by Edwin Dasso
I looked at the phone again. What if she was apologizing? Maybe she felt bad about what she had said? Perhaps it was just too much wine?
My hand twitched toward the phone.
No, she never apologized. She never took the blame for anything. It was always my fault. I caused all her unhappiness. That’s why I was sitting alone in a café, researching poisonous plants.
The phone buzzed again, the vibration sending it sliding closer across the tabletop.
Maybe this time was different?
I sat back in the chair and rubbed my face with both hands. Taking a deep breath, I leaned forward and closed my laptop. Exhaling loudly, I stared at the phone, then reached forward and turned it over.
The light from the window prevented me from seeing the screen properly, so I picked it up and stared at the message alert.
It wasn’t from her after all.
21
There was now a queue at the counter, and the baristas were making sidelong glances at my table and the empty coffee cup.
So much for loyalty.
I couldn’t drink another cup of coffee. My heart was racing, and when I looked down at my hands, my fingertips were shaking. I was also feeling a little anxious, the caffeine combining with the thought of Clara messaging me, making me feel on edge. I needed to walk it off. Grabbing my laptop, I slipped it into my bag, stuffed the phone in my pocket, and pushed back my chair. I stood and nodded thanks at the baristas, my movement setting off a scramble for the table from waiting customers. Weaving my way through the tables, I made my way outside and stood on the edge of the street as people walked past in both directions. Where should I go?
I turned left and wandered aimlessly. Eventually, I would have to go home, but I was putting it off as long as possible, preferably until after lunch. I’d rather eat outside than go home and be faced with the decision of whether to cook for her. I doubt she would have made anything for me.
I walked down the High Street past the shops to King Alfred’s Statue, then took a right turn on the path that ran beside the river. It was quieter, just the ducks and an occasional swan for company, one of those rare bright sunny autumn days before the oppressively dull wet days of winter came and ruined everything. The fresh air and movement made me feel better, almost happy again., and I turned my mind back to the problem of what poison to use.
I was confident now, that I could find a poisonous plant—England was full of them—but how would I administer it? I would need to mix it into her food or drink, which meant I would need to find something that only required a small amount to be fatal, and the taste wouldn’t be too noticeable. However, if I made curry or something equally strongly spiced, I could probably hide the taste, so that maybe wouldn’t be an issue. I did most of the cooking, so putting it in the food would be easy. I just had to remember not to eat it myself.
Ahead, I could see the playing fields of Winchester College. The path took a turn away from the river, and I followed it until it joined College Street and passed the medieval stone and flint facade of the college. Reaching the corner, I dithered, not sure which direction to take, before turning right and following the narrow lane, the massive walls of the Cathedral grounds towering high above me. Entering the grounds, off Great Minster Street, I walked across the grass and sat down. Students huddled together in groups, chatting, laughing, and eating. I thought back to when I had been the same age. Carefree, happy, the only thing I worried about then was getting my overdue assignment completed or whether Penelope, the cute redhead in my chemistry class, would go out with me.
Using my laptop bag as a cushion for my head, I stretched out on the grass and stared up at the vast blue expanse above. A solitary cloud drifted slowly from left to right, but otherwise, the sky was clear. Around me, all I could hear was laughter and birdsong. At that moment, the bitterness and hatred that had taken over my life seemed so far away.
22
Eventually, I got up and started walking again. I didn’t want to, but lying around staring at the sky while pretty teenaged girls giggled in the background wouldn’t fix my shitty life.
My stomach growled with hunger, and I needed to get rid of the coffee that had filled my bladder. I backtracked the way I had come, heading for a pub Clara and I had frequented in happier times. The Wykeham Arms was set on a corner close to the College and had a great menu. I figured I deserved to treat myself.
Pushing open the door, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light inside, then looked for a spare table. I found one in the corner, dumped my laptop bag, then walked to the bar and placed my order, ordering haddock and chips and a pint of Guinness. After a much-needed visit to the toilet, I went back to the table and sat down. I opened my laptop again while I waited for the food to arrive, connected to the wi-fi, then started googling plants.
There were several native English plants with varying degrees of toxicity, some only fatal for kids and pets, some only causing nausea. I needed something that would knock out a horse.
My drink arrived with my change, and I took a long pull and licked my lips. This is how life would be once she was gone. I could actually go to the pub and have a drink without feeling guilty… during the day!
The thought made me smile. I took my attention back to my laptop screen. After another ten minutes, I had narrowed it down to three plants—foxglove, hemlock, and my favorite, but for other reasons, monkshood. The latter was my favorite, not just because of what it could do, but because of the folklore surrounding the plant. It was also known as wolfsbane and had been used centuries ago to kill wolves and other predatory creatures. The clincher, for those who believe in werewolves, was that it was the most effective poison against them. I wanted to use it solely for that reason. I had a werewolf of my own to get rid of.
Unfortunately, the more I researched, the more I realized it was unsuitable. I couldn’t add it to food because it had a strong taste.
My food arrived, and while I ate, I thought about the other two options. The problem was it was the wrong time of year, both plants blooming in spring and summer and dying in autumn and winter. I needed to find something that was available now.
My table was near the kitchen, and one of the waitstaff walked out, carrying two plates of food for another table. I caught the scent of the food and glanced up to check what my senses were telling me.
Mushrooms!
It was the right time of year, and I could easily cook something I could hide them in.
I finished my lunch, took another big draft of Guinness, then sat back in my chair, wiping my lips with a paper napkin.
I waved to get the barman’s attention, pointed at my almost empty pint glass, and held up one finger. I needed to do some more research.
23
By the time I’d finished my second pint of Guinness, I had found the mushroom I would use.
Amanita phalloides, but the name I preferred was Death Cap. It was common, grew in autumn, and was lethal. Half a mushroom was enough to kill a full-grown adult. I saved a picture of the mushroom to my phone, erased my search history, and shut down my laptop.
I would let the idea percolate in my subconscious for a few days and let a plan formulate. I didn’t need to rush and make mistakes. Everything had to be planned meticulously. I knew once she died, my life would be examined minutely, and I had to make sure I was above suspicion.
The mushroom grew on forest floors. There were plenty of those around, but I needed to establish a reason and a pattern for visiting them. We didn’t have a dog I could walk, but I could take up running again. Running was a perfect excuse for visiting a forest. I used to run a lot in the early years of our marriage but had let the habit slide and hadn’t been out for years, and it showed on my thickening waistline. Added to that, a new chapter of my life was starting, and the new me, the soon-to-be-free me, should be healthier and fitter.
For all this to work, though... I had to go back home.
My good mood evaporated, and I could feel my lunch a
nd the two pints of Guinness repeating in the back of my throat. I swallowed it back down, took a deep breath, picked up my laptop bag, slung it over my shoulder, and walked out of the pub. I couldn’t keep putting it off, and besides, there was now an end in sight.
On the way back to the car, I stopped in a newsagent and bought a packet of mints and a bottle of water. Outside, I rinsed my mouth, drank the rest of the bottle, then popped a couple of mints in my mouth. Clara smelling alcohol on my breath wouldn’t help matters.
I kept below the speed limit and drove the long way home, avoiding the inevitable for as long as I could before finally pulling up outside the house. I had hoped she wasn’t home, but unfortunately, her Audi was parked in the driveway. I switched the engine off, blew into my hand, and sniffed my breath—only mint, no alcohol. Leaving my laptop in the car, I climbed out, locked the door, and walked into the house, easing the door closed behind me. Slipping my shoes off by the front door, I listened carefully, but the house was silent.
I walked down the hallway into the living room and saw Clara sitting at the dining table. She had her phone in her hand and looked up as I walked in but said nothing. I stood there awkwardly, not sure where to go next or whether to say anything. She just stared at me, and eventually, I had to break the silence.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
That didn’t help much. I wondered what to say next, something non-controversial but also non-committal, but in the end, she spoke first.
“Where did you go?”
I shrugged. “Just out, driving, walking.”
Clara nodded and looked down at her phone, then laid it on the table. Looking up, she asked, “Had lunch?”
I nodded, feeling guilty.
She glanced toward the kitchen. “I kept something for you.”
“Thanks.” I felt worse. “I can have it later.”
“Okay.”
For something to do, I walked into the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the dish drainer, and filled it from the tap. On the counter was a plate covered by another. I lifted the top plate and looked underneath—a cheese omelet and... mushrooms. I shivered and forced myself to smile. Turning, I saw Clara watching me.
“It looks nice. Thank you.”
She nodded.
I gulped down the water, then refilled the glass.
“Do you want to watch something?”
I took a sip of water, then turned around and leaned against the counter. I nodded. “Okay.”
Just like that, things were back to normal.
Almost.
24
The thing is, what’s been said can’t be forgotten. It doesn’t matter how much they say they were angry, or that it was in the heat of the moment, only emotion, not the truth.
It was said.
There had to be something behind it.
It meant something
You can’t forget it. It eats away at you, festering like a septic boil, the pain, a constant reminder.
No matter how many smiles, kisses, and tender touches afterward, the poison doesn’t go away. The smiles, the kisses, the touches, they don’t mean anything anymore. They are fake, just a facade covering up the rot and decay of something that was once valuable.
There is no going back
I woke the next morning before dawn, Clara’s arm and leg draped over me, her breathing deep and regular.
My first thought was how to get out of there.
I couldn’t. I had to play the game. Everything had to appear normal until I could put my plan into action. I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but my mind was racing with memories of our fights and disagreements and my plans for changing my life.
After a few minutes, I slid out from under her arm and leg, rolling off the bed. I crept toward the wardrobe in the darkness. Using memory and my sense of touch, I felt around for a shirt and a pair of shorts, pulled them on, hoping they matched, then rummaged around for socks. I knocked something onto the floor—I don’t know what, it was too dark—and heard Clara stir in the bed.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s okay. Go back to sleep. I’m going for a run.”
I heard her grunt, then waited until I heard her breathing deepen and lengthen.
Forget the socks.
I padded barefoot out of the room and into the kitchen. Filling a glass from the tap, I gulped it down before heading to the front door, where I kept a pair of running shoes in the shoe cabinet. I hadn’t worn them in months, and they were buried beneath a pair of flip-flops and some equally unused work shoes. I pulled them out, then sat on the floor to lace them up. Standing up, I grabbed my house keys from the hall table and opened the front door. There was a chill in the early morning air, and I briefly contemplated going back inside to grab a tracksuit jacket but knew I couldn’t do that without disturbing Clara. I’d have to suck it up and bear the cold.
Slipping the house keys under the doormat, I closed the door and stepped onto the front path. The sun was just appearing above the horizon, the streetlights were still on, and the trees chirped with the sound of unreasonably happy birds. Exhaling a large cloud of vapor, I shook out my legs and contemplated where I was going.
I had no idea.
I hadn’t got as far as finding a route through a forest to find mushrooms, but I had to establish a routine of early morning runs.
Taking a deep breath, I set off for my first run.
25
It was four weeks before I found them. Running every morning, I had lost a kilo and could actually see my abs for the first time in years. Clara had noticed, commenting one night when I was getting undressed in the bathroom. She ran her hand over my stomach, a smile on her face.
“I like the new you,” she’d murmured, then kissed me on the lips. I didn’t want to, but my body betrayed me and responded—a stiffening in my groin, my heart quickening. I leaned into her, pressing my mouth against hers, my tongue parting her lips. She pulled away and gave me a pat on the butt.
“Good night,” she said and walked out of the bathroom, leaving me leaning against the washbasin, staring at the wall.
I was irritated, but a side effect of the regular exercise was an improvement in my mood. I was calmer, happier, and any frustration I felt with life burned off during my early morning runs through the forests. So, I sighed, reached for my toothbrush, and started brushing my teeth.
I still hated her. She still brought misery into my life two or three times a week, but I was better able to cope with it. I felt stronger, physically and mentally. Nothing could touch me now.
But she still had to die.
So, my mornings began the same way every day. I no longer needed an alarm, my eyes opening automatically just before six a.m. I got dressed, my running gear now prepared the night before, drank a glass of water, then headed out the door. I had explored every forest path within running distance of the house, finding many types of mushrooms and toadstools, but never the right ones. As I got fitter and my distances increased, I explored routes further afield.
On one of these new routes, I found the mushrooms at the foot of an ancient oak tree, its branches spreading out in a giant umbrella, covering the narrow muddy path that wound its way through the forest. A flash of white caught my eye as I ran past, so I slowed to a stop and walked back, my eyes scanning the ground. I wasn’t too excited—there had been many false alarms over the past few weeks. Crouching, I looked closer. Its stem was thick and white, about six inches long, and the cap was pale yellow and about four inches across. So far, so good. With my fingertips, I gently brushed away the leaf litter from its base. There it was—the fat white volva that formed the base of the Death Cap. Just to be sure, I dusted off my fingers and pulled my phone from the pocket of my running shorts. I scrolled through the photos and found the one I had downloaded off the internet. Holding the phone close to the mushroom, I compared it with the image on the screen. I sat back on my heels and grinned. It was the same—finally.
&nb
sp; From my other pocket, I removed a Ziplock bag and a pair of surgical gloves. Donning the gloves, I plucked the largest mushroom and slipped it into the bag. There were three more, and I considered taking them but decided against it. Half a mushroom cap was enough to kill an adult. I zipped the bag closed, then removed the gloves, ensuring they were turned inside out before gouging a hole in the ground with the heel of my running shoe. I dropped the gloves in the hole, then kicked soil and leaf litter over the top. Carefully sliding the bag into my shorts pocket—I had been wearing baggy running shorts for this very reason—I took a look around to make sure I was still alone, then cutting short my run, headed back the way I had come.
26
On Wednesday, two days after I found the mushrooms, I was ready. From the research I’d done, the poisoning symptoms typically appeared two to three days after eating the mushrooms, which was perfect for my purposes. I wanted her to fall sick at work, removing suspicion from me, and it gave me enough time to clean all the cookware and the kitchen, thoroughly removing all traces from the home.
Clara loved pasta, could eat it almost every week, and I made it often—an easy meal to prepare on weeknights after a busy working day. I’d bought fresh pappardelle and some beautiful Cremini mushrooms from the local deli and kept the receipt. If it ever was discovered mushrooms killed her, I could blame it on the deli and their supplier.
Wearing a pair of surgical gloves, I retrieved the bag containing the Death Cap mushroom from the trunk of the car, where it had been hidden for two days, then sliced it and added it to the Cremini mushrooms I had sliced earlier. I sauteed them in olive oil with onions until they were brown and caramelized, then added butter, garlic, and Dijon mustard, allowing it to simmer before finally adding a liberal amount of Pinot Grigio. Once it had reduced a little, I stirred in grated parmesan and chopped parsley, set the sauce aside to cool, then removed the gloves I had worn throughout. The pasta sauce smelled divine, and I was so tempted to dip my finger in the sauce and taste it, but stopped myself just in time, the gloves reminding me of the danger.
