Die, Blossom, Bloom

by Steve Boseley

  Over the next week or so, Sissy was subjected to a battery of tests to learn more about the tumour; a Glioblastoma her consultant had called it. The couple sat and listened as he gave a detailed description of what that meant to them, but all Ted heard was level 4 and inoperable, and he knew what that meant.

  Sissy was offered radiotherapy to relieve some of the worse symptoms. It was not going to cure her, she knew, but gratefully accepted the treatment as an outpatient, making the two hour round trip five days out of seven. They continued this punishing routine until it became too difficult.

  At their final visit, the consultant talked about life expectancy being measured in weeks, not months. Ted took the offered prescription for an orally administered morphine tablet, which Sissy took until it stopped touching the pain.

  Her health declined rapidly, and within weeks she was confined to bed. Ted felt helpless, but did almost everything for her. The pace at which she declined scared him, and the level of support she needed grew in proportion to the progression of her illness. The first time he had to change one of her dirty nappies, he had thrown up afterwards. He had not shown his discomfort whilst he cleaned her; he had no wish to make her feel worse than she already did. In the bathroom afterwards as he washed his hands, the tears began to fall and his stomach began to churn. He hoped she didn’t hear as he stood over the sink, retching, but he suspected she did, as she wouldn’t look at him when he returned to her bedside. When she stopped being able to feed herself, he did that too; moving from spoon-feeding her, to squeezing food through her dry, cracked lips in a syringe. He was not a medical man, but he did the best he could; she was his wife, after all, and he would do anything for her.

  They had taken the decision not to talk to anyone in the village about Sissy’s health. Ted spent most of his waking time by her side and even some of his sleeping time as well, and as a result, he started fielding questions from the others in the village when he did venture out. They had not seen Sissy in weeks, and wanted to know where she was. Ted had no wish to share his wife’s illness with anyone, so he let them speculate, certain that gossip and conjecture would spread fast in the tiny community; he had no time to concern himself with such things.

  It had been less than three months since Sissy had her first symptoms, when Ted walked into her room and found her crying. He knelt by the side of the bed and cradled her hand in his. She looked old; dark circles ringed her eyes, and her skin had taken on a grey tinge.

  “What can I do for you Siss?” He knew there was nothing he could do to take away the pain, but he asked anyway.

  “It hurts.” Her voice was feeble. Ted leaned closer.

  “I know,” he said. He was crying with her now. He caressed the back of her hand with his thumbs.

  “It’s time.”

  Ted shook his head. Following the diagnosis, Sissy had asked him to make a promise: when it got to the end, she didn’t want to suffer. She wanted to slip away quietly, but knew she might need help. He laid his head on her chest. Her breathing was shallow and slow. The rattling in her chest with every breath sounded painful to Ted.

  “Yes. It’s ok,” she said, wheezing as she spoke. “I’m ready.” Ted lifted his head and she looked into her husband’s eyes. “Please.” Her pain was evident.

  “We have no morphine left,” was all he could manage. The plan had been to help her take a lethal dose of the drug, but he had used it all making her last few days as pain-free as possible, and he silently cursed himself for that final selfish act; he had wanted to keep her as long as possible, but now he saw what that meant. Sissy was suffering, and he had never wanted that.

  “Find another way.” Her breathing was becoming increasingly laboured. She turned her head away from him.

  Ted let go of her hand and stood up. He looked down at the shell of what had been his beautiful wife only months earlier. After a moment, he wiped his eyes and slipped a hand under his wife’s head, gently lifting it from the pillow, which he removed, replacing her head on the bed. He looked at his wife. Her face was still turned away, for which he was grateful. Gripping the pillow in both hands, he placed it over his wife’s face and pressed down.

  Her weak body writhed against him, her arms flailing feebly, but Ted held his nerve and the pillow. She continued to struggle for several minutes, and Ted began to worry not about his resolve but about his strength. He could hear her voice, muffled by the pillow, which he tried to block out and failed. His tears flowed freely, and he had to bite his lip to stop from shouting out. Eventually, her movements slowed, then stopped. Ted held the pillow in place for a further minute before he removed it and tossed it away. He collapsed on the bed clutching his wife and cried.

  Part Seven

  Ted lifted his head from the table, rubbed his eyes, and stood up. Leaving the cup where it was, he walked into the living room, and looked out of his front window. In the darkness, it was difficult to see clearly, but he could tell something was wrong. He slipped his glasses down from his head and positioned them on his nose. It didn’t help; the night was too dark. Moving to the front door, he pulled on his wellingtons, grabbed a torch, and stepped outside.

  The night was cool, and Ted pulled his dressing gown tighter, covering his chest. His cotton pyjamas gave scant relief from the cold, and he could feel his knees shaking as he made his way onto the lawn. His breath was visible in the torchlight, and he breathed heavily, heart racing. He had only taken a few steps, when he felt something through his boots. He shone the torch at his feet, illuminating the plant that lay there. Lifting it up, he shone the light ahead of him, picking out other plants that lay on the grass, roots exposed. He raked the torch across the borders and put a hand to his mouth, stifling a moan, as he saw other plants, pulled out of the ground and strewn across the grass.

  He picked up the nearest plant and examined it in the torchlight; the roots appeared to be mostly intact, and Ted thought it could be salvaged. A brief look at the others confirmed his first thought. It would be a lot of work tomorrow, but the garden could hopefully be restored.

  A sound from behind him spun Ted around. He shone the torch towards the corner of the cottage; it had come from the back garden. It sounded as if someone had stepped across his gravel path. Ted knew he should call the police. The phone was only metres away in the house, but this was his garden. No, it was Sissy’s garden and that meant more to him. Moving more cautiously, he made his way towards the side of the cottage, torch in front of him. “Is someone there?” The torch beam wobbled as his arms shook. There was no reply to his question, and he edged slowly forwards. The sounds had stopped. Without taking his eyes from the pool of light on the floor in front of him, he scrabbled with his free hand, searching for what he knew was there. He picked up the spade that leant against the side of the cottage and moved into the back garden, sweeping the torch as he did. There was no movement.

  “I know there’s someone there,” he said, speaking with confidence he didn’t feel. He stepped further into the garden, jumping slightly as his boots crunched on the gravel. He stood on the path for another minute, the torch playing over the garden. There were no sounds and no movement.

  Just as he was ready to return to the cottage, he heard a sound. Directing the torch at his large compost bin, the light fell on Jordan’s face. He had fallen back into the shrubs that grew there.

  “Jordan? What are you doing here?”

  “Mister Harris.” Jordan pushed himself to his feet. He was momentarily startled, the torchlight picking out his wide eyes. “I was just-”

  “I’ve seen what you were doing.” The boy twitched noticeably as Ted spoke. He wore the same dark hooded top that Ted had seen the previous night. “Did your grandmother put you up to this?” Jordan stood, silent. “I’ll take that as a yes. Please leave. I shall speak to the police in the morning.”

  “Fine. Call them. You can explain this to them.” He held out something to Ted.

  Ted had to move closer and directed the torch at the
boy’s outstretched hand. He held what looked like the lower part of a jawbone. Ted staggered back a step. His heart rate leapt, and he felt sweat forming on his forehead. “Where did you find that?” He managed to keep his voice calm. Perhaps the boy wouldn’t know what he held.

  “In there.” Jordan pointed to the composter. The little door at the bottom had been opened, and some of the compost had been dragged out.

  “It’s not what you think.” Ted could see exactly what it was that the boy held. He needed to play this carefully. “Maybe it’s a bone from a bird?” he ventured.

  Jordan looked at the bone again, holding it close to his face. “I don’t think so, grandpa.”

  “It could be,” said Ted. He suddenly felt very warm, and pulled open the front of his dressing gown slightly.

  “Well, I’m not certain,” Jordan paused and held the bone out towards Ted, “but I reckon that,” he jabbed a finger at one end of the bone, “looks like a tooth.” He pulled the fragment of bone back to his own face; the moon offered little in the way of light, and he squinted. Dropping the hand slowly back to his side, Jordan looked at Ted. He broke into a grin and began to laugh. Silently at first, his shoulders moving up and down, then he threw his head back and brayed a laugh. “It bloody is, isn’t it?” Ted’s shoulders had slumped. “This is a bone. From a mouth, right?” Never the quickest of boys, Jordan’s conclusion was sound. Ted offered a silent prayer that he had reached the limits of his intellect, but the boy pressed on. “Is this,” he paused at the realisation of what he was about to say, “your wife?” It was Jordan’s turn to take a step back.

  Ted lowered his head. “Yes.”

  Jordan stared at the old man across from him. “You killed her.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Ted looked up at him. “Yes, but you can’t say anything. No one will understand.” He spoke through his tears. His voice wavered as he stepped towards the boy.

  “Don’t you come near me, freak.” Jordan took another step backwards.

  “I’m not going to hurt you Jordan. You’re too big for me to do that.” Ted stepped back, aware that he had been advancing on the scared boy.

  Regaining a modicum of composure, Jordan stepped back towards Ted. “Yes, I am aren’t I? I’ll take this with me.” He put the muddy bone in his sweatshirt pocket. “I’ll tell my grandma about this, and she’ll call the police. Then you’re finished here.”

  Ted stepped in front of him. He suddenly felt every one of his seventy years. He held the spade and torch out in front of him. “No, Jordan, please don’t! At least let me explain!”

  “Get out of my way, murderer!” He pushed past Ted and walked back towards the front garden.

  Jordan’s words struck Ted. He had murdered his wife; there was no escaping that. Now everyone would know and perhaps that was for the best. But in the search for evidence, they would destroy her garden, her memory, her legacy, and he didn’t want that. As the boy walked past him, he dropped the torch and grasped the spade with both hands. He swung it at the back of the boy’s head. There was a resounding clang, and he dropped to the floor. Not wanting to give the teenager a chance to stand, Ted lifted the spade and brought it down several more times on the back of his head. When the crumpled, bleeding body had stopped moving, Ted dropped to his knees and threw up.

  He sat back and looked at the body of young Jordan Butler-Thompson. It lay, unmoving. Ted crawled over and checked for a pulse. When he couldn’t find one, he drew his hand back, as if from a flame, and moved away from the body. What have I done? His heart was hammering in his ears, and he put the heels of his palms over his eyes. His head was throbbing.

  He looked up towards the front of the house. He was still alone; no one had heard the altercation, and if they had, they had not come out to look. Jordan’s body lay at the side of the cottage. It was partly hidden from view, but it needed to be moved. Standing, Ted gripped Jordan’s ankles and began to drag him back into the back garden.

  Although still only a teenager, Jordan was heavier than Ted could manage. After struggling for almost half an hour, he had only managed to drag the body a metre or two. His shed was still five or six metres away, the back door a similar distance. Dropping the ankles, Ted fell to the floor, exhausted. He considered his options; none were favourable. He lay back on the patio slabs, contemplating his next move. Turning himself in to the police seemed to be the most sensible option. He may be able to explain his wife’s death, but now he had killed a teenage boy. A boy! He wouldn’t be able to explain that as easily. It was murder, and he knew it. The judging for the competition was only days away, and he needed to win for his wife. He had made a promise to himself following her death, and he didn’t intend to let anything get in the way of that promise. He had work to do tomorrow to get the garden back in to some sort of presentable shape, but the more immediate question was what to do with the body?

  Staring up at the stars, he knew what needed to be done. He had done it before.

  Part Eight

  He awoke several hours later, still alongside his wife. Her body felt cold. Ted went downstairs and made himself a cup of tea, which he sat and drank in silence. He pondered Sissy’s second request. He had hoped he would not have to make that decision, but that die had already been cast. Her final wish was to be buried in her garden, the garden she had nurtured for so long. Ted knew his window of opportunity was limited, so finishing his tea, he returned upstairs.

  The plan was simple. They had discussed the arrangements should it become necessary, and now it was. He was to wait until night, when he would carry his wife’s body outside, to the hole in the garden. It had been Sissy’s idea to dig the hole in advance, which Ted had done without question; he had not needed to ask what it was for. The hole was around half a metre deep. He would ideally have liked another half metre, but the hole he had dug had taken him almost three days on and off, so half a metre would have to suffice.

  Standing over Sissy’s body, Ted took a long look at his wife. He reached down and brushed a lock of silver hair from her face and gently kissed her. Standing up, he slipped an arm under her head, the other behind her knees and attempted to lift her off the bed. Sissy was by no means a big woman, but her body – her rapidly stiffening body – was awkward to lift, and Ted’s strength was not what it had been twenty, or even ten tears, previously. He grunted as he struggled to lift her corpse. Blood rushed to his face as he lifted her clear of the bed and stepped backwards. A shooting pain in his lower back stopped him, and he sank heavily to his knees and fell backwards. Sissy’s body fell on top of him. He pushed her off him and climbed slowly to his feet.

  He tried several more times to lift the body, but its position, and the pain in his back stopped him each time. Panicked now, Ted sat down on the bed, head in hands. A glance at the clock told him that he had about an hour or so before it would be dark. He had no desire to have a decomposing body in his house, so he considered his options; he couldn’t ring an ambulance as they would take the body away and in all likelihood, discover what he had done; he couldn’t call someone for help – what would he say? “I’ve killed my wife, I wonder if you could help me dispose of her body?” There was another option, one that occurred to him at that moment. He didn’t know how or why it did, and it wasn’t something he thought he could go through with anyway; however, his options were limited, and he needed to do something.

  Standing once more, he placed his hands under Sissy’s arms and began to drag her out of the room. It was slow going, but easier than lifting. His back screamed at him with every step, and Ted could feel his heart racing, not merely through exertion, but with anticipation of what he was about to do. He was breathing hard now.

  He paused briefly at the top of the stairs and looked down. The staircase was narrow and steep, and Ted didn’t trust himself to navigate the stairs safely. Instead, he backed along the upstairs landing into the bathroom. When Sissy was all the way in, he sat on the edge of the bath and dragged a shirt-sleeved arm a
cross his forehead. He sat that way for several minutes, letting his heart rate drop. A glance out of the window told him that the stars were out. No moon was visible. The night was dark, but Ted feared he wouldn’t have enough time to complete the task tonight.

  When he had rested and was able to breathe deeply again, he stood up and climbed into the bath. Reaching forwards, he once more took a hold of Sissy’s body. Lifting her up and into the bath was an effort for Ted. Aside from her weight, her arms and legs had stiffened to the point that she could no longer lie down in the bath. He struggled for over an hour to get her up and over the side, and even then her arms prevented Ted from getting her all the way in. If he didn’t have to stop every few minutes to catch his breath, he thought it could have gone much quicker, but he did stop; the idea of having a heart attack and being found like this terrified him, so he took his time.

  When he finally got the body over the side of the bath, he climbed out and sat down heavily on the bathroom floor. His shirt was drenched with his sweat, and his chest burned. He sat with his back to the bath for almost half an hour, staring at a towel on the radiator. It had been her towel; blue and white striped to match his deck chair. She said it made her think of him when she was wrapped up inside it, and Ted smiled grimly at the thought. Eventually, he stood and faced the body lying awkwardly in the bath; her arms prevented the body from sliding all the way in. He would need to rearrange them. The rigidity of the limbs surprised him, and he had to exert considerable force to move them at all. He took hold of her right arm, which was by her side and attempted to lift it up and across her. After a moment there was a sickening crunch as the arm broke, and Ted fell forward into the bath. Her body slipped down, the arm flapping awkwardly across her chest.

  Ted fell back onto the bathroom floor, breathing hard. He checked his watch and cursed; another hour had slipped by. He doubted he would have enough time tonight. It would have to wait until tomorrow. Pulling the bathroom door closed, Ted went back downstairs and filled the kettle. He didn’t think he would be getting much sleep tonight.