Jenne
Clare : Killing Him Softly
She rolled over and hit the alarm, plucking his arm distastefully off her thigh. Her first waking thought was to smother him with his pillow. It would be so simple – she could sit on his head if he struggled too hard. Too difficult to explain away, though. What could she tell the police – that he strangled while snoring?
A strong cup of coffee would jump-start her day. She drank hers strong and black – he preferred his sweet and light. She’d discarded the idea of rat poison in the sugarbowl as too trite – Dolly Parton had tried that in 9 to 5. Besides, they’d never had a problem with rodents.
She served up his usual breakfast with a smile, the wheels in her head whirring constantly about ways to make it his last meal. She could reach over and stab him with a carving knife or pour boiling water on his head, but that was too messy, too imprecise. She wanted a foolproof, tidy method. She’d ruled out trying to persuade him to stick his head in the oven, as she would need to clean it before any investigation, and oven cleaning had never been high on her list of priorities.
Two slices of whole wheat bread and two slices of processed turkey. She could make his sandwich in the dark. How could anybody eat the same lunch for twenty-seven years? She’d tried to persuade him to change it somewhat – a little mayo or a swipe of butter, a lettuce leaf. He insisted that he was happy and didn’t need a change. Sometimes it bothered her so much she’d lick his sandwich before wrapping it neatly in waxed paper. She quickly shined an apple on her dressing gown sleeve – no sense inserting a razor blade or a sewing needle as he always cut his fruit into neat slices with his Swiss Army knife. A few biscuits in a baggie. She had a little leeway with this – he had a sweet tooth and she could bake different things for him. Sometimes she put bran in the batter or a dose of ipecac in the icing, but she knew she couldn’t do more than irritate him with her baking.
She cleaned the house once he left, rushing through the mindless tasks so that she’d have her afternoon free. She hated cleaning. Mopping wasn’t her favourite activity at the best of times, and she knew her lick-and-a-promise methods wouldn’t pass close inspection if she ever finished him off in a bloody mess.
She carefully dusted the eyehooks she’d screwed into the wall at the top of the stairs. All it would take was a piece of fishing line to make a trip-wire. She’d been thinking long and hard about that, hesitant to make a move that would leave her caring for a vegetable for the rest of her life.
In the bathroom she patted the new hair dryer she’d bought and hidden at the bottom of a stack of towels. He hadn’t noticed. It was a long reach to the electrical outlet – she’d have to use an extension cord to ensure that it dropped in the middle of his bath. The trick would be in getting access. He was so reluctant to have her come in while he bathed these days – in times gone by they would read each other snippets from the paper, laughing and splashing. It would be difficult to sneak in on him, and, besides, she hated the smell of burnt hair. He still had a few strands artfully combed over his skull, so she’d put that idea on hold.
A gun was out of the question. She was a firm believer in anti-gun legislation. Besides, it was so difficult to get one illegally. What would she do? Hang around a schoolyard until a likely looking gang member walked past and ask to buy one? She wasn’t sure she’d know a gangster if she fell over one.
As she hung his white shirts in the closet, she thought of hanging him by one of his co-ordinating ties. People’s tongues thrust out when they were hung, though, and she’d always found the tongue a suspect organ. Sometimes she was just too aware of it in her mouth and she’d have to go brush it fiercely with her toothbrush to make the sensation go away.
He wasn’t stupid enough to sit in the car in the garage while she pumped it full of carbon monoxide. He’d probably listen to one of his non-fiction books-on-tape and insist that she come in and have a listen. She could try to fake an accident and HIT him with the car, but that would entail a lengthy visit to the car wash and it would be difficult to explain the sudden need for body work to Hal, their mechanic. People at church would talk if she went to anyone else after all these years.
Pity that her husband wasn’t particularly ill, just boring and predictable. Aside from his daily multi-vitamin and an occasional aspirin he didn’t take any medication, so there was little room for tampering. She’d never heard of anyone overdosing on One-A-Days.
Honestly, he was so ordinary, she thought, as she rolled up his clean socks and placed them neatly in his drawer. His whole life was in that drawer – socks, pants, his passport, the champagne cork from when he got his qualifications, the toy Porsche he’d received on his twenty-first birthday. She’d nosed around for secrets during the first years of their marriage – wanting proof of an illicit affair, an illegitimate child, a secret double life. But she’d found nothing – he was just what he claimed to be, an ordinary bloke. He worked, ate his dull turkey sandwiches, watched documentaries on telly, hoped for a poke on a Saturday night. He didn’t really have a hobby to speak of, unless laying a nice fire counted. He’d talk your ear off about wood density and kindling layout, the relative merits of cardboard over paper.
She poured herself a fresh cup of decaf. The leg of lamb for dinner was defrosting on the counter. That would make a good weapon, and she could cook it up and serve it to the investigators when they came to deal with the body. Too bad Roald Dahl had already used the idea.
Early on in their marriage they had settled into a routine and were seen as the ideal couple. Finding out that he wouldn’t be able to give her children had been a blow. Imagine not bothering to tell her he’d had mumps! She’d pushed the idea of children into a corner of her head with her other private thoughts, never allowing a harsh word or criticism of him to slip out. They got through their weeks, went to church on Sunday, took a two-week holiday to a resort in the winter. She plotted how to kill him in the in-between time.
She jotted a quick grocery list on the back of an envelope. He claimed to like to go shopping, but he dawdled and picked up things they’d never eat, so she preferred to do it on her own. She needed to get milk and more broccoli. It was his least favourite vegetable.
Tilting the rear-view mirror slightly, she double-checked her lipstick. She always prided herself on her appearance. Satisfied with her reflection, she pulled out onto the street. She thought she’d stop by the fish shop and buy something with a lot of bones. The impact of the other car hit her square in the chest as the steering wheel collapsed inwards. Her world was a circle of pain, punctuated by sparkling glass and loud noises. She felt her life seeping away under her seat belt.
She awoke in a hospital bed, tubes running every which way. Monitors were beeping, and machinery hummed in the corners of the room. She felt hands on hers and turned to see her husband gazing solicitously towards her. "Ah, awake, then, are you?" he said, peering at her over the tops of his bifocals. She nodded slightly. It was such a relief to see his homely face again. She’d felt her life passing in front of her eyes, and she’d not been ready to leave him. She fell asleep again, warm in his presence.
He stood for a few minutes longer, holding her hand and watching her eyes flutter as she slept. She was so fragile as she lay there. He could see her neck quiver as the blood pulsed through her veins.
He looked over at the monitor. He could just turn it off, and if her heart gave out no-one would be the wiser. Someone might be watching it on a screen in the nurse’s station, though. He didn’t know enough about the hospital. She was hooked up to an IV which gently dripped into her arm. Perhaps he could pinch the tube for a few moments and create an air bubble. That might be enough to stop her heart, but it might just leave her paralysed or speechless.
He stood in the hallway, waiting for an elevator to take him down to the cafeteria. Maybe they’d make him a turkey sandwich. He needed to keep his strength up.
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