if you understand?”
The man nodded once. Frank released his finger and stepped away. The five friends pressed themselves flat against the back wall, freeing up a surprising amount of space. Frank picked up the case again and stepped inside. I followed him.
The doors closed and the lift trundled into life. The air was hot and stuffy. Every exhalation was as loud as a scream, and every shuffle hurt my eardrums; the tension was so palpable it seemed like an uninvited eighth guest. I wondered if the other occupants heard the rapid pounding of my heart. Sweat rolled down the gulley of my spine and soaked into the waistband of my jeans.
Finally, after a lifetime, the elevator reached the ground floor and the doors separated. Frank lifted the case into the entrance hall and then stepped aside. I did the same. I was too afraid to look at our companions; I didn’t want them to see the guilt on my face.
Frank wasn’t quite so shy. He turned, smiled, and waved them out of the lift. “Come on then, seeing as though you’re in such a hurry.”
The group moved past us silently. The man opened the entrance door and held it open for the women and his friend. As soon as they were outside, he turned and stared at Frank. Neither broke eye contact for what seemed like minutes. Finally, the man sneered. “If I see you again, fella, I’m gonna put a fucking knife in your spine.”
Frank grinned. “You know Cal Marcus?”
Those four words extinguished the malevolent sparkle in the man’s eyes. His expression showed more than a hint of fear. “You don’t know him.”
“Don’t I?”
The man tried to recreate his earlier smirk, but it was a pale photocopy of the original. “What would Cal be doing with an old fucker like you?”
“The same thing as Jack Danning. I’m on good terms with them both.”
These names meant nothing to me, but they obviously suggested something to the man holding the door. His tongue darted around his lips repeatedly and nervously. He turned in the direction of the estate.
“Maybe I’ll get one of them to pay you a visit,” Frank said. “You’re on the fifth floor, right?”
“Fella…”
“You wanna turn around now, and go do a flying fuck in the general direction of off,” Frank said, “before I lose what little is left of my temper.”
The man shut the door carefully, backed away without breaking eye contact with Frank, then turned on his heels and sprinted away, his arms and legs pumping manically. He gave us one last over the shoulder look before he disappeared behind an adjacent building.
Frank turned to me and said: “Shall we get going?”
I nodded, and we exited the building.
Cold night air stippled my forearms with goosebumps. I grabbed the case and shivered my way through the estate with Frank huffing close behind. Teenage voices hollered abuse in the distance. A scream of anger answered them. Every sound made me twitch and scan the area for danger. By the time we reached my husband’s car, I was a sweaty, hyperventilating mess.
I pulled the keys from my pocket and immediately dropped them on the tarmac. Every attempt at retrieval was foiled by shaking hands and fumbling fingers. Frank watched with increasing irritation until he crouched down and scooped them off the ground. Without a word, he unlocked the boot and threw my case inside. It took several big heaves to lift the case containing my husband into the car. Frank was still panting for breath when he climbed into the driver’s seat and opened the rear passenger door for me.
This gave me pause for thought, followed by a sharp jolt of fear. “Why the back seat?”
“Because you’re going to lie down on it.”
My brain conjured all manner of grim scenarios. Fear kept me rooted to the spot. “Why?”
Frank let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m trying to construct a story of your husband leaving you. In that scenario, you do not go for a joyride into London’s dirty arsehole with him.”
I clambered onto the back seat and curled into the foetal position.
“You said London’s arsehole? Whereabouts?”
Frank turned the key. “If I tell you, will you shut up?”
“Maybe.”
The engine coughed into spluttering life. “Not far from Tottenham.”
“Why?”
“To see a man about a dog.”
“Is that code?
“Yes and no.”
The car started moving, but there were lots of turns and few stretches when Frank seemed to put his foot down. The occasional glance out of the window showed houses, flats, and quiet streets.
“Why’re we avoiding the main roads?”
“I thought we had a deal?”
“I remember saying maybe.”
After a long silence, Frank said: “Main roads have CCTV, most back streets don’t. Where possible I wanna avoid cameras. Where I can’t avoid cameras, I wanna make sure you can’t be seen.”
Silence fell once again. Staring at the back of Frank’s big head and the detritus in the footwell gave me ample time to think about the situation. Questions bounced around the inside of my skull. Guilt followed in their wake; which brought forth yet more questions. Eventually, there were too many to ask even on a long journey, so I went with the first one that popped into my head.
“Who’s Cal Marcus?”
Frank gave me a brief glance in the rear view. “Forget I ever mentioned him,” he said, before fixing his eyes back on the road.
“That’s a little hard to do,” I replied. “The fella in the lift turned white when you mentioned his name.”
“Then try harder.”
“Why?”
“Because mentioning that name in the wrong circumstances is a sure-fire way to get yourself killed.”
Fresh goosebumps bubbled to the surface of my skin. Just who and what was I mixed up with? More questions popped into my head, but I refrained from asking them in favour of a slightly different topic. “Okay, then. If you won’t answer that question, here’s another. What do you do?”
Frank let out a humourless chuckle. “Don’t you ever run out of questions?”
“I’ve been staring at the back of your head and crushed Coke cans for the last twenty minutes. I’m bored, so humour me.”
“I fix things that maybe shouldn’t be fixed.”
“That means literally nothing.”
“For people who don’t deserve my help.”
The words stung. “D’you mean me?”
“No, I don’t mean you,” he replied. “I solve people’s problems.”
“What people?”
“The kind of people you’d cross the road to avoid if you knew what they were capable of.”
I tried to ask another question, but Frank ignored it in favour of his phone. “Stevie, I need your help. Why? Because I’m calling in a favour, that’s why? I’ll cancel that poker debt if you get to Tony’s place in the next fifteen minutes. Why? Because I need backup. You seem to have more whys than a Welsh place name, my friend, and I’m getting awfully fucking sick of hearing them.
“You know as well as I do that Tony’s about as trustworthy as a politician. I need somebody watching my back. Well, look at it another way. If you’re not at Joe’s place in fifteen, then I’m gonna sell your debt to Cal. Try telling him some of the bullshit stories you’ve fobbed me off with. Then you can try telling him again, after he’s removed your fucking tongue. Okay then, see you in fifteen. Oh, and Stevie, don’t forget your metal.”
4.
The car came to a halt about twenty minutes later, though the engine continued to hum and sputter. I peered over a window rim at an estate of low-rise hangars in various shades of corrugated macho. Bricks, windows and aesthetically pleasing architecture were few and far between, but they were more than made up for by a proliferation of tall, spiked fences and manly signs in Arial and Helvetica Bold.
A tall, thin figure in a hooded top that cast its face entirely in shadow emerged from the darkness and approached the driver’s side of the vehicle. Frank wound down the window.
“Franko,” the figure said.
“Stevie.”
“I take it there’s a good fucking reason for me to be hanging around the shadows like some kinda fucking rent boy?”
“How long you been here?”
“Long enough for two fellas to drive past and ask if they could borrow my arsehole for ten minutes.”
Frank snorted. “Guessing that didn’t go well for them?”
Stevie nodded. “Told them to make a beeline for the North Circular before I dragged them from their vehicles and beat seven shades of fuck outta them.”
Stevie’s hood turned in my direction. “Who’s the woman?”
“She’s nobody.”
The hood tipped me a single nod. “Hello, nobody.”
“Has anybody visited Tony since you’ve been here?”
“Saw Minty’s van go through the side gate a couple of minutes before you arrived.”
Frank exhaled a long, sad sigh. “Thanks, Steve.”
“No worries.”
“D’you bring some metal?”
Stevie lifted his top. A gun handle poked over the belt of his jeans.
Frank revved the engine. “Give us five minutes before following us in.”
“You sure?”
Frank drummed the steering wheel with his fingers. “Tony will wanna play with us a bit.”
Play with us? My heart skipped. A cold sweat formed on my brow. I wiped it away with my palms.
Stevie shrugged as he backed away. “Then you better make a trail, if you want me to find you,” he said. “It’s like a fucking maze in there.”
“Just follow the receipts,” Frank replied, putting his foot down.
By the time I peered over the rim of the rear window, Stevie had disappeared. I searched the shadows, but there was no movement. Eventually Frank told me to put my bloody head down.
After another thirty seconds of driving, we came to a building that had no business on an industrial estate. It was a pleasant red brick structure with big windows and a friendly, almost homely appearance that was spoiled only by the high brick walls surrounding the property. The sign above the front door read A. Scaife & Sons – Veterinary Surgery and Pet Funerals. I placed my hand over my mouth to smother the laughter, but Frank heard it anyway.
“Sorry we fucked up Fluffy’s surgery, Mrs Hammond,” Frank said in plummy tones. “But we do offer excellent rates on cremations.”
The car came to a stop in front of a gate to the left of the main building. Frank looked over his shoulder at me. “Once we’re inside, keep schtum. Even by the standards of the average creep, Tony’s one creepy fucking guy. If he thinks you’re taking an interest in his business, he’s gonna ask you some crazy questions or engage you in some light conspiracy theories. Then, at some point, he’s gonna ask you to fuck him or suck him off.”
This time the cold sweat prickled along my spine. “I’m not…”
“I know that,” Frank interrupted. “I just want to make sure you know it.”
Then he grabbed his phone again and placed a call.
“We’re here, Tone,” he said. There was a short pause followed by, “Yes, we, as in plural… I haven’t got time to indulge in your bullshit, Anthony. Open the fucking gate now before I give you a plural of kicks to the head.”
Frank ended the call and put the phone away.
He eyed me in the rear-view.
“Remember, keep schtum.”
5.
The gate opened on its own. The car moved slowly into a small deserted car park. A quick glance showed no sign of a van, although in a shadowy alcove towards the back of the building there was a van-shaped object covered with a large tarp. Frank gave no indication that he noticed it.
The moment we were both out of the vehicle, a man so large and round he looked like he had his own gravitational system came out of the building to greet us. The white coat wrapped around his frame was about the same size as the tarp covering the van. His small face, which seemed to disappear within a vast expanse of his flabby head, sported a friendly yellow smile. His arms were open wide.
“Franky, my man. Give me a hug,” his voice resembled Frank’s plummy parody.
“I’ll do no such thing.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I just don’t fancy getting that close.”
The man waved his arm like he was deflecting the insult. “Come on, big fella, there’s no hard feelings here.” Then his tiny eyes fixed on my face after a slow sweep of my body. “Although if you keep bringing me such exquisite creatures, there’ll be some very hard feelings, let me tell you.”
“Keep your eyes to yourself,” Frank warned.
“In the face of such beauty that’s quite impossible.”
I shrank away until I was partly shielded by Frank, who said: “Then maybe I should keep your eyes in my back pocket. You know, just for safe keeping.”
“Now, now, Francis, let’s not be nasty.”
“Then leave the woman alone.”
“Fine, have it your way.”
Frank opened the boot and lugged the big case to the ground. “We need to get rid of the contents in a hurry.”
The man’s gaze stopped lingering on me for long enough to scan the object with disinterest. “Who is it?”
“Nobody you know.”
“Then why am I disposing of it?”
“Because you can’t stop losing at high stakes poker with dangerous people, Tony.”
The fat man huffed. “At least tell me it’s in pieces.”
“Alright then, it’s in pieces.”
“You know smaller pieces burn faster.”
“It happened in a hurry,” Frank said. “I didn’t have the time for the usual routine.”
Tony scowled at Frank. “So I get that onerous task instead?”
“Nice word.”
“You like that?”
Frank nodded.
“Thanks. You can find it in the thesaurus beside the word burden, which you definitely fucking are.”
“Now who’s being nasty?”
“Because you’re making me nasty.”
“Come on, Tone. I’ll make it worth your while.”
The fat man’s eyes narrowed. “How?”
“I’ll fix your debt with Cal permanently, and the woman will fix you up with a grand.”
“Does she have the cash now?”
“Later.”
“How much later?”
“A couple of days max.”
A small smile twisted Tony’s mouth and his eyes explored my body again. “I know a way she can pay me. A better way.”
I started shivering. A small whimper escaped my lips.
“I think cash will do just fine,” Frank replied.
“You don’t know what I have in mind.”
“What you have in mind usually involves anal.”
Tony turned away in disgust. “Fine, insult me. I was going to offer to carry the bags, but you can lug them yourself.”
He strode off back the way he came.
With a groan, Frank lifted the case and looked at me.
“Whatever happens next, be ready for it.”
6.
Tony led us along a labyrinthine series of corridors. He didn’t bother glancing back in our direction. If he had, he would have noticed Frank leaving behind a trail of old receipts and tissues from his left trouser pocket as he dragged his case one-handed. Finally, we reached a half-open door to a staircase leading down into the darkness.
Tony pushed through the door and sauntered down the steps. Frank left his wallet outside the door, sent a quick text message, and lugged the case down the stairs. I looked around once and then followed them into the darkness.
We emerged into a cavernous, dimly lit room with a large furnace burning brightly at the far end.
The first thing that struck me was a wall of heat.
The second thing that struck me was the oppressive humidity.
And the third thing that struck me was a fist.
It was a hard blow to the right jaw that sent me staggering to the left of the room, where I collapsed in a heap on the linoleum floor.
Tony turned on his heels and went for Frank. I’d like to say he was fast for a fat lad, but he wasn’t, and Frank brushed him aside before he even had the chance to take his first couple of steps. Tony slipped on the floor and ended up on his stomach. He tried groping me, but I managed to slither from his grasp.
There was another large man in the room behind us. He was also wearing a white smock and had a shiny bald head. The only real difference between him and Tony was that he was carrying a gun.
“Hands up, Frank,” he said.
“Long-time no see, Minty,” he replied, raising his hands high. “Where’d you get the toy?”
Minty sneered. “Picked it up in the Hamley’s sale.”
Frank stepped forward.
Minty jabbed the weapon towards its target and wagged a disapproving finger with his left hand. “Its toy-like appearance is deceptive,” he said. “The bullets will kill you.”
Frank kept his hands high.
Minty jerked his head towards Tony. “You okay, mate?”
The man beside me sat upright. “I’ll live, Oliver.”
“Which is more than we can say for these two,” came the reply.
Tony grinned as he staggered to his feet. “Quite.”
“You’re gonna regret this,” Frank said.
Tony’s jowls wobbled with a wet slap as he shook his head. “Probably not. And you’re not going to live long enough for regrets,” he replied, before turning his amused gaze on me. “You, however, are going to have plenty of time for repentance before we’re finished.”
I made myself small against one of the wall units. My teeth clacked together. “Please don’t hurt me.”
The two fat men laughed.
Tony said: “I promise there’ll be a lot more pleasure than pain, my dear.”
“But there will be some pain, right?” Minty said.
His partner shrugged. “Of course. Otherwise, how will she ever learn to appreciate the pleasure?”
Minty gave me a lusty grin; half his teeth were missing, which made the smile even more menacing.
Then all his teeth were gone, along with most of his head, in an explosion of blood, bone, and brain matter that struck his partner in the face.
Minty’s legs buckled, and he fell on the floor.
Tony dropped to his knees with a shriek of shock and pain and scraped pieces of his friend from his face.
Stevie stood at the door holding a smoking automatic in his right hand. In the other was Frank’s wallet. “Think you dropped this, sweetheart.” The hood was still pulled up over his head, masking his face in shadow.
Frank made a song-and-dance of patting his trousers. “Well, wouldn’t you know it, I think you might be right.”
Stevie tossed the wallet to Frank, who scooped it out of the air and tucked it in his back pocket.
“What are we gonna do with Tony?” he asked.
Frank shrugged. “That’s up to him.”
The man looked up at them with hope and half of his friend’s head on his face. “Whatever you want will get done,” he said in a panicky voice. “The fella in the case is gone, Oliver is gone. Swear to God, I’ll do whatever you ask.”
Frank smiled. “Were you really going to kill me?”
Tony lifted his arms in a gesture of despair. “You’ve been threatening me with Cal for the last year,” he said. “I’m fucking desperate, mate. I spend most of my days looking over my shoulder.”
“This would have been your last job.”
“How was I supposed to know,” he replied, his voice breaking. “You’ve been saying it’s my last job for six months.”
“This time I meant it.”
Tony’s expression was one of sadness. He knew what kind of mess he was. His gaze drifted towards the gun in Minty’s hand.
“Forget it,” Stevie said. “You won’t even get close.”
Tony slumped and sobbed.
Using the wall units, I managed to clamber to my feet. I was still a bit wobbly from the punch, but otherwise I felt okay. Frank smiled at me, then looked at Stevie.
“Take her home, mate.”
The tall man’s hooded head nodded once.
“And my debt?” he said.
“Consider it repaid.”
A surge of rage made me rush for the gun. Tony tried to halt my progress by swinging his big arms in my direction, but he was too slow to stop me. I pried the gun from Minty’s hands and evaded Frank’s grasp too. Another swell of anger made me spin on my heels and point the deadly end of the gun at Tony. He yelped and fell back on his arse with his hands in front of his face.
There was a metallic taste in my mouth. At first I thought it was fear, then exhilaration, then finally I realised that in all the excitement I’d bitten my tongue and what I could taste was blood. The urge to put bullets in Tony was overwhelming. He was another abuser in a lifetime full of them. My father, my boyfriends, my husband, and now, finally, this fat piece of shit and his friend. A life of being the victim, the object of pity, always afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. The lowest of the low.
Well, not anymore.
I cocked back the hammer.
Stevie had me in his sights. It was evident that pulling the trigger was a death sentence, but I didn’t care. The pleasure of watching Tony squirm and grimace along the floor was too great. The dark stain spreading down the inside leg of his jeans made me grin.
Frank stepped between the fat man and me. He bellowed at Stevie to lower his weapon and then shielded Tony the way someone might protect a loved one. “You don’t need to do this,” he said.
“Who said anything about need?”
“Okay then, you don’t want to do this.”
“Are you sure about that?”
He nodded and moved towards me.
“Pretty much,” he said. “Tomorrow, you’re gonna wake up and feel like shit. That guilt is going to eat your fucking soul. It’ll eat you for days, weeks, even months. What you’re experiencing right now is anger – fucking years of it. You’re glad your husband’s dead, right now, because he was a cunt. In the grand scheme of things, he got what was coming. And the fat fuck squirming on the floor is a cunt, too. There’s no doubt he deserves what’s coming. But if you pull that trigger then you’re as big a cunt as they are. And tomorrow you’ll be sucking down double the guilt.
“What you did to your husband was self-defence. It was you or him. Eventually that guilt will ease, because you’ll know it’s true. But Tony’s finished regardless of what you do to him. You shoot him – well, that’s murder. Try dealing with that if you can.”
Frank was right. As much as I wanted to shoot Tony, a small voice beneath the roaring rage told me to let it go.
“You want to know how you win?”
I nodded.
“You live the best fucking life you can. You do all the shit your husband never allowed you to do, all the shit a useless fuck like Tony can never do. You make mistakes, you see the world, you break taboos – well, maybe bend them a little – and generally live without apologies. Then, if you’re lucky, you might meet the person of your dreams. And if you put down the gun all those things can happen. But only if you give me the gun.”
Frank held out his hand. Without thinking, I thrust the gun into his palm. He wrapped his fingers around the weapon and breathed a big sigh of relief. Then he stepped away from Tony and pointed at Stevie.
“Take her home, man.”
As I was leaving, I turned around.
Frank stared at the gun in his hand. A slight smile turned the edges of his mouth. He wore a relaxed expression of contentment.
“Did you mean all that stuff you said?” I asked.
He stared at me for a moment and nodded.
“Yeah, I did. Now go live your life. And watch out for the guilt.”
Then I turned away and ran up the stairs.
I never saw Frank again.
7.
A couple of days later a man answering my husband’s description and carrying his passport emptied our joint bank account of thirteen grand. I had no idea Joe managed to save that much. Then I realised most of that money was probably mine.
A few days after, somebody who looked like Joe broke into the flat and tore it apart. All my husband’s stuff disappeared, apart from a few knick-knacks, and most of my things were destroyed.
When the police finally responded to my call, I told them about the beatings, and constructed a lie about him trashing the flat in revenge for kicking him out. I even mentioned the empty bank account. They didn’t seem particularly bothered about my plight. Aside from a few cursory checks of the place, and an obligatory sweep of the neighbours, they did nothing.
Cleaning the mess gave me a way to dissipate some of the guilt. And Frank was right about the remorse: there was lots of it. The first few weeks were especially unpleasant. Nightmares were frequent. Insomnia became my closest friend.
I knocked on Frank’s door several times – hoping for words of comfort, or at least a comfortable bed – but he never answered. Eventually, one of his neighbours mentioned that he’d moved out.
For a while, I went from home to work and back again in one continuous cycle of monotony. Conversations were scarce. I performed my job without enthusiasm. Eventually, Susan called me into one of the meeting rooms.
There was a P45 on the table.
Redundancy, she said.
Then she mentioned an exit interview.
I told her I didn’t care. I was glad to be leaving.
Huffing, she suggested that my attitude would get me nowhere.
I laughed in her face.
She screamed at me to get out.
I left with three month’s salary and a final fuck you.
When I arrived home, there was an envelope on the floor. It was too fat to have been slipped under the door.
I called Frank’s name. There was no answer. To be honest, I didn’t expect one. The knowledge that he cared enough to visit was sufficient.
I opened the envelope.
It was crammed with fifties and twenties.
And a note.
Start living your life, it read. Here’s a little something to get you started. Check tomorrow’s paper. A gift from me and Cal Marcus.
It was signed F
That night I booked a one-way ticket to Thailand.
The next day I deposited seven grand in the bank, changed the other five grand into dollars and baht, and went for the first in a long list of vaccinations.
The wait for my appointment was interminable. I passed the time with a newspaper. The story Frank mentioned sat in a tiny box at the corner of page seven.
A fire and explosion had destroyed the premises of Anthony Scaife & Sons. The proprietor, Anthony James Scaife, 42, perished in the blaze. The cause was unknown, but the police believed it to be accidental.
I allowed myself a smile because I knew otherwise.
I went to Thailand and lived more in those three months than I had in all my years of marriage. I apologised for nothing – not even the bad stuff.
My guilt about Joe faded. Then one day it disappeared completely. I stopped blaming myself for everything. I was no longer a victim.
My travels took me to Vietnam, Cambodia, Malaysia, India and Australia, where I met a man. We fell in love. We moved in together.
It was bliss.
I forgot about Joe – mostly. I saw glimpses of him in my dreams.
I forgot about Frank completely.
Then my boyfriend mentioned marriage. I told him about my husband, that we were still married, that I wasn’t sure where to send the divorce papers. I didn’t mention that crazy night, but I did at least tell him about the beatings.
That’s when the phone call came.
Your husband’s dead, the caller said.
I neglected to mention I already knew that.
An apartment block in Benidorm went up in smoke before it came crashing down to earth in a pile of smoking rubble. It amazed the authorities that only four people died. They were even more amazed when it turned out that three of the victims were British fugitives who’d been on the run for years.
The other victim was Joe. Or somebody lined up as the patsy.
The stuff that wasn’t burnt was badly crushed. The stuff that wasn’t crushed was badly burnt.
Identification was impossible.
All they had to go on was Joe’s passport and a matching blood type.
That was good enough for me.
I told the authorities to cremate the remains. Just to be sure.
Then they told me about his life insurance. A hundred grand.
I was the only beneficiary.
I asked how long ago he’d taken out the insurance.
Over a year, they said.
That was a miracle, I thought, because he’s been dead for over two years.
Then I thought about Frank and smiled.
Somehow he’d made this happen. Somehow he was still looking out for me.
The day they paid the insurance into my bank account, I withdrew a hundred dollars and wandered down to the beachfront. Then I found a dingy bar with an eclectic jukebox and a wide selection of English beers. I bought several pints, paid for enough credits to play the entirety of Exile on Main Street, and lifted my first glass in a toast to an imaginary friend.
“Cheers, Frank, you fucking diamond.”